The Maid Pt. 07

He had kissed her...and then...sent her away? Wouldn't even let her look at him? Completely blindfolded until pushed out of the room, she didn't want to go towards the terrifying notion that just once flickered across her brain—that kiss, was it perhaps not him at all? No, it had to be, didn't it? She knew him, she knew his touch. Her brain was playing tricks on her.

How did he do this? Keep her so heightened, like reality was a landslide, a ridge on the edge of an accordion he could play at will. He pushed and pulled at her, for him an effortless game and for her a swirling, complex tapestry of questions that she knew may never be answered.

Even if she ever got up the courage, she knew she wasn't entitled to ask. The difference in their stations was a constant, unavoidable fact. Missy tried to stop thinking about it. She put all her focus on putting him out of her mind, an effort by its own nature fruitless. Even so, when she next crossed through Mr. Nickerson's door, her insides shaking at a small but unpleasant hum, his reaction was shocking. Shocking in it's existence, or rather, lack thereof.

It was as if nothing had happened at all. There was no change in his demeanor, he was no warmer nor colder, as if the previous day had vanished into thin air.

She didn't know what she expected, not much if anything, she just hadn't prepared herself for quite so much nothing. Bafflement rippled across her, though she hid it well.

Missy's insides were doing cartwheels, twirling with bewilderment. She pushed it down. What could she do? Don't think about it, put it out of your mind, she repeated to herself like a mantra. It was what it was. She knew she probably wasn't being honest with herself, but entertaining any sort of thoughts on the matter would lead to a spiral she was sure she didn't want to go down.

Somehow the next week went by relatively uneventfully. The day his lips met hers had been surgically removed from present existence, even if it not been forgotten. Things were back to a routine. Mr. Nickerson prepped her for the day as usual, though he had ignored her ass for the first few days after, for which she was grateful. Missy would then get to work dusting and tidying and cleaning, leave for home, rinse, repeat.

Weeks went by, and time distorts as it always does, stretches things out and covers them up. Her constant thoughts of him dissipated slowly like leaves in autumn. She was content enough she guessed, intriguing as that moment had been his general demeanor so vastly diverged from it some days she wondered if it had never happened with him at all. Perhaps that was a good thing, it became easier that way, to think of that kiss as occurring with someone else, not the strange, mysterious man she faced daily.

One day of no other consequence she arrived back at her dwelling to find another box, much smaller this time, its sharp, flat bottom no bigger than a postcard. She noticed this one was a bit more elaborately wrapped than the last.

Her hand slipped into the fluffy tissue paper, and out came a length of the most gorgeous glowing white pearls she had ever seen. She began fingering them and quickly realized they were attached to something, a thin, dark, satin belt of some sort. Her eyes grew a bit wider.

There was a card, of course. Mr. Nickerson was ever-present, ever as intimidating even in written form. Precisely-formed letters lay across the white parchment.

Not for you—not your neck anyway. I expect to see them on tomorrow. -N

Missy took a deep breath, she was apprehensive again. She stepped away from the package for the night and fell asleep with the box still open on her table.

The next morning she put on her uniform, sans panties as usual, and lifted the pearl contraption out of its box. She quickly realized what she had feared, what she had imagined. She had to step into it like undergarments. The pearls slid effortlessly up between her warm, unblemished thighs. While the belt fit comfortably about her waist the strand of glowing white orbs was not quite long enough and she soon realized they would pull not just up to her but delve deep into the center of her lips, sliding slyly in between that private crevice and laying flush against all her innermost bits.

The short walk to work told her this was going to be a trying day, even if pleasantly so. No matter how carefully she tried to step, the pearls seemed to rub, to massage, to nestle even more closely against her. She was not opposed to the feeling but was concerned she was getting a bit more flustered by it than she had hoped. Wetness spread between her legs indiscriminately like morning dew, her body warming itself to the world, unconcerned with the appropriateness of what was happening and where she was standing. She was relieved when she was finally able to shut the door and enter Mr. Nickerson's room.

He was at the desk, as always, never even looking up until he decided to.

As he started his typical initial inspection he brought something out, the top of which Missy could see resembled some sort of flattened paddle. It was a piece of leather, flexibly stiffened to a long, narrow flat surface, less than a centimeter thick yet somewhat wide with rounded corners at its top edge. More came into view and her eyes traveled down the length of it. Then somehow, she was struck with the last thing she was expecting—beauty. A narrow cylinder with a rounded-end, the handle was one of the most stunning things she had ever seen. The shaft was artfully encrusted with pearls packed tightly over every inch and garnished with a decorative gold trim where it met the flatness of the leather. Every space on it glowed, each pearl catching and dancing in the light. It probably cost more than everything in every room she'd ever been in combined, except for maybe this one.

She was entranced. She could have stood there admiring it all day—that is, if she hadn't been worried about what the implement that handle was attached to might do to her in his hand, or maybe if she hadn't even now been squirming just a little against the stimulation of the pearls snuggled tightly against her under the black skirt of her maids uniform.

She was snapped from her thoughts with the slap he laid loudly against the desk. The dark, commanding leather flexed as it landed. It was such a jarring contrast to the solid-looking handle. The black sheen of the flat surface laid in direct opposition to the the blinding, glistening white pearl-covered hilt Mr. Nickerson's muscled hand now gripped with authority.

"Hmm, very good," he noted, setting the sparkling, striking object back on the desk. Though he may never admit it, even to himself, part of him had had it made specifically it because it reminded him of her. Pearls were what came to mind when he thought of her, skin milky and white, with a hint of something unknown glittering under the surface.

He went to the drawer of the desk and pulled out the vibrator.

"Tie up your skirt," he commanded.

She seemed to blush every time no matter how used to his peculiarities she became. Though maybe it was because she wasn't used to it, maybe it was that he always seemed to surprise her with his inventiveness, his spider web of strange requests. Maybe there was nothing to get used to at all.

He didn't place the vibrator directly on her but instead affixed it to the front intersection of the pearl thong that adorned her body. The dark, satiny fabric that made up the belt was thin and he twisted some of it around the vibe before tying it to the band with a similar piece of string.

"Hands behind you," he clipped. That matter of fact tone would have been so out of place from anyone else. His hands were still on the sleeping vibrator, adjusting it, admiring his handiwork. He seemed deeply in thought as he formed the contraption to his liking.

Seemingly out of nowhere he paused. The vibration of the room shifted, suddenly the air had a different hum. He threw his eyes up into hers. It was like fire shooting straight through her. He so rarely looked at her this close, so rarely did he notice her at all.

"Hold on to the table," his clip was slower than usual, eyes holding hers tightly—this flash of lightening, a clear view of the landscape before the storm obscured it all. Her eyes held his steadily as her fingers reached for and then grasped the hardwood desk behind her. There was no need to secure her arms. His gaze was stronger than a thousand ropes. She thought there might be something else, but he simply nodded matter of factly and his eyes were gone, back to his work at her waist.

The room returned to it's familiar vibration. Whatever flash of rawness there had been had now frozen over like water on a lake. Mr. Nickerson continued making adjustments to the vibe until he was finally satisfied. He did one final test of the tie to make sure everything was secure, "I suggest you take great care to ensure your hands do not leave that spot." No glances up at her, just that commanding voice. "You will not like what happens if they do." He hit the button on the device now affixed to her waist, and turned to step away.

Every inch of skin between her legs sprang to life. Each pearl snugged within her inner folds danced against her, the tiny points rubbing her with near-maddening precision.

Within instants all she was aware of was the sensation, the enthralling, delicious vibrations. Her eyes closed and her head tiled back, breathing heavily. He left her there for what must have been a few minutes, though the exact amount of time she would never have known or noticed.

She became buried, wrapped in the feeling, so much so that she barely noticed him snatching off the strip of fabric that had kept her tits from his view.

SNAP! A sting burst onto the skin of her right nipple, and a small scream escaped Missy's lips, though more out of shock than pain. Missy eyes flew open and she saw the pearl-handled offender in his hand. Her breathing quickened.

He waited a few seconds before delivering the next strike. The sensation was now duplicated on her left nipple. Another few seconds. SNAP! Another strike that made her nipple sting and her body tense as the leather paddle made contact with her skin.

He continued on, alternating tits as he delivered the strikes. It took all of Missy's concentration not to move her hands from behind her, her body twisting side to side after particularly hard landings as he fell into a rhythm and the discomfort in her tits grew.

He was methodical, precise. Always landing with expert skill directly in the center of her tit, targeting the blow. He waited a few seconds between each strike, letting her regain her composure, her body absorbing each spank. He allowed just the start of the sensation subsiding before her other nipple was struck and the cycle repeated itself.

A slight groan was escaping Missy with each contact. Her lips never parted but she felt it, heard it, coming from her throat, an instinctive reaction. She was breathing heavily. It felt like her brain was constantly scattering from one side of her chest to the other.

The way he was timing it made each strike an event all on its own. The sharp, jarring blow, bringing new life to the now permanent light sting that topped each of her tits. Her body twisting to stay still, breath quickening in the spaced seconds that followed, her body adjusting down from the initial impact ever so slightly, and then, only then, another strike on the other side to restart the whole process again. Sting and recede, sting and recede. He'd been going for awhile and she wondered how long she could take this.

The answer seemed to be not much longer. Her hands held the desk like a vice grip, it was all she could do to keep from moving. He landed a particularly menacing blow and her mouth opened in a small, short scream. Her chest heaved forward slightly as she stood there panting. Somehow, she managed to maintain her hold, the muscles in her fingers straining to grip.

"Turn around," the order was abrupt, somehow harsh without conveying anger, simply stating facts, "Wide stance, hands on the same spot, bend over."

Missy turned and stepped back, bending slightly at the waist so she could lean with straight arms down on the desk, leaving her ass out in the air before him. Her palms were flush with the table and her fingers spread to glue themselves to the smooth surface. The wood felt warm, almost hot, where her hands had previously been.

He grabbed her hips firmly from behind and pushed forward. Her back arched and her chest was forced to thrust up between her locked elbows to accommodate the shift. She was careful that her hands remain on that spot. Her still-stinging, angry-pink tits now hovered in the air above the desk.

He clapped her ass twice, "Very good, very good." He left a hand on her, holding her steady.

Missy was flushed, continuing to pant. She waited for the spanking she was sure her ass would soon be absorbing.

But it didn't come.

Her eyes slid around the room, searching, dying to turn her head to see what he was doing. She had a feeling would not go over well so she stayed still. Suddenly she felt it—something cool and strange, pushing the pearl strand a few centimeters to the side and making its prescience known at the entrance between her legs. Her body jerked forward slightly—more out of surprise than shock.

He swatted her ass, just once, but firmly. "Stay still," his voice was calm but commanding. He was right behind her, so close to her ear.

She tried to slow hear breathing, her heartbeat, anything. No use. Without the rhythm of the spanking to distract her the vibe rocked that string of pearls against her clit mercilessly. And now something—something cool not warm, something stone-hard but not skin—pressed against her. It pushed slightly inside her.

The sound Missy made could only be described as the beginning of an "Ohhh—" immediately faded into a heavy breath from the back of her throat, the crest of a wave cut off to resolve itself as bubbles on sand.

She could feel something within her, every curve, every valley, every tiny ridge making its way into her most private of crevices. She didn't need to be told what it was.

The pearl handle she so admired was now becoming hers, one with her, part of her? Hell, she didn't know. The thought of it was all she could focus on. He pushed gently and another inch or so made its way inside her.

It felt like she could feel Every. Single. Pearl. Her whole consciousness was wound around the feeling, every cell inside her lit up with stimulation as each one rubbed against the inside of her. They were mountains or waves at a macro level, moving such that each one could be felt but the largest impact was the cumulative effect.

This feeling was rapture, madness, a slow, agonizing affliction of pleasure. Between the vibe and this intimate intrusion and the burning that still lay across her tits, she didn't know how long she'd be able to keep her wits about her.

She couldn't tell how much was left of the handle but she felt filled. It didn't help that he was no longer just entering her, he slowly started to pull the handle back and push in, what felt like a little further each time.

Her breath kept quickening as he ratcheted the pace up another notch. Little moans of pleasure started playing on her lips, a melody of his making. She went lightheaded, completely lost in the manipulations of her body. It could have been day or night or somewhere across the world, she wouldn't know the difference. She was intoxicated on it, the growing sensation that felt like it came from both inside and surrounding her.

She was suddenly grateful to be clutching the desk, with her body's wanton response now the guiding force of her she felt like she might have fallen if she had had nothing to hold onto. She was reaching that point where the world might split and she would be pushed over the edge.

Mr. Nickerson gave the pearl-encased handle a particularly hard thrust in. The feeling overtook her. Her head tilted back as she split. She screamed, she was spinning, she was standing still and the earth was spinning around her. This feeling was all there was. She was nothing and everything, darkness and light, pleasure incarnate.

When she regained her senses she was panting, her upper body in a collapsed position on Mr. Nickerson's desk. She felt so warm. A piece of cloth was slipped over her eyes. Soft, cool like silk. It didn't matter. Her eyes had been closed for awhile.

She wanted to fall asleep here, to bask in this glow. She didn't feel him for what felt like ages. It might have been mere minutes, who could tell.

Eventually her breathing slowed. Bit by bit she became more aware again of where she was, of the smooth wood of the desk beneath her, the rough rogue corner of paper sticking into her right elbow.

When she finally felt ready, felt like her feet where back on earth, she pushed her self to stand. His hands were there—turning her body until she felt the edge of the desk press into her ass. Her skirt was back down, but there was nothing beneath it. He must have removed the implements around her waist and inside her, though she couldn't clearly recall when. Fabric was being placed across her chest to re-cover her tits, to hide skin she was sure still had a slight pink hue. When they were covered he led her across the room, positioning her, a doorknob pressed against the small of her back. When all movement stopped she didn't sense him step away.

She wished she could see again now. She had been here before. Blindfolded, her back to the wall in every sense. Would he kiss her again? She didn't have the strength not to want it, not now.

She could sense his face inch towards her, lean in, his breath on hers. He was so tantalizingly close. She could already taste him. She begged the air to disappear between them, for him to close that space, to meet her like he had before. Please... it rang like a chorus in her head.

Please...

But he didn't.

Suddenly she was spun, she was pushed. The blindfold was snatched as the door tapped her gently on the ass, closing behind her.

What?

So close and then...? What?

Part of her was—annoyed? Angry? No, no, she resigned herself with a deep breath, she knew better than to be any of that. She was honest finally inside her head... she was disappointed.

She didn't want to want to be kissed, didn't want to admit to herself how much she fixated on it. Had that first one told her something different than it told him? Was he done with her in that way, whatever way they had been in that previous moment, a skim on water they would never plunge into? She shook her head to try to keep her thoughts from spinning. There was no them to begin with. Keep your cool or it could be your undoing, she thought. Stick with what's sensible, you still need the job, perhaps it was all in your head all along. She took another breath and turned to start the slow trod back to her dwelling.

Stay practical, her head again pounded the concept in. Practically maybe she just wanted sleep, the soothing crackle of a fire and a warm blanket with soft pillows. She reminded herself of the relative comfort she was kept in. Though she gathered Mr. Nickerson's household was rather generous with the staff, this was downright glamorous for her station. Her own private logging, perhaps not the largest but lovely and cozy, a big bed she could spread out on every night, and a fair amount of spare time. She was taken care of, and able to make the money she needed. These were the important things. He could do what he wanted with his lips. The rest just didn't matter.

It just didn't, right? She wished he would give her some sort of sign. It was the unknowing, the wondering, that could be an undoing, not even the thing itself. If this was all there was she could feel steady in that. But if there was, even the slightest chance she could be kissed again...