The Maid Ch. 03-04

"Now, you've made me late, you worthless piece of shit," she said, "and you'll be punished for that when I get back. If you hope to be able to sit down at all this week, I suggest you have this apartment shining by then." She spat in my face one more time.

Through my sobs, I was unable to answer.

She stood and opened the door. As she turned to leave, I managed to choke out, "Miss Carla? If you're going to see Sir and Mistress, could you maybe... I mean, could you please..." But I couldn't finish the sentence and started sobbing again.

"What is it, Holly?" she asked, a threatening tone creeping into her voice.

"I'm sorry, never mind," I sniveled. "It's not important."

"Go ahead and spit it out. Otherwise, I'll waste my time wondering what it was about."

"It's just that I'd really like my hairpiece," I said. "You know, the one from my French maid's uniform? I know you want me naked at all times, but I promise it won't make me proud or anything. It's just that my hairpiece makes me feel like a real maid."

She looked at me and rolled her eyes. "You're pathetic," she said, and she walked out the door.

CHAPTER 4, in which Holly receives an unexpected invitation

I sat with my back against the front door for a few minutes and tried to gather myself together.

The only sensible thing to do, I finally decided, was to start my chores, so I stood up to look for Carla's cleaning supplies. In a few minutes, I was back in my element, wearing rubber gloves, up to my elbows in a sink full of suds. I take joy from my work as a maid, and by the time I'd gotten the kitchen floor mopped, I was already feeling much better.

I was determined that Carla would find no fault with me when she returned. And with my deep dark secret desire satisfied, at least for a while, I was able to work with a clear head. But I'd be lying if I denied falling into a tizzy when I came across Carla's dirty panties while sorting the laundry. Images of her trampling and spitting on me flooded my memory. I brought the satin and lace up to my nose and slid my fingers into my vagina. I masturbated, breathing in the scent of Carla's beauty and cruelty. I climaxed quickly.

While waiting for the washing machine to finish, I decided to take a shower. I stood under the hot water for a long time, trying to process everything that had happened to me in the previous twenty-four hours. How did I really feel about being loaned out to serve as Carla's slave?

Even I couldn't deny that as a dominant, she'd so far handled me masterfully. She seemed to know intuitively how to push all my buttons, and in her expert hands, I'd just experienced my most explosive orgasm in months. And then there were the hours of tender lovemaking we'd shared that night. That had to mean something. Right?

Carla was as intoxicating as any magical potion from a fairy tale, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't already craving more of her. But precisely because she was so intoxicating, her very presence made it difficult for me to think straight. Now that I was alone in the apartment, however, I was able to look at things in the cold light of day.

And I had concerns.

First, there was Carla's obvious sadistic streak. I knew, of course, that the main reason she'd tormented me so cruelly the previous evening had been to put on a good show for her owner's guests. But the gleam in her eye as she wielded the cattle prod had been unmistakable. She'd delighted in my agony, and it was clear I could expect repeat performances.

But to be honest, her sadism didn't worry me too much. I may not crave pain the same way I do degradation, but I could still derive pleasure from accepting whatever Carla was driven to inflict on me, just as I would from my other acts of service to her. And I'd be lying if I said my pussy wasn't getting a little moist as I recalled squirming helplessly under her ministrations.

Much more worrisome were my reservations about Carla herself. For three years, she'd looked down her nose at me, rubbed my face into my white trash upbringing, showed me up as a failure every chance she got. And now I was supposed simply to give her power over me, no questions asked? How on earth could I trust her not to abuse it? And how could my own pride and willfulness allow me to submit to the woman I'd so long considered my nemesis?

To be honest, I resented the whole situation. In fact, I resented it so much, I even thought I'd prefer to have our roles were reversed. Let Carla feel what it's like to have me look down on her for a change. But even I laughed at that idea -- I wouldn't have the faintest idea how act as a dominant.

At the same time, I knew that Sir and Mistress must have had a good reason for putting me in this position. And the only way I could learn what the reason was, was to stick it out. Besides, didn't my devotion to my owners demand that I submit to Carla, if that's what they wanted me to do?

In the end, all these jumbled-up feelings led me to a decision. I would submit to Carla, but in a way that would allow me to keep my pride: by becoming the best slave anyone had ever seen. I'd show Little Miss Perfect that I could be every bit as good as she was, that I could even...

A loud dinging sound interrupted my musings. Oh, drat, the washing machine! I hopped out of the shower, dripping water all over the freshly mopped floor, and threw the clothes in the dryer. Carla would be home soon.

I'd just ironed and hung up the last of Carla's things, when I heard her open the door. I unplugged the iron and hurried to help her with her coat. When I knelt to unzip her boots, I noticed a few streaks of mud on the toes. I smiled.

"I cleaned the apartment as you instructed, Miss Carla," I said, by way of greeting.

She looked down at me. "Holly," she said with a sigh of impatience, "when is it proper for a slave to speak?"

Remembering her phrase, I answered, "To answer a direct question."

"And did I ask you a direct question?"

"No, Miss Carla," I said, chastened. Drat. She'd been home less than a minute, and I'd already made a mistake. If she's going to be this strict about speaking, I thought, it's going to be a pretty tough month. "But don't you want to make sure I did my job properly?"

"Very well," said Carla, with resignation. I followed her inside and stood at attention in the middle of the sitting room. She spent maybe a minute looking over the furniture, before going to the kitchen. She returned after another thirty seconds and announced, "This is acceptable."

I frowned.

When Sir or Mistress inspect my work, they're meticulous, looking in obscure corners for specks of dust, checking the undersides of surfaces for any sign of neglect. They take their time, while I stand in the middle of the room, my hands behind my back and my head bowed. My anxiety grows and grows and grows as I await their judgment, and by the time they're ready to give it, I'm a quivering wreck.

If my work is satisfactory, I receive a "Good girl," and a few strokes of my hair, which makes my heart glow. If it's not, I'm made to bend over a chair and listen to a lecture on my lack of effort or diligence or attention to detail. The lecture is punctuated by swats on my bottom from the belt (Sir) or the riding crop (Mistress), and inevitably ends with the lecturer's underwear around their ankles.

Of course, I know -- and they know that I know -- that the results of the inspections have nothing to do with the quality of my work (which is always beyond reproach, if I do say so myself) and everything to do with their current level of sexual desire. But knowing that doesn't reduce the pleasure of the ritual for any of us.

Carla, on the other hand, hadn't so much as peeked into the bedroom or the bathroom. How on earth can I show off my skills as a maid, I thought, if she can't even be bothered to judge my work properly?

After her perfunctory inspection, Carla sat in the easy chair and snapped her fingers. I knelt at her feet and bowed my head, but she put a finger under my chin and tilted my head up to look in her eyes.

"I have some news," she said, "which I hope you'll like."

"Yes, Miss Carla?"

"It turns out I'm going to Italy after all," she said.

"I see," I said, hiding my disappointment that I wouldn't be able to execute my plan after all.

"No, I don't think you do," she said. "You are to join me on the trip."

My heart skipped a beat. Me, going to Italy? But then I remembered, "But I can't. I don't even have a passport."

"Yes, you do," she said. She handed me a freshly minted, dark blue U.S. Passport, and when I opened the cover, there was my photo as clear as could be.

"But how..."

"Let me guess," she said with a sigh. "Whenever your owners give you papers to sign, you just sign them without bothering to read them first. Don't you?"

"I guess so," I said. "Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Well, apparently one of the papers you didn't look at was a passport application. So, it turns out that they'd planned for both of us to go all along. I guess I should have figured it out earlier."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, you can't just buy a blank airplane ticket. It has to be for a specific person. So, your name must have already been on the other ticket, when they offered me my so-called choice."

I thought for a moment. "So, it turns out that no matter which way you chose, you would have ended up with both me and the Italy trip?" I asked. "But I don't understand the point."

"I suppose they wanted to see which I would choose," she said with a shrug. "Why? I have no idea. Maybe to learn something about us. Maybe to amuse themselves. Who can say?"

"But anyway, you chose me," I said. My heart rose at the thought, and without thinking, I wrapped my arms around her legs and lay my head on her lap. My mind was already growing fuzzy again in Carla's intoxicating presence. I closed my eyes for a moment and pictured myself sitting with her on the grounds of a Tuscan villa, sharing a bottle of wine while watching the sun set over an idyllic hillside vineyard. I opened my eyes and looked up at her. "Thank you, Miss Carla," I said. "I know this is only happening because of you."

She stroked my cheek for a second, then said, gently but firmly, "Now, Holly, I don't want you to forget your place. You'll be travelling as my slave, not my companion. Do I make myself clear?"

"Of course, Miss Carla," I replied. But that didn't mean I couldn't harbor secret hopes.

"But anyway," she added, once again giving me her Mona Lisa smile, "I'm very glad you're coming with me."

We went to the bedroom to pack Carla's bags, two enormous suitcases and a carry-on. As we selected which items to bring and which to leave behind, I gathered up the courage to bring up a personal problem.

"Miss Carla? I... ummm... I don't have anything to wear," I said.

"What are you talking about?" she replied. "I've seen you in lots of nice things. I'll send someone over to fetch a bag for you."

"But there's nothing to fetch," I said. "Sir and Mistress don't allow me to own clothing. If they buy things for me to wear off the estate, they always give them away after I've worn them."

"I see," she said. "Well, we're the same size, so I'm sure we can find something for you to borrow."

Ten minutes later, we'd packed a bag for me. It was only a third the size of one of Carla's, but I didn't care. I was going to Italy.

"So, that's that," Carla said, zipping up the bag. "Am I forgetting anything?" She looked at me meaningfully.

It took me just a moment to understand what she expected. "Yes, Miss Carla," I answered. "You haven't punished me yet."

"And why must you be punished?" she asked.

"For speaking out of turn when you got home." She raised her eyebrows, and I added, "and also before you left."

"And?" she prompted.

"And for making you late," I remembered.

"Good girl." She sat on the edge of the bed and snapped her fingers to order me over her knee.

Her hairbrush was on the nightstand, but she didn't pick it up. I smiled to myself. As I anticipated my spanking, my only regret was that there were only three hours left before we needed to leave for the airport.