The Maid Ch. 01-02

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a story of sexual fantasy. All events and characters are fictional, although many are inspired by my experiences. When engaging in BDSM, I always adhere to SSC (safe, sane and consensual) principles. Readers are warned, however, that I’ve depicted a few scenes in ways that some might deem excessive. Those who object to such depictions are encouraged to enjoy other works.

As a writer, I greatly value engagement with readers, so I welcome all feedback and questions, either in the public comments or privately. All private communications will be answered.

CHAPTER ONE, in which Holly gets some welcome news.

I could hardly wait for evening to arrive.

It had been nearly a month since I’d last been allowed to leave the grounds of the estate. Nearly a month since I’d last spoken to anyone other than to Sir or Mistress. Nearly a month since I’d last spoken at all, for that matter.

Mistress had revoked my speech privileges on the night of her birthday dinner, which Sir had organized at Nick & Toni’s. If you’re ever vacationing in the Hamptons, and you’d like to get a selfie with a famous actress or musician or sports star, then dining at Nick & Toni’s is probably your best bet. It’s also your best bet if you’d like to pay twenty-eight bucks for the same salad you could get at Applebee’s for three sixty-nine, but since I wasn’t paying, I didn’t worry about that. Nick & Toni’s is Sir’s go-to restaurant for negotiating one of his mega-deals (not to mention for seducing new submissives, but that’s another story), and it’s where Mistress wanted to go.

So, it’s where we went. Sir pulled the Cayenne around and opened the front door for Mistress. I climbed in the back, and the three of us made the trek to East Hampton.

I thought the evening had gone really well, to be honest. The food and the two bottles of wine were everything you’d expect for $923 plus tax and tip. The front house staff took enough notice of Mistress’s birthday to please her, but not so much as to embarrass her, and a couple of celebrities (sorry, I can’t name names) even stopped by our table to congratulate her. Sir was in rare form with his stories and jokes. Even after fourteen years of marriage, Mistress still worships the ground he walks on, and I got a kick out of watching her stare at him across the table all evening like a teenybopper ogling Harry Styles.

But as soon as we got home, Mistress started yelling at me. She accused me of embarrassing her in public, and she called me an ignorant hillbilly mongrel skank (her actual words) because I’d asked the waiter too many questions about the menu. OK, it’s true that I am from West Virginia, of, shall we say, uncertain parentage. And no, I didn’t go to a snooty boarding school, like Mistress did. But that being the case, was it really fair of her to expect me to know what a “vitello tonato” or an “orecchiette” is?

Besides, I’m not a complete moron.

I knew she wasn’t pissed about anything I did at the restaurant. She was pissed because earlier that evening, Sir had walked in on me just as I was trying on the cute little black cocktail dress he’d bought me for the occasion, and he couldn’t stop himself from fucking me right then and there.

To be honest, even though I’ve lived on the estate for nearly three years, I still don’t get what makes Sir tick.

When doing my chores, I always wear black silk stockings, four-inch heels connected by a short chain, a tight corset laced up the front, my black leather collar, and a French maid’s black-and-white ruffled hairpiece. I never wear anything to cover up my private parts. And even though Sir sees my bare breasts and bottom and pussy nearly every day, he’s always very deliberate about when and where he fucks me.

But the second I put on a dress, so that all he can see is a flash of cleavage and a hint of thigh, he loses his mind. I don’t get it.

I didn’t blame Mistress for being pissed; in her shoes, I certainly would have been. Of course, Sir is free to fuck whoever he wants, whenever he wants. But you have to agree that fucking the maid right before dinner probably wasn’t the best present he could have given his wife for her birthday (although, to be fair, the diamond tennis bracelet he brought out at Nick & Toni’s went a long way to make up for it).

To make things worse, Mistress had just turned forty, and that’s not a number that any woman can simply ignore. Now, don’t get me wrong. Mistress is still incredibly hot in a platinum blond, rich bitch, cougarish kind of way. To be honest, my pussy still gets a little moist whenever I catch an unexpected glimpse of her, or when she orders me to service her in bed (or anywhere else, for that matter). But let’s face it. No forty-year-old tits and ass are going to be quite as perky as mine are at the ripe old age of twenty-three. And that’s got to have an effect on the way she sees things.

Anyway, since Mistress couldn’t take her frustration out on Sir, she took it out on me instead. In the kitchen, she had me bend over a chair and hike up my dress, and she delivered a long lecture on the proper way to behave in public, giving me a welt my bare bottom with a wooden spoon to emphasize each point. And that might have been the end of it, except I couldn’t stop myself from pointing out that, objectively speaking, I hadn’t done anything wrong.

That’s when she called me an incorrigible brat and forbade me to speak until further notice. To be honest, I wasn’t really surprised. It was far from the first time that my big mouth had gotten me in trouble.

To mete out a long-term punishment like that, Mistress is, of course, supposed to get permission from Sir. But by that time, Sir had figured out that despite the tennis bracelet and the memorable dinner, he was still in the doghouse for fucking me. So, in order to restore harmony to his household, he agreed with Mistress, and the decree went into effect.

Keeping silent day in and day out was harder than you’d think, especially since I’ve always been one to speak my mind. But whenever I got careless and opened my mouth, Mistress would shut me up with a ball gag for an hour or so, and within a couple of days, my aching jaw had taught me to hold my tongue. I was allowed to communicate only with hand signals, two of which covered about ninety percent of what I needed to say. When I was given an instruction, I touched two fingers to my forehead, which meant “I understand” (obedience was assumed), and when I was given any attention (including punishment), I touched my heart to mean “Thank you.”

I was even made to keep silent in the playroom. Normally, Sir and Mistress enjoy listening to my begging and moaning and whimpering while they amuse themselves with me. But now they began each session by shutting me up with the ball gag, removing it only when one of them wanted to use my mouth.

My loss of speech privileges lasted a lot longer than I’d expected. Mistress isn’t one to hold a grudge, so I thought she’d give them back after a few days, a week at most. But my punishment dragged on and on and on. And to be honest, I started feeling pretty depressed about the whole situation.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I adore my life in submission to Sir and Mistress. I get pleasure from every act of service I perform, and my heart glows whenever I know I’ve satisfied them. On top of that, they’re the first people I’ve ever met who really understand and meet my sexual needs. In the playroom, my owners turn me into a mindless object to be used and degraded, until — a few hours and several orgasms later — I’m lying exhausted on the floor, curled into a fetal position, sobbing and quivering. Our playroom sessions make me feel filthy and vile and worthless, like I’m a slimy, disgusting used condom, deserving only to be thrown into the trash once I’ve been filled with sperm.

Words can’t describe how much I crave that feeling sometimes.

So, I would never in a million years question any punishment they saw fit to give me.

But the thing is, besides respecting Sir and Mistress as my owners, I also adore them as people. They’re unimaginably clever and witty and worldly and sophisticated — everything I’d always dreamt of becoming, while I was growing up in Appalachia. And when I’m with them, I feel some of their good breeding rubbing off on me. In our time together, they’ve taught me an awful lot, and I’ve always valued their guidance and advice. And even though I’m only their maid, they’re very generous with their time and attention, whenever I have a problem, or even just something on my mind.

So, when they cut me off from all that, it hurt. A lot.

After about three weeks, I began to lose hope. I thought that not being allowed to speak wasn’t just a temporary punishment, but was the way things were going to be from now on. The new normal, as they say. But then one day, as I was sitting in my room feeling sorry for myself, Sir and Mistress entered unexpectedly. Mistress carried a black garment bag over her arm.

“Hello, Holly,” Sir said. “Your Mistress and I talked things over, and we’ve decided to end your punishment.” Instinctively, I touched my fingers to my heart in thanks. “Good girl,” he smiled. “Today is Carla’s third anniversary in submission, and we’ve been invited to a soiree in her honor. You will accompany us, and we get there, you will be allowed to speak. Do you understand?” I touched my forehead. “Good girl,” he repeated.

I frowned inwardly.

Carla belonged to the harem (if you can call four slave girls a harem) of Master Richard, who’d been Sir’s best friend and neighbor since before I knew him. (Gee whiz, who could have possibly guessed that in a hoity-toity place like the Hamptons there would be so many people with kinky sexual tastes?) Carla was just two years older than me, and we had moved into our respective homes at nearly the same time, so we knew each other pretty well. With three years in submission, Carla was neither Master Richard’s newest slave, nor his oldest.