The Maid Ch. 05-06

There was nothing do in the sitting room, once I'd put her suitcase away and picked up the few crumbs left over from breakfast. But in Carla's bedroom, I saw a dilemma.

I had to make the bed, but how? If I didn't change the sheets, Carla would notice, and I'd be punished. If I took the sheets to the laundry down the street, they wouldn't be done before she got back, and I'd be punished. If I washed them by hand, she'd come back to find damp sheets and towels hanging everywhere, and I'd very definitely be punished.

I frowned.

There was a knock at the door. I rushed to put on a robe and opened up to find the hotel maid. "No, no, no," I said, waving my hand. "No maid service today." I smiled to show I meant no offense, and I started to close the door.

She stopped me, putting a finger up for me to wait. She turned to her linen cart and picked up a stack of clean sheets and towels. "Extra," she said. I rolled my eyes. Of course, Carla had thought of everything.

I remade the bed with the clean linens and stuffed the dirty ones into a pillow case, together with the damp towels and our traveling clothes. I'd done all I could without supplies, so I put on fresh jeans and a sweatshirt, picked up the pillow case, and headed out. I felt like a skunk at a cat convention, walking through the lobby of one of the swankiest hotels in Europe with a load of dirty linens slung over my shoulder. But what choice did I have?

The laundry was in the kind of quirky neighborhood you might see in a romcom starring Zooey Deschanel -- chockful of little bakeries, vegetable stands, shops selling jars of olives and capers, and delis with Parma hams hanging in the windows. Old women shuffled by with baskets full of produce. Old men clustered on streetcorners, smoking cigarettes and arguing furiously about God-knows-what. When I remember Rome, I don't think of the ancient ruins and churches and what-not. I think of the little neighborhood behind the Umilta 36. Even today, if you dropped me off there blindfolded, I could find my way around by following the sounds and smells.

Negotiating the laundry was harder than I'd expected (it turns out that adding an "o" or "i" to the end of English words doesn't make them understandable to Italians), but with the help of a lot of hand gestures, I succeeded. I found the other store Carla had mentioned, and I bought some cleaning supplies. Since she'd be out for at least a couple of hours, I took some time at a sidewalk café to drink in the hustle and bustle of the neighborhood, along with the best coffee I've ever tasted.

When I got back to the hotel, I arranged my supplies, donned my hairpiece, and went to work. I attacked every surface, scrubbing and brushing and wiping until I was positive I could pass Mistress's most rigorous inspection. The suite was impeccably clean, even by my standards.

Unfortunately, less than three hours had elapsed since Carla had left, and there were God-knows-how-many hours until she returned. And I had absolutely nothing left to do.

I turned on the TV. There were about twenty channels, all in Italian, and after surfing for a while I settled on an Italian soap opera. Even without understanding the words, the plot was pretty clear. The heroine was tall and blond, and she reminded me of Carla. Without thinking, I reached between my legs, but instead of warm flesh, my fingers met cold metal. I tried to work around my chastity belt for a few minutes, but no matter what I did, my pussy remained off limits. I groaned and turned off the TV.

I remembered that the lobby bookstore had some books in English, so I went downstairs and bought a James Patterson thriller. I sat down to read. And I sat. And sat. And sat.

Seconds ticked by like minutes, minutes like hours. I debated with myself about whether I should risk going out. On the one hand, Carla hadn't forbidden it. On the other hand, I didn't dare be gone when she returned. Every time I talked myself into leaving, I chickened out at the last second. And when Carla failed to return in the meantime, I scolded myself for not having risked it.

I stared out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Carla's long, blond hair. I sat down to read. After a page or two, I got up to pace around the room. I sat back down to read another page. I stared out the window again.

After an eternity, I heard the door click, and I nearly wept in relief.

I knelt in a submissive posture near the door, but the only acknowledgment Carla gave of my existence was a snap of her fingers as she breezed past me. I followed.

"I'm going to take a shower," she said, stripping off her clothes. "Pick out something for me to wear. Nice, but not too nice. I'm slumming it this evening." Without another word, she went into the bathroom and shut the door.

I stared after her.

It didn't take long to put together an ensemble of skinny jeans, a black silk top with spaghetti straps, which revealed ample cleavage and midriff, and a white blended wool blazer. I laid these out on the bed, then rummaged through Carla's accessories to find a set of chandelier earrings, some stacked bracelets, and a bold yellow handbag.

Carla emerged from the bathroom, eyed the ensemble, and rewarded me with a "Good girl." She dressed quickly and headed to the door, turning around at the last second. "You may go out for dinner," she said. "But don't stay out late. Knowing Italian men as I do, I don't trust your chastity belt to keep you out of trouble."

She closed the door, and I was alone again. And that was how my first day in Rome went. The next day went much the same way. So did the day after that. And the day after that.

By morning of the fifth day, I was so fed up, I was ready to safeword out of the whole situation. I'd never heard of anyone safewording out of a trip to Italy before, but I suppose there's a first time for everything. I thought I'd prefer to go home and take whatever punishment Sir and Mistress would dish out for failing to please Carla, than to endure another day of excruciating loneliness and boredom.

Carla was chatty as she ate her breakfast. I stood submissively next to her, for absolutely no good reason that I could see. She droned on and on and on about the snooty restaurants and clubs she'd been visiting in the evenings, while I was stuck sitting alone in our suite. Every so often, I'd drop in a "Yes, Miss Carla," to pretend I was paying attention.

"... the go-to spot for meeting the hottest of the hot guys," she enthused. "I promised Richard I'd be good, but a little flirting never hurt anybody, amiright? After all, what's the point of being in Italy, if not to have as much fun as possible?"

My discipline slipped. "Easy for you to say," I muttered under my breath. Unfortunately, not far enough under my breath.

There was a moment of stunned silence. "What did you say?" she demanded.

"Nothing, Miss Carla," I said, lowering my eyes. Carla stood, took my chin between her thumb and forefinger, and raised my head to look at her.

"If you've got something to say to me, then spit it out," she said.

I hesitated, trying the figure out the best way to say what was on my mind. "It's just that I feel so useless," I said. "What's the point of me being here as your slave, if you're not going to give me anything to do?"

"The only point of being a slave is to do what I want."

"But you don't want anything! I just sit and sit and sit, and I'm sick of it. I feel worthless."

"Holly," she said. "You asked me to help you learn your place, did you not? This is what learning your place looks like. You are a slave. No-one cares how a slave feels."

"But even a slave needs a purpose," I said.

"Your purpose is to serve," she said. "You don't get to decide what that means. I do. You don't get to decide when to serve or how to serve. I do. And you certainly don't decide to serve in order to feed your own pleasure fetish. You serve because that's what a slave does. Apparently, your owners never taught you that."

"At least my owners treat like a person," I retorted. "Sure, I'm just their maid, but at least I'm somebody. To you, I'm nobody. You keep me cooped up here because you think I'm just a stupid hillbilly loser who could never understand all your snooty artsy-fartsy stuff. Well, maybe I don't know as much as you, but that doesn't mean I couldn't learn. We both could have had a lot of fun walking around, with me serving you and you teaching me things. But you didn't think of that, because you're too stuck up and selfish!"

I'd like to say that was the worst thing I said to Carla that morning. But I'd be lying. I went on an epic rant, spewing out three years' worth of envy and resentment in the space of five minutes. Carla stared in disbelief as I shouted at her, but she didn't interrupt. I knew that as my dominant, she'd have no choice but to punish me severely for stepping so far out of line. But I couldn't stop myself.

When I finished, Carla's enigmatic smile came across her lips. She looked at me in silence for maybe an hour (OK, maybe a minute), as though deciding what to do with me. I wilted under her gaze, and my anxiety grew and grew as I waited for her decision. Yet somehow, I was as afraid of the emotions I'd just let loose, as I was of whatever horrific punishment she was contemplating.

Finally, she grabbed my hair and kicked the backs of my legs to put me on my knees. She dragged me to the couch and threw me over the arm with my bottom sticking up.

"Don't move," she said. A few moments later, I heard the distinctive whoosh of a thin rattan cane being swung through the air behind me. "Alright, Holly. You wanted me to pay attention to you? Fine. I'll pay attention to you. And I'm going keep on paying attention to you until you beg me to leave you alone." Carla whooshed the cane a few more times, bringing it closer and closer until I felt a slight breeze on my bottom.

She stood in front of me, reached under her skirt, and pulled her panties down to her ankles. She slipped them off her feet and stuffed them into my mouth. "I don't want your screaming to disturb the neighbors," she said.

I shuddered.

The five burning stripes Carla had given me during our first session had not entirely faded. She would certainly give me many more this time. We'd both been to parties where bound slaves had writhed and shrieked for mercy as they were caned -- sometimes so brutally that the stripes crisscrossing their thighs and buttocks merged into an angry mass of red and purple. I recalled the glow in Carla's eyes as she'd inflicted unbearable pain on my body during our first session, and I could sense her delight now, as she anticipated hearing me screaming in anguish once again.

I whimpered, terrified.

Carla didn't tie me down, and I knew why. She wanted to watch me squirm as she tormented me. She wanted to break my discipline, so I'd roll onto the floor and hide my tender flesh from her. So she could mock my weakness and punish me for it with even greater agony.

In my pride, I was determined not to break. I would endure whatever suffering Carla meted out. I would offer her my bare legs and bottom as a sacrifice to her sadism. And when her fury was spent, I'd kneel down and kiss her feet and thank her submissively for showing me my place. I'd prove I was every bit as good a slave as she was.

I braced myself for the excruciating fire of the cane searing my skin.

CHAPTER 6, in which Holly learns that nothing is as simple as she thought

The fire never came. Carla threw the rattan onto the easy chair. "Stand up and get dressed," she ordered.

I turned my head toward her. "Miss Carla?" The words came out as "Mph Crfva?" through my gag.

"I told you to stand up and get dressed," she barked. "Don't make me say it again." She yanked her panties from my mouth, and gracefully slipped them back on.

I knew why Carla had decided not to punish me, and to be honest, the reason made me feel nearly as bad as the caning would have. A cardinal rule of kink is never to play when you're not fully in control of your emotions. Exerting power over someone while angry or hurt or upset is bad for the dominant's mental health, and downright dangerous for the submissive.

Carla was angry with me. Not play angry, really angry.

My rant had been over the top, and I felt bad for hurting her feelings. I got dressed and stood before her, my head bowed in shame. "I'm sorry," I said.

"It's raining," she replied coldly. "You will hold my umbrella as I walk. And God help you if I get so much as a single raindrop on my head."

I allowed myself a small smile.

Let's face it, the idea of holding Carla's umbrella was a little silly. To be honest, it reminded me of those medieval lords whose whole job was to wipe the king's bottom after he pooped. But I had to give her credit for coming up with any idea at all in the heat of the moment. And I'd be lying if I denied feeling relief at not having to spend another day cooped up in our suite.

Not to mention not having my thighs and bottom caned to a bruised and bloody pulp.

**********

A few minutes later, we walked past the Pantheon into another quirky neighborhood, with me holding the umbrella, and Carla holding my arm. For a long time, she remained silent, guiding me through the labyrinth of tiny streets and alleys with little nudges.

As we stood at a streetcorner waiting for the light to change, she caught me looking curiously at some gargoyle or other sticking out of a building, and she gave me a grudging explanation of when it was made and what it symbolized. Farther on, she stopped to tell me a legend about an obscure statue standing in an alcove, one which I would have completely overlooked had I been on my own.

I started to feel better.

By the time we sat down to lunch, our conversation had expanded beyond Italian art to more personal topics. She asked dozens of questions about where I grew up and how I came to New York and so on. And even though her life was a million times more interesting than mine, she seemed as fascinated as if she were interviewing the Pope or Taylor Swift.

Since I'm from West Virginia, you'd think I'd be used to a lot of walking. But by the time we exited our last museum, I was wiped out. We found a place that served an early dinner, and we ate in near silence. When I crawled into bed beside Carla, it couldn't have been much later than eight o'clock.

We lay on our backs holding hands, and I thought about everything that had happened that day. After lunch, Carla and I had talked about everything under the sun. But there was one topic neither of us had dared to touch. And I didn't want to go to sleep without at least trying to clear the air.

"Miss Carla?" I ventured. "I'm really sorry about this morning. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that."

She turned to look at me. She stroked my cheek with the backs of her fingers, and for a moment I thought she'd answer. Instead, she leaned over and kissed my mouth, tenderly but urgently. I responded to her, and our lips parted. Her tongue sought out mine.

And that's the last clear memory I have of that evening. Everything else is a blur of Carla's mouth, Carla's body, Carla's fingers, Carla's pussy. Except one thing. That night, there was again no room for confusion. We made love to each other.

**********

Despite my best intentions, I woke up alone. What time was it? I vaulted out of the bed in a panic and went to find Carla, not bothering to wash up. I found her in the sitting room, sipping a cup of coffee from the Kuerig machine and scrolling on her iPad. I knelt at her feet.

"I'm very sorry, Miss Carla," I said. "I don't know what happened."

"I do," she smiled, stroking my hair. "Anyway, it's not late. I couldn't sleep."

"Shall I order your breakfast?"

"No," she said. "I feel like eating at the buffet today. Get yourself washed and dressed. I'll allow you to bring my breakfast and pour my coffee."

I smiled.

The memory of our lovemaking still glowed, and now Carla was giving me another chance to serve her. Things were definitely looking up.

**********

"Good girl," she said, when I'd set down plates laden with fresh fruit, scrambled eggs, and pain au chocolat. "Now, go get something for yourself. I have a lot to do today, and I don't want to sit around waiting for you to eat."

"Of course, Miss Carla," I said. "But... ummm... It's not raining today."

"I know," she said, "but I'm sure I'll find plenty of other ways to put you to use."

As it turned out, even Carla had grown tired of museums and churches, so my job was to serve as a human mannequin. She took me from boutique to boutique to boutique, putting a sizeable dent in the $25,000 spending allowance Sir had given her. "We're exactly the same size," she explained. "Why should I bother to try on all these outfits myself, when I can just use you to see how they'd look on me?"

Which was a big, fat lie. I knew -- and she knew I knew -- the clothes were for me.

**********

When I climbed into bed that night, I hoped for another bout of lovemaking, but no such luck. Instead, Carla turned her back to me -- not in rejection, but in an invitation to spoon her. I snuggled close, putting my arm around her and cupping her breast in my hand.

I nuzzled her neck for a while in silence, but I still felt unsettled about the previous morning. I decided to try another tack.

"Miss Carla? May I ask you a question?"

"Sure," she said.

"During our first session, you said you were going to make me suffer 'for all the times I made you suffer,'" I said. "What did you mean by that?"

"Don't make fun of me," she said. "I know you're not that stupid."

"I'm sorry," I replied, "but I really don't understand."

She remained silent for a few moments, then she said, "Ever since I've known you, you've had this enormous chip on your shoulder. As though you always had to prove you were better than me, that I could never measure up to you."

Wait, what? How on earth could she possibly think that? "

All I ever wanted was for you to like me," she continued. "But nothing I ever did was good enough." Holy smokes, Carla was living in some kind of bizzarro world, where everything was the exact opposite of how I knew it to be. A million questions ran through my mind. But in my confusion, I could choke out only one:

"Why me?"

Carla turned to face me. "Because you're real, Holly. Everyone we know wears a mask all the time. There's always some hidden agenda. Except for you. You don't have a fake bone in your body." She kissed my cheek, then continued, "I guess it's the money. People with such huge stacks can't afford to let their guard down. Richard's fucked me hundreds of times, and there's nothing he likes better after sex than to talk. But I've learned more about you in three days than I have about him in three years."

I thought about Sir and Mistress, and I understood what Carla meant. For all they've done for me, for all that we've shared, I can't honestly say I know them very well as people. Or at all, for that matter.

"It's funny," Carla said. "Whenever we all get together, Richard always tells me how proud he is of me. How his friends all think I'm the bee's knees. But all I've ever done is show off for you. Done things so you'd notice me. Like me. Want to be with me."

Her words were a knife in my heart, ripping away all the envy and resentment I'd hoarded there over the years. I wanted to scream. I had noticed everything she'd done, but I always took it the wrong way, because I'm the stupidest hillbilly ever to wander out of Appalachia. To say that she'd thrown me into a tizzy would be the understatement of the year. My mind raced, rethinking three years of knowing Carla in light of what she was now telling me.

It got worse.

"And then, when Stephen offered to let me top you for a month, I agreed without thinking it through," she said. "To tell you the truth, I thought it went pretty well at first -- our night in bed, the shower, the trampling. You remember. But then you shut me out again, and I knew you were just trying to prove something." Tears filled my eyes, and I turned my head so Carla wouldn't see them. "And when we got here, I had the monumentally stupid idea of ignoring you for a few days, so you'd get lonely and want to spend time with me. And we both know how that worked out. You must think I'm the biggest idiot alive."