The Maid Ch. 05-06

She turned away again, and I put both arms around her and held her tight. I wanted to comfort her, to explain my feelings. But I knew anything I said would come out wrong, and I'd just make things worse. Besides, I was on the verge of sobbing, and I didn't want to break down right then and there.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. Carla took my arms and pulled me around her like a blanket.

**********

As we wandered the streets the next day, I was distracted, trying to figure out the right words to say to Carla. But nothing I came up with felt right. That evening, I knelt at her feet and polished her boots, while she scrolled TikTok on her iPad, sharing with me clips she found amusing. I had an idea.

"Miss Carla? I know it's not my place to say, but you never did punish me for speaking out of turn," I said. "Maybe if you did, it would make both of us feel better. I know I deserve it. Besides, you promised Sir and Mistress to treat me harshly, and I'd hate to have to tell them you broke your promise."

The last line was a joke to make her feel better, but it didn't seem to work. She stroked my hair and gave me a sad smile. "I wish it were that easy," she said.

"But why isn't it?" I asked.

"Because I feel like a fraud," she said. "I've always wanted to open up to you, but now that I have, the magic is gone. Like in The Wizard of Oz, when they pull back the curtain, and the terrifying wizard turns out to be a pathetic old man."

"No-one would ever mistake you for a pathetic old man," I said.

She fell silent for a while. Finally, she asked, "How do your owners do it? You must know every trick they have by now, but with the three of you, everything always seems so natural."

"Mainly because we all know what we want," I said. "There are more rules than I could ever follow, and when they want to play, they just find one I've broken. And when I want to play, I just break rules until they take the hint. But it only works because we pay attention to each other and want to help each other."

"That makes sense," she said.

"Of course, it's all a game, but we all like playing it," I said. "Costumes and rituals help a lot, too. That's why I was so happy you brought my hairpiece."

Carla noticed that I'd finished her boots. "Those look nice," she said. "Thank you." I lay my head on her lap, and she stroked my hair. My heart glowed from her praise. But I'd be lying if I denied wishing she'd whip my bottom instead.

Over the next few days, I learned enough from Carla to earn my own PhD -- not in anything specific, but in... well, in sophistication, I guess you'd call it. Sure, she told me all kinds of stuff about art and architecture and history and what-not. But she also taught me how to order in a restaurant, how to appreciate fine wine, how to charm people into doing whatever you want and then thanking you for the privilege.

In the evenings, we had a lot of fun. The doormen at the hottest clubs all seemed to know her, and she got us invited to some amazing parties. You'd be surprised at who will chat you up in a museum, if you look like a Barbie doll come to life and can discuss obscure Renaissance artists in fluent Italian. At one party, I spent most of the evening fending off a pretty famous Formula One driver. (Which is a big, fat lie. The truth is, I begged and pleaded with Carla for the key to my chastity belt, but she refused to break her promise to my owners.)

And at night, we made love. Sometimes passionately. Sometimes gently. But always with the same kindness and generosity Carla had shown on our first night together. To sum it all up, our life was pretty terrific. Perfect, in fact. Except for one thing.

My deep dark secret desire.

At first, I myself didn't recognize the signs. I felt a vague dissatisfaction, which grew and grew, until by the end of the week I needed all my discipline not to get snippy with Carla over the smallest of things. My insides were roiling. By then, I'd figured out what I needed, but I was too ashamed to tell her.

In bed, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. And when Carla and I made love, I found it more and more difficult to climax. Even when she finally went down on me and proved herself as expert at oral sex as she was at everything else, she couldn't put me over the edge. I had to fake it.

Sir and Mistress, of course, would have recognized the signs from a mile away and taken me down to the playroom for a few hours. And that would have been the end of it. But Carla didn't know me well enough yet, so all I could do was wait. I tried to pretend everything was OK. I knelt silently at her feet and looked up at her with the contented eyes of a submissive who has learned her place. But on the inside, I was mewling and yowling like an alley cat in heat.

Then, it happened.

I don't remember exactly what I said or did to trigger her. We were getting ready for bed, and I made some joke about taking off my chastity belt. Without warning, Carla stood up, grabbed my hair, and dragged me across the room. Not ten seconds before, she'd been perfectly calm, but now her fury was cranked up to eleven. She threw me to the floor of the bathroom in my room.

I squirmed on the cold tiles, turning over to look at her, trembling at the shock of her abrupt transformation. "I'm sorry, Miss Carla," I bleated, although I had no idea what I was supposed to be sorry for.

She didn't deign to answer. She hiked up her skirt, removed her panties and straddled me. She locked her eyes on mine. A moment later, her piss splashed between my breasts, and I let out a moan of humiliation. She slowly swiveled her pelvis to piss all over my body, never taking her eyes from mine. I started to cry.

I slithered between her legs to bring my face under her stream. "Open your mouth," she commanded. I obeyed and tasted Carla's urine for the first time. I swallowed a couple of mouthfuls, but through my sobs, I began to gurgle and choke. I closed my throat, and my mouth filled to overflowing. The piss dribbled over my chin and onto the floor, puddling in my hair.

The degradation was intense, and the muscles in my groin contracted. I reached between my legs for my moistening pussy, but I was frustrated by my chastity belt. My cunt ached.

Carla's stream slowed to a trickle, then stopped.

She leaned down and gave me a cruel smile, as I clawed pitiably at the cold steel. "Would you like me to remove your belt?" she asked, dangling the key to the padlock above my face.

"Yes, please, Miss Carla," I sniveled. "I really need it."

"Not yet, Holly," she said. "I knew what you wanted when you provoked me, and I've given you half of it. But you're going to have to work for the other half." She gathered a gob of spit in her mouth and let it drip onto my face. I groaned in shame and desire.

"Please, Miss Carla," I said, squirming in the puddles of her piss. "I want to come."

"I know you do," she answered. "But you're not ready yet. Wait here." She returned a moment later with a wand. She flicked it on and put it between my legs.

It was pure torment.

The wand vibrated the steel of the chastity belt enough to stoke my arousal, while in no way satisfying it. My pelvis writhed, trying at the same time to escape the buzzing and to push my cunt harder against it. My frustration grew minute by minute by minute.

"Please, Miss Carla," I begged. "Please." I didn't know if I was begging her to stop, or to continue.

She stopped. "That's enough for now," she said, removing the wand and flicking it off. "But I'm not done with you. Not by a long shot."

She went back to the sitting room and returned with a steel collar and a length of heavy chain. Wordlessly, she put the collar around my neck, looped the chain around the base of the toilet, and secured the ensemble with a padlock. Then she walked out, turning off the light and closing the door behind her.

I was alone in the darkness.

**********

I woke up thirsty and needing to pee. I knew it must have been three or four in the morning, because I always wake up at that time use the toilet and take a drink.

The chain on my collar gave me enough freedom to crawl a little way in every direction, but not nearly enough to reach the sink or bathtub. The realization that the only water I could reach was in the toilet made my heart sink.

I knew that even if I could get Carla's attention, she'd only laugh at me if I asked her for a drink. She'd much rather watch me drink toilet water like a dog, mocking and insulting me as I did so. I resisted as long as I could, but finally my thirst forced me to accept the degradation of putting my face deep into the toilet bowl and lapping at the water in the bottom. I reached up to flush the water over my face, which made it easier to drink but added to the humiliation.

But I still couldn't bring myself to pee.

Now, you may think that's silly, since I still had the taste of Carla's urine in my mouth, and its smell in my hair. But there's a big difference between allowing someone to pee on you, and peeing on yourself. An adult woman with agency (or however the snooty internet know-it-alls put it these days) is perfectly able to consent to degradation play, and anyone who says otherwise is kink-shaming. But who would ever pee on herself? Only a filthy, disgusting little girl. Only a white trash failure and loser. Only a low-class, nasty skank, who'd turn into a filthy tramp the minute she hit puberty.

I clenched my sphincters and held it in, until I drifted back to sleep.

I woke up in agony, my abdomen muscles cramping with the need to pee. I moaned and lay on my side, hoping to reduce the pressure on my bladder. No such luck. I wriggled and squirmed, trying to find a position that would allow me to hold it in a little longer. The cold, hard tiles were still damp where Carla's urine had puddled hours before.

I prayed for Carla to come and release me before I lost control. She didn't.

Sobbing in shame and humiliation, I finally gave up and allowed my piss to flow onto the floor. It flowed all around me, turning cold and hateful against my skin. I cried myself back to sleep.

I woke up groggy and disoriented. Carla had turned on the light in the pitch-black bathroom for the first time in many hours, and it made my eyes sting.

"Look at you," she said, sneering down at me. "You're disgusting, wallowing in your own piss like a pig. Everyone knows you're a vile little skank, and this proves it. I should take you outside and leave you naked by the dumpsters, so people walking by can see what a worthless piece of trash you are." She leaned down and spat in my face. "You sicken me."

My vagina grew wetter with every insult. I head a buzzing sound, and Carla again tormented me with her wand until I pleaded for orgasm. In answer, she turned it off, leaned down, and spat in my face again. Without a word, she walked out.

When she came back, I was still crying. I turned away, too ashamed of myself to look at her. I heard a loud splat. I looked and saw that she'd dumped a plate of scrambled eggs into the puddle of urine next to my head. She cleared her throat, and a moment later a huge gob of her phlegmy saliva landed on the eggs. She walked out.

I knew Carla was capable of keeping me chained up until hunger drove me to eat the eggs, and I figured that warm eggs with spit and piss were better than cold, slimy eggs with spit and piss. So, I resignedly put my face into the mess and ate.

I don't know how long I spent in the bathroom. There was no clock. There was no daylight. The only indication of time passing were the puddles of urine, which slowly dried to brownish yellow stains on the white marble tiles. I was miserable.

After an eternity, Carla returned.

She'd taken my hint about the importance of costumes. Her long blond hair was pulled back into a fierce high ponytail. She wore stiletto heels, black fishnet stockings, black gloves, which covered her forearms over the elbow, and a body-hugging black leather dress, which barely covered her private parts. In her hand, she hefted a nasty-looking quirt of braided leather. I had to admit, she looked even more intimidating than Mistress at her most fearsome.

"Alright, Holly" she said. "I can see you've had enough. It's time for you to choose."

"Choose?" I asked.

"Choose," she repeated. "You may choose for me to release you, and things will go back to how they've been the past few days. You will continue to serve me for the rest of the month, and when we go home, everything will be like it was before. Except we'll be friends. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Miss Carla," I answered.

"Or, you can choose to submit to me," she said.

"But I don't understand. I have submitted to you," I said. "How else can I show you?"

"On the outside, you've said and done everything a submissive should," she agreed. "But I'm talking about real submission. On the inside. I want you to give up your pride, your envy, your resentment. Give up your ego. Give me control over you. Control over your every thought and desire. Do you understand?" My silence conveyed my confusion and ambivalence. "Alright," she said. "I guess you still need time to think about it." She turned to leave.

"Wait, stop," I said. "Please don't leave me alone again." I hesitated for just another moment, then made up my mind. "Please. I'm ready. I do want to submit to you. Really."

She looked into my eyes. "I don't want empty words, Holly. I want true submission. If you submit to me now, I will hold you to your word."

I forced myself to breathe slowly. I grew calm. She looked down at me, patiently but sternly. Finally, I repeated, "I submit to you." And this time, I meant it as I knew she wanted me to.

She stared into my eyes for a long moment. "Very well," she said. "I accept your submission. You may start by cleaning the floor."

"Yes, Miss Carla," I answered. Instinctively, I got up to fetch my cleaning supplies, but I was yanked back down by the chain attached to my collar.

"You're a maid, remember?" Carla said. "This all you need." She held out the hairpiece from my French maid's uniform and placed it on my head. I squirmed involuntarily, as her meaning sunk in. I was to clean the floor with my mouth.

She snapped the quirt onto my nipple, and I let out a yelp of pain. The blow stung, but it was meant to guide and discipline, not punish. "Turn over," she commanded. She stung me again and again and again with rapid flicks of her wrist, until I was on my hands and knees. She jabbed her heel into my spine and pushed me down to my elbows, my face inches from the floor. "I'll be back in twenty minutes, and God help you if this floor isn't spotless. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Miss Carla," I answered.

"Good. Now, get to work." She snapped the quirt on my bottom. Hard.

I started with the remains of the scramble eggs, putting my tongue flat on the floor and licking up the streaks of food with long, slow strokes until there wasn't a trace left. Next, I turned to the stain left by the biggest puddle of urine. As I tasted its bitter, salty filth, I thought of the hundreds of dirty footprints, the thousands of flakes of skin and greasy hairs, the millions of germs I was absorbing on my tongue. I continued to work. Some stains were tougher than others, requiring me to spit on them, rub them with my tongue, and lick the spit back up.

I licked the entire floor clean.

When Carla came back, I knelt submissively, hoping against hope that I'd pleased her. Without speaking to me, she inspected the bathroom, looking over every inch to make sure I hadn't missed a spot. I trembled with anxiety. She turned on the flashlight app on her phone and peered into the corners and around the base of the toilet.

She got on one knee, grabbed my hair, and pushed my face to the floor under the toilet bowl. "What is that?" she demanded. I looked and saw a faint trace of grime in the crack where the toilet met the floor.

"Dirt, Miss Carla," I said. Tears welled in my eyes. I'd failed.

"Open your mouth," she commanded. Holding me by the hair, she shoved my face onto the stain and used me like a mop until it was scrubbed clean. She stood back up and continued her inspection. She found another spot and mopped it with my face. And another.

"This is acceptable," she said at last. She knelt down and pushed my face to the floor, raising my bottom. She removed my chastity belt, and a moment later her wand buzzed to life. She brought it to my pussy.

For the first few moments, the vibration was uncomfortable. She'd waited too long, and my desperation had grown too great. But soon, I was moving my hips in synch with Carla's hand, rubbing myself against the vibrator, moaning in pleasure. It took just a couple of minutes for me to near climax. I breathed hard, as she brought me to the edge of the orgasm I'd been craving.

She switched off the wand. "No!" I cried. "Please, Miss Carla. Please don't stop."

"Who controls you?" Carla asked.

"You do, Miss Carla," I whimpered. "You control me. Please. Please let me come."

She turned the wand back on and put it against me. I groaned in relief and rubbed it with my pussy, desperate to find the orgasm she'd just taken from me. Again, I was at the edge, and again, she took the wand away. I whimpered in frustration.

"Everything in your life is different now, Holly," she said. "You belong to me now. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Miss Carla," I said.

She once more brought me to the edge and once more frustrated me. I couldn't take it anymore, and I started to sob.

"Please, Miss Carla," I said. "Please put it back. I need to come. Please."

"Everything you do from now on, you do for me," she said. "Tell me you understand."

She turned on the wand, and I sniveled, "I understand, Miss Carla. Everything I do I do for you."

"Then come for me!" she commanded, pushing the buzzing wand into my clitoris.

Carla's words triggered a nuclear chain reaction, fueled by hours and hours of degradation and desperation, deep within my loins. The reaction radiated outward, causing every muscle in my abdomen to spasm, finally exploding in my vagina. The orgasm was like every orgasm of the past two weeks rolled into one. I lost control of my body and thrashed on the hard marble tiles. Only by a miracle did I avoid cracking my head against the porcelain of the toilet.

I screamed and curled myself into a ball, rolling and writhing on the floor. Carla knelt by my head and stroked my hair. Gradually, my shrieks quieted to a whimper, and my thrashing ceased.

"Alright, Holly," Carla said when I lay still. "Wash yourself and come to bed."

**********

I lay on my back next to Carla, drained by my ordeal and by my earth-shattering orgasm. I was utterly exhausted. But she wasn't finished with me. She rolled over, straddled me with her knees, and pinned my arms above my head. She leaned down, until her piercing blue eyes were less than a foot from mine.

She commanded, "Say 'You love me.'"

"I love you," I said. I didn't even think before saying it.

To be honest, I wasn't the least bit sure I loved Carla. Let's face it, I had a lot of emotions to process before I could even consider the question. But as tired and empty as I was, I lacked the strength to do anything but obey without hesitation. Besides, "I love you's" are a dime a dozen these days, and giving one to Carla was a small price to pay for being allowed to go to sleep. Who cared, if it didn't really mean anything? I closed my eyes.

"No, Holly. Listen to me carefully," she said. "Don't tell me that you love me. Say, 'You love me.' Say the words, 'You. Love. Me.'"

Oh, drat. That was an entirely different ballgame. Her command shocked me back to wakefulness. If I said that Carla loved me, it would definitely have to mean something. Right? But how on earth could I say that? How can anyone know what anyone feels about anyone? I opened my mouth, but no words came out.