Maid for It (A Maids for It Novella) (3 page)

“Yes, Sir,” I answer.

His lips twist in a sardonic smile. “Well,
we’ll see. None of your predecessors was capable of obeying that
very simple dictate, despite their initial promises. Some managed
for a few days, even weeks, but most didn’t even last for the first
five minutes.”

An icy tendril of fear coils in my chest.
What does he want in the first five minutes that’s awful enough to
drive away desperate women like me?

“I will last forever,” I say staunchly.

He smiles, more genuine now. “We shall see.
But I like your determination. Now, stand up and turn around for
me. Slowly. I want to get a better look at my merchandise.”

Well, that’s easy enough. I get up, a bit
slowly—because I’ve been on my knees so long, I’m stiff—and execute
a pirouette.

His bright irises are almost engulfed by his
pupils when I meet his eyes again. Although he stopped stroking his
cock some time ago, he’s still huge and erect.

He takes my breasts—too big, I’ve always
thought, with embarrassingly large nipples and areolas the size of
dinner plates—in his hands and tests their weight. Daniels prefers
his maids wear no bras at all, but that’s not an option in my case;
my double Ds would be sagging to my waist within a few months
without regular support, which is why I’ve been fitted with a
cupless bra.

Without warning, he yanks open my sheer white
blouse, sending buttons clattering to the floor. “You have amazing
tits. Daniels got that part right at least.”

Bending his head, he takes one bare
nipple—the size of a grape and just as distended—into his mouth and
sucks it hard before lashing it with his tongue. My knees threaten
to buckle, and I clutch at his broad, muscular shoulders for
support, dimly wondering how a computer security expert came to be
as ripped as most star athletes.

His hand is up between my legs, raising my
skirt, pushing my thong aside so that his fingers can delve into my
pussy. He slides a finger inside me and grunts in approval as my
muscles clench around him.

Releasing my nipple, he lifts his head and
points out of the bathroom, toward the large bed that occupies his
room. “Go to the bed.”

Knees wobbling, I do exactly as I’m told. He
follows me, a few steps behind.

So far, I can’t imagine what it is he’s going
to ask me to do that will make me want to disobey him. Everything
he’s done so far has only made me wetter and more aroused, more
ready to do anything he desires.

“Take off your panties,” he says when I’m
standing next to the bed.

I do it, letting the tiny bit of fabric fall
to the floor beside my feet.

“Sit down.”

I comply.

“Spread your legs.”

The flutter in my stomach becomes a frantic
beating of wings as I open them, exposing my most intimate parts to
him.

“Make yourself come.”

This command knocks me sideways. Not because
it’s shocking or potentially painful, but because it’s so
unexpected. He wants me to masturbate?
This
is the request
that’s been the downfall of so many other girls?

He’s looking at me, and it’s only been a few
seconds, but I can see his impatience. I’m hesitating. One of the
things I’m not supposed to do.

Don’t ask questions. Don’t wonder why. Just
do what he tells you.

I slide my fingers between my pussy lips and
begin to rub myself. Heat suffuses me as I’m acutely aware of him
watching me as I try to bring myself to orgasm.

“I’ll know if you’re faking, by the way.”

I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I’m
not eager to test him. But even as aroused as I am, there’s too
much pressure to perform, and as I work and work and my climax
remains just out of reach, I’m almost tempted to try to pull it
off.

Almost.

His expression is stern as I circle my clit
vigorously, desperate for release for more than one reason. I’m
beginning to understand why so many others before me failed, and
I’m afraid I’m going to fail, too. Hot tears gather in the corners
of my eyes and then spill over, wetting my cheeks. It’s not going
to happen. I simply can’t do it.

And then he drops to his knees in front of
me, pulls my hand away, and replaces it with his tongue. The
strokes are firm, gentle, and commanding. His breath fans across my
sensitive flesh, hot and urgent. He slides two fingers up inside my
cunt and fucks me with them as he continues to lick me. My climax
hits me all at once, like a wrecking ball taking down a building.
I’m groaning, keening with it, relief and rapture washing over me
in equal measure.

He lifts his head and looks up at me as I
come back to myself, his eyes dark and inscrutable.

It hits me. I failed. I didn’t make myself
come. He had to do it for me.

The panic starts in my stomach, spreads to my
chest and my limbs. I want to throw myself at his feet, beg for
mercy, promise to do better next time. Anything to get him to let
me stay.

Perhaps he reads my fear, because a smile
that’s almost tender curves his lips. “You passed,” he says.

“But…but I didn’t do what you asked.”

He shrugs and gets to his feet. “But you
tried. Very hard. And you didn’t ask me why or tell me you
couldn’t. As much as I like success, I appreciate work ethic even
more. You demonstrated a great work ethic, my sweet little
whore.”

I’m overwhelmed. So overwhelmed I can’t think
of anything to say. Except, “Thank you, Sir.”

He strokes my hair with one big palm, then
releases it from the tiny cap that holds it in place. My hair
falls, thick and heavy down my back. Then he pulls me forward and
positions his dick in front of my mouth.

“Suck me off.”

I open immediately and let him in. To my
surprise, he doesn’t force me to deep throat him, but simply allows
me to find my way around his enormous length and girth myself. I
marvel at the feel of it in my mouth—hard as steel inside, soft as
satin at its head. His hands feather through my hair in a way that
tells me he finds it beautiful. I feel blessed by the admiration in
his touch and by his peculiar brand of kindness. When he comes, he
tightens his fingers in my hair and holds me steady, his seed
spurting against the back of my mouth in thick, ropy strands.

When it’s over, I do what Daniels taught me
and lick him clean. Like a good maid.

He goes to take a shower, which I suppose was
what he was planning to do when he found me on his bathroom floor.
I lie on the bed, drowsy and oddly content.

I wake in a dark room. Where am I? Pulse
racing, I scramble to sit up and gain my bearings, then
remember.

I’m in Benjamin Hardcastle’s room. Sir’s
room. The man whose every dictate I have promised to obey in
exchange for my safety.

That should frighten me, I know, but it
doesn’t, because I realize this is the first deep, restful sleep
I’ve had in months, the first when I haven’t woken in a cold sweat
because the malevolent eyes of Helio Cantavares have followed me in
my dreams.

I roll over, wondering what time it is. It
was mid-afternoon when he interrupted me in the bathroom, but it’s
dark outside now. Hours must have passed. Why did he let me sleep
instead of waking me up to finish what we started? Didn’t he want
to fuck me? Perhaps I disappointed him after all, and he’s decided
to send me away?

Confused and more than a little anxious, I
reach for and find the bedside lamp. I switch it on, blinking as my
eyes adjust to the light.

I’m alone and naked on the bed, but lying
beside me is a long, satin gown in a dark shade of purple.

Perhaps it’s wrong to call it a gown. That
implies it’s something I could wear outside. This garment is
definitely
not
intended to be worn in public, although as I
recall Sir’s speech about following his every order without
question and the fact that it included walking naked down Sunset
Boulevard, the possibility that I might be expected to wear this
flimsy, barely-there concoction out of doors seems not entirely
unlikely.

As I lift the thin shoulder straps to admire
the delicate black lace of the sheer cups, a small square of paper
flutters to the floor. I pick it up and read the note, written in
bold, black lettering.

When you wake, put this on and come down to
the dining room. I’ll be waiting for you.

Sir

Some of my consternation at having been left
alone for so long dissipates. He wouldn’t ask me to put on a
provocative item of clothing like this if he didn’t want to use my
body for sexual gratification.

I slide it on over my head. The lace bra cups
are too small to cover my breasts adequately, but the lace
stretches enough to provide a modest amount of support. Although
the skirt falls all the way to the floor, both sides are slit from
ankle to thigh. The material clings to my body everywhere else,
emphasizing the nip of my waist and the curve of my hips and ass. I
get a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I turn around and gasp in
shock. With my hair falling down my back and my breasts on display,
I look like the slut or whore he calls me—and yet, I’m gorgeous and
elegant, too.

A sex toy. Or goddess, depending on your
point of view.

But I can’t think about this too much. If I
do, I may remember I was raised to be a good, Catholic girl, to
save myself for marriage and then only to do my marital duty for
the purpose of procreation. I’ve done a good job of
compartmentalizing that part of myself since that shocking day in
Mr. Daniels’s limousine, knowing God won’t judge me for doing what
I must to stay alive, but I might not be able to continue to
separate Gabi the Slut from the real Gabi if I start to see myself
as her.

As I make my way down the stairs, the
mouthwatering scent of food assaults my nostrils. I haven’t eaten
since breakfast, and I’m struck by a pang of hunger so intense, it
nearly doubles me over. Through some force of will, I keep myself
from breaking into a run and continue my slow progress to the
dining room.

For a house the size of this one, the dining
room is remarkably small and its furnishings understated. This is
because, as Travis explained on my first day, Mr. Hardcastle has no
interest in entertaining and so doesn’t require a room or a table
that can seat many guests.

The small, square table is covered in a white
tablecloth, and there are two complete place settings on it. The
china is exquisite and thoroughly masculine with its
black-and-white geometric design, and the silver is so polished, it
sparkles in the illumination from the recessed light fixtures
overhead. I resist the urge to pick up and admire one of the
delicate crystal wine glasses, which look as though they might
easily snap in Sir’s large, capable hands.

“There you are, sleepyhead.” Sir’s voice
rumbles from behind me.

I jump and turn to face him. My heart
cartwheels at the sight of him. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a
black T-shirt that cover but don’t completely conceal his
musculature, he’s almost sexier than he was naked. Perhaps because
I can’t stop myself from imagining that he
is
naked. Naked
and hard and forcing me to take him…

“I-I am sorry, Sir,” I stutter, flustered by
the frankly carnal images sweeping through my brain. “I didn’t mean
to sleep so long.” I hadn’t meant to sleep at all, in fact, but
there’s nothing to be done about it now.

His lips curve in something that’s almost a
smile, but isn’t quite. “I
let
you sleep that long. If I
wanted you here sooner, I would have woken you.”

I understand what he doesn’t say. I’m his to
use as he pleases. Everything I do—even sleep—is at his mercy. If
he wants to make me stay up all night, he can and he will.

“You are very kind, Sir.”

His expression hardens. “I’m not kind at all.
I am, in fact, a misanthropic bastard. I didn't let you sleep out
of the kindness of my heart. I let you sleep because I plan on
keeping you awake all night long.”

The combination of threat and promise in
those words causes that now-familiar heat and weight to swell
between my legs. No matter what my mind thinks, my body wants what
he’s offering. No, not what he’s offering, but what he’s telling me
he’ll take whether I want it or not. I don’t have to agree to fuck
him; I just have to do it. I am unreasonably, inexplicably aroused
by this fact.

I’m too confused by my own thoughts to say
anything, so I merely bow my head in acquiescence.

The sound of a chair’s feet scraping over the
floor makes me look in that direction. Sir has pulled out a chair
for me. I do the obvious thing and sit in it.

“Travis,” he barks, “bring in dinner.”

The butler appears almost instantly in the
arched doorway that separates the kitchen from the dining room. He
spoons a mixture of stuffed pasta—I don’t know what shape, exactly,
since I only know the names for a few different kinds of Italian
noodles—bathed in a golden orange sauce across my plate, then
Sir’s. He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a plate
filled of grilled asparagus, which he places in the center of the
table between us. Finally, he retrieves a decanter of red wine from
the sideboard and pours us each a glass.