The Maid Ch. 03-04

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.

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CHAPTER 3, in which Holly adjusts to new circumstances

"Wake up, Holly. It's nearly eleven o'clock."

Carla's voice cut through the fog of my sleep like the razor-sharp steel of a katana blade. Through blurry eyes, I looked up and saw her glaring down at me. She wore a negligee of light blue satin, which accentuated, rather than hid, her perfect breasts and thighs.

"Mmmm, wouldn't you like to come back to bed?" I asked, reaching out to grab her bottom. My mind filled with memories of enjoying Carla's body for much of the night. The softness of her limbs entwined in mine. The untamed wetness of her mouth. The faint scent of her sweat. The taste of her juices. Carla had turned out to be a wonderful lover -- every bit as skillful as you'd expect, but also generous and tender and kind. True, she never went down on me, but she was very affectionate, and she made me come many times with her supple fingers. And after each orgasm, she held me close until my trembling had passed.

More important to me, she'd taken immense pleasure from my attentions to her pussy. I thrilled at hearing her moan as I licked her swollen lips, slid my tongue between them, massaged her clitoris. Heaven lay between the legs of this beautiful woman -- incredibly, the same woman who'd inflicted such terrible suffering on me the previous evening. When I made her come with my mouth for the third time, I felt a swell of pride at having brought her to the peak of pleasure.

Sleeping next to Carla was as good as the sex. She spooned me from behind, with both arms around me, fondling my breasts and nuzzling my neck as we drifted off. On the estate, I nearly always have to sleep alone because Mistress gets jealous. Sir also likes to spoon after sex, and with three in the bed, this creates a problem. Let's face it, there can be only one little spoon, and someone is always going to feel left out. Sir made me the little spoon once too often, and since then, Mistress usually sends me back to my own room after we've finished our fun.

All this is to explain that when I looked up at Carla that morning, I would have given anything to feel her next to me again, to hold her, to caress her, to worship her pussy.

"What I want," Carla answered, "is for you not to make me break my promise to your Mistress on our first day together. If this isn't lazy and spoiled, then I don't know what is."

Her words were a pitcher of ice water poured over my face, shocking me back to reality. "I'm very sorry, Miss Carla," I said, kicking away the duvet and swinging my feet off the bed. I stood before her, naked.

She looked at me, and for a moment, I thought I saw tenderness in her eyes. She reached out, as though to caress my cheek, but instead she grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked downwards, forcing me to my knees. I whimpered.

"Is that how a slave should behave?" she asked. "Lazing about in bed, when I'm already up?"

"No, Miss Carla," I replied, looking at the floor.

"How did I promise your Mistress I would treat you?"

"Harshly," I said. "You promised to punish my bad behavior consistently and severely."

"And is that what you want?" she asked. I didn't answer. She tightened her grip on my hair and tilted my head back, until her big blue eyes pierced mine. "Is that what you want?" she insisted. I nodded. "Say it out loud."

I hesitated another second, then choked out, "I want you to punish me, Miss Carla."

"Very well," she answered. She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up a hairbrush from the nightstand. She snapped her fingers, ordering me to lie across her lap.

As with the cane the evening before, Carla got straight to it with the hairbrush. No light taps, no teasing, no warm-up. She whacked me hard, several times in a row. I let out a little yelp with each blow. The previous evening, the thin rattan cane had left five burning stripes across the backs of my thighs. Now, I'd have bruises on my bottom to go with them. She paused after the fifth blow to rub my bottom. Then she whacked me again. Then another pause, more rubbing, and more whacks. And on. And on.

Neither Sir nor Mistress had ever taken me over the knee, and I found the punishment strangely intimate. Not as intimate as having Sir's cock inside me or lapping Mistress's pussy, but I felt very close to Carla as she spanked me. I hoped she would use her open hand next time -- not to lessen the pain, but to increase the feeling of intimacy. After my spanking, she rubbed my bottom for a long time. I expected to feel her fingers enter my moistening pussy, but instead, she eased me off her lap and onto my knees.

"Thank you, Miss Carla," I said.

"Good girl," she replied. Without another word, she stood up and strode to the bathroom, snapping her fingers. I followed.

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Like a lot of people I've known, I don't understand myself very well most of the time. But one thing I know for sure is that if a person wants to possess me -- I mean really own me, own my body and heart and soul -- then they must understand and satisfy my two deepest, my two most overpowering needs.

The first, which I call my deep dark secret desire, is something I've already hinted at and will explain more fully a bit further on. The second, which is much easier for me to talk about, is my tremendous need to serve others.

On the estate, I glow inside every time Sir and Mistress take pleasure from my service. I know precisely how they like everything to be -- from how much cream to add to Mistress's coffee in the morning, to how best to coax Sir's cock into an erection at the end of a stressful day, and everything in between. And the pleasure I'm able to give them by doing the things they like fills me with continuous joy.

That's why, when Carla ordered me to attend to her in the bath that morning, she touched me a lot more deeply than you might imagine.

I turned on the water, and while I waited for it to get warm, I removed her negligee and hung it on a hook. Holding her hand, I led her into the shower. She stood under the stream, letting the hot water massage her shoulders. I squirted a big glop of shower gel into my palm, getting it wet enough to work up a lather before applying it to her.

Carla's body is a work of art, and I was happy to have the excuse to touch it. But when she let out an almost inaudible moan of pleasure at my touch, I felt my heart swell. I held her from behind, and she leaned back against me as I washed her, rubbing my soapy hands up and down her flanks and torso in long, luxurious strokes. She didn't object when I massaged her breasts for much longer than I needed to make sure they were clean.

I squirted more gel onto my hands and reached between Carla's legs, one hand from the front, the other from the rear. She moaned again as I washed her vulva, spreading her lips apart and gently cleansing around the folds. I swirled my soapy finger around her anus, eliciting another moan when I inserted the tip and wiggled it around inside her.

I brought the shower head down to rinse her off, and as I ran my fingers over her pubic mound, I detected the tiniest hint of stubble. I'd not expected this, since Carla seemed like the type to have undergone laser treatments, but when I looked up at the shelf, sure enough I saw a razor.

"Miss Carla, may I..." I was too shy to say the word, but she understood. She nodded and handed me the razor and a tube of shaving cream.

I knelt before her and was rewarded with another of her enigmatic smiles. Before I applied the cream to her skin, I leaned forward and kissed her pubic mound reverently. I took my time shaving her legs and crotch, treating her perfect pussy lips with utmost care. I wondered why Mistress never had me shave her, and I promised myself to find a subtle way to suggest it when I returned home.

Finally, I rinsed Carla off, led her out of the shower, and wrapped a thick towel around her. I patted it to dry her back.

"Shall I help you dress, Miss Carla?" I asked.

"I'll manage," she said. "You go make breakfast."

I smiled, knowing that this was my time to shine. Even though Sir and Mistress employ a full-time gourmet chef, they prefer me to serve their breakfast, and over the years I've grown pretty proficient in the kitchen. It didn't take me long to find everything I needed.

I should explain here that on his estate, Master Richard maintains two apartments for his slaves, each with its own kitchen, bathroom, sitting room, and bedroom (two slaves share one queen-sized bed). For our month together, he'd given Carla the use of one apartment, forcing the remaining three to share the other (although as a practical matter, at least one, and more likely two, would spend every night in his bed.)

While Carla dressed, I put a pan of water on to boil and got everything ready. By the time she sat down to the table, which I'd set exactly like they do at the snootiest hotels, I'd prepared perfectly poached eggs on buttered toast, with smoked salmon, orange juice, and coffee.

After I arranged her napkin on her lap, I stood next to the table, waiting for her to dig in, a self-satisfied smile on my face. But my heart sank when she moved the salt and pepper shakers a little closer to the center of the table, and then adjusted the placement of her coffee cup by a few inches. I blinked back a tear when she had to turn the cream pitcher a few degrees to make the handle easier to reach. I fixed these corrections in my mind, determined to do better the next morning.

I stood silently while she ate, waiting to refill her juice glass or coffee cup, but I had occasion to do neither. When she'd polished off the eggs (every bite, I noted with satisfaction), Carla made a brusque gesture to clear the table, and she took her coffee to the sitting room.

Seated in her easy chair, she picked up an iPad from the side table and started scrolling. I entered with the coffee pot and cream on a tray and stood next to her. Carla sipped very slowly as she read. The tray grew heavy in my arms, but my main concern was that the coffee would get cold before I could serve it. At last, her cup was empty enough to warrant a warm-up, but she stopped me before it was full.

"That's enough," she said, as I dribbled in what I hoped was the right amount of cream. "I'll finish this, then I'm going out."

"Where are you going?" I asked.

She stared at me, slack-jawed. "Did you really just ask me that? A slave speaks only to answer a direct question, remember? It astonishes me that in three years your owners still haven't managed to whip the mouthiness out of you."

"I'm sorry, Miss Carla," I said.

"And you're going to be a lot sorrier, if you don't learn your place. But if you must know, I'm going to see your owners. They've invited me for lunch, probably so they can give me advice about how best to keep you in line. You will polish my boots before I go."

"Yes, Miss Carla. Right away," I said.

I took the coffee to the kitchen, then went to the front hall, where I'd removed her boots the previous evening. I assumed the polish and rags would be in the nearby closet, and I was right. I knelt down and got to work. Right away, I saw that my main challenge would be to make the boots look better than they already did. Any dirt or mud or dust or (God forbid) scratch will stick out like a sore thumb on black leather, but I couldn't find even the slightest blemish.

I opened the can of polish, scooped a generous amount onto a rag, and daubed it over her boot. I rubbed the stuff in as vigorously as I could, first with a blackened rag, then again with a clean rag. But when I'd finished, the boot in my hand looked exactly like the one I hadn't yet touched. Sighing, I got to work on the other boot.

"Are you finished?" came Carla's voice from behind me.

"Yes, Miss Carla," I said, gesturing to my work.

I placed one of her elegant stockinged feet into a boot and zipped it up. Then the other one. I looked up, hoping for a word of praise, maybe even a stroke of my hair, but she'd already stepped away to examine herself in the full-length mirror.

I stood up, took her trench coat from a hook, and went to her. "Miss Carla? May I help you with your coat?"

She turned and glared at me. "Do you consider these boots properly polished?"

My stomach dropped. "I thought they were," I said, my voice cracking.

"You thought they were? You thought they were?" she repeated incredulously. "What kind of an answer is that? A task is either done properly, or it's not. Which is it?"

My face flushed with shame. How many times would I disappoint her on my first day? "I did my best, Miss Carla," I said. I was on the verge of tears.

Carla grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked down me to my knees. She shoved my face to her feet, until my nose was an inch from the pungent black leather. "Look closely," she said. "What do you see?"

I tried to find some kind of flaw -- a stain, a mark, a scratch, anything -- but the leather was perfectly smooth and black. "I see your boots," I said. "I see black leather. I'm sorry, I don't know what you want me to say."

"I swear to God, you are the most pathetic excuse for a slave ever put on this earth," she said. "What I want is for you to answer my question. What do you see?"

"But I don't see anything!" My shame mixed with confusion and frustration, and my protest came out as a choking sob.

"That is correct," she answered. "You don't see anything. What you don't see is your reflection. When you polish my boots, you are to make them shine so that you see yourself in the leather. Do you understand me?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Carla," I said, tears now flowing down my cheeks.

"I didn't ask if you're sorry," she barked. "I asked if you understand."

"I understand, Miss Carla," I said.

"This is a completely unacceptable level of service," she said. "I'm going to tell your Mistress that you're a failure, and that she should take you back."

"No!" I protested. "I'll do better; I promise." I wrapped my arms around her calves and buried my face in her feet, my tears wetting the black leather. Even in my misery, I thought it strange to be begging Carla not to send me home, the exact thing I'd have given anything for the previous evening.

"Don't you dare touch me, you disgusting piece of trailer trash," she said, kicking me away. I huddled on the floor, stung by the pain of her rejection. She prodded me with the toe of her boot until I was prone on my back. She planted her foot onto my face, and I instinctively opened my mouth. The sole of her boot was gritty, and I tasted dirt and grime mix with my saliva as she rubbed her foot on my tongue. "Licking the filth from my boots is the only thing a worthless skank like you is good for," she said.

She lifted her foot and offered me her stiletto heel, holding it half an inch above my lips. I raised my head and took it into my mouth, sucking submissively, swirling my tongue around it the way Sir likes me to suck his cock. Carla slowly pushed her heel deeper and deeper into my mouth. It was a full six inches, and I couldn't take it all without gagging. She kept her heel in the back of my throat until I started to gasp and choke, desperate for air.

Carla removed her foot from my face and bent down over me, sneering. "You sicken me," she said.

She cleared her throat and let a large gob of saliva mixed with snot drip from her mouth. Her spit was thick and viscous, and it remained attached to her lips by a thin, sticky strand, which stretched downwards, closer and closer to my face, until it broke. I felt the splat just below my left eye. She stood and planted the sole of her boot onto the gob. With a slow, cruel twisting motion, she ground her spit into my face.

And with that, I suppose it's time to talk about my deep dark secret desire: my insatiable craving for degradation.

The person who takes pleasure from my service to them will, as I've said, touch my heart. But the person who shows me utter and complete contempt -- who objectifies and humiliates and degrades me, who reaffirms my most deep-seated feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing and repugnance -- will touch my pussy.

No, not my pussy. Somewhere much deeper, somewhere at the very core of my sexual being.

For the most part, I'm able to keep my deep dark secret desire under control. But no matter what I do, the urges build inside me, and when they finally bubble up into my consciousness, I'm powerless to resist them. (I suppose the reason I'm able to empathize with Master Richard is that his sadism expresses itself in much the same way.) Sex with Sir and Mistress is usually about as vanilla as you could expect from a threesome of kinky people. But my owners understand my deep dark secret desire, and in addition to my regular punishments, they take me to the playroom every couple of weeks to suffer what some might call extreme degradation, but which I call much-needed release.

All this is to explain why, when Carla's spit landed on my face, it triggered in me an earthquake of sexual yearning. All my abdominal muscles cramped at once. My loins ached unbearably, my labia swelled, and my vagina grew sopping wet. I opened my legs, hoping she'd notice the juices oozing from me and do something -- anything -- to satisfy the desperate need that had taken over my entire being.

Carla leaned down and gathered up another gob of spit. "Open your mouth," she commanded. When she dribbled her phlegmy saliva onto my tongue, I could no longer stop myself from reaching between my legs. She stood and again offered me her heel. Again, I sucked on it eagerly. She worked it to the back of my throat, while I worked my fingers into my vagina.

She noticed me masturbating, and she smiled at me cruelly. She withdrew her heel from my mouth and placed it onto my breast. Slowly and deliberately, she pushed down, putting more and more of her weight onto the stiletto. I groaned in pain, as my middle and ring fingers moved rapidly in and out of my dripping cunt. Carla leaned forward and squashed my nipple under the toes of her boot.

She stepped on my face, and I slipped a third finger into my vagina. I was panting. She jabbed her heel into my other breast and twisted it down. Wherever Carla trampled me with her stilettos, she left a small, half-circle-shaped bruise on my flesh. I later counted seven of these.

As my orgasm began to build, she stepped between my legs and kicked them apart. Breathing hard, I moved my fingers to my clitoris and rubbed furiously. Carla looked down at me with a mix of contempt and amusement and disgust. Another gob of spit hit my face. When I was at the edge of climax, and she pushed my leg down with one boot, and with the other, she stepped on my exposed inner thigh, just inches from my pussy.

I let out a shriek of agony, as she viciously stabbed my most tender flesh with her stiletto and pushed down without mercy. But my pain almost immediately gave way to a thunderous orgasm. My entire body jerked and twitched and convulsed. I rolled onto my side and writhed on the floor, crying out "Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god," over and over again. When the convulsions ceased, I started sobbing.

Carla got down on one knee near my head. She grabbed my hair and forced me to look at her.