Dionaea

"This is where you will be sleeping, mon chérie."

It was opulent beyond words. A grand canopy bed, enclosed by black silk curtains, sat in the far end of the room facing directly at the door. Beside it were simplistic white lamps, resting upon symmetrical, white nightstands. The only window was on the far right side, covered by its own set of black curtains; opposite of it hung a massive white canvas splattered with black streaks of paint - the only decoration in the room. All was rested upon a large, black rug, sitting upon the white stone floor.

Eliza blinked in bewilderment. Geôlière brushed a gloved hand through her short, green hair, forcing her to shiver. Her hands were so cold, and yet, Eliza craved them in their absence. God Damnit, you dyke, focus. Get your money. This was getting ridiculous.

"Wouldn't you... prefer I sleep on the couch, or something? I'd hate to... you know -"

"Intrude? Nonsense. I keep myself open to my guests, la copine." Geôlière said, cutting Eliza off entirely. How... did she know what she was going to say? Eliza looked back at the maid standing beside the door. They seemed so... meek. So timid. Clearly working for someone as uptight as Geôlière had taken its toll on them.

"Of course... there are restrictions." Geôlière continued. Her tone shifted noticeably, growing harsher, more commanding; Eliza backed up against the wall as soon as she noticed.

"If you require anything, girl, you ask the maids. I do not want street trash rummaging through my home no matter how well I pay them."

The Madame approached Eliza, backing her further against the wall. The way she loomed above her, draped in black and white, her supple breasts straining against her dress, hanging just out of Eliza's reach...

"Secondly - you are to sleep at nine. No sooner. No later. The maids need to do their nightly work and they are not to be disturbed by anyone. Should we receive an unwelcome visitor in those later hours, it will be your duty to answer the door."

Eliza's voice trembled as she attempted to squeak out a reply. "Yes, ma -"

"Most importantly, la copine: Do not, do not, attempt to assist the maids in their duties. Leave them be. Now, do I make myself absolutely clear?"

Eliza swallowed. "Yes, ma'am."

That stung.

The feeling that something wasn't right was growing as quickly as Eliza's subconscious forced her to ignore it, and yet every fiber of her being knew that she doesn't say "yes, ma'am" - not to anyone, least of all some rich asshole like Geôlière.

Geôlière stepped back and regained her previous composure. "Good, good. I do not own a phone - so I'll be seeing you tomorrow morning, mon chérie."

With that, Geôlière leaned forward and pressed her breasts into Eliza's face, giving her a soft kiss on the forehead. Before Eliza could muster a single syllable from between her flush, hot lips, Geôlière turned and left the room, the maid standing beside the door nodding at her as she passed.

There Eliza stood, stunned, her already-anxious mind spinning out of control. That felt good. Very good, in fact. The doubt that had been plaguing her ever since the maid unlocked the front gate disappeared, replaced with the gentle warmth of Geôlière's chest and her cold, soft lips. She made no effort to stop its ablation; finally, after so many tense minutes, her composure had returned. She glanced back at the lavish bedroom before heading back out into the hall.

"Hey, Madame?" Eliza called, only to find that Geôlière had already disappeared.

"Oh."

The maid standing beside the door looked up at Eliza, and for a brief moment, the two made eye contact. Her eyes were dull, greyish blue, as reflective as the white stone floors that covered Geôlière's manor. They were beautiful - impeccably so, like the work of a dollmaker. The kind of thing Eliza would've expected to see in a museum. So... empty.

"Are you... more talkative than the others?" Eliza asked her.

She bowed, curtsied, and hurried off to finish some unknown task.

Eliza looked over her shoulder. Behind her countless other maids busied themselves with cleaning and tidying, arranging bookshelves and straightening the expensive paintings Geôlière so enjoyed; not one of them made a sound or showed even the slightest break in concentration on their tasks. Once they had finished, they simply moved on to the next - never a break in their pace.

Cautiously Eliza approached two of them, one rather short and the other about her height. Both were dressed identically, despite their difference in height. The taller one was arranging a shelf of small, black vases - and as she worked, she hummed quietly to herself. It was the first sign of any sound from the maids she'd heard - clearly, they could speak. Were they intentionally shunning her? Perhaps Geôlière told them to not speak to outside hires for fear of letting slip some secret slip of how she supported her lifestyle. Eliza huffed, amused, at the thought of Geôlière showing up in the Panama Papers - opulence like this, the kind that allowed one woman to hire dozens of live-in servants, had to come from somewhere.

"That's a lovely song you're humming," Eliza said, extending a hand to the taller maid. "I, uh, I whistle while I work, personally. Haven't had to, uh, in a little while."

The maid looked at Eliza's hand inquisitively, pausing her humming as she turned away from the vase she held. For a moment, the two of them paused and stared at one another; the maid's perfect, pale skin and empty-looking eyes reminded Eliza of looking at a painting from years ago more than it did a human being. She looked so... tired. Empty. After a pause, she extended a white-gloved hand to meet Eliza's.

Before the two could touch, the smaller maid stepped between them and glared at her taller counterpart with a look clearly as accusatory as she could muster. As the eyes of the maids met, the taller one returned to her duties - and ceased her humming. It was like Eliza wasn't there anymore, completely blocked out of their minds.

A shiver ran down Eliza's spine. Her mind began to bend under the weight of her considerations; her devotion to the job and her $2,000 - the softness of Geôlière's body - the burning itch that something wasn't right - too much! Clear your head, girl. Without thinking Eliza began to walk. Where, exactly? Didn't matter. Just take a walk.

Her bare feet sounded so loud against the white stone floors. Wherever she looked, the maids continued their tasks single-mindedly; from the two washing the already-clear windows to the one sweeping the clean, empty floor. Geôlière's paintings along the walls of each hallway swirled together into spiraling black patterns of monotonous, black-and-white blobs. Maddening. Maddening. What the fuck was going on? Why did her head keep throbbing?

Eliza's chaotic train of thought was interrupted as she walked right into a maid, carrying a black vial on a silver tray.

The two fell to the ground, shattering the vial to the ground, the contents splattering across both women. It was a viscous, black substance, reflecting the light and the sheen of the white, stone floors with ribbons of reflection. Quickly the maid began to scramble to her feet as Eliza caught her bearings, wiping some of the black substance off of her hand onto her jeans. It came off in sticky strands, most of it still clinging to her skin like dry glue.

"Oh, Jesus, sorry," Eliza began, smearing more of the black substance over her forehead as she attempted to move the hair out of her eyes. "Shit, I'll help. Do you have a spare -"

As the maid stood, Eliza caught a glimpse at the hand under her white gloves.

Her entire wrist, all the way back into her tight, lacy uniform, was the same shade of reflective, inky black. It continued on, clearly, to the rest of her body; her slender legs were coated in the same substance, concealed beneath the heavy skirt each maid wore. Noticing she was being looked at, the maid scurried to her feet and cleaned up what little of the vial she could before sliding the shards onto the tray and hurrying away.

"Wait! Wait! What the fuck -?"

Before Eliza could even finish the maid rounded a corner and disappeared.

Now she stood alone, the inky-black sludge dripping from her pale skin and onto the pearly, white floor. Not a single maid arrived to clean up the mess or see if she was alright; given the rate at which they worked otherwise, the loneliness in the hallway seemed almost tangible. Something was happening. They were now ignoring her, clearly. Why else would they refuse their duties so suddenly? Why would they never speak to her?

Eliza slapped her hand against her mom jeans in an attempt to wipe off the ink. Even as it smeared across the denim and left a long, semi-reflective black streak across them, the stuff clung to her hands; as she held them up against the light and squinted, it seemed just as flush with her skin as her myriad tattoos did.

Once again her bare feet echoed through the halls. Eliza's mind was abuzz with confusion and fear - and yet each time her hand brushed up against her clothing, the inky sludge coating her digits tingled warmly with an alien anticipation. It was a deep, guttural longing to be touched, and yet she wanted nothing less than to be locked up in a claustrophobic embrace. Everything was closing in on her, the paintings and plain, white hallways whispering of conspiracy, each beat of her heart reminding her of the soft, warm embrace of Geôlière's bosom.

It took another hour of being ignored by every maid she approached for Eliza to finally give up. Geôlière owned no television, no computer, not even a home phone; the only "modern" appliance Eliza could find in her aimless wandering was a black and white (naturally) typewriter sitting in one of the many large rooms on the outer rim of the manor, clearly Geôlière's office. Such a tall, imposing room, it was; each wall lined with filing cabinets and bookshelves, stuffed to the brim with thick, black tomes with white embroidered titles written in French.

If the maids wouldn't speak to her, Eliza would find answers herself. She shut the door to the office and began to sift through neatly-stacked papers, taking care to disturb them as little as possible. Finding each written only in French, like the tomes, she relied on her phone's visual translator for help.

"Special Monterrey object of huge success." it read, the text flickering spasmodically all over her screen.

Eliza blinked and opened the manual text entry box.

"The substance shows great progress," it read, apparently; Eliza continued to enter line after line of text, yet none told her anything about the reflective slime sticking to her skin and staining her clothes. Her blackened hand could feel every fiber of the high-quality paper as she dragged her fingers across it. God, why was it so... sensitive, now? Whatever it was, the substance was making her flare up with sensation; the simple act of turning each page or typing on her phone sent shivers down her back.

Geôlière's paperwork offered her little insight. The constant thrumming of fear and discomfort aside, Eliza was finding concentration... difficult. A black fog was covering every thought, just thick enough to obscure her mind and make it harder to cut through. Soon, the passive confusion turned to a headache that grew in strength with each word her eyes skimmed over.

With a sigh, Eliza slammed the cover of the book and placed it back on its shelf. She... stood, for a moment. She reached back up and adjusted it so that it was in line with the rest, placing the sheets of paper neatly back into the pile as they'd been before. Out the window, through the black curtains, the sun threatened to creep below the horizon.

How long had she been here? The maids were busy turning on light fixtures as Eliza crept out of Geôlière's office and back into the hallway. Thankfully, none seemed to notice her intruding in the more private rooms of the manor - if they did, of course, it wasn't as if any of them would say anything. Maybe, this time, their curtness was a blessing - after all this, it'd be a pain if Geôlière decided to deduct Eliza's $2,000 pay for trespassing in her personal rooms.

Before she could begin walking, though, Eliza felt a twinge in the back of her head. Her vision began to swim, her grasp on her balance growing weaker. Quickly, she looked down at her hands, trying to steady them; the black substance now covered her entire hand and ran down to her wrist. Had... had it always been like that? No, of course not - she'd wiped so much away when she first spilled it! How could it have spread? The sudden vertigo was clearly affecting her eyesight.

And then she saw it.

The painting in front of the doorway was crooked.

It couldn't have been more than an inch askew, but... but it was so painfully noticeable. The sight of it alone had managed to fluster Eliza into dizziness. Without thinking she rushed forward and adjusted the edge with a ginger touch, stepping back and forth a few times to make sure she'd gotten it just right. As soon as the black and white spirals were once again perfectly upright, the thrumming and pain that rocked her head began to dissipate.

Eliza slumped down onto the floor, panting. The fog dispersed. Her entire body felt... lighter. Hundreds of pounds lighter, easily. Electric twitches of pleasure shot down her back and into each of her limbs, especially the hand coated in the black substance. It was so rewarding! So liberating! Was this what tidying things up always felt like? Surely, if it was, her flat wouldn't be so messy all the time and she'd finally get around to removing the more embarrassing tattoos that covered her pale skin. But now... now it was addictive. Eliza licked her lips and stumbled to her feet, finding it strangely difficult to stand for a moment - her feet seemed to be disobeying her, somehow, as if they were trying to snap into a more upright position.

The echo of her bare feet across the white stone floors was quieter as she tiptoed through the halls. It was more comfortable, like that, anyways. Fading sunlight bounced off the reflective slime on her hand, casting streaks of light along the walls as she made her way through the manor. It was almost nine, after all!

Madame Geôlière told her to retire before then. As she went, Eliza made sure to wave to the maids as the worked, straightening each off-center painting she came across. Why, she'd go through the upper floor, again, just to make sure she hadn't missed any! Each one corrected sent waves of euphoria through her entire body, electrifying her, keeping her so... warm. It centered on her hand, her breasts, her lips; with each one the pleasure grew, the urge to continue grew. Such ease! In a recessed corner of her mind she wondered if Madame Geôlière had any further housesitting jobs for her in the future...

Sundown announced its arrival by painting the white walls a brilliant orange, speckled with black as the light filtered through the thick canopy above the manor. Shadows lengthened, and in the distant hills, Eliza could hear crickets below the quiet creak of the canvas she'd been straightening. Satisfied, she stepped back, gazing at her final task; how long had it taken for her to fix all of them? She had no idea, but from the lighting, it had been a considerable length of time.

A black shape moved on the edge of Eliza's periphery. She swung around to find herself locking eyes with a wayward maid, carrying another one of the strange black vials on a silver tray - containing within it the same substance that stained her skin and was gradually creeping up her forearm.

For a glancing moment the maid smiled before turning away, tray in hand.

Eliza blinked.

That had been the first time almost the entire day that a maid had so much as acknowledged her presence in a way beyond simple neutrality. Perhaps she was delighted that Eliza helped with their numerous chores, tidying up Madame Geôlière's paintings and keeping her study neat? Oh, how she hoped so! The same euphoria that had delighted her previously returned again and shot waves of tingling ecstasy through her body. Maybe -

She looked down at her arm and found the black substance had begun to mottle her fingers on her opposite hand, and back up again; she found herself alone in the hallway, her legs casting black shadows against the sky-orange walls.

Eliza saw no other course of action than to follow the smiling maid. Despite the pleasure and the promise of payment, the spread of the black substance was distinctly alarming, shooting red-hot alerts through her psyche and breaking through the black haze that enveloped it. All she needed was an answer, something to calm her beating heart and reassure her that her task could still be completed. After all, Madame Geôlière had instructed her to supervise the maids! They were under her guidance, her authority, now, and if she demanded an answer they surely would give her one!

All the other maids ignored her as she passed, simply continuing their tasks, oblivious to the clicking of the smiling maid's heels or Eliza's barefooted patters. She knew something Eliza did not - and she teased her with it! The smile - it was so subtle, so cruel in its knowing of knowledge Eliza so desperately longed for! And yet, whenever she adjusted her speed, forcing her tiptoed feet to move faster, the maid stayed just as far away from her until finally, she rounded a corner and into an unremarkable door, shutting it behind her.

Eliza gripped the doorknob and found it locked. The other maids looked up from their tasks at her, giving quaint, sly smiles, before returning to their work.

It had taken a while for terror to percolate from the various emotions Eliza was feeling, but at long last, it seeped into every crevice of her mind. Panting, panicking, she stepped away from the door and back at the maids, gazing at them with fearful eyes.

"L-look! Look! I-I don't know what the fucking deal is, with you all! Okay? Why are you all so f-fucking weird!?" Eliza screamed, clutching at her temples with her black-stained hands. Tears began to well up in her eyes, running down her red cheeks.

The maids continued working, completely ignoring her.

The barefoot patters throughout the halls turned to running. Eliza had no recourse, not even the vaguest inkling of a plan of action. Running for the door was what came easiest, but with each rapid step forward the thought of missing rent crept closer and closer upon her psyche. She needed to leave - but how, without her skateboard? Her shoes? Her girlfriend was almost definitely still at work or asleep, by now - could she walk ten miles home, barefoot, in the dark? It seemed impossible, but not nearly as impossible as the thought of spending a minute longer in this cursed manor...

Each door in the house was open, and beyond them were more maids, all working with the utmost of efficiency and dedication, paying the sobbing, panting Eliza no mind. She saw their half-finished work; tables left with slight water marks, windows left with specks of dust... She had to help them! She had to put on some gloves and help them clean or the work -

The sight of an unopened door startled her at first. It was Geôlière's room - the only one in the house the maids refused to enter. Stark white wood against the stark white stone. The paintings outside the door were meticulously centered, and yet the door itself remained shut as tightly as Eliza had left it hours before. Refuge. Sobbing, out of breath and out of her mind, Eliza pushed her full weight onto the door and practically fell into Geôlière's bedroom, body hitting the soft carpet with a dim thud.

All fell silent. All the terror and arousal immediately fizzled out into nothing. Silence now dominated the newly-empty space between Eliza's ears where once conflicting voices screamed to act on fleeting whims. The carpet was warm, soft, comforting; within the four walls of Geôlière's chamber, Eliza was safe. No maids. No strange fluid coating her arm. No fear. She could relax, now. In the sea of comfort, she ignored the blackened, reflective coating now dominating both her hands, and ran her fingers through the soft carpeting.