Lesbian Maid Mega Bundle

by Ella Ford

  “Excuse mistress,” I asked timidly, “would you mind if I cleaned in here?”

  The mistress looked up from her magazine and smiled at me. “Not at all Cassandra, please go ahead.”

  There was something about the way she replied to me, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Her warm smile and pleasant tone of voice seemed to me to be just a facade, a thin veneer that hid something else. A mild note of annoyance, perhaps, or something else, something more sinister? It was impossible to tell, so I continued with my work.

  First, I needed to dust the shelves. I had a feather duster for this purpose and set about cleaning the various items and artefacts that were the tangible record of the couple’s lives. Rows of books about health and beauty, or countless celebrity biographies. I assumed these belonged to Mistress Jessica. Then several shelves with meaty tomes on the subject of philosophy or politics. Critique of Pure Reason by Immanuel Kant, The 120 Days Of Sodom by Marquis De Sade.

  I lingered on these works, mentally assigning them to Mistress Melinda. In particular, I gazed at the De Sade book, trying to fit that into what I knew so far about the couple…

  “Cassandra, could you make sure you dust the lower shelves please? Please bend at your waist to do this.”

  My thoughts were interrupted by the request from Mistress Melinda.

  “Y-yes, mistress,” I replied, suddenly feeling a little exposed and uncertain in the company of the enigmatic, confident woman. I managed to gather myself together and bent over to dust the lower shelves. I felt a cool breeze on my pussy as my dress lifted to reveal myself, and the hot weight of Mistress Melinda’s stare on me. It was thrilling and perturbing at the same time. It seemed obvious to me that she intended to explore her new toy this morning.

  “Good, very good,” drawled the mistress from behind me, “now why don’t you reach behind yourself and play with your pussy?”

  “Yes, mistress,” I replied.

  Still in the bending position, I reached a hand behind me and extended my index and middle finger, then lightly pushed them into my lips. I took it easy at first as I was not particularly wet, but slowly worked my hand back and forward, squeezing my labia between the two digits and gradually building the feelings of pleasure.

  “Did I say to stop dusting?” the mistress suddenly snapped, her voice harsh and abrupt. I jumped slightly, but managed to keep my fingers in my pussy.

  “No, mistress,” I replied, then returned to cleaning the shelves as I continued pleasuring myself. It was not easy, and took a supreme effort of coordination, like patting your head and rubbing your belly at the same time. And on top of everything, I felt a subtle warmth building in my midsection. The inevitable result of my masturbation and my intense arousal from this act of domination.

  My fingers began to focus on my clitoris, already sensitive from the earlier encounter in the bathroom, it now required little stimulation to begin radiating waves of pleasure through my body. Tiny jolts of electricity that rippled throughout me and caused an involuntary shudder. My dusting by now, I have to admit, was half-hearted, but I still maintained a constant rhythm with the duster, moving it in time with the motion in my pussy. My breathing changed, becoming shallower, quicker and more urgent. I sensed my desire mounting, building with every tight circle of my fingertips, heightened by the sense of Mistress Melinda’s eyes on me. I felt myself becoming lost in the sensations, surrendering myself to the building heat in the pit of my stomach. I longed to reach deeper, to move faster, to push myself to that inevitable peak of wonderful ecstasy.

  “Good,” came a sudden voice from behind me, “now stand up straight and clean the top shelf.”

  I gasped, suddenly roused from the self-imposed trance. I pulled my fingers from myself, and looked upwards. The top shelf was high, about a foot and half higher than me. It contained a number of porcelain ornaments. Modern pieces that defied categorization, but which appeared intricate and fragile.

  “Mistress, may I use a stool?” I asked, not wanting to risk the delicate items.

  The mistress fell silent for a second, then replied, “No, I think you should be able to reach Cassandra.”

  I sighed. “Yes, mistress.”

  It seemed obvious to me that the mistress was playing a game with me. I wasn’t sure what it was, but for some reason, she wanted to make my life difficult. Gathering myself, I raised myself up on my tiptoes. This gave me a few extra inches and brought me in reach of the top shelf. I stretched up with the feather duster and began to gingerly poke at the delicate ornaments and other artifacts. Slowly, cautiously, I made my way along the shelf, taking great care as I moved the duster back and forth.

  Then suddenly, my left foot cramped up. I felt a sudden stabbing pain in my calf and an irresistible urge to push down with my foot. I stumbled to the left, dragging the duster along the shelf and brushing the porcelain ornaments. One particular piece, a top heavy black and white miniature sculpture, began to wobble. I reached up with my hand, desperate to steady it, but the sudden pain from my foot slowed me and I was unable to reach it.

  In slow motion, the ungainly item began to tip over. I watched it begin to fall, as utterly helpless as I would have been if I’d been standing a thousand miles away. It pitched forwards towards me and finally toppled over. At the last second, I realised it was going to land on me and sluggishly stepped aside. I watched as the ornament fell past me to the hard floor below it. It landed and smashed into a thousand tiny pieces, breaking the silence in the room with an endless crashing cacophony.

  The room fell quiet and I stood, gawping at the wreckage around my feet, horrified and unable to move. I glanced up at Mistress Melinda and was surprised to see her sitting back in the sofa, resting her head between her thumb and forefinger. She was smiling, but it was not a warm, forgiving smile. This viper’s smile was laced with malice and cruelty.

  She uncoiled herself from the sofa and walked over to where I stood, taking care not to step on the shards of broken porcelain with her bare feet. I watched as she surveyed the wreckage, shaking her head and sighing exaggerated, theatrical sighs. Whether she planned this outcome, or not, I cannot say. But I am certain that she found this outcome to be wholly acceptable.

  “Take off your dress and kneel in front of the sofa,” she said casually, pointing across the room. Never once did she make eye contact with me, she just continued to stare at the broken ornament.

  “Yes, mistress,” I replied and hurriedly lifted the loose dress over my head and placed it on the back of a chair. Then I walked across the room, limping on my still throbbing foot. I lowered myself into the oh-so-familiar kneeling position, crossed my arms behind me, then lowered my gaze and waited.

  Mistress Melinda slowly stepped over to the sofa. Even without looking, I could hear the soft taps of her bare feet against the hard floor. Each step seemed purposeful and ominous, and it seemed to take an eternity for her to reach me. But she eventually stood before me, her hands on her slender hips.

  “You’ve disappointed me Cassandra,” she said, her voice low and controlled.

  “I’m sorry, mistress,” I replied, my tone was regretful and genuine.

  “The piece that you broke with your clumsiness belonged to Jessica, a gift from her uncle. Do you realise how upset she’ll be when she finds out?”

  “Yes, mistress,” I whispered.

  Mistress Melinda paused and studied me. I felt the weight of her gaze burning into me, and became overcome with remorse and regret. There’s something peculiar about the submissive mindset. As a submissive, you tend to absorb and imprint the feelings and emotions of your owner. So even though I knew that the breakage was, at best, an accident, and at worse, an elaborate power game by my new mistress, I nonetheless felt a heavy burden of guilt. In my mind, I was in the wrong, and I realized that there would be consequences.

  The mistress stepped back and sat down, perching on the edge of the sofa and facing me. She arranged her hands on her lap and held her back straight.
Her expression was serious and ice-cold.

  “I’d like you to bend across my knee with your hands and feet on the floor,” she said, and I realized that I was about to have my first taste of discipline in my new home.

  “Yes, mistress,” I replied obediently and stood, stepping over to where she sat. I lowered my body, resting my waist on her hips and reaching down to the floor on the other side to rest my palms. My heart was beating quickly, a strange mix of trepidation and anticipation. My training at Miss Foster’s had taught me to associate punishment with pleasure, to almost crave the bitter sting of her hand or the cruel kiss of the flogger. It was a strange paradox, to crave pain so badly, but I found myself genuinely wanting to be punished by Mistress Melinda. I knew that I was a bad girl, and I knew that bad girls needed correction.

  I felt a soft hand on my bottom. A gentle warmth as she lightly caressed me. Then she plunged her other hand into my hair, roughly grabbing my ponytail and yanked my head back until I was staring back at the bookshelf and the broken ornament.

  “Do you see what you have done Cassandra? Do you see that you have been a very naughty girl?” she snapped, tugging harder on my hair.

  “Y-yes, mistress,” I stuttered, breathless with a strange desire and the fear of what was to come.

  “And you know what happens to naughty girls Cassandra?” she asked, her voice suddenly warm and honey sweet.

  “Yes, mistress. Naughty girls are punished,” I replied.

  I felt the soft hand on my ass lift and I clenched my eyes shut, preparing myself for what was to come. She held it there for an endless time, and I began to think that she might have lost her nerve.

  Thwack! Her hand came down on my skin, echoing around the room with a sharp slapping sound and sending jolts of stinging pain outwards from the point of impact. I gasped and struggled in her firm grasp.

  “Shh, shh, it’ll soon be over,” she whispered, lowering her head until she was inches away from my ear. With her left hand, she gently stroked my ass, soothing me with the soft touch and her tender words. I began to relax a little, lulled by her calming tone. Then her hand lifted once more and hung in the air for another interminable length of time. I tensed my body.

  Thwack! Harder this time, the hot jolt of pain shot around my body and the skin of my ass began to burn and itch.

  “Count them for me honey,” she purred, switching to her soothing persona.

  “T-two,” I managed to say, fighting back the tears that had welled in my eyes. Once again, the light caress of her hand, and once again, the sudden absence as she raised her arm once more. I braced myself.

  Thwack! Oh god, it hurt! But there was something else. As I sprawled across her lap, utterly powerless and entirely out of control, I felt a new warmth in my pussy. A familiar, misplaced sensation that had no business being there. With each hard slap, each jolt of agonizing pain, I felt my own pleasure increase. My helplessness and submission, the need to be punished and disciplined, all of this combined with the discomfort to form a thrilling paradox, and I realised that I was enjoying this more than I should be.

  “Three,” I remembered to cry. She raised her hand once more, no longer lingering in the air, no longer needing to tease me with the prospect of pain.

  Thwack! “Four!”

  Thwack! “F-five!” My voice was trembling now, barely a whisper. The pain was intense, the pleasure overwhelming. My ass burned with the heat of a thousand suns, and every sharp slap radiated further into my body.

  Thwack! “Six!”

  Twack! “Seven!” Her swats were harder now, with very little time for recovery. Tears were flooding down my cheeks and my pussy was throbbing with a heat that mirrored that of my tortured ass.

  I felt her hand caress me once more, tenderly stroking the sensitive skin, matching the sensation of pain with the sweet tingle of pleasure. Then her hand was gone, and I tensed my body once more, ready for the sharp pain that was to come.

  But the pain never came. Instead, I felt a sudden presence in my pussy as she thrust her hand between my legs. I felt her begin to tease my dripping lips, squeezing them between her fingers, massaging the warm, wet folds. She tightened her grip on my hair, pulling my head back until I was staring upwards. I gasped, confused by the sudden change and overwhelmed by the intense feelings from my pussy.

  She began to quicken her pace, finding my clitoris and pressing down on it with the tips of her fingers. I moaned as she began to move around that aching nub in small, swift circles. My whole body felt on fire now, my ass still burning from the spanking and my pussy ablaze with the heat of my desire. But as she worked, one eclipsed the other and the waves of pleasure swept aside the sting of pain. I felt my mind slipping towards an inevitable crescendo.

  Mistress Melinda shifted her hand, forcing her fingers into my hole. I flinched as she entered me, not expecting the change of direction, more surprise than discomfort. I was dripping wet by this point and her entry met no resistance.

  She began to pound me with her hand, thrusting her fingers in and out of me. She rotated her wrist as she pushed forwards, stretching me open in every direction and heightening the bursts of pleasure that swept over me. I cried out, begging for more, desperate for the sweet release of orgasm.

  “Don’t come unless I tell you!” she snapped, tugging sharply on my hair and never missing a single stroke of her hand.

  “Y-yes, mistress,” I managed to say, from the depths of my ecstasy.

  She pulled her hand back and then pushed her thumb into my hole, applying pressure on the front of my pussy, looking for my g-spot and finding it in short order. I gasped, and then gasped again as she began to tickle my clitoris with her fingers. The sensation was electric, a thrilling combination that sent jolts of tingling intensity up into my body and down through my limbs.

  I beat my hands against the hard floor and shook my legs, desperate to embrace the orgasm that loomed large on the horizon, waiting to overwhelm me. But somehow, I found the strength to push it back, force it away from me until I was given permission to release myself into it.

  The mistress worked me harder and harder, moving her thumb inside me, manipulating that rough patch with gentle pressure. At the same time, she swirled her index finger around my aching clitoris, squeezing it and massaging it with an ever mounting force. Every touch was agony now, every motion an intense torture of pleasure. The feeling built inside me, never relenting, never diminishing. I struggled to hold it back, fought against the overwhelming urge to embrace it and allow it to take me away. But I must not! I was a good girl, I followed my rules, obeyed my mistresses! And still it mounted.

  “Please mistress!” I cried, looking back at her through tear-filled eyes. “Please may I come?” I begged her with all my might, surrendering to her in every way that I could, every way that I knew.

  She gazed at me with a look of amusement, a cruel smile that reeked of control and dominance.

  “You… may,” she finally said and something immediately gave way deep within me.

  The orgasm burst inside me like a supernova. A relentless wave of pleasure sprang out of my pussy and swept through my body, pulsing outwards and burning all in its path. All other thoughts were cancelled, any thought of pain or punishment, any remaining anguish from the night before, even my sense of self. All was lost. In its place burned a perfect white sphere of pure ecstasy. I saw this and plunged forwards, releasing myself into its fiery embrace and it overwhelmed me. My entire body writhed, rocking back and forth on the mistress’s lap. I screamed out, unable to control my voice, desperate to release a portion of the intolerable tension in whichever way I could. And still it built inside me. I began to feel detached, removed from my body, lifted high into the air aloft a perfect cloud of pure enjoyment. Gazing at my tortured self below, I wondered if I would ever come down…

  And then it released me. The animating force left my body and I snapped back to earth. I collapsed forward, flopping over the mistress’s lap, unable to support my
weight on faltering limbs. My head swam and I felt light headed, my breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. I struggled to remember where or even who I was.

  From a thousand miles away, the mistress finally spoke. “Put your dress back on and get back to work. Be more careful next time,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  I blinked, fighting to regain control of my spent body. “Y-yes, mistress.”

  Chapter 4

  Later that evening, the mistresses sat down to dinner, a meal that I had prepared for them after my encounter with Mistress Melinda that afternoon. I wasn’t the world’s best cook, but I knew my way around the kitchen and felt comfortable preparing meals for people. This time, the first time I’d cooked for my new owners, I prepared a simple chicken dish, with white wine sauce and steamed vegetables. While I normally enjoyed the process, I found this particular meal to be quite stressful, fearing that Mistress Melinda might find some reason to dislike it, and therefore have to punish me.

  It turns out that I needn’t have worried. As the stern brunette sat down at the table, she lowered her head and took a long breath over the steaming food.

  “This smells wonderful, Cassandra, thank you!” she exclaimed, not a single trace of the dark persona that had relished my punishment so much earlier in the day.

  “Thank you Mistress Melinda,” I replied, a strong feeling of relief washing over me.

  She smiled warmly at me and gestured with her hand to a large leather cushion beside the table. I took my cue and lowered myself to my knees, folding my arms behind my back, as was proper.

  Mistress Jessica joined her lover at the table, clutching a pile of papers and setting them down beside her food.

  “Oh Mel, I simply have to show you some of the work that the foundation has been doing.” She rifled through the pieces of paper and pulled out a glossy looking brochure with a picture of a child on the front. The boy was thin and dirty, but appeared happy enough, beaming into the camera in that beguiling way that children have. Mistress Jessica held the pamphlet out to Mistress Melinda.