The Maid Ch. 01-02

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a story of sexual fantasy. All events and characters are fictional, although many are inspired by my experiences. When engaging in BDSM, I always adhere to SSC (safe, sane and consensual) principles. Readers are warned, however, that I've depicted a few scenes in ways that some might deem excessive. Those who object to such depictions are encouraged to enjoy other works.

As a writer, I greatly value engagement with readers, so I welcome all feedback and questions, either in the public comments or privately. All private communications will be answered.

CHAPTER ONE, in which Holly gets some welcome news.

I could hardly wait for evening to arrive.

It had been nearly a month since I'd last been allowed to leave the grounds of the estate. Nearly a month since I'd last spoken to anyone other than to Sir or Mistress. Nearly a month since I'd last spoken at all, for that matter.

Mistress had revoked my speech privileges on the night of her birthday dinner, which Sir had organized at Nick & Toni's. If you're ever vacationing in the Hamptons, and you'd like to get a selfie with a famous actress or musician or sports star, then dining at Nick & Toni's is probably your best bet. It's also your best bet if you'd like to pay twenty-eight bucks for the same salad you could get at Applebee's for three sixty-nine, but since I wasn't paying, I didn't worry about that. Nick & Toni's is Sir's go-to restaurant for negotiating one of his mega-deals (not to mention for seducing new submissives, but that's another story), and it's where Mistress wanted to go.

So, it's where we went. Sir pulled the Cayenne around and opened the front door for Mistress. I climbed in the back, and the three of us made the trek to East Hampton.

I thought the evening had gone really well, to be honest. The food and the two bottles of wine were everything you'd expect for $923 plus tax and tip. The front house staff took enough notice of Mistress's birthday to please her, but not so much as to embarrass her, and a couple of celebrities (sorry, I can't name names) even stopped by our table to congratulate her. Sir was in rare form with his stories and jokes. Even after fourteen years of marriage, Mistress still worships the ground he walks on, and I got a kick out of watching her stare at him across the table all evening like a teenybopper ogling Harry Styles.

But as soon as we got home, Mistress started yelling at me. She accused me of embarrassing her in public, and she called me an ignorant hillbilly mongrel skank (her actual words) because I'd asked the waiter too many questions about the menu. OK, it's true that I am from West Virginia, of, shall we say, uncertain parentage. And no, I didn't go to a snooty boarding school, like Mistress did. But that being the case, was it really fair of her to expect me to know what a "vitello tonato" or an "orecchiette" is?

Besides, I'm not a complete moron.

I knew she wasn't pissed about anything I did at the restaurant. She was pissed because earlier that evening, Sir had walked in on me just as I was trying on the cute little black cocktail dress he'd bought me for the occasion, and he couldn't stop himself from fucking me right then and there.

To be honest, even though I've lived on the estate for nearly three years, I still don't get what makes Sir tick.

When doing my chores, I always wear black silk stockings, four-inch heels connected by a short chain, a tight corset laced up the front, my black leather collar, and a French maid's black-and-white ruffled hairpiece. I never wear anything to cover up my private parts. And even though Sir sees my bare breasts and bottom and pussy nearly every day, he's always very deliberate about when and where he fucks me.

But the second I put on a dress, so that all he can see is a flash of cleavage and a hint of thigh, he loses his mind. I don't get it.

I didn't blame Mistress for being pissed; in her shoes, I certainly would have been. Of course, Sir is free to fuck whoever he wants, whenever he wants. But you have to agree that fucking the maid right before dinner probably wasn't the best present he could have given his wife for her birthday (although, to be fair, the diamond tennis bracelet he brought out at Nick & Toni's went a long way to make up for it).

To make things worse, Mistress had just turned forty, and that's not a number that any woman can simply ignore. Now, don't get me wrong. Mistress is still incredibly hot in a platinum blond, rich bitch, cougarish kind of way. To be honest, my pussy still gets a little moist whenever I catch an unexpected glimpse of her, or when she orders me to service her in bed (or anywhere else, for that matter). But let's face it. No forty-year-old tits and ass are going to be quite as perky as mine are at the ripe old age of twenty-three. And that's got to have an effect on the way she sees things.

Anyway, since Mistress couldn't take her frustration out on Sir, she took it out on me instead. In the kitchen, she had me bend over a chair and hike up my dress, and she delivered a long lecture on the proper way to behave in public, giving me a welt my bare bottom with a wooden spoon to emphasize each point. And that might have been the end of it, except I couldn't stop myself from pointing out that, objectively speaking, I hadn't done anything wrong.

That's when she called me an incorrigible brat and forbade me to speak until further notice. To be honest, I wasn't really surprised. It was far from the first time that my big mouth had gotten me in trouble.

To mete out a long-term punishment like that, Mistress is, of course, supposed to get permission from Sir. But by that time, Sir had figured out that despite the tennis bracelet and the memorable dinner, he was still in the doghouse for fucking me. So, in order to restore harmony to his household, he agreed with Mistress, and the decree went into effect.

Keeping silent day in and day out was harder than you'd think, especially since I've always been one to speak my mind. But whenever I got careless and opened my mouth, Mistress would shut me up with a ball gag for an hour or so, and within a couple of days, my aching jaw had taught me to hold my tongue. I was allowed to communicate only with hand signals, two of which covered about ninety percent of what I needed to say. When I was given an instruction, I touched two fingers to my forehead, which meant "I understand" (obedience was assumed), and when I was given any attention (including punishment), I touched my heart to mean "Thank you."

I was even made to keep silent in the playroom. Normally, Sir and Mistress enjoy listening to my begging and moaning and whimpering while they amuse themselves with me. But now they began each session by shutting me up with the ball gag, removing it only when one of them wanted to use my mouth.

My loss of speech privileges lasted a lot longer than I'd expected. Mistress isn't one to hold a grudge, so I thought she'd give them back after a few days, a week at most. But my punishment dragged on and on and on. And to be honest, I started feeling pretty depressed about the whole situation.

Now, don't get me wrong. I adore my life in submission to Sir and Mistress. I get pleasure from every act of service I perform, and my heart glows whenever I know I've satisfied them. On top of that, they're the first people I've ever met who really understand and meet my sexual needs. In the playroom, my owners turn me into a mindless object to be used and degraded, until -- a few hours and several orgasms later -- I'm lying exhausted on the floor, curled into a fetal position, sobbing and quivering. Our playroom sessions make me feel filthy and vile and worthless, like I'm a slimy, disgusting used condom, deserving only to be thrown into the trash once I've been filled with sperm.

Words can't describe how much I crave that feeling sometimes.

So, I would never in a million years question any punishment they saw fit to give me.

But the thing is, besides respecting Sir and Mistress as my owners, I also adore them as people. They're unimaginably clever and witty and worldly and sophisticated -- everything I'd always dreamt of becoming, while I was growing up in Appalachia. And when I'm with them, I feel some of their good breeding rubbing off on me. In our time together, they've taught me an awful lot, and I've always valued their guidance and advice. And even though I'm only their maid, they're very generous with their time and attention, whenever I have a problem, or even just something on my mind.

So, when they cut me off from all that, it hurt. A lot.

After about three weeks, I began to lose hope. I thought that not being allowed to speak wasn't just a temporary punishment, but was the way things were going to be from now on. The new normal, as they say. But then one day, as I was sitting in my room feeling sorry for myself, Sir and Mistress entered unexpectedly. Mistress carried a black garment bag over her arm.

"Hello, Holly," Sir said. "Your Mistress and I talked things over, and we've decided to end your punishment." Instinctively, I touched my fingers to my heart in thanks. "Good girl," he smiled. "Today is Carla's third anniversary in submission, and we've been invited to a soiree in her honor. You will accompany us, and we get there, you will be allowed to speak. Do you understand?" I touched my forehead. "Good girl," he repeated.

I frowned inwardly.

Carla belonged to the harem (if you can call four slave girls a harem) of Master Richard, who'd been Sir's best friend and neighbor since before I knew him. (Gee whiz, who could have possibly guessed that in a hoity-toity place like the Hamptons there would be so many people with kinky sexual tastes?) Carla was just two years older than me, and we had moved into our respective homes at nearly the same time, so we knew each other pretty well. With three years in submission, Carla was neither Master Richard's newest slave, nor his oldest.

But she was by far his favorite.

This probably had something to do with the fact that she looked like whoever they modelled the Barbie doll on -- with smooth blond hair, big round eyes set in a perfect face, flawless skin, ridiculously curvy breasts and thighs, and long legs that made her look six feet tall, even though she was actually 5'5", the same height as me. But gorgeous girls are a dime a dozen in the Hamptons, so Master Richard must have seen in her other, rarer, qualities.

To be honest though, I had no clue what these qualities might be. I did not like Carla. At all.

Everything about her was a bit too... much. She didn't just greet guests at the door, she curtseyed as though she'd been trained at Buckingham Palace. When she served tea or wine or whatever, she didn't just walk about the room, she floated -- even when she was wearing eight- or ten-inch stilettos, which I'd never be able to wear without toppling over. When we served together, I always felt plain and stupid and clumsy compared to Carla. It was like we were in a constant competition, one that I was bound to lose. Every. Single. Time.

Worst of all, it was obvious she knew how perfect she was. With her owner and his guests, of course, she always kept her eyes demurely turned to the floor, and her voice was as sweet and humble as huckleberry pie. With me? Not so much. She did her best to hide it, but I always felt her looking down her nose at me. She never spoke an unkind word out loud, but there was always something in the way she said things -- a hint of snootiness, or condescension, or whatever you'd call it. You know?

And Sir and Mistress didn't help the situation any. Every time we visited Master Richard, their conversation on the way home was always the same -- Carla this, Carla that, Isn't Carla perfect, Richard is so lucky to have found Carla. And on and on and on. Yuck.

On the other hand.

If Carla's anniversary was the reason my unbearable punishment was ending at last, then Carla had become, at least for the evening, my absolutely very favoritest person in the whole wide world.

Mistress offered me the garment bag. "This is for you to wear tonight," she said. I recognized the Saks Fifth Avenue logo, so I knew whatever it contained would be classy, not slutty. But I wasn't prepared for the cascade of red velvet that spilled out when I undid the zipper. The dress had set Sir back at least a grand, and probably closer to two. And that's not even counting the matching red leather heels at the bottom of the bag.

Instead of touching my heart in thanks, I threw my arms around her neck and kissed her over and over. It took all my discipline not to squeal in delight. "Alright, alright," she said, gently freeing herself from my grasp. "You know, Holly, we really do value having you with us, even if I don't always show my appreciation properly. I hope this little token helps make you see that."

Which was as close as Mistress could possibly get to an apology.

"Go ahead and try it on," said Sir. I raised my eyebrows in mock trepidation, and he laughed. "Don't worry, I've learned my lesson."

Mistress joined the laughter. "That's why I came," she said. "To make sure he has." And that's when I knew that everything was OK between us.

I went to my bathroom, and a little while later I emerged wearing a full-length cocktail dress with three-quarter sleeves and a modest back cutout. It was off the shoulder, exposing ample cleavage, and the skirt was split to mid-thigh, but it was the last thing from slutty. The heels were six-inches, a bit higher than I was used to, but I was sure I could manage. I was aching to fix my hair and makeup.

"Wow," Sir said. He took a long moment to undress me with his eyes. Which I found strange, since he'd seen me more or less undressed not ten minutes before. He turned to his wife. "I guess we'd better leave, while I can still control myself."

As they walked out, I started to fantasize about the soiree. How Carla would turn green with envy when she saw me in the dress. How Master Richard's guests would ogle me for a change, instead of her.

I could hardly wait.

CHAPTER TWO, in which Holly attends a soiree

Besides Sir and Mistress and me, Master Richard had invited only a dozen or so other guests to Carla's anniversary. There may be a lot of kinky people in the Hamptons, but let's face it, not all of them hold the same social status as Sir and Master Richard. The merely filthy rich don't really fit in with the ultra-rich, no matter how many kinks they share.

I felt out of place next to Carla at the dinner table with our owners, especially since I was friendly with all the submissives and slaves who served us. I did my best to behave as I thought Sir and Mistress would want, while at the same time trying to show my peers that I hadn't forgotten my place. I was still one of them, after all.

To be honest, navigating status dynamics among kinky people can get tricky.

For one thing, I still don't understand all the subtle differences among of the titles -- "submissive" and "slave" and "little" and the rest, even though Mistress gives me a welt on my bottom whenever I call someone the wrong thing.

For another, a person's sexual status says nothing at all about their status among outsiders, and vice versa. For example, the slave responsible for organizing drinks that evening -- a fit, well-kept man of about 60, wearing only iron shackles, which looked like they'd been borrowed from the Spanish Inquisition, and the latest model stainless steel chastity cage -- was a good friend of mine called the vile slave slug (his preferred title, spelled with a lower-case "s"). The vile slave slug is an exceedingly successful entrepreneur, who'd actually been one of Sir's early investors, while his owner, the imperious and cruel Mistress Victoria, is a former Russian stripper, whom he'd met on a business trip to Moscow in the early 2000s.

Carla, of course, had no problem at all fitting into the role of guest of honor for the evening. I was happy to see, though, that her black chiffon cocktail dress, while elegant, couldn't possibly compare with mine.

After dinner, we all retired to Master Richard's lounge, where sofas and easy chairs were arranged around an enormous freestanding fireplace. We sat down, and the vile slave slug kept the other submissives busy making sure everyone had their choice of drink. I stuck with the Bordeaux they'd served at dinner, not because I'm particularly fond of snooty French wines, but because I thought it would make me look more sophisticated than Carla, who would for sure switch to Moscato, or even Port, to satisfy her sweet tooth.

When all the guests were comfortable, Master Richard tapped his wine glass to get their attention for a brief ceremony. Carla read aloud her updated slave contract, and when she'd signed it, her owner gave her a fancy new collar to mark the occasion. Personally, I'd hoped the ceremony would include a bit more excitement -- for example, a red-hot branding iron applied to the creamy white skin of Carla's perfectly round bottom -- but no such luck.

Naturally, all the guests wanted in on the action, so I had to sit through speech after speech after speech lauding Carla's virtues. Every speaker had brought her a gift, each more lavish than the last. The whole performance was nauseatingly over-the-top, and I needed all my discipline not to barf on our host's hand-knit Persian carpet.

Sir was the last to speak. "Carla, I prepared no remarks," he said, "but I'm sure you know how much Brenda and I value you." ("Brenda," in case you didn't guess, was Mistress, and while I'm at it, Sir is called Stephen.) "In fact," Sir continued, "we value you so much that we thought one present insufficient. So, we prepared two, and you may choose between them."

Carla replied in her angelic voice, "Your friendship means much more to me than any gift, Sir. Yours and Mistress Brenda's."

Oh, give me a break.

Mistress reached into her handbag and handed Sir an envelope. "Since you got your MFA in Italian Renaissance art," Sir continued, "we thought you'd like a chance to see some of it again." He held out the envelope to Carla. "Here are two first-class tickets to Rome, bookings at some of the finest hotels in Italy, and a debit card with twenty-five thousand dollars in spending money. Your owner has already agreed to grant your freedom for one month to make the trip." He looked at his Rolex. "Starting now. Your flight leaves in just over twenty-four hours."

For a moment, even Carla was at a loss for words. Finally, she said, "Sir, this is too much. I don't know what to say."

"I often find that 'Thank you' comes in handy in situations like this," said Sir with a wry smile.

"Of course, Sir," said Carla. "Thank you." She reached out to take the envelope, but Sir didn't hand it to over.

"Now, Carla, be patient," he said. "Don't you want to know what your other choice is?"

"I'm sorry, Sir," Carla said. "Please tell me."

"Your other choice," he said, "is Holly."

Wait, what? My jaw dropped. This had to be some kind of joke. Right?

"Forgive me, Sir," said Carla, "but what does that mean, exactly?"

Excellent question, I thought. Exactly what I wanted to know.

"During your month of freedom, Holly will serve you, as she serves us," said Sir. "She will obey any command you give her, with no limits and without hesitation. And she will accept whatever humiliation, degradation or punishment you feel she deserves. Or, which simply amuses you to give her."

I couldn't believe my ears. Spending an entire month under the same roof as Carla would be bad enough. But living as her slave? Just thinking about it made my blood curdle. I started to hyperventilate, but after a couple of seconds I calmed myself. There was no way Carla would pass up the Italy gig just for a chance to make my life a living hell. Right? I mean, think how great would it be to spend a month roaming around Tuscany... The atmosphere. The food. The wine. The...