Maid for It (An Erotic Novella)

by Lucy Rodgers

  “Do you agree?”

  I meet his eyes, steady and firm in my conviction. “Yes, Master, I agree.”

  “In that case, my dear slave, it’s going to be a long, hard night for you. You may find before it’s over that you wish you’d asked me to send you away.”

  A smile tugs at my lips, because I’m starting to sense that he’s not nearly as cruel or callous as he wants me to believe. Somewhere beneath that ruthless façade is a man I’ve touched in some way that’s more than sexual, and we both know it.

  More than that, he must know his warnings strike inside me a chord not of fear, but of desire. The idea that he’s going to force me to have sex with him all night long—and that it will be rough, unrelenting sex—fills me with a dark, primal longing. I know it won’t be easy, and it will probably even hurt. I’m already sore, and I’m likely to be much more so by morning.

  And I don’t care. I even want that soreness, a physical reminder of his possession of me, of his promise to keep and protect me. In an odd way, I hope it always hurts when he fucks me so that I can never forget I’m his.

  I’m contemplating the perversity of my thoughts when he slides open a pocket door in the rear wall of the gym that I hadn’t even realized was there. Behind it is another room, and I wonder why Travis didn’t show it to me on my first day. Surely it’s another room of the house that requires cleaning.

  But then I catch a glimpse of what the room contains, and I catch my breath. Now I am afraid.

  It wouldn’t be accurate to call the room a dungeon, because it’s not dark or dank or filled with the skeletons of dead bodies chained to the walls. But the implements it contains would certainly be right at home in a dungeon. I catalog them with a growing sense of hysteria.

  Leather straps, some clearly meant to be used as restraints, others intended as whips.

  A variety of shackles and, yes, chains.

  A bench similar to the one in the gym, but narrower and fitted with manacles clearly meant to hold the occupant’s hands and feet in place.

  Finally, a set of ropes that hang from the ceiling, the purpose of which I imagine is the suspension of a human being. Of me.

  Madre de Dios, what kind of monster have I given myself to?

  I glance furtively at the door that leads out of the gym and into the main house. Can I make it in time?

  But of course, that’s silly. Where would I go? I’m stark naked, and it’s the middle of the night. Even if I made it to the street, which is unlikely, what then?

  “You’re not thinking of running away, are you?” my master asks, his voice low and, unaccountably, a little amused. He takes a step toward me and, reflexively, I take a step backward.

  That’s a foolish move, because he’s instantly right next to me, grabbing me by the arm. He marches me into the room, where I get an even closer look at his instruments of torture, items clearly designed for the purpose of rendering his victims helpless. If this is what he wanted of the other maids who came before me, I understand why they refused to obey.

  But I’ve not only agreed to obey, I’ve ceded the one bit of protection I had. I’ve given him everything. Mexico and certain death suddenly seem welcome.

  “Don’t be afraid, Gabi.” The words are so gentle, so unlike his usual unyielding persona that my pulse slows from sprinting to merely racing. “This room isn’t for punishment, but for fun. For both of us.”

  Fun? Is he insane? “How can I have fun if I am chained up and beaten?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish them back. Will he be angry that I’ve questioned him? Will he chain me up and beat me here and now for my insolence?

  He slips his hand under my chin and lifts my face. There is no anger in his eyes. In fact, what I see there looks like…sympathy.

  “You will just have to trust me that, when the time comes, you will enjoy everything here as much as I do. Pain and pleasure are closely linked, two sides of a single coin. You’ll learn as time goes on that I will never give you more of either sensation than you can bear.”

  I want to believe him, but I’ve only known him a day. The enormity and finality of what I’ve done by binding myself to this hard, inscrutable man crashes over me like the waves on the beach below his house.

  “In any case,” he continues, perhaps sensing he won’t convince me right away that his intentions aren’t malevolent, “I’m not ready to introduce you to this side of pleasure just yet, so you’re safe from chaining and beating today. It’s just that I keep all the toys in here, and I have in mind to use some of the more…standard ones tonight.”

  My mind blanks out, refusing to contemplate what “standard toys” might be. He leaves me and opens a cabinet, retrieves a plastic box that’s about the size of two shoeboxes, then returns to my side.

  “Go up to my bedroom now, Gabi, and lie down on the bed. I have a small matter of business to take care of before I meet you there.”

  My eyes drift from that box to his face. His features are set again, the ruthless, brook-no-arguments dominant securely in place again. The face of my master.

  I turn and head for the stairs to his room. What other choice do I have?

  He wasn’t exaggerating when he told me it would be a long, hard night. The box turned out to contain an assortment of dildos and vibrators in various shapes and sizes. The reason he wanted them became apparent after he fucked me the first time—rather slowly and sweetly in the missionary position the Church considers most holy. After he came, he needed some time to recover before he could take me again, but I was to be given no opportunity for recovery. My pussy has never been empty, filled by turns with toys, his fingers, or his cock, and I’ve come with the help of his fingers or mouth or one of the vibrators so many times, I’ve lost count.

  Now, as dawn seeps in through the cracks in the curtains, I’m so raw and bruised from the relentless penetrations that when I feel his slick fingers probing my rear entry, I’m actually relieved. The sensation as he slips past the tight ring of resisting muscles is strange but not unpleasant, and certainly not as painful as being divested of my virginity was.

  His eyes grow heavy-lidded as he pumps his finger in and out, adds a second finger, and slides his thumb across my weary clit. I don’t know how I can possibly come again, but when he replaces his fingers with one of the average-sized dildos—I think average because they’re not enormous like my master is, but perhaps six inches long and an inch and a half in diameter—and then places his mouth on me, I know I’m wrong. There’s another orgasm in me, and it builds with surprising speed under his expert tongue and the biting fullness of the dildo in my ass.

  This is bad. Dirty. Wrong. And I fear that’s exactly why it feels so good.

  I stiffen and arch as the climax hits me. He raises his head, removes the dildo, and mounts me. I’m still coming as he thrusts his cock into me with a deep growl of satisfaction. He’s too big, but somehow my body stretches to accommodate him and, although it hurts, the pain is almost like pleasure. He called them two side of the same coin, and even though I can’t believe I’ll ever like the toys in that room, I have to admit it’s true. Agony and ecstasy are close cousins, and what I’m feeling now is both.

  He leans forward and captures my mouth in what I realize is our first real kiss, his tongue stroking mine with a kind of hot desperation as his cock tunnels into my most forbidden territory, over and over. Once again, I feel continents shift, mountains rise, valleys fall. He’s remaking me, I realize, shaping me so his desires become my desires, and there’s nothing I can do to prevent it. Perhaps I don’t even want to.

  Perhaps he’s not really changing me at all, but simply showing me who I always was.

  Unbelievably, I come again, gasping with the force of my release. It takes him by surprise, and as my muscles clamp down on him, his features contort into their own mask of agony-ecstasy. He thrusts in one last time and comes, too.

  He collapses to one side of me, his breathing harsh and ragged in my ear.

  �
��Jesus, I think Daniels finally got it right.” His hand cups one of my breasts, a gesture that’s more proprietary than carnal. “Go to sleep, my sweet little slave. I’ll tell Travis you’re to have the day off from housecleaning, too. I think you’ve earned it.”

  I’m surprised by his largesse, but I’m even more surprised when, ten minutes later, he snores gently. He’s fallen asleep. I daren’t move and wake him, and so I lie there, awake, the weight of his hand on my breast and the soft gust of his breath against my cheek filling me with a peace like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

  I think I love him.

  I’ve been with my master for six weeks now.

  So far, he hasn’t taken me to that room, which has come to seem more curse than blessing. Whenever I clean the gym, I stare at that door and remember what’s behind it, and a hive of bees takes up residence in my stomach, buzzing and zipping in a frenzy of fear and anticipation. I find myself wishing he’d just take me there and do whatever it is he plans to do with me so that I can stop imagining what will happen and how bad it will be.

  As the days pass, however, it’s becoming harder and harder for me to imagine that he would ever truly hurt me. He’s a hard man and an uncompromising one, but I’ve come to realize that, far from being inscrutable, he’s the most transparent and comprehensible male I’ve ever known. Unlike the few men I dated briefly back in Sinaloa, there are no games with him, no vague hints, no hidden agendas. He tells me exactly what he wants when he wants it—whether it’s for me to scrub the kitchen floor until it shines or to bend over in front of the window that overlooks the beach and let him take me where anyone who happens to look up as they walk by the house could see us. Rather than feeling trapped by his demands, I’m freed by the certainty and security they provide.

  I’ve learned not to expect to see him every day. Sometimes he disappears into his office, which is separated from the main house by a small courtyard, and doesn’t come out for days at a time. I’m sure he must have food and a bed in the small outbuilding, which I’ve never been invited to enter, although perhaps he doesn’t need the bed. He seems to require far less sleep than normal people; I’ve never known him to sleep for more than about four hours at a stretch. I sometimes suspect he may not sleep at all during some of these intense periods of work, because he often takes me to bed when he resurfaces, whatever the time of day, fucks me with fierce, swift intensity, and then falls into a deep sleep for several hours.

  He still has the capacity to surprise me, though. Last week, for example, he declared that I needed something to wear other than my maid uniform and took me shopping…on Rodeo Drive, no less.

  It’s become apparent to me that my master isn’t reclusive because he is shy or retiring, but because he has no tolerance for incompetence, laziness, or stupidity, and frankly, most people one encounters in public fall into one of those three categories, if not more than one. And so, the fact that he chose to accompany me on the trip instead of sending me with Travis is tantamount to a declaration of love, especially since it forced him to interact with any number of salespeople who set his teeth on edge.

  Every item of clothing he purchased for me is exquisite and tasteful. Oh, there was a little side trip to an “adult” boutique, the entire inventory of which made me blush pink as a carnation, but I’m fairly certain he doesn’t intend me to wear anything he bought there in public. Especially since he almost took the head off the pimply-faced, leather-clad boy behind the counter when the boy had the poor judgment to remark that I had “amazing tits.”

  Today, he let me go to the grocery store. Ever since I surprised him one night with a meal of homemade tortillas with mochomos and rice, I’ve been doing more of the cooking, which pleases me since I miss the flavors of home. More than once, however, Travis hasn’t bought the right ingredients, and I complained the other night that he obviously wouldn’t know the difference between a jalapeno and a bell pepper if it bit him on the ass. My master laughed at that, and today, he sent me to out to shop. Alone.

  I could run, and he knows it. The fact that he trusts me not to fills my heart with a joy that feels too big for my chest to contain. As I park the BMW in the garage and pop the trunk, the door to the house opens and Ben fills the space, watching me as I get out of the car. I’m wearing a royal blue silk blouse and a pair of black slacks, my feet encased in low-slung black sandals.

  I smile at him. “I’m back,” I say, stating the obvious.

  “Yes.” His expression is unreadable, and I experience a moment of doubt. Did I take too long? Does he think I considered running?

  “I just need to get the bags from the trunk.” I start to walk around to the rear of the car.

  “Come here,” he says, his voice thick and raspy.

  Obedience is second nature to me now. As I walk toward him, I try to decipher his puzzling mood. Is he angry? Disappointed? Frustrated?

  Only when I reach the foot of the set of steps that leads from the garage into the house does it dawn on me. He’s relieved. Which means he was afraid. And he didn’t want me to know.

  I ache to throw my arms around his neck and pepper him with kisses, assure him that I’ll never, ever leave him. But that would tell him that I saw this tiny chink in his impenetrable armor, and I know that would mortify him.

  And so I bow my head and say, “Yes, Master?”

  He strokes the hair at the back of my head. “Come inside. Travis can bring in the groceries.”

  I follow him into the house, my stomach buzzing with the sense that something momentous is about to happen. He heads through the kitchen and out into the dining room, and for a heart-stopping second, I think he’s taking me to that room. But then he turns and heads into the living room and picks up a small, square box from the coffee table. I know immediately it’s a jewelry box, but it’s much too big for anything like a ring.

  He clears his throat, and I realize he doesn’t quite know where to begin. Another first.

  “I’ve wanted to give this to you for a while,” he says slowly, “but I needed to be sure you were ready for it. Now, I know you are.”

  “Because I came back?”

  He nods. “You didn’t have to.”

  I suppress a smile. I don’t want to point out that I couldn’t have gotten far on a tank of gas and one hundred dollars in grocery money. Aside from anything else, if I did, it would prove I’d at least given the idea consideration.

  “I didn’t want not to come back.”

  “And now that I know that, I know you’re ready for this.” He opens the box.

  I catch my breath as the diamond-encrusted contents catch the light and send it arcing in all directions. As my eyes adjust to the brilliance, I see it’s a necklace. Well, not really a necklace, but rather a solid platinum choker. Nestled in the satin bedding beside the choker is a tiny key.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, although I don’t fully grasp its significance.

  He lifts it from the box and hands it to me. Now I can see the words inscribed in the metal at the back of the choker.

  Property of Benjamin Hardcastle

  I run my fingers over the letter, engraved in elegant calligraphy. It’s beautiful and…heavy. Not just literally, although the half-inch thick band with its diamond studs undoubtedly weighs several ounces. But what it’s truly heavy with is symbolism.

  I lift my eyes to meet his. “A collar?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” And I do.

  This is the final step in our journey as master and slave. By putting on this piece of jewelry, I’m not merely accepting his ownership; I’m embracing it. Encircled by it. Bound to it.

  “Will you wear it?”

  I look from him to the gorgeous band of metal in my hand. I’ve already given myself to him completely, allowed him total control of every aspect of my life. Whether I wear the collar or not, I’m every bit as much at his mercy.

  And yet, there’s something about donning this tangible representation of our bond that
makes me hesitate. My sister-in-law told me before she married my older brother that, although they’d been living together for almost two years, there was something about the act of putting on the ring and saying the words in church that made it different. Permanent. Irrevocable.

  Although there’s no church, this collar feels the same.

  Six weeks ago, I thought I loved him. Looking back, I know that emotion was real, but not personal. I didn’t love Benjamin Hardcastle specifically. I loved the idea of him, big and dominant and possessive and, most of all, protective.

  But do I love him now? He’s still big, dominant, possessive, and protective, but he has also become a human being to me. For every one of his admirable qualities—intelligence, honesty, industriousness, intuition—there is a corresponding flaw—impatience, ruthlessness, perfectionism, arrogance. I’m not immune from the effects of any of those flaws; in fact, I’m the most vulnerable to them of all.

  My secret weighs as heavy on my heart as the collar weighs on my hand. If I trust him enough to wear it, I should trust him enough to tell the truth. And yet, I can’t. Not because I don’t trust him, but because I need him to trust me.

  I drag in a long, slow breath, my decision made. Reaching behind my neck, I unclasp the chain that holds my crucifix around my neck and slip it into my pocket. I can only have one master.

  “Yes, I’ll wear it.”

  Triumph darts across his feature, so quickly I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t become so intimately familiar with his every expression.

  Do I love him? It’s as obvious as the existence of air that I do.

  He takes the collar from me and uses the key to release the lock at its back. The band swings open to slide around my throat by means of a cleverly concealed hinge at its front. My master slides it on, and I lift my hair to give him access to lock it in place at the back of my neck. The snick of the key sends a shiver through me, the weight of the cool metal settling around me like a shackle.