Maid for It (An Erotic Novella)

by Lucy Rodgers

  But I stiffen my spine. “I’ll do it.”

  “You don’t even know what the condition is.”

  “It doesn’t matter what it is. I place myself at your mercy.”

  He drags a finger along my jawline. “You’re not going to get much of that.”

  By the time we reach the main house, I know where he’s taking me. That room. And even though I once wished he’d take me there and get it over with so that I could stop living in dread of what would happen there, now I really am frightened. Not because I think he means to hurt me in any lasting way, but because I know he means to break me into begging him to let me go. Before, he might have taken things slowly, taught me in small, manageable increments how pain and pleasure could merge. But now, there will be no such generosity.

  When we enter the room, I can’t stop myself from shrinking back. The instinct to run away is primal and instantaneous. I’m not sure what I fear more—the restraints or the whips and floggers. Both seem equally cruel, equally awful.

  And then he points to a platform on the far side of the room, one I didn’t notice when I peeked in before. It’s about four feet long, three feet wide, and approximately two feet off the ground. A variety of metal objects are affixed to each end of it. Shackles. And not just for wrists and ankles, I realize, but for my throat.

  “Take off your clothes and get on. Knees and elbows.”

  I swallow audibly. I know now what I’m most afraid of.

  Conquering the urge to throw myself at his feet and beg him not to make me do this, I strip then climb onto the platform. My crucifix, which I put on after he removed the collar, dangles from my neck. He closes the iron shackles around my ankles first, then comes around to the front. My eyes are level with the zipper of his slacks, and I can see the thick bulge of his erection as he locks my wrists in place.

  “Lift your head.”

  The throat shackle is affixed to a telescoping post, which he adjusts before closing it around my neck. Unlike the collar, it’s tight. If I slacken at all in my position, I’ll begin to choke.

  He steps back and looks at me, as though to admire his handiwork. Although I’ve assumed this position plenty of times for sex, my confinement makes me feel each part of my body more acutely. The hard surface of the platform already rubs my knees and elbows raw. My breasts hang like foreign weights from my torso, heavy and pendulous. My neck, forced to hold my head upright, will soon begin to ache.

  After a brief, satisfied nod, my master—or is he Sir or only Ben to me in this moment? I’m not sure and that increases my unease—walks away. I can’t turn my head to see where he’s gone or what he’s doing, and my dread of what’s to come grows.

  When he returns, I hear him laying things on the platform beside me, but I can’t see what. I close my eyes, as though that will make my lack of knowledge more bearable.

  “Open your eyes.” He’s standing in front of me, his expression surprisingly gentle. “I want you to know before we begin that I won’t leave any permanent marks on your body. I won’t break any bones or cause you any internal harm. But what I’m about to do is going to feel like pain. Do you understand?”

  Feel like pain? If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…

  I clamp down on my rising panic. “Yes, Master.”

  As soon as the word ”master” crosses my lips, I regret it. What if I’m not supposed to call him that anymore? Will he be angry? Hurt me even more?

  But all he says is, “Good.”

  My stomach flutters with anxiety as I follow him with my eyes until he’s out of my line of sight.

  I hear the jingling of lightweight chains and bite my lip to keep from whimpering. I’m scared but also curious. What is he handling that’s making that noise and how does he plan to use it?

  I don’t have to wait long to find out. His hand brushes against my breast and then something clamps down—hard—on my left nipple. Tears rush to my eyes as agony rockets through my body. But he isn’t done. The right nipple receives the same treatment seconds later, and oh, Dios Mio, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

  Why did I ever believe he wouldn’t truly hurt me? This is excruciating. And he likes to do this to women. To immobilize them and torture them. What kind of monster is he?

  I’m weeping silently when I feel the final pinch—between my legs. My clit. Puto! He’s a beast. How could I believe I loved him? What a fool I was to return.

  He removes his hand from between my legs and I realize a lightweight chain connects the three clamps. As gravity pulls the chain downward, the clamps tug at my abused flesh, dragging a sob from my throat.

  “I warned you it would feel like pain, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “If you give it time, it will become pleasure.”

  That’s like saying if you give death time, it will become life, but I don’t argue. He’s a madman. A sadistic lunatic. Suddenly, this has become not an exercise in convincing him to keep me, but one in surviving long enough so that I can escape.

  As if he reads my mind, he says, “You can ask me to stop any time.”

  “I can?”

  “Of course,” he says, his tone utterly nonchalant.

  “And you’ll stop? Let me go?”

  He laughs, deep and low in his throat. “I didn’t say that. On the contrary, the more you ask me stop, the longer and harder this will be. On the other hand, if you beg me to hurt you more, I may be motivated to go easier on you.”

  So that’s the way it’s going to be. I lick my lips. At this point, I’ll do anything to lessen my torment. “Please, Master, hurt me more.”

  “As you wish.”

  The sound of lubricant squirting from a tube reaches my ears, and at first I have the hope that maybe he’ll just fuck me now and get it over with. But what I feel slide into my ass isn’t his cock, but a large, vinyl butt plug. I moan as he twists it in to the hilt, each of the toy’s progressively larger ridges more pleasurable than the last.

  Pleasurable? I blink in confusion, as it dawns on me that my nipples and clit have begun to tingle, not with pain, but with arousal. How—?

  A paddle smacks my ass. Despite the limited range of motion the shackles give me, I jolt forward. The toy rocks inside me and the chains swing, pulling on my sensitized flesh. My skin burns where the paddle struck me, but I can’t say it hurts. Or, more accurately, it hurts, but in a strangely good way.

  Another blow falls on the opposite cheek with similar results. My breathing accelerates as he continues to paddle me. I imagine my ass must be bright red, and the thought increases my arousal. The chain swings beneath my body, each tug providing a fresh jolt of stimulation. The sensation reminds me of what it feels like when my master pinches and tugs on my nipples while he fucks me or plays with my clit, only fiercer, more direct.

  He must have put down the paddle, because he slips his fingers between my pussy lips and coats them with the liquid evidence of my desire. The movement causes the clamp on my clitoris to jerk harder, and I suck in a shocked breath as I almost come.

  “Christ,” he mutters, yanking his hand away.

  He’s angry, but I can’t fathom why. Unless…it’s because he doesn’t want me to like this.

  Comprehension comes in a deluge through the haze of my pleasure-pain. He’s trying to prove to both of us I don’t belong here, but my body isn’t cooperating with his plans. As much to my surprise as his, it’s proving exactly the opposite.

  “Please, Master, hurt me more.” Only now, I mean it.

  “Fuck.” It’s a guttural curse, but I’m no longer afraid.

  That is, until I smell sulfur and flame. He’s struck a match. I cringe. Santa Maria, is he going to burn me? But no, surely not. He promised he wouldn’t do anything that would leave permanent marks, and burning me would do just that. Wouldn’t it? Or has he changed his mind, changed the rules since my body has perversely decided to ignore his script?

  The first inkling of what he’s about comes when I
catch the faint scent of melting wax. A candle? But why? I’m baffled, but I’m not scared, merely curious. And then hot wax dribbles onto my back, singeing my skin.

  I can’t suppress a yelp. This hurts, a lot—a thousand times more than the clamps or the paddling, but to my amazement, the stinging only lasts a few seconds. As the wax cools, however, it becomes almost soothing.

  He seems not even to notice my distress, because he continues to pour stripes of wax across my back, each one just as painful as the last when the scorching liquid hits my skin, just as soothing when the it cools and hardens. I’m bombarded with sensation—the wax, the ache of my flesh where he paddled me, the biting fullness of the plug in my ass, and the tug of the clamps on my throbbing nipples and clit. I float in a haze that’s made up of both pain and pleasure. I’m not sure where one ends and the other begins anymore.

  Two sides of a single coin, he said.

  And they are. I understand now. Even an orgasm is as much torment as it is release, both exquisite and excruciating.

  “Please, Master,” I beg, sobbing now, “hurt me more.”

  Suddenly, he’s standing in front of me, his hand beneath my chin. “I can’t,” he says softly. “Not when I need to kiss you.”

  He bends down and captures my mouth with his. It’s a long, leisurely kiss, almost sweet, and yet it fires every nerve ending in my body with fresh, carnal longing. His tongue sweeps over mine, dances in the hollows of my mouth. Trapped in my shackles, I can only taste him with equal fervor, trying to communicate the only way I can how much I want him, how much I need him, how much I love him.

  Finally, he lifts his head. “I’m sorry, Gabi.”

  The panic that’s never far from my mind flutters in my chest. “Sorry? Why?” If he’s about to send me away after all this, I might kill him.

  “Because I can’t wait to release you from your shackles to be inside you. I have to fuck you now.”

  A laughing sob escapes me. “Oh God, please do.”

  In no time flat, he’s behind me, his cock probing my slick entry. He doesn’t stop to release the clamps or remove the plug from my ass. As he tunnels into me, I’m so full, both literally and figuratively, I feel I might burst at the seams.

  The kiss may have been sweet and leisurely, but his possession of me is swift and violent. It’s as if all the emotions he’s been nurturing for the past two months have built into this one moment. I didn’t know before where pain ended and pleasure began; I’m not sure now where my master ends and I begin. The fact that I’m held nearly motionless makes me feel even more like an extension of him, the completion of his desires, the embodiment of his will.

  He reaches between my legs and releases the clamp from my clit. Blood comes rushing back and with it, the most overpowering orgasm I’ve ever experienced. Every organ in my body is involved—heart, lungs, spleen, liver—and every muscle from the top of my head to the tips of my toes contracts and trembles. I would collapse beneath him, but the shackles trap me, forcing my liquefied limbs to support me even though that seems utterly impossible.

  And through it all, he keeps fucking me. “Beg me for more,” he orders.

  I won’t survive more, but I don’t think I care. “More, Master, please, fuck me more.”

  His fingers find my clit, so raw and engorged that his touch is agonizing, and with the other hand, he pulls on the chain that’s attached to the clamps. Fire grips me, and the climax that wasn’t even over yet begins again, harder and more excruciating than before.

  I lose control of my limbs, my head sagging forward. The shackle presses on my windpipe, but I can’t lift my head to stop it or speak to alert him to my distress. Blackness closes in, narrowing my vision, focusing my senses on the unbelievable ecstasy coursing through my veins.

  If I die, it will have been worth it.

  An acrid, bitter scent rouses me to consciousness. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”

  I wrinkle my nose and push away the hand that waves the smelling salts beneath my nostrils. “Sleeping Beauty was awakened by a kiss,” I grumble.

  Ben chuckles. “That can be arranged.”

  He sits on the platform beside me, and I realize I’ve been released from my shackles. I’m lying on my back, my head propped on something soft. The nipple clamps and the butt plug are gone, too, although I’m still naked.

  He bends down and bestows a chaste kiss on my lips. “Better?”

  “Not the same.” My voice is hoarse, and I rub my throat reflexively. “I’m already awake.”

  “We could do it again if you like,” he offers.

  Despite a low flare of heat at the suggestion, I shake my head. “I’d love to. But later.”

  Did I pass out from lack of oxygen or from pleasure? Does it matter? He seemed to know exactly what to do to revive me, and he doesn’t appear the least bit perturbed by my lapse into unconsciousness.

  He brushes a lock of damp hair away from my forehead. “Too bad. I’m afraid I didn’t quite finish.”

  I follow the direction of his gaze to his crotch. His cock still protrudes, erect and glistening with my juices, from his fly. It’s long and thick and very, very hard. Just the way I like it.

  Although I’m in no condition for more sex—I’m sore everywhere, although it’s a blissful kind of soreness—I lick my lips. I know what I want. What he wants.

  “Fuck my mouth,” I croak.

  He raises his eyebrows. “If you’re going to stay, you need to remember who gives the orders around here, Slut.” There’s no censure in his voice, though.

  Joy sings in my veins. I’m going to stay! I’ve won.

  But I lower my eyelids demurely. “Please, Master, I beg you to fuck my mouth.”

  “Well, when you put it that way…” He grins and climbs onto the platform, straddling my head.

  I open wide and take his cock into my mouth. He frames my face with his hands and holds me in place as I close my lips around him. From there on, I don’t have to do anything other than act as a willing orifice for him. He does exactly what I asked and fucks my mouth, driving down into my throat until he comes with a satisfied groan. As I swallow his seed, I am utterly at peace.

  When he finishes, he pulls out and tucks his slackening cock back into his pants. Without a word, he walks over to one of the cabinets on the opposite side of the room—the one he retrieved the “standard toys” from on our first night together—and pulls something out. He tucks it behind his back so I can’t see what it is, although I can tell it’s small enough to fit in one hand.

  I feel a flutter of anxiety. After all the new sensations I’ve learned to accommodate and enjoy today, I’m not sure I can handle another.

  But when he reaches my side, what he pulls from behind his back is a familiar, black velvet-covered box.

  My collar.

  “Will you wear it and be my slave again?”

  My heart squeezes tight. Is there any question? And yet, I can tell from the tone of his voice that he’s not entirely sure how I’m going to respond.

  From some reserve of energy I didn’t know I possessed, I bolt to a sitting position and fling my arms around his neck. “Oh, yes, master, yes.”

  While he removes the collar from the box, I once again take off my crucifix. As he did the first time he put the collar on me, he unlocks it with the key and slides it in place. I tilt my head to one side to allow him to lock it.

  “I’m never letting you go now, you know.” He turns the key over and over between his thumb and forefinger.

  “I know.”

  “And this room—this isn’t the last time we’re going to use it. If you’re going to stay with me and be my slave, you have to accept and fulfill all my desires, not just the ones that are easy for you.”

  “I know that, too.” And I’m glad. Because just as he remade my sexual desires to meet his demands, he’s remade my experience of pain and pleasure to suit his needs. I’m not just a shifted landscape any longer; I’ve become a whole new planet. One th
at truly is “made for it.”

  “Can you walk?” he asks, getting to his feet.

  “I think so,” I answer, although in truth, I’m not sure.

  “Good.” He disappears into the gym and returns with a white terrycloth robe, which he wraps around me.

  The wax that’s cooled and dried on my back cracks and itches, but I hardly notice as he leads me out onto the pool deck and up to the railing that overlooks the beach. After the relative darkness of the playroom, the bright sunlight glancing off the sand and the waves makes me squint. The scent of salt and sea hangs heavy in the hot summer air.

  He leans his elbows on the railing and looks out onto the ocean. “I had another slave once. One I loved as much as I love you.”

  My heart does a spinning nosedive into my belly then catapults into my throat. Did he just admit he loves me? While in the same breath telling me he once loved someone else?

  The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

  “What happened to her?” I ask, because for some reason, he wants me to know about her. A myriad of possibilities tumble through my head, the worst one being that perhaps somehow he killed her in the playroom like he could have killed me.

  He turns the key over in his hand again, watching the light glint off its smooth, silvery surface. “Her family thought I’d brainwashed her, like some sort of cult leader. That she would never have tolerated being my slave if I hadn’t forced her into it somehow. They kidnapped her and took her to a psychiatrist. By the time I tracked her down, they’d brainwashed her into believing I was some kind of monster.”

  I touch my collar, remembering my reaction when he told me the GPS unit wasn’t there because he didn’t trust me, but because he didn’t trust other people. At the time, I thought he was just saying that to make the existence of the unit more palatable to me. Now I know he was dead serious.

  “That’s why you wanted to be sure I was here willingly.”

  His gaze still fixed on the key, he nods. “Janna had never been in a dominant/submissive relationship before she met me. I went to Maid for It because I was trying to be certain I never made the mistake of getting involved with an untutored submissive again. I didn’t want to go through that shit again. And now…with you.” He holds up the key. “I want to keep you, but I have to be sure you’re never going to leave me. Not even if your family comes to ‘rescue’ you.”