Maid Naughty for Him

I keep house for Nick Rhodes.

That is to say, I'm his housekeeper. The agency sent me over a few months ago; I thought it might have been a one time assignment, as he's never really home, but he likes someone to come in everyday. So hey, that's easy, keeping a clean house clean. I have my routine. When I first walk in the door, I scratch Yag behind the ears. He's not a super friendly cat, but in the absence of any company, he has grown to tolerate me. I know he secretly likes me. Yag is a lot like his master, reserved, but secretly purring on the inside.

It gets kinda lonely though. I often dust the glass shelves, looking at the pictures of Mr. Rhodes and his family, his girlfriend, his friends. I imagine myself in the picture, sitting on the front row, at the club, getting out of the limo, the lights flashing. Why, yes, I would like more champagne. No, you look fabulous, daaaling. I swirl my duster around like a magic wand. Bibbitty, bobbitty, boo! My daydreams last throughout the boring day, propelling me through my mundane chores.

Mr. Rhodes is in the United States on his summer tour. I don't like to play his stereo too loud, so I bring my I-Pod to work and blast 80's dance hits in my ear. Today, it's a new song, "Get Low." "Get low, get low," I drawl out to the top of my lungs. My duster has become a whip. I am scantily clad in a leather outfit with thigh high crimson latex boots. I grip my pole, a brass side to a curio cabinet in the main hall, undulating carefully to the music. The disco lights are flashing around me, and I can see the hungry looks of the men in the front row. "Get low, get low," I mouth to them. They are hot for me. They want me. "Kelly," they scream. "Kelly. What the hell?"

Mr. Rhodes is standing in the front hall with his mouth open. His bags lay in a heap by his feet and his button down shirt is hanging sloppily from the front of his suit. Mr. Rhodes is home. I pull the earplugs out of my ear; the music is so loud that we both can hear Florida crooning through the hallway. I fumble for the volume. My duster has drooped like a shunned peacock.

Mr. Rhodes is staring at me with a funny look, like he has never seen me before. I stare back and tuck a stray curl behind my ear.

"Hello, Kelly," he says evenly. His face is expressionless.

"Hello, Mr. Rhodes," I say quickly. My face feels like it's on fire. I immediately grab the smallest bag and high-tail it towards the bedroom. "Is there anything in the kitchen?" he asks down the hall. I can hear him making his way towards the kitchen. You see, that's another one of my duties. I go to the store, buy the groceries. He's not home for dinner much and he doesn't expect me to cook, but before he left on tour, I started fixing a few vegetarian dishes and just leaving them wrapped in the refrigerator for him to heat up when he came home late. It wasn't in the agency contract, but I did it anyways.

Well, there is nothing in the kitchen. He hasn't been home in weeks. I bet even the bread is completely covered in green. I cringe. "I don't think there's much," I say with a lilt. Maybe it's not too late to run to the store. "Can I order you something?" I grab another bag and rush down the hall. No answer.

I have carried all the bags back. There is still silence coming from the kitchen. I pick up my duster from the floor where I left it and absently run it over the hall table. It is getting late anyway; I am usually gone by this time. I can see the dark through the curtains. I need to go through the house and pull the curtains shut and then I'll go.

"Kelly!" I hear from the kitchen. 'Kelly, come here, please."

It is the tone of his voice that immediately sets me on alarm. An even tone, but with an edge to it. Mr. Rhodes never yells, but I have seen him pretty unhappy. I'd stand better chances with Satan, himself. I'm in trouble.

I walk in and Mr. Rhodes is standing next to a high backed stool that pulls up to the bar. He locks eyes with me as I walk in, deep green eyes. Like a green ocean. The kind of eyes that somebody could drown in.

"What is this?" he asks, pointing to the chair. His voice is hard and even; I have memories of my high school principal. I look down at the chair. This must be a trick question, I think. I bite my lip. A chair? I want to say it, but resist.

"This!" he says. Now he might be close to yelling. I look closely at the cushion. At first, it looks like cat poo, but I can tell it is another one of Yag's hairballs that he coughed up. I squish up my nose, but remain silent. I think Mr. Rhodes knows it is a hairball.

"How long do you think it's been here?" he questions. I think I know the answer to this question. It looks pretty old. And I know why he's asking it.

He very adamantly told me months before he left that he wanted the kitchen cushions vacuumed everyday to suck up the cat fur. That was one thing that really bugged him-- getting ready to eat his cheese sandwich and finding a grayish hair stuck to it. He even added the task into my agency contract. But with him gone, I had been a little lax in vacuuming every day. OK, I hadn't vacuumed since the man walked out the door. I felt shame and guilt wash over me . I didn't know what to say. I hadn't been to the store, I hadn't cleaned the chairs. Maybe he would think that I sat around and watched soap operas all day. Well, I had looked at a few. All right, I was downright hooked on a few of them, and my TV was on the fritz. I couldn't look at him. I could feel the heat from his stare burning a hole in the top of my head.

He strides out the door, stopping at the edge of the kitchen. "Come with me." He heads down the hall.

I obediently follow him down the hall. Here he goes, I think. He's going to find my paperwork and tear it up in front of my face. "You're fired," I imagine him saying. On to another job. But maybe the agency would fire me after losing a high profile contract like him. I have skills, I think encouragingly.

But he doesn't stop at his office. He goes all the way back to his bedroom. In fact, he is standing in the center of his bedroom waiting for me to come in the door.

Now, I've been in Nick Rhodes bedroom before. I know that there are a lot of girls who would like to say that! I've changed his sheets countless times. But it looks different now. It's because he's standing in it. Everything looks different, more masculine, more HIS.

He quietly walks to the door and shuts it. He has cut off my escape route. The hair on the back of my head is standing up. He walks back and takes a stance right in front on me with his arms folded.

"What do you think I should do with you, Kelly?"

His low deep voice wraps around me. I stare into his eyes, unable to look away. My mouth opens and closes like a goldfish that has flipped out of its bowl. Maybe he's going to kill me, I think blindly. I am definitely afraid. My legs are starting to tremble, and I will myself not to pass out on the floor. I realize that I am still holding my duster, and I contemplate how I would use it as a weapon.

I cannot hold his stare, so my eyes drift downward. His arms are crossed and his hand is absently rubbing a spot on his elbow and I watch, mesmerized, the gentle motion of his fingers lulling me out of my fear and into a dream. His fingers stop moving, hovering over the spot on his jacket, the perfectly manicured nails floating as if suspended in midair. His hands are much bigger than one would think. That is one thing about Nick Rhodes- he has beautiful hands, quiet and still, until he speaks, and then they flutter like birds. I could see the muscles pull against the knuckles, making the pale skin ripple. There were light tufts of soft brown translucent hair that dotted each finger. I wanted to reach out and touch the back of his hand.

"Kelly?" He had been talking to me, but I could only concentrate on his fingers. His thick eyebrows knit together, and he bends down a second to catch my eyes again. I snap out of my stupor. What is wrong with me? "Mr. Rhodes," I begin, "look.."

"You can call me Nick. Please. I've told you that before." He doesn't seem as cross, but he still has his arms folded.

Mr. Rhodes would be easier, I think. "Nick," I say carefully. "I'm really sorry. I wasn't expecting you. I know that the house is not like you would like it." Excuses pour out in a frenzy. I am rushing now, the words spraying out like water through a leaky pipe. "I can stay tonight. Tidy up. Whatever you need."

No response.

"Look, Mr. Rhodes. Nick. I really need this job. Don't fire me." I can feel my eyes tearing up. Don't cry, I tell myself.

His face softens. He uncrosses his arms.

"I'm not going to fire you," he says. His lips curl into a small smile. "I like you, Kelly."

"Really?" I feel relief float over me. I wipe my eyes quickly. His green eyes are boring into me with a glimmer of something in them. "Thanks." A moment of pause. "So I'll just get my things..." I back up a step.

"Oh no. I don't think so."

I stop. "No?" What else could there be, I think. The fact that I am standing in my employer's bedroom with a closed door already has me on edge. And not just any employer. The man in front of me is the stuff of my daily fantasies. The reality of the situation made my stomach cramp.

"No, Kelly. I forgive you for your..." he paused, looking off, trying to find the right word. "Your disobedience. I think that you are well aware that your work is not satisfactory and that you will correct that, right?"

I nod quickly.

"However, I think that you need to learn a little lesson from this. I think a good old fashioned spanking is in order."

I can feel all the blood leave my upper body. He's joking, I think.

But Nick walks over to a couch pushed in a corner, and casually takes off his jacket, laying it carefully over the back. He walks back, rolling up his right sleeve. I can't speak. Fear, crazy fear, has consumed me and I can't move. I am rooted to the spot on the carpet.

Nick goes over to the bed. It is a very modern-looking bed, teakwood and low to the floor with a thin comforter tucked into the slats. He sits, after first taking his hand to brush a tuft of cat fur with a scowl, and firmly plants his feet on the floor. He pats the spot next to him.

"Come here, Kelly."

"No," I whisper, unconvincingly.

We both stare at each other. I swallow hard and push back my shoulders. I am trying to think of an argument, but my throat is tight and I can't speak. Moments pass.

"Come here, Kelly." There is an impatience now, creeping into his voice. I can see the hardness coming back into his face. Do I really want to anger him? As afraid as I am, it is fear of being in his arms more than the spanking itself that frightens me the most. Isn't this what I had prayed for, fantasized about day after day? Opportunity is sitting right in front of me. His hand sits firmly on the comforter. The next thing I know, I am standing next to him.

"Take down your knickers, please."

I look down into his face. It is all serious. "OK," I say softly.

My uniform is a royal blue with a white starched collar and a white apron. I look like a 1950's waitress. I have on white Keds tennis shoes with cotton roll-down socks. Not exactly pretty. I hook my thumbs into my cotton underwear and pull without raising my skirt. The underwear falls in a heap at my feet.

I don't remember what happened next, but in one swift move, I am now face down over his knees, my head resting in the crook of his left elbow, my legs splayed out over the end of the bed. My arms lay stiffly at my side. I raise them and hang onto his arm. I can smell his cologne seeping through his shirt, a mixture of his own smell and a spicy scent- a pleasant smell, for another time maybe. Guiltily, I think about the number of times I had gone into his closet when he wasn't there, sticking my nose into his shirts and breathing in the musky aroma. I suck in, letting the smell calm my shaking nerves.

Then I feel him pull up my skirt, gently, taking care not to touch my skin. I can't see his face, but the knowledge that he is able to see my naked backside, makes my face burn. I clutch his arm tighter and squeeze my eyes tight. I can feel his eyes perusing my ass, and I feel my pussy grow hot and wet. I want him to do something- touch me, rub me, spank me- anything. But he just sits there for a moment, his green eyes burning my skin.

This is his punishment. This is his control.

"Now I am going to give you twenty-five licks. OK?"

The first few swats go by slowly. Mr. Rhodes is taking his time. I am almost enjoying this; a slow burn spreads across my ass. I feel a throbbing in my pussy. But the blows stay consistently firm. He's not counting, but I am -- just in case, he's not. By ten, the warm pleasant feeling is starting to fade. I start to squirm. By fifteen, I am starting to get over this fantasy. I move my hand down to cover my flaming butt cheeks.

"Oh no, Kelly. Be still."

He grabs my other arm and gently holds them together in the small of my back. I try to twist out of his grip. Number sixteen is a really hard smack.

"Be still, or I start over again at one."

I hate this, because now my face is pressed into the bed with his hand grasping my wrists and his elbow pushing into my back. Tears start to spill down my cheeks. I am crying now. Certainly, he can see that he is hurting me. As soon as I know that I can take it no longer, he stops. He waits a moment and then rubs the afflicted area that he just spanked.

Now I am embarrassed. I can't stop crying; it all just pours out. He gathers me in his arms, flipping me over, and I sit off his lap, with my legs lying over his. I instinctively grab his neck and bury my face into his shirt collar. That's another thing about Nick Rhodes- he has marvelously massive shoulders. I cling to him, while he makes low shushing sounds, his arms wrapped around me. He doesn't say anything though. Minutes pass. My tears have stopped, and I am now listening carefully to the thump of his heartbeat through his shirt. What had been my anger just moments ago, has turned into something else, and I have forgiven his behavior in my supreme lust for him.

I can see a brown beauty mark peeking out of his shirt and I involuntary rub the spot with my finger. He looks down into my face, and, leaning me back into his arm, he kisses the wet spots on my face. First, my forehead, then a cheek, my nose. His lips are warm and soft, and I can feel his sweet hot breath against my skin. I close my eyes, and he gently kisses my lips, and then draws back to look at me. I can feel him looking at me, but I don't want to open my eyes.

"Kiss me again," I whisper.

And he does. Forcefully. I am melting. No, I am dying in his arms. His tongue darts into my mouth to lick playfully against my teeth before pulling back. His mouth is sweet, thick, male- exactly like what I think that he would taste like. I can feel a brush of stubble on his chin, the roughness contrasting with the smooth pressure of his lips.

His hand is resting on my neck as he kisses me, and although I am lost in the thrusting motion of his insistent tongue, his fingertips have my neck on fire. His fingers lightly drop lower, and I can feel them graze the top of my uniform. I know where he is going, and I wait, tensely in anticipation, trying to appear nonchalant and focus on his lips. His fingers graze the fabric of my bra and my nipples are already hard in anticipation. He flits back and forth over the hard bud, and then pinches the upper most nipple. This is more than I can take. I moan in his mouth, drawing my hand up to cover his, but he won't let go. Instead, I move my hand, rubbing through the fabric of his shirt. I can feel his own nipple hardened and I pinch back.

He draws back abruptly. "Take your clothes off," he commands, leisurely leaning back on both arms to allow me to get up.

I stand up and shrug out of my tennies and socks. I begin slowly unbuttoning my uniform, keeping my eyes trained on Mr. Rhodes. Nick. His gaze is smoldering. The one piece uniform drops quietly to the floor. I quickly undo my bra and just let it fall. I am naked, but instead of rushing to the bed, I stand there with my shoulders back, hands on my hips, in the sauciest pose I can muster. His eyes take me in, slowly licking my breasts, down my stomach... down there. I am glad I shaved today. OK, I have to think this. It's bad enough that I smell like lemon cleansing soap.

He sits up and beckons me over with a smile and a finger. He doesn't have to ask twice. He pulls me to him on the bed; my stomach is level with his lips. He begins kissing my stomach, his hands holding tightly on my hips, his fingers clutching my ass. He moves downward. Downward. Now it's my hips. Downward. Now I can feel him brush my inner tights. I am tingling. My hands are grasping his head, my fingers burrowing in the hair. I am trying to concentrate on his blond highlights, streaks of brown, even some grey, maybe? Anything, but his lips.

He grins up at me, and then moves my left leg to prop my foot up on the bed. I am now spread open for his slow perusal. His hand moves in between my leg, his thumb rubbing from my vagina back towards my clit, like a hot knife through warm butter. I moan and clutch his head even tighter. He is not to be deterred. He moves in, his tongue darting over my clit, first slow, then fast like a trapped bird beating its frantic wings against a glass window pane.

Oh no, Mr. Rhodes. Please.

I shudder, my body collapsing in a rhapsody of waves. Nick knows that I am coming hard, but he doesn't stop, doesn't slow down. He grabs my ass tighter, punishing me with his tongue. I pull away, wobbling as the room spins. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the self-satisfied grin on his face. Maybe it's the fact that I have been intimidated, spanked, and exquisitely tortured. I don't care if I get fired anymore. I don't care about anything but him. Something in me sparks.

I grab my duster off the floor, and in my best authoritative pose, I demand, "Stand up, Mr. Rhodes."

He grins, more of a smirk. He is amused.

"Come here," he says quietly.

"I said, stand up, Mr. Rhodes." I am not budging. My duster is held out stiffly at my side.

He pushes himself up off the bed. I can see a hard bulge pushing through his trousers. He stands up and comes to me to take me in his arms.

"No, no," I say firmly. "You stand right here."

I point with my duster to a spot at my side. "Keep your hands by your side," I warn him.

I stand right in front of him, staring into his eyes. There is a trace of eyeliner that has smudged giving his eyes a smoldering look. A lock of hair is drifting in his face, and I resist the urge to brush it out of his face. He is quietly looking back at me. I start to circle him. "Keep your eyes forward, please," I tell him. I am looking him over from head to toe, down his pleated pants, his black sporty shoes. I circle behind him and run the duster between his legs, up his ass. He involuntarily spreads his legs a little. I can tell he wants to turn his head. I walk back to the front of him.

"What do you think I should do to you, Mr. Rhodes?"

"Hmmm," he says. "I can think of some things." He wants to kiss me, his right hand rises up. I smack it hard. He arches one of his eyebrows in mock surprise.

I tuck the duster under my arm, and taking a slight spread-eagle pose in front of him, I start to unbutton his shirt. I hold his stare. I am the one who is supposed to be in control, but his piercing eyes make my heart leap. I fight the urge to smile. I want to cover his lips with mine. I slowly unbutton his shirt, and walking behind him, I carefully pull his shirt across his shoulders and down his arms, letting it drop to the floor.

"Put your hands behind your head," I whisper firmly in his ear. I run my fingers casually over his shoulders, circling around to meet his stare. There is something more in his eyes now than just amusement. He obeys my command, locking his hands behind his head.