The Maid Ch. 01-02

"I choose Holly, Sir."

Wait, what?

"Are you sure?" Sir asked. "You would forego the experience of lifetime in order to spend a month with our maid? Remember, an opportunity like this may never come again."

"I understand, Sir. I choose Holly," repeated Carla.

"Forgive me, Stephen," said Master Richard. "But I feel obliged to ask whether or not Holly has consented to this. After all, this humiliation and degradation and punishment will be taking place under my roof."

Bingo, I thought, I was in the clear after all. Every kinkster I've ever met has a fetish (so to speak) about consent. And there was no way in heck I'd give it.

"Of course, Richard. It's a perfectly proper question," replied Sir. "But I assure you, Holly has already consented."

What the heck? When on earth did I do that? Then, I remembered. Oh, drat, my slave contract!

I hadn't followed all the legal mumbo jumbo, of course, but Sir had explained the terms of my contract very clearly, including his right to loan me out. And I had agreed. I knew, obviously, that he wouldn't insist, if I protested. The others would frown on anything that smacked of coercion. More importantly, that's not the kind of person he is. But at the same time, my signature was on that piece of paper in black and white, and that should mean something. Right? Anyway, I was too proud (or stupid) to kick up a fuss about it in public. Looking back, I realize Sir was counting on that.

So, when Master Richard looked at me with raised eyebrows, I nodded my consent. "Yes, Sir," I said, just to be clear.

"Very well," said Master Richard. "In that case, Carla, congratulations on your new slave."

"Excuse me," said Mistress. "I'm content to lose Holly for a month, if that's Carla's choice. But I do insist on watching their first session together. After all, Carla's a submissive by nature. Who's to say whether or not she'll be willing to treat Holly harshly enough? The last thing we need is for our maid to come home lazy and spoiled, after all the effort we've put into training her."

"That seems reasonable," said Master Richard. "Carla, I'm sure we'd all like to see the kind of treatment Holly may expect as your slave. Can you convince Mistress Brenda that you will be harsh enough?"

The guests fell silent, waiting for her answer. I'm sure they all found the idea of watching Carla play the role of dominant intriguing in the extreme. Me? Not so much.

"I'll do my best, Sir," answered Carla, in the most obsequious tone imaginable. Yuck. She held out her hand. "Come with me, Holly," she said with a strange smile, which I couldn't quite read.

I stood up and gave her my hand, and she led me to a large, antique-looking wooden chest a few feet from the fireplace. Carla pressed a brass lever on the side of the chest, and its top slid open, revealing an impressive array of instruments. She rummaged around, selected a few items, and arranged them on the top of the chest.

"Give me your hands," she said. I held out my arms, palms up, and she buckled a pair of fur-lined leather cuffs, joined by a few links of chain, around my wrists. Then, she found a remote control and pressed a button. The whir of an electric motor broke the silence, and a steel cable, which I'd never noticed before, descended from the ceiling. She hooked the cable to the chain between my cuffs and pressed the button. The cable ascended, lifting my arms slowly above my head, stopping when I was fully outstretched, but with my weight still supported by my six-inch heels.

Carla picked out another pair of cuffs, and she knelt to buckle them around my ankles. She removed my shoes, so I had to stand on tiptoe to keep the weight off my wrists, and she secured the ankle cuffs to an eye bolt in the floor with a snap hook. I was completely immobilized.

She walked slowly around me, inspecting me, that enigmatic smile playing across her lips the whole time. She stood directly in front of me and looked into my eyes for a long while. And as I looked back at her, I saw for the first time how beautiful she really was.

Now, you might think that a silly thing to say, since all I've done until now is complain about her beauty and perfection, and how she makes me feel dull in comparison. But there's a big difference between seeing that a woman is beautiful, and actually seeing her beauty.

Seeing, for example, that her perfect face actually isn't perfect at all. Her lips are just a bit fuller on one side, and one eye droops half a millimeter below the other, but these tiny flaws somehow enhance her beauty more than perfect symmetry would. Or seeing that her eyes were... How can I describe Carla's eyes? People remark on their color all the time -- they're the kind of bright blue you normally see only in people wearing colored contact lenses. But looking closely, I saw that they were also somehow perfectly clear, as though Carla concealed nothing, harbored no secrets, left herself utterly open to those she allowed herself to be close to.

I wondered if Master Richard -- and everybody else, for that matter -- really did see something truly special in her. Something I had willfully blinded myself to.

Also for the first time, I saw Carla not as an object of envy, but of desire. I wondered what it would be like to hold her in my arms and kiss her mouth. To lie with her and feel her body respond as I fondled her breasts and bottom. To go down on her, kissing her thighs tenderly, slowly bringing my mouth closer and closer to her pussy, until my tongue caressed her labia. To taste her juices, knowing that her wetness meant she wanted me...

I was unable to hold Carla's gaze, and I turned my head away.

I turned back when I felt the unmistakable coldness of steel against my breast. I looked down and saw that she held a pair of shearing scissors. Before I could even think to protest, the snip of the steel blades cut through the silence. Carla made few random slits in the red velvet, then stopped, allowing me to absorb fully the horrific knowledge that my brand-new dress was completely ruined.

She turned to Sir and said, "I apologize if you had plans for the dress, Sir, but you've given me such a wonderful present, I can't wait to unwrap it." Everyone laughed at her joke.

She turned back to me and got to work, this time making longer cuts -- along my sleeves, across my bosom, up the side of my thigh. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I watched my beautiful dress fall to the floor in tatters, until there was nothing left but a heap of red velvet scraps at my feet. I'm never allowed to wear a bra or panties, but I still had on my silk stockings and garter belt. Carla cut these away as well, leaving me completely nude, except my leather cuffs and collar.

I let out a sob.

Carla put a finger under my chin and tilted my head until I looked directly into her eyes. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice how you've been preening around all night in that dress?" Her angry whisper was cold and quiet, meant only for me. I didn't answer; I continued only to cry. Then she went behind me and held me, surprisingly tenderly, cupping my breasts in her hands. "It's alright to cry, Holly," she said, now loudly enough for everyone to hear. "But I'm doing this to help you learn your place. Would you like me to help you learn your place?" she asked. Her voice was soothing, almost a sing-song. I nodded silently, and she said gently, "Beg for it out loud."

I instinctively gave the obligatory answer. "Please help me learn my place, Mistress." I let out a gasp of pain and surprise. Carla had taken my nipple between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed. Hard.

"Don't you dare call me 'Mistress,'" she said, twisting my nipple, her voice now harsh and grating. She released her fingers and grabbed my chin. She pointed my eyes toward Sir and Mistress, who were sitting together on a loveseat. "Your Mistress is over there." Mistress took a sip of wine and reached for Sir's hand, never taking her eyes off us. "You will address me as Miss Carla," said Carla coldly.

"Yes, Miss Carla," I said. "Please help me learn my place," I repeated, hoping to avoid more pain in my nipple.

"Very well. But wearing clothes makes it hard for you," she said, returning to her soothing sing-song. "It allows you to picture yourself as a free woman, to forget you'll never be anything but a slave. Sometimes, it even makes you feel proud. Tell me, Holly, did you feel proud of yourself in your new dress tonight?"

I shook my head in denial, and I was immediately rewarded with another vicious pinch and twist of my nipple. I whimpered and squirmed uselessly against her grip.

"Answer out loud, Holly, and don't you dare lie to me," she said, again harshly.

"Yes, Miss Carla," I admitted. She increased the pressure on my nipple, and I squealed out, "I felt proud of myself tonight."

"Now tell me, Holly, is it ever proper for a slave to feel proud of herself?"

"No, Miss Carla."

"And would it be easier for you to avoid feeling proud if I kept you naked at all times?" she asked

"Yes, Miss Carla," I whimpered. I squirmed, as she continued to squeeze and twist. "If that's what you wish."

"Beg for it," she commanded.

"Please keep me naked at all time, Miss Carla," I answered. Then I had a thought. "But what if I need to go out on an errand for you?"

She didn't answer, but instead let go of my nipple and unwrapped her arms, leaving me alone. A moment later, I felt a streak of fire on the backs of my thighs, and I shrieked. Carla had struck me ferociously with a thin rattan cane.

Whenever Sir uses the cane on me, he always starts with light taps, gradually building up to blows sharp enough to leave welts. Not Carla. The pain was so great, I feared she'd broken my skin with her first blow.

"As a slave, you will speak only to answer a direct question," she said, coldly. "Your owners may allow you certain liberties, but I will not." The initial shock of the cane stroke subsided, replaced with an intense burning sensation. The stripe would take at least a week to heal. Then there was more fire, as Carla struck me again, every bit as hard, this time a half-inch closer to my bottom. "Do you understand me?" she asked.

"I understand, Miss Carla," I said as clearly as I could through my tears, which had started to flow again, this time from the intense pain.

"I will make sure that you do," Carla replied, giving me a third stripe with the cane, then a fourth, then a fifth. The backs of my legs felt as though they were on fire, and I was sobbing loudly. I realized with a pang that my tears would completely ruin the makeup I'd spent an hour applying.

Carla returned the cane to the wooden chest and turned to me.

"You see, Holly, the best way for me to keep my promise to your Mistress," Carla said, "is to punish your misbehavior consistently and severely." She pretended to address me, but she spoke really for the benefit of the guests. She was an actress on the stage, playing to an audience that couldn't get enough of her. "Your subconscious must learn to equate pride and laziness and willfulness with suffering, until you come to behave properly without needing to think about it."

Mistress, completely caught up in the performance, nodded slowly, as though Carla were a vestal virgin dispensing invaluable pearls of wisdom. To be honest, I wasn't impressed. To me, it all sounded like basic common sense, just dressed up in hoity-toity language. "And now, to demonstrate to your Mistress what I mean," she continued in her stage voice, "I am going to make you suffer." Then, bringing her lips very close to my ear, she whispered softly, "For all the times you've made me suffer."

Wait, what? When on earth did I ever make Carla suffer? It was always she who tormented me. I wanted to ask what she'd meant, but, of course, I was forbidden to speak.

Carla went back to the chest, and when she again stood in front of me, she held in her hand a frightful instrument. It was a steel baton, about two feet long, with hefty handle of red plastic. It had a red plastic tip, from which emerged two copper prongs.

It was a cattle prod. I shuddered.

I'd never experienced electro-play before, but Master Richard's slaves had told me enough about it to know I should be terrified.

Master Richard's desires are usually pretty straightforward. He likes having sex with beautiful women, the more the better. Sure, he punishes his slaves sometimes, but his main kink is multiple partners -- threesomes, foursomes, however-many-he-can-manage-somes. But every once in a while, he becomes, as the girls put it, a truly sadistic bastard. And when they see the cattle prod, they know he's in the grip of intensely powerful urges, which only their suffering may alleviate. Master Richard's favorite way to scratch his intolerable itch is to tie one slave to the St. Andrew's cross and order a second to use the prod on her, while the remaining two service his cock. He slides into a kind of ecstatic trance, as he watches the bound slave writhe on the cross, screaming in agony, begging for mercy, until he shoots his load onto the two girls' faces.

I tried to catch Mistress's eye -- surely if she saw how afraid I was, she would put an end to all this. But she did see, and instead of intervening, she took another sip of wine and gripped Sir's hand harder. I steeled myself, determined not to break down under Carla's cruelty.

Carla touched the prod to the back of my calf. I twitched and gasped. The sensation was horrific, at once thuddy and stingy and fiery. It was as though she'd struck me with a heavy steel baton that instantly dissolved into thin strands of flame. The pain lasted only a second or two, but I could tell the memory of it would last much longer. I clenched my jaw to keep from crying out.

Carla teased me cruelly, bringing the prod as close as she could to my skin without touching me. I squirmed and struggled against my restraints, desperate to keep the hateful object away. She touched the prod to my abdomen, and I twitched again. My breathing was heavy. Then she struck twice under my buttocks in rapid succession, and I let out a scream.

Carla looked in my eyes and smiled.

She put the fire again and again to my legs, my armpits, my breasts, and finally my nipples. The pain grew unbearable, and I looked at Mistress in desperation and misery.

"Please, Mistress," I whimpered, "it hurts. Please." I begged, but I didn't even know what I was begging for.

I watched in horror, as Mistress moved Sir's hand under her skirt further up between her legs. She rubbed her pussy against his fingers, moaning with pleasure.

"Mistress Brenda won't help you, Holly," Carla said in a voice clearly meant for Mistress's ears, rather than mine. "You are in my hands now, and I want to hear you scream. You will scream out your pride and willfulness. You will scream until you learn to behave like a proper slave."

Then, she put the vicious instrument between my legs, and my vagina exploded in pain.

I had a safe word, of course, and Carla knew what it was, because she had the same one. Sir and his friends thought that if all their submissives shared the same word, there would be less possibility of confusion during play.

So why didn't I use it?

For sure, there was an element of pride. I was determined not to let Carla break me, especially not in front of everyone else. But there was something else as well. This session with Carla was like nothing I'd ever experienced. I don't mean the electro-play; I mean the way Carla related to me.

You see, what Sir and Mistress value most in our relationship is my endless devotion. The knowledge that in order to please them I would do virtually anything they asked of me. They punish me regularly, of course, and I'd be lying if I said they didn't get a sexual thrill from my suffering. But to them, the pain is primarily a means to keep me entirely focused on their pleasure, not an end in itself.

Carla? No.

As she watched me writhe, her eyes glowed. With my every twitch and shriek, she smiled with naïve joy, the way a little girl smiles when she receives a piece of candy.

Nevertheless.

What I sensed in her wasn't pleasure, not exactly. It was more... need. Desperate need. I somehow knew that Carla drank in my anguish in order to relieve some secret, overpowering, tortuous thirst. And incredibly, I found myself wanting to give her what she needed.

I don't remember how many times she shocked my nipples and pussy, how many times I shrieked and begged for her to stop. I remember only hearing the whirr of the electric winch lowering the steel cable, and feeling the relief in my shoulder and calf muscles. Carla lowered my wrists all the way down and wrapped her arms around me from behind. I was still helpless, with my cuffs bound together and my feet chained to the floor, but I felt safe. The torment had ended. My body trembled, and my breathing was heavy.

Her thirst for my agony slaked, Carla held me close, cupping my breasts with her hands. Her body was warm and comforting, and I could feel my trauma flowing into her. She rocked me back and forth, whispering into my ear, "Shhhh... It's OK, Holly. Shhh... I've got you, I'm with you... Shhhh..."

As I relaxed and my breathing slowed, she kissed the nape of my neck and began to caress me. Long, slow strokes with the very tips of her fingers, barely touching my skin. Over my shoulders, down my arms, and all the way to my fingertips. Up the inside of my arms and across my breasts. Up my flanks and across my abdomen. Her almost imperceptible touch was at once relaxing and arousing. I fell into a kind of trance -- unable to move, hyper-aware of my surroundings, yet utterly focused on Carla's fingers.

As she stroked me, her fingertips moved millimeter by millimeter closer to my erogenous zones, and my breathing grew heavier. When her fingers neared my nipples or pussy, I focused intently, as though with my mind I could direct her touch to my most intimate flesh. But she held back, stoking my rising desire by making me wait. Then, seemingly by accident, her finger brushed my nipple, which instantly became rock hard. I shivered. Her fingers danced over my pubic mound, then slowly along my labia. I writhed, shifting my pelvis, trying in vain to entice her fingers inside me. On her next pass over my breasts, she squeezed my nipples gently, and I let out a deep moan.

I squirmed under her touch, wanting her, needing her. "Please, Miss Carla," I begged, "Please." With one arm, she held me close, and with her other hand she slid two fingers into my soaking wet pussy. She kissed my neck, while her fingers moved rhythmically in and out. I leaned my head back against her shoulder, luxuriating in her touch.

Her fingers finally reached my clitoris, and she touched me as only a woman -- with all the experience and desire of a woman -- knows how to touch. Carla brought me to the brink of orgasm, but she didn't allow me to climax. This wasn't cruel teasing and denial; she simply wasn't ready for me to finish.

She again wrapped her arms around me from behind. She whispered into my ear, "Wait a while, and I'll make it better than you've ever imagined it could be." I believed her. I trusted her, and I made an effort to relax.

A moment later, I heard a click, as she snapped a leash on my collar. She buckled my knees with her boot, forcing me to the floor. She then planted her stiletto heel into my back to urge me onto all fours, slowly increasing the pressure until I was down on my elbows and knees. She knelt to release my ankle cuffs from the floor.

She approached Sir and Mistress, snapping her fingers for me to follow. I crawled after her. I now belonged to Carla.

"Sir Stephen, I can't thank you enough for your present," she said. "Holly is everything I've ever wanted. Mistress Brenda, I hope you found my treatment of your maid sufficient to allay your concerns." Her voice was as golden as always, but I heard a new edge of steel. Or perhaps the steel had always been there, and I'd just never noticed it before.