Read Online Maid for It (A Maids for It Novella) by Lucy Rodgers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lucy Rodgers
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overwhelm me. Although this time, I’m fairly
certain I’m really going to drown.
Six days have passed since my tearful,
poolside confession. In that time, I’ve been relegated to the
position of a pampered houseguest. Travis informed me the following
morning that Mr. Hardcastle would not require my cleaning or
“other” services any longer. I am to make myself comfortable and
entertain myself however I deem fit.
I am no longer my master’s slave. I am not
even his Slut, his Whore, or his Cunt. Although I still wear his
collar around my neck, it seems I am nothing at all to him
anymore.
For the first three nights, I slept in his
bed, praying he might come in one night, find me there, and,
despite his anger and disappointment, fuck me one last time. My
body craves his touch and his dominance with a hunger that borders
on starvation. As the days wear on and I don’t even catch sight of
him, I feel myself shriveling, shrinking as though from
malnutrition or dehydration.
I remember my fear of that room like a
childhood bogeyman, defanged and declawed. Where once it was the
monstrosity I dreaded most of all, now I would welcome its torments
if it would mean having my master back. If it would mean belonging
to him again.
Sometimes, I put on my maid costume just to
remind myself of who I was, of who I became. Perhaps who I always
was. But it only makes me feel emptier than ever.
This morning, I dragged myself downstairs for
breakfast a little after eight. Despite his inability to cook,
Travis still manages to provide me with coffee and a meal each
morning, and I manage to eat it by putting my head down and plowing
through it despite the fact that everything tastes like sand.
I jump as a newspaper slaps down on the table
next to my plate.
Ben!
He pulls out the chair catty-corner from mine
and sits down in it. “Read the front page,” he says.
Well, at least he is giving me orders again.
That’s progress.
I open the paper and see the headline midway
down, above the article that I’m sure he wants me to read.
Helio Cantavares, Head of Sinaloa’s Most
Powerful Drug Cartel, Killed by Authorities in Raid
The subtitle adds, “Entire Cartel Leadership
Either Dead or in Custody.”
I don’t need to read the whole thing. My jaw
drops along with my stomach, and I stare at him. “You did
this?”
“Well, not directly, but yes, I saw to it
that it happened. You can go home now.”
“How…?”
“You don’t need to know the details. Just
that I knew the right people in the right places to get the job
done.”
“But—“
“No buts. Turn to page three now.”
What I see when I get there makes me gasp: a
picture of Evan Daniels in handcuffs. The caption beneath reads,
“Evan Daniels, CEO of Daniels’ Enterprises, was arrested yesterday
on allegations that one of his businesses, Maid for It , was
a front for a human trafficking network that turned unsuspecting
women into sex slaves. Also arrested was Judge Mitchell Van Cleve,
who apparently assisted Daniels by holding sham trials in which
victims were threatened with deportation if they refused to work
for Daniels. Maid for It billed itself as a sort of
‘mail-order bride’ service matching wealthy men to foreign women
who were willing to become their live-in maids and mistresses.”
Swallowing, I look back up at Ben. “None of
that was real? The immigration raid, the trial?”
He shakes his head. “It was all a show for
your benefit.”
“So, when my family paid El Nariz to get me
across the border safely, he knew all along I would become a slave
when I arrived in the US.”
“I’m afraid so.” He frowns. “I’m still
working on getting him taken care of, but with Daniels and Van
Cleve out of the picture, his business should plummet soon. He got
paid a premium at both ends of the deal.”
I set down the newspaper, dizzy with what
I’ve learned. What a fool I was, my family was, to trust a pollero ! We should have known better.
And why
certain I’m really going to drown.
Six days have passed since my tearful,
poolside confession. In that time, I’ve been relegated to the
position of a pampered houseguest. Travis informed me the following
morning that Mr. Hardcastle would not require my cleaning or
“other” services any longer. I am to make myself comfortable and
entertain myself however I deem fit.
I am no longer my master’s slave. I am not
even his Slut, his Whore, or his Cunt. Although I still wear his
collar around my neck, it seems I am nothing at all to him
anymore.
For the first three nights, I slept in his
bed, praying he might come in one night, find me there, and,
despite his anger and disappointment, fuck me one last time. My
body craves his touch and his dominance with a hunger that borders
on starvation. As the days wear on and I don’t even catch sight of
him, I feel myself shriveling, shrinking as though from
malnutrition or dehydration.
I remember my fear of that room like a
childhood bogeyman, defanged and declawed. Where once it was the
monstrosity I dreaded most of all, now I would welcome its torments
if it would mean having my master back. If it would mean belonging
to him again.
Sometimes, I put on my maid costume just to
remind myself of who I was, of who I became. Perhaps who I always
was. But it only makes me feel emptier than ever.
This morning, I dragged myself downstairs for
breakfast a little after eight. Despite his inability to cook,
Travis still manages to provide me with coffee and a meal each
morning, and I manage to eat it by putting my head down and plowing
through it despite the fact that everything tastes like sand.
I jump as a newspaper slaps down on the table
next to my plate.
Ben!
He pulls out the chair catty-corner from mine
and sits down in it. “Read the front page,” he says.
Well, at least he is giving me orders again.
That’s progress.
I open the paper and see the headline midway
down, above the article that I’m sure he wants me to read.
Helio Cantavares, Head of Sinaloa’s Most
Powerful Drug Cartel, Killed by Authorities in Raid
The subtitle adds, “Entire Cartel Leadership
Either Dead or in Custody.”
I don’t need to read the whole thing. My jaw
drops along with my stomach, and I stare at him. “You did
this?”
“Well, not directly, but yes, I saw to it
that it happened. You can go home now.”
“How…?”
“You don’t need to know the details. Just
that I knew the right people in the right places to get the job
done.”
“But—“
“No buts. Turn to page three now.”
What I see when I get there makes me gasp: a
picture of Evan Daniels in handcuffs. The caption beneath reads,
“Evan Daniels, CEO of Daniels’ Enterprises, was arrested yesterday
on allegations that one of his businesses, Maid for It , was
a front for a human trafficking network that turned unsuspecting
women into sex slaves. Also arrested was Judge Mitchell Van Cleve,
who apparently assisted Daniels by holding sham trials in which
victims were threatened with deportation if they refused to work
for Daniels. Maid for It billed itself as a sort of
‘mail-order bride’ service matching wealthy men to foreign women
who were willing to become their live-in maids and mistresses.”
Swallowing, I look back up at Ben. “None of
that was real? The immigration raid, the trial?”
He shakes his head. “It was all a show for
your benefit.”
“So, when my family paid El Nariz to get me
across the border safely, he knew all along I would become a slave
when I arrived in the US.”
“I’m afraid so.” He frowns. “I’m still
working on getting him taken care of, but with Daniels and Van
Cleve out of the picture, his business should plummet soon. He got
paid a premium at both ends of the deal.”
I set down the newspaper, dizzy with what
I’ve learned. What a fool I was, my family was, to trust a pollero ! We should have known better.
And why
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