Maid for It (An Erotic Novella)

by Lucy Rodgers

  He spins me around and pulls me into his arms. “Thank you.”

  Joy throbs through my veins. Coming from my master, a ‘thank you’ is as good as—perhaps better than—an ‘I love you.’

  After brushing his lips across my forehead, he adds, “I suppose I’m going to have to send Daniels that exorbitant bonus I promised him if he sent me a properly submissive and willing slave.”

  The word willing makes my stomach seize. I push aside my discomfort. I am willing. Whether I was when I first arrived doesn’t matter anymore. Or it shouldn’t.

  But as he leads me upstairs, draws me into the bedroom, and begins to undress me, I can’t shake my apprehension. Somehow, someday, there will be hell to pay. I just don’t know yet what kind of hell it will be.

  Ben made love to me for hours. I don’t use the words ”made love” lightly, and not because the sex was any less down and dirty than it always is. Far from it. He fucked me thoroughly and relentlessly in every orifice, until I was almost as sore as I was after our very first night together.

  And yet, something was different. There was a sweetness to our coupling that I’ve never experienced before. Maybe it’s my own wishful thinking that I’m really more than just a set of willing holes to him, a convenient, willing vehicle for him to use to slake his lust. Perhaps the collar doesn’t mean to him what it does to me.

  But I don’t think so.

  My head rests in the cradle of his shoulder, drowsy and content.

  “You’ve never told me,” he says suddenly, “how you came to speak English so well. If you didn’t have just a trace of an accent, I’d never believe it wasn’t your first language.”

  My drowsy contentment bursts like a gum bubble, sticky and uncomfortable. I stir uneasily. “My father lived in the US from the time he was two until he was twelve years old. He speaks English fluently, and he thought my brother and sisters and I would have better lives if we were fluent, too. He always spoke English to us when we were growing up. My mother spoke Spanish. We learned both equally, watched a lot of English-language movies, and read as many books in English as in Spanish.”

  I say a silent prayer that this explanation is enough for him. The whole story is a little more complicated. And too dangerous to tell.

  I did grow up speaking English from infancy, but I didn’t gain mastery of the language until I studied English and English literature in college. But if I explain that, there’ll be other questions. And if he finds out I had a good job teaching English in Sinaloa, he’ll want to know why I left to become some stranger’s slave in the US. And that, of course, would lead to all the rest coming out.

  I know it will someday. It has to. Truth is like gravity—it always has its way.

  But, please God, not yet. Not today. Let me be happy just a little while longer.

  I feel him nod as his hand begins sifting through my hair. He seems endlessly fascinated with it, as if it’s a form of matter he’s never encountered before.

  “Do you want to contact them? Your family?”

  I lift my head from his shoulder and look down at him. “Really? You would let me contact them?”

  A shadow crosses his green eyes and I realize my incredulity has hurt him. “Of course. The only reason I didn’t offer before is because I worried they might want to come and ‘rescue’ you from captivity. But now that you’re wearing this”—he runs his finger over the collar—“I’m not worried about that. I’ll always be able to find you.”

  My brow furrows in puzzlement. “I don’t understand. How does it mean you can always find me?”

  “There’s a GPS chip embedded inside the metal and another chip that monitors your vital signs. As long as you have this on, I’ll know exactly where you are, that you’re alive and well”

  In that instant, the collar takes on a whole new—and sinister—meaning. It’s not a symbol of his devotion to me, of my importance to him. He’s had me micro-chipped like an animal. It’s little better than chain. The only difference, apparently, is that it’s a chain long enough to let me go as far as China.

  The haze of contentment I’d been floating on vanishes completely. “After today, after I came back, you still don’t trust me not to leave.” The words come out flat and hopeless.

  “What?” He sounds genuinely shocked by my accusation. “Of course I trust you. It’s other people I don’t trust. Beautiful women are always in danger out in the world. I want to be sure I can always come to your rescue if anything happens. Even if the anything that happens is that your family decides you’re not safe with me.”

  “Oh.” I’m not sure I completely believe him, but it’s a lucid—if not entirely rational—explanation.

  “So, do you want to contact your family?”

  For a second, I hesitate. I want them to know I’m alive and safe. They must be worried sick, imagining the worst. But what else can I tell them? Certainly not that I’m living with a man I met just six weeks ago, having sex with him—and not just sex, but raunchy, dirty, no-holes barred sex—and letting him treat me like a slave. And more, that I like it.

  But in the end, it’s not even a point for debate. I’ll find a way to sugarcoat the reality. They deserve to know they saved my life. Even if things didn’t turn out quite the way they planned.

  As I enter my master’s private refuge—his office—for the first time, I’m struck first by the sheer number of screens and blinking lights and whirring machines. It reminds me a little of Mission Control in the movie Apollo 13, except that these devices are much newer and more sophisticated.

  “You can use that computer over there,” he says, pointing toward a sleek, modern monitor and accompanying keyboard that sits on a desk on the left hand side of the room. “You can email or use the IM program to send a text message to a cell phone. I’ll just log in and work a little on a program I’m doing for a client while you get in touch with them.”

  Nodding, I sit down in the rolling leather office chair in front of the computer and try to decide how to begin. I ultimately open the IM program and type in my older brother’s cell phone number.

  My fingers tremble slightly as I type.

  Luis, it’s Gabi. I’m here in LA and I’m safe.

  I wait. And wait. And wait.

  The reply comes.

  Gabi, is it really you? Mami and Papi have been out of their minds with grief. We thought Cantavares must have tracked you down and killed you before you crossed the border.

  Guilt washes through me. I shouldn’t have waited for Ben to offer. I should have asked him if I could please contact my family. It was cruel of me to let them suffer.

  Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry I didn’t contact you sooner, but I couldn’t get to a cell phone or computer before now.

  My master’s fingers clickety-clack on his keyboard as I wait for the next response, and I glance over to see what he’s doing. He gazes intently at the screen as his fingers fly across the keys. From this distance, I can’t make out the letters, but I’m guessing I wouldn’t understand it anyway as there appear to be lots of slashes and semi-colons and ampersands.

  The dinging sound the computer makes when a message is received draws my attention back to the screen.

  Why not? There must be Internet cafés everywhere. Are you sure you’re all right and not in any trouble?

  I’m sure, hermano.

  I start to add that I’m a live-in maid, cleaning a wealthy man’s house, but then I backspace over it and send only the one sentence. Anything more will invite questions I don’t want to answer. Like why my employer doesn’t pay me enough so I can buy a cell phone. Like how it is I haven’t had a day off in weeks where I could have gone to an Internet café and sent an email to my parents to let them know I’m all right.

  I need to talk to you. Mami and Papi will want to talk to you. Is there a number I can call you at?

  No. Not right now. Maybe soon.

  Ugh, I know I’m lying. If I talk to Luis or my parents or either of my other siblings, th
ey’ll know I’m keeping something from them. They’ll ask question until they pry the whole story out of me.

  I glance at my master again. He’s staring at the computer screen now, lost in thought. My heart swells with conflicting emotions. I shouldn’t be ashamed of what we have together. But when it comes to my family, I am.

  Blinking back tears, I type a final message to my brother.

  I have to go now. Give Mami and Papi and everyone my love and tell them I’m fine and happy.

  I close the IM program and rest my head against the back of the chair, trying to get a grip on myself before I alert my master that I’m done.

  Suddenly, a chirping sound issues from my master’s computer.

  “Damn it,” he mutters. He clicks on a box that’s popped up on the screen over whatever it is he’s been studying for the past few minutes and a new window displays. Even from several feet away, I can see that the window contains a video feed and whose face is on the screen.

  The President of the United States.

  “Sorry to bother you at this time of day, Ben,” the President says, “but one of my aides noticed you were online, and we’ve got a quick question about that program you installed for us.”

  My master works for the White House? I knew he did projects for rich and important people. I had no idea how rich and important.

  I’m so dumbfounded, I’m not even listening to their conversation. The familiar cadences of the voice of the world’s most famous leader and those of my master are all that can penetrate my haze of amazement.

  Which is why I almost don’t notice that my master’s finger is crooked, beckoning me to him. As soon as I realize he wants me to come to him, I immediately rise from my chair and cross the floor as quietly as I can, being careful to stay out of range of the tiny camera propped atop the computer monitor. I’m not certain, but I suspect this video call works in both directions.

  As I reach the side of his chair, I realize he’s been unzipping his jeans while carrying on his conversation. He slips his partially erect cock from his pants and gestures with it in my direction.

  My pussy floods with desire even as my cheeks heat with embarrassment. He wants me to kneel down in front of him and suck his cock while he talks on a video call to the President of the United States. Even if I can’t be seen on the video feed, how does he think he’ll hide what he’s doing—or more accurately, having done to him—for the entire time?

  But…don’t ask questions, don’t hesitate.

  I get onto my knees first, then crawl until I’m in front of him. When I raise myself back up in front of him, I give him a questioning look.

  Is my head out of the picture?

  He gives me an almost imperceptible nod that undoubtedly appears to the President as respectful attention to what he’s saying.

  Sliding my hand over his length, I lower my head and lick the silky head. I close my eyes and savor the taste of him, so intimate and well-known. How lucky I am that it’s me he wants, that we are so suited to one another’s needs and desires. When he’s fully hard, I take him into my mouth and down to my throat. I’ve learned over the course of the last six weeks to accommodate his entire length in my mouth, all the way to the hilt.

  His hand comes to rest at the back of my head as he continues to speak to the President in perfectly even tones, but I can tell from the way he’s pushing my head up and down that he’s not going to hold out much longer. My clit throbs painfully now, the idea of what we’re doing so erotic and who we’re doing it in front of so arousing, I feel as though I might come without any direct stimulation at all.

  I hear a hitch in his breathing, and I massage his balls through the fabric of his jeans.

  “Have I answered all your questions, Mr. President?” he asks, a note of impatience creeping into his voice. I wonder distantly if the President has talked to my master often enough to recognize the tone.

  “Yes, I believe you have. I appreciate your time, Ben. You’ll be compensated for the consultation, of course.”

  “Oh yes, sir, I know I will,” my master replies, and I know he’s not talking about being paid.

  He leans forward and disconnects the video call.

  “Jesus, you really are the world’s dirtiest and sweetest little slave,” he groans. “I really didn’t think you’d do that with the President on the video feed, but you did.”

  Without warning, he pulls himself free of my mouth with a pop and helps me to my feet.

  “I need to fuck you. Now. Turn around and bend over the desk.”

  I spin away from him and prop myself on my elbows on the flat surface in front of me, taking care not to knock any of the computer equipment to the floor. He lifts my skirt—I’m wearing my maid costume—pushes aside the thong, and plunges into my cunt. It takes only mere seconds of our bodies crashing together in heated desperation for us both to come.

  When it’s over, he pulls out and tucks his slackening cock back into his jeans. Fresh, warm semen trickles down my leg, a wet, sticky reminder of our joining. I don’t bother to try to find something to wipe it away. I’m too stunned by what just happened to worry about it.

  He gives my bare ass a playful swat before tugging my skirt back into place. “I’m reconsidering that bonus to Daniels. I might just have to double it.”

  It’s the height of summer, and even this close to the beach, the days are hot and gorgeously sunny. My master and I are outside on the terrace beside the swimming pool. Although we’re above the level of the beach, passersby can still look up and see us—or at least, our heads and shoulders. We undoubtedly look like a couple cuddling innocently together, me sitting on his lap, my head resting against his shoulder, his arms wrapped around my waist.

  What they can’t see is that his swim trunks are pulled down, my thong bikini is pushed to one side, and his cock is in my ass, his fingers stroking my clit as he rocks slowly in and out of me.

  Ever since I gave him that blow job in front of the President, he’s found more and more ways for us to have sex almost in public. The fear of getting caught at it, of someone realizing what we’re up to, is a potent aphrodisiac for me and, I think, for him, too. We both get off on it.

  I’m close to coming now, but my master is holding me off, waiting for just the right moment to pull the trigger and make me disintegrate in front of strangers while I try desperately not to show it. I’m grateful when the opportunity arrives in the form of an older couple—perhaps in their mid to late sixties—walking hand in hand just below the house. The man, seeing us, smiles and raises his hand in greeting.

  My master touches me in just that way and twists his cock just so in my ass, and I shatter.

  “Wave back at the nice man, my dirty little anal slut,” he murmurs in my ear. “What bad manners you have.”

  Shuddering with bliss and smiling a little at his characterization of my penchant for anal sex, I force myself to raise my hand and wave back. The man nods and the woman waves, too. Do they notice my glazed eyes, my slackening jaw, my trembling limbs? I don’t think so, but as they continue past the house, I’m not sure because they bend their heads together to talk.

  Once they’ve passed, my master stiffens and comes, too.

  We’re both sweaty from exertion and sticky with the fruits of our labors. As we separate, my master says, “Jump in the pool and cool off. I’ll go have Travis bring us some iced tea.”

  After I slide from his lap, he rises from the chaise longue we’ve been occupying and turns toward the French doors that lead into the house.

  I walk to the edge of the pool and stare into the water. It doesn’t look very deep. I might be able to stand on the bottom. Images of that room loom in the back of my mind.

  Taking a deep breath, I do what I always do: I obey.

  The water is cool and refreshing, but it’s deeper than I thought. I can’t stand on the bottom and keep my head above water.

  I thrash to get back to the surface. I gasp for air, inhale water instead, coug
h as I go back under.

  Calmate, calmate.

  But I can’t calm myself. I know it’s only a pool, I should somehow be able to get myself to the side, but logic can’t overcome panic, because I’m not just in a pool anymore.

  I’m five years old and I’m wading in the ocean and a huge wave crashes down over my head, drags me under, pulls me away from shore. I open my eyes, the salt stings, seaweed floats in front of me. I tumble and spin in the current, with no idea of which way is up and which way is down.

  A sudden turbulence in the water pushes me down and forward, and something wraps around my waist. My instinct is to fight, to struggle, to escape. Whatever it is, it’s trying to drag me under, to drown me, and I won’t let it.

  But it’s stronger than me, and my head breaks the surface, and I cough and gasp as I hear my master say, “For Christ’s sake, stop fighting. I’m saving you, you little idiot.”

  At the words, I relax against him, the flashback to my near-drowning in childhood fading as I come back to the present.

  I’m still hacking violently when he gets me to the side of the pool and then onto the deck. Shivering, I lie on the hot pavement and retch, although whether I’m throwing up because I actually nearly drowned or because I was so frightened I would, I can’t tell.

  The vomiting subsides, and my master helps me to sit up. He searches my face with his perceptive eyes, trying to gauge if I’ve suffered any permanent harm. Apparently, he’s satisfied that I haven’t, because he yanks me abruptly to my feet.

  I’ve never seen him so angry.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you can’t swim?”

  In answer, I shrug and quote his words from our first day together. “No questioning. No bargaining. No hesitation.”

  He turns away, water beading off his powerful shoulders and arms. When he looks at me again, though, his eyes are filled not with anger, but pain. “You honestly believe I would punish you or send you away if you told me you couldn’t jump into the pool because you can’t swim? What kind of monster do you think I am, Gabi?”

  The question pierces my heart like a serrated knife, leaving torn and jagged edges in its wake. “No, of course not.”