Read Online Maid for It (A Maids for It Novella) by Lucy Rodgers - Free Book Online
Authors: Lucy Rodgers
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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, cough 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
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, cough 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
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