Maid for It

By Lucy Rodgers

Cover art: Robin Ludwig Design (gobookcoverdesign.com)

Editor: Natasha Fondren

© Lucy Rodgers, 2011

All rights reserved

ISBN-13: 978-0-9855729-0-7

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. The author does not intentionally add any form of digital rights management to this file, and hereby grants any purchaser of this content the right to strip any such DRM added by a third party.

If you enjoyed this ebook, the author encourages you to share it with others you believe will enjoy it and hopes you consider reviewing it on the site from which you purchased it. The author appreciates your time and investment in her work.

Publisher's Note:

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Contact: lucyrodgerserotica@gmail.com

Author Website: http://lucyrodgers.wordpress.com

Maid for It

“Will the defendant please rise?”

My attorney, a middle-aged white man whose mottled complexion reminds me of an old corn tortilla, nudges me in the ribs and stands up. I get to my feet, my knees wobbling.

What if the judge sends me back to Sinaloa? I’m as good as dead. My family scraped together the money to get me out of Mexico, to send me to the United States where I’ll be safe. They won’t be able to afford to do it again. And if I so much as show my face on the south side of the border, Helio Cantavares will have me killed.

I need to stay here. I clutch the crucifix that dangles from my neck and say a silent prayer.

“Gabriela Marquez,” the judge intones, “you have been found guilty of entering the United States without proper documentation and should be subject to immediate deportation.”

My stomach sinks, a stone hitting the bottom of a well.

“However, in your case, the court will make an exception. The company, Maid for It, has indicated that it will hire you and apply for a proper visa should your work prove acceptable.”

The sharp corners of the cross dig into my palms, the pain the only thing that keeps me from slumping to the floor in a flood of relief.

“Do you understand the ruling of this court, Miss Marquez?” The judge gives me a stern glare.

“Sí, I mean yes, sir,” I say.

“Very well, then. You are released to the custody of your employer.” He bangs down his gavel.

I am sick with gratitude and turn to search the gallery of the courtroom for my savior. A man rises to his feet and beckons me. He’s not much taller than I am, but in his prime and powerfully built. His eyes are hard, like marbles. Instinct tells me I have leapt from the comal and onto open flame, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing this man can do to me can be worse than what Cantavares can.

It can only be just as bad.

The marble-eyed man leads me to a limousine waiting outside the courthouse and motions me to get in. A driver wearing a suit and chauffer’s hat shuts the door behind us.

As the car pulls away from the curb, the man asks, “You speak English, Miss Marquez?”

“Yes,” I answer.

He gives a curt nod. “Good. A rudimentary command of the language is a requirement for the job.”

I want to ask what, exactly, the job is, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “My English is more than rudimentary. I used to teach English.” Before I stumbled into the cartel’s business and made myself a target.

“Excellent,” he says.

I can see I’ve impressed him. Whether that is good or bad, I’m not sure.

“So, Miss Marquez, I’m certain you are curious to learn why I’ve hired you and what you will be doing for my company.”

“I will do anything that keeps me in the US.”

He chuckles. The sound is more sadistic than amused, and a ribbon of fear curls down my spine. What have I gotten into? Surely a US court wouldn’t send me with him if he weren’t a legitimate businessman.

“I’m glad you’re willing to do anything, because that is the first requirement of the job. But before I go any further, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Evan Daniels, CEO and owner of Maid for It, and you, my dear, are my newest maid.”

“Maid? As in you wish for me to clean houses?”

I can do that. It’s a step down for someone who used to be a teacher and hardly a use of my education, but I didn’t expect to do better as an illegal immigrant, anyway.

He laughs again, the sound so humorless it’s chilling. “In a manner of speaking, yes.” He reaches down and undoes the buckle of his belt. “You see, Miss Marquez,” he says as he pulls the belt free and unbuttons his slacks, “Maid for It offers what we call ‘specialty cleaning services’ to upscale clientele. In addition to cleaning houses, you may also be asked to perform other, slightly dirtier tasks, if you take my meaning.”

I do take it, and how can I fail to as he extracts his partially erect penis from his shorts? My gut twists with a combination of shame and loathing.

I’m going to be a prostitute. A sex worker. A whore.

He sees my horror and reaches out to caress my face. Bile rises in my throat at his touch.

“Now, now, Miss Marquez, it’s not as bad as all that. The men I cater to are all single, extremely wealthy, and considered quite good catches. Most of my ‘maids’ eventually catch on—that is, if they can do the job well enough. And there’s no time like the present to prove you have the chops to satisfy my demanding customers.”

He slides his hand around the back of my head and pushes my face down toward his crotch. My first instinct is to resist, but I’ve always been a practical girl. What other choice do I have? I’m at Mr. Daniels’ mercy, trapped in his limousine as it rolls through the unfamiliar streets of Los Angeles, and I’ve been entrusted to his care by the law. If I escape, I’m sure to be caught. Sure to be sent back to Mexico. And there’s no place safe for me on that side of the border. I need Evan Daniels’s protection, and if I need to suck his cock or anyone else’s to stay alive, I can do that just as well as I can clean houses.

Opening my mouth, I flick my tongue over the spongy head before closing my lips around the shaft. Just like the rest of him, his dick is on the short side but thick. I’m untutored at this sort of thing, but I go with my instincts, sliding my mouth up and down along his length, squeezing my lips tight as I go. His cock gets harder and thicker, which I take to mean I’m not doing it wrong.

After a few minutes of this, he grunts. “Not bad for an amateur, but if you’re going to be a pro, you’re going to have to learn to go all the way.”

I don’t understand what he means at first, but then his fingers twist in my hair and he forces my mouth farther down onto him, until the head of his cock is seated in the back of my throat. I make a desperate, choking noise, but he ignores it.

Raising my head slightly, he pushes me back down again.

“Breathe through your nose and relax,” he orders.

Breathing through my nose I can do; relaxing I’m not so sure about. I’m afraid I’m going to gag, maybe even vomit, but as he keeps at it—up and down, in and out—something odd happens to me. A tingling sensation starts in my belly, and moisture gathers between my thighs. My heart beats erratically, and I’m hot all over.

I hear a moan and realize it’s me, and more, that it’s not a sound of fear. It’s a sound of need.

“That’s right, baby,” he encourages. “A man needs to fuck that pretty mouth hard and deep to be satisfied. You’re doing great.”

I clench my thighs together, trying to stem the rising tide of arousal that gathers there. I don’t know how I can be turned on by this, but I am, and it’s more frightening than being raped because it’s not coming from outside of me, but inside. He’s flipped some strange switch inside of me and turned on a thousand-watt bulb, and I can’t turn it off.

“Oh fuck, yeah.” He groans and stiffens and drives in one last time, so far I think I’m going to swallow his entire dick, and then his cum spurts down the back of my throat. I can’t taste it, but the thick, hot liquid slides down in waves, and I’m shivering as though I’m freezing.

He releases his grip my head and lets me up. Semen is still leaking from the head, and my tongue darts out to lick my lips.

I don’t know if he sees it or not, but maybe he does, because he says, “Lick it clean. The maid’s job is always to leave her workplace clean.”

I don’t even think about resisting. Bending over, I lap up the bitter-salt remnants of his spend like a cat.

He settles back against the leather-cushioned seat and sighs. “Well, one thing is for sure, Miss Marquez. You were definitely made for it.”

I’m dressed in a French maid’s costume. The skirt is so short, passersby can probably catch a glimpse of my ass cheeks when I lean forward to knock on the door.

The door belongs to the palatial home of one Benjamin Hardcastle, the ridiculously rich and notoriously reclusive cybersecurity expert. From what Mr. Daniels has told me, Mr. Hardcastle is paid insane sums of money to hack into government and business computer systems, thereby demonstrating the flaws in their security. He does all of this from the comfort of his lavish, Italianate villa overlooking the coast in Malibu.

Mr. Hardcastle is also Maid for It’s most exacting, most demanding customer. No maid has ever lasted in his employ for more than six weeks, and most have been fired within two days.

As I lift the ornate brass knocker and rap it against the door, I flash to the scene in The Sound of Music where Julie Andrews arrives at the von Trapp estate. The only difference between Maria’s dilemma and mine is that I have no convent to return to.

I’m trembling by the time the door opens. In another echo of Rodgers and Hammerstein, the person answering the door is clearly not Mr. Hardcastle himself, but the butler. Unlike Maria, I’m not fool enough to imagine that a computer hacker would hang around his house all day wearing a tuxedo with tails and a red bow tie. Of course, her assumption wasn’t as absurd in 1936 as it would be today.

The butler has hair that’s elegantly gray around the temples and a nose that’s long and straight—“All the better to look down at you with, my dear”—gives me a brusque nod. “Punctual, I see.”

It’s an odd greeting, but it appears to be all I’m going to get as he opens the door and steps aside to let me enter.

The foyer is circular—a detail I could have intuited from the turreted exterior—and elegantly appointed in dark wood and travertine. Light streams in from a rose window more than two stories high, making colorful patterns on the pale marble floor. I find this simultaneously beautiful and foreboding, like entering a church and a dungeon at the same time.

The butler shuts the door behind me. The sound of it latching is as loud as a gunshot. Having heard a lot of gunshots not so long ago, I have to fight the urge to throw myself to the floor.

“I’m Travis, Mr. Hardcastle’s butler, valet, and man of business. And you are…?”

“Gabriela Marquez.” Travis. I wonder if that’s his first name or his last name. And what does he mean by “man of business”? A strange turn of phrase I’ve never encountered before.

“Would you prefer I call you Gabriela or Miss Marquez?”

I blink, baffled. What anyone calls me is the least of my concerns. I wonder which would please the heretofore unpleasable Mr. Hardcastle, and I decide on familiarity over formality. “My friends at home called me Gabi.”

Travis arches an eyebrow. Perhaps I should have chosen formality.

“Very well, Gabi,” he says, his tone managing to be slightly more condescending than before, which hardly seems possible. “As you may have already been informed, Mr. Hardcastle not only lives here, but works here as well. He is currently engaged in a significant project and won’t be able to meet with you and explain your”—he coughs delicately here, his wan cheeks turning ruddier—“duties for some time. In the meantime, I will show you around the house and then to your room.”

As he’s speaking, however, I’m gaping, because he’s led me into the largest, most exquisitely furnished living room I’ve ever seen. Every piece, from the brocaded sofa to the velvet-upholstered armchairs to the Persian rugs to the paintings hanging on the walls, is a work of art. The far wall of the room is sheer glass and frames the blue-green expanse of the ocean, a different sort of art altogether.

“I’m sorry, Miss Marq—er, Gabi, but you do speak English, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, sir, I most certainly do. I’m just a bit…overwhelmed by all of this.” I gesture around the room. I’ve never seen anything like it. Not even in a museum.

This seems to placate and please the butler. He smiles and nods. “I understand completely. I imagine I would have much the same reaction had I not been with Mr. Hardcastle almost from the beginning. Now, as I was saying, this is the living room...”

He drones on as he leads me through the house, drawing my attention to paintings by Rembrandt and Picasso and even a very tiny Renoir. Mr. Hardcastle is not just ridiculously wealthy, I realize, but insanely so. This frightens me but also excites me in ways I don’t want to examine.

I’m no longer paying attention to Travis, but instead trying to imagine what Mr. Hardcastle is like. I envision a spindly man with horn-rimmed glasses and bad, pale skin. After all, he spends all day indoors and reportedly doesn’t socialize at all. What if he has bad breath and sweats too much? Maybe the reason none of the maids who’ve been here before have lasted is because he’s so socially and physically awkward, they couldn’t stand to be touched by him. How will I survive if he disgusts me so much, I can’t bear to be in the same room with him, much less have sex with him?

The answer is obvious. Nothing and no one can disgust me so much that I’ll risk being returned to Mexico. Somehow, some way, I will cope.

And with that certainty, I trail Travis politely through the remainder of my tour.

I have to admit, I didn’t expect there to be so much actual cleaning associated with this job. After Mr. Daniels forced me to give him that blow job in the limo, I sort of assumed the majority of my time would be spent fucking and sucking my employer.

But it’s been two days and I haven’t even seen Mr. Hardcastle yet, let alone fucked or sucked him. And I’m starting to feel antsy, although whether that’s because I’m afraid I’m going to be sent away or because I don’t much like scrubbing toilets, I’m not sure.

At the moment, I’m scrubbing the marble-inlaid floor in Mr. Hardcastle’s expansive bathroom. On my hands and knees, my bare ass points up toward the ceiling. I know there are security cameras in many rooms of the house, and sometimes I suspect the butler watches me when I take on these kinds of tasks because when we pass each other in the hallways, there’s a look in his eyes that says he’s seen me in my knickers or lack of them, as by Mr. Daniels’ decree, thongs are the only appropriate underwear for a Maid for It maid.

Of course, there are no cameras here, so for the moment, I’m safe from prying eyes.

“Well, what a pleasant surprise,” a deep voice purrs behind me.

I nearly jump out of my skin. I don’t have to turn all the way around to find its source, however. As I come up to a kneel, I see his reflection in the mirror. I register tall and muscular and drop-my-jaw gorgeous before I register naked.

Naked and armed—though that word doesn’t sound right at all—with a cock that’s easily as long, when flaccid, as Mr. Daniels’ was hard. And it’s not staying flaccid.

Surely this can’t be Mr. Hardcastle. He’s too…my mind searches for one English word to encompass him and fails miserably. He’s too hard, handsome, masculine, virile, huge, hot in every way to be a computer geek.

But I say meekly as I turn to face him, “Mr. Hardcastle?”

“In the flesh.”

And oh, what flesh it is! That cock is growing longer and thicker before my very eyes.

He takes a step toward me, and I realize I’m at just the right level to take that cock into my mouth and suck him off. Instinctively, I want to. But I’m also afraid. Even half-aroused, he’s enormous. I’ll never get him all the way down my throat the way I did Mr. Daniels.

My fear blossoms, unaccountably, into a wet ache between my thighs. I’m terrified. I know now why none of the previous maids lasted more than a week. They couldn’t take that huge dick in all the places he wanted to put it. And his hard, green eyes tell me he’s the kind of man who wants to put it everywhere—mouth, cunt, ass. I shiver, my nipples pebbling against the fabric of my nearly sheer white blouse.

“You’re much prettier than I expected. Your photo didn’t do you justice.”

“Gracias,” I whisper, my heightened nerves slipping me into my native tongue. I don’t say the other Spanish words that run through my head. Lo mismo para ti. The same for you.

Of course, I hadn’t had a photo to go by. Just my silly, fevered imagination.

He takes his cock between his thumb and forefinger and strokes it, almost idly. I’m so hot with anticipation and terror, I’m glad I’m on my knees. No chance of falling to them when I’m already there.

“Travis tells me you like to be called Gabi.”

I nod. “Yes.” My voice is raspy, as though I’m suffering from laryngitis.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind, but there are other things I’m more likely to call you. Like Slut and Whore and Cunt. Does that bother you, Gabi?”

My cheeks heat. It does bother me, but probably not in the way he means. I’m so aroused now, it’s all I can do not to press my palm between my legs to stem the ache.

I shake my head. No.

“Good. Because I’ll call you whatever I like. You, on the other hand, will call me Sir. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” I answer. The tension rises and rises in me. I’m going to explode soon.

“Good Slut,” he praises. His fingers continue to work his dick, up and down. It’s fully erect now and beautiful. My mouth and my pussy are watering, empty, hungry. “I have only one rule for my whores, Gabi, and it’s a very simple one. But before I tell you what it is, I need to know that you are here of your own free will. That you chose this because it’s the life you want.”

My own free will? The life I want? A bubble of hysteria forms in my throat.

I haven’t had a will of my own since I turned a corner by mistake and caught Helio Cantavares in the process of gunning down two rival drug lords. Nothing that’s happened since then has been my decision, my choice. Everything has been driven and decided by others, from my parents’ decision to scrape together every peso to send me to the United States and safety—a lot of good that had done—to the judge’s order that I become an employee of Maid for It to Mr. Daniels’s pronouncement that I was the perfect maid for his most difficult customer.

As for the life I want? I want the one I had. The one I was forced to flee. I want my tiny two-bedroom adobe house five blocks from the Instituto Tecnologico where I taught English. I want my family—parents, brother, two sisters, and a passel of nieces and nephews. I want the chance to meet a nice man, fall in love, have a family. Above all, I want Sinaloa, the place I was born and raised and still love.

But more than I want any of those things, I want a life. To live.

“Yes, Sir,” I answer, though I keep my eyes studiously focused on the intricate tile pattern of the floor. “This is the life I choose.” I avoid saying it’s my will, because that would be a lie. I have to hope what I can say truthfully is enough.

His hand grabs my chin and forces my face upward. “Then why are you crying?”

He swipes at the warm tears rolling down my cheeks, and I realize to my horror that it’s true. That I am crying.

Puta! What a fool I am, to let thoughts of home bring me to tears. Why now, when it is critical that I convince this man I want him to use me as his whore, his cunt, in exchange for my life?

“I’m sorry, Sir. I am just thinking of my home and family, and I cannot help feeling sad that I will never see them again.”

“So go home to them. I will not keep a woman against her will.” He caresses my face, an unexpected and tender gesture that makes the tears want to come all the more freely. “Even a woman as perfect as I think you may be.”

Longing rises in my chest at the roughness of his tone, the sweetness of his words. As much as I want to live, I suddenly want even more to please him, to be perfect for him. Not just to save my life, but because something in him calls to me, makes me ache and yearn to be whatever he wants, whatever he needs.

He is alone. Like me.

I don’t know where that thought comes from, but instinct tells me it’s true. And instinct also tells me he’s my only chance. The one person, the one place I can be safe. I need him. If he sends me away, I’ll die. If not literally at the hands of Helio Cantavares when Daniels has me deported back to Mexico, then figuratively when I’m forced to become the whore of a man who isn’t Benjamin Hardcastle.

“Please, Sir,” I say, pressing my hot, wet cheek against his palm. “I want this. I want you. I want to stay with you and please you. I’ll do anything you ask, just don’t send me away.”

He tips his head to one side, considering. “I am not an easy man, Gabriela Marquez Lucero.”

I blink, surprised. I haven’t heard my full name used since the day I left Sinaloa. Americans are utterly baffled by the Mexican system of surnames, and always mistake the mother’s maiden name, which comes last, for the father’s last name and actual surname, so I haven’t bothered to use the Lucero since I came to the US.

“You may have heard that none of the women who have come here before you have lasted more than a few weeks. Do you know why not?”

I shake my head. I asked Mr. Daniels, but he wouldn’t tell me anything except that he felt sure I would be the maid to please Mr. Hardcastle. I tried to find out why he thought that, but he wouldn’t explain.

“Well, then, I might as well explain now. It is because I demand complete and total submission. I told you I have only one rule for my whores, and it is this—you must never say no. Whatever I require of you, you must do. If I tell you to lick the floor clean with your tongue, you will do it. If I tell you to walk down Sunset Boulevard naked, you will do it. And if I tell you to bend over in the driveway, lift your skirt, and take my cock up your ass right then and there, you will do it. Without hesitation, without bargaining, and without question. You can ask for mercy, and I may give it to you. Or I may not. But you will not say no. Do you understand?”

As he talks, the wetness between my thighs grows, spreads. I don’t understand why, but the idea of him controlling me in this way is deeply, almost painfully erotic.

“Yes, Sir,” I answer.

His lips twist in a sardonic smile. “Well, we’ll see. None of your predecessors was capable of obeying that very simple dictate, despite their initial promises. Some managed for a few days, even weeks, but most didn’t even last for the first five minutes.”

An icy tendril of fear coils in my chest. What does he want in the first five minutes that’s awful enough to drive away desperate women like me?

“I will last forever,” I say staunchly.

He smiles, more genuine now. “We shall see. But I like your determination. Now, stand up and turn around for me. Slowly. I want to get a better look at my merchandise.”

Well, that’s easy enough. I get up, a bit slowly—because I’ve been on my knees so long, I’m stiff—and execute a pirouette.

His bright irises are almost engulfed by his pupils when I meet his eyes again. Although he stopped stroking his cock some time ago, he’s still huge and erect.

He takes my breasts—too big, I’ve always thought, with embarrassingly large nipples and areolas the size of dinner plates—in his hands and tests their weight. Daniels prefers his maids wear no bras at all, but that’s not an option in my case; my double Ds would be sagging to my waist within a few months without regular support, which is why I’ve been fitted with a cupless bra.

Without warning, he yanks open my sheer white blouse, sending buttons clattering to the floor. “You have amazing tits. Daniels got that part right at least.”

Bending his head, he takes one bare nipple—the size of a grape and just as distended—into his mouth and sucks it hard before lashing it with his tongue. My knees threaten to buckle, and I clutch at his broad, muscular shoulders for support, dimly wondering how a computer security expert came to be as ripped as most star athletes.

His hand is up between my legs, raising my skirt, pushing my thong aside so that his fingers can delve into my pussy. He slides a finger inside me and grunts in approval as my muscles clench around him.

Releasing my nipple, he lifts his head and points out of the bathroom, toward the large bed that occupies his room. “Go to the bed.”

Knees wobbling, I do exactly as I’m told. He follows me, a few steps behind.

So far, I can’t imagine what it is he’s going to ask me to do that will make me want to disobey him. Everything he’s done so far has only made me wetter and more aroused, more ready to do anything he desires.

“Take off your panties,” he says when I’m standing next to the bed.

I do it, letting the tiny bit of fabric fall to the floor beside my feet.

“Sit down.”

I comply.

“Spread your legs.”

The flutter in my stomach becomes a frantic beating of wings as I open them, exposing my most intimate parts to him.

“Make yourself come.”

This command knocks me sideways. Not because it’s shocking or potentially painful, but because it’s so unexpected. He wants me to masturbate? This is the request that’s been the downfall of so many other girls?

He’s looking at me, and it’s only been a few seconds, but I can see his impatience. I’m hesitating. One of the things I’m not supposed to do.

Don’t ask questions. Don’t wonder why. Just do what he tells you.

I slide my fingers between my pussy lips and begin to rub myself. Heat suffuses me as I’m acutely aware of him watching me as I try to bring myself to orgasm.

“I’ll know if you’re faking, by the way.”

I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I’m not eager to test him. But even as aroused as I am, there’s too much pressure to perform, and as I work and work and my climax remains just out of reach, I’m almost tempted to try to pull it off.

Almost.

His expression is stern as I circle my clit vigorously, desperate for release for more than one reason. I’m beginning to understand why so many others before me failed, and I’m afraid I’m going to fail, too. Hot tears gather in the corners of my eyes and then spill over, wetting my cheeks. It’s not going to happen. I simply can’t do it.

And then he drops to his knees in front of me, pulls my hand away, and replaces it with his tongue. The strokes are firm, gentle, and commanding. His breath fans across my sensitive flesh, hot and urgent. He slides two fingers up inside my cunt and fucks me with them as he continues to lick me. My climax hits me all at once, like a wrecking ball taking down a building. I’m groaning, keening with it, relief and rapture washing over me in equal measure.

He lifts his head and looks up at me as I come back to myself, his eyes dark and inscrutable.

It hits me. I failed. I didn’t make myself come. He had to do it for me.

The panic starts in my stomach, spreads to my chest and my limbs. I want to throw myself at his feet, beg for mercy, promise to do better next time. Anything to get him to let me stay.

Perhaps he reads my fear, because a smile that’s almost tender curves his lips. “You passed,” he says.

“But…but I didn’t do what you asked.”

He shrugs and gets to his feet. “But you tried. Very hard. And you didn’t ask me why or tell me you couldn’t. As much as I like success, I appreciate work ethic even more. You demonstrated a great work ethic, my sweet little whore.”

I’m overwhelmed. So overwhelmed I can’t think of anything to say. Except, “Thank you, Sir.”

He strokes my hair with one big palm, then releases it from the tiny cap that holds it in place. My hair falls, thick and heavy down my back. Then he pulls me forward and positions his dick in front of my mouth.

“Suck me off.”

I open immediately and let him in. To my surprise, he doesn’t force me to deep throat him, but simply allows me to find my way around his enormous length and girth myself. I marvel at the feel of it in my mouth—hard as steel inside, soft as satin at its head. His hands feather through my hair in a way that tells me he finds it beautiful. I feel blessed by the admiration in his touch and by his peculiar brand of kindness. When he comes, he tightens his fingers in my hair and holds me steady, his seed spurting against the back of my mouth in thick, ropy strands.

When it’s over, I do what Daniels taught me and lick him clean. Like a good maid.

He goes to take a shower, which I suppose was what he was planning to do when he found me on his bathroom floor. I lie on the bed, drowsy and oddly content.

I wake in a dark room. Where am I? Pulse racing, I scramble to sit up and gain my bearings, then remember.

I’m in Benjamin Hardcastle’s room. Sir’s room. The man whose every dictate I have promised to obey in exchange for my safety.

That should frighten me, I know, but it doesn’t, because I realize this is the first deep, restful sleep I’ve had in months, the first when I haven’t woken in a cold sweat because the malevolent eyes of Helio Cantavares have followed me in my dreams.

I roll over, wondering what time it is. It was mid-afternoon when he interrupted me in the bathroom, but it’s dark outside now. Hours must have passed. Why did he let me sleep instead of waking me up to finish what we started? Didn’t he want to fuck me? Perhaps I disappointed him after all, and he’s decided to send me away?

Confused and more than a little anxious, I reach for and find the bedside lamp. I switch it on, blinking as my eyes adjust to the light.

I’m alone and naked on the bed, but lying beside me is a long, satin gown in a dark shade of purple.

Perhaps it’s wrong to call it a gown. That implies it’s something I could wear outside. This garment is definitely not intended to be worn in public, although as I recall Sir’s speech about following his every order without question and the fact that it included walking naked down Sunset Boulevard, the possibility that I might be expected to wear this flimsy, barely-there concoction out of doors seems not entirely unlikely.

As I lift the thin shoulder straps to admire the delicate black lace of the sheer cups, a small square of paper flutters to the floor. I pick it up and read the note, written in bold, black lettering.

When you wake, put this on and come down to the dining room. I’ll be waiting for you.

Sir

Some of my consternation at having been left alone for so long dissipates. He wouldn’t ask me to put on a provocative item of clothing like this if he didn’t want to use my body for sexual gratification.

I slide it on over my head. The lace bra cups are too small to cover my breasts adequately, but the lace stretches enough to provide a modest amount of support. Although the skirt falls all the way to the floor, both sides are slit from ankle to thigh. The material clings to my body everywhere else, emphasizing the nip of my waist and the curve of my hips and ass. I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I turn around and gasp in shock. With my hair falling down my back and my breasts on display, I look like the slut or whore he calls me—and yet, I’m gorgeous and elegant, too.

A sex toy. Or goddess, depending on your point of view.

But I can’t think about this too much. If I do, I may remember I was raised to be a good, Catholic girl, to save myself for marriage and then only to do my marital duty for the purpose of procreation. I’ve done a good job of compartmentalizing that part of myself since that shocking day in Mr. Daniels’s limousine, knowing God won’t judge me for doing what I must to stay alive, but I might not be able to continue to separate Gabi the Slut from the real Gabi if I start to see myself as her.

As I make my way down the stairs, the mouthwatering scent of food assaults my nostrils. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I’m struck by a pang of hunger so intense, it nearly doubles me over. Through some force of will, I keep myself from breaking into a run and continue my slow progress to the dining room.

For a house the size of this one, the dining room is remarkably small and its furnishings understated. This is because, as Travis explained on my first day, Mr. Hardcastle has no interest in entertaining and so doesn’t require a room or a table that can seat many guests.

The small, square table is covered in a white tablecloth, and there are two complete place settings on it. The china is exquisite and thoroughly masculine with its black-and-white geometric design, and the silver is so polished, it sparkles in the illumination from the recessed light fixtures overhead. I resist the urge to pick up and admire one of the delicate crystal wine glasses, which look as though they might easily snap in Sir’s large, capable hands.

“There you are, sleepyhead.” Sir’s voice rumbles from behind me.

I jump and turn to face him. My heart cartwheels at the sight of him. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt that cover but don’t completely conceal his musculature, he’s almost sexier than he was naked. Perhaps because I can’t stop myself from imagining that he is naked. Naked and hard and forcing me to take him…

“I-I am sorry, Sir,” I stutter, flustered by the frankly carnal images sweeping through my brain. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long.” I hadn’t meant to sleep at all, in fact, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.

His lips curve in something that’s almost a smile, but isn’t quite. “I let you sleep that long. If I wanted you here sooner, I would have woken you.”

I understand what he doesn’t say. I’m his to use as he pleases. Everything I do—even sleep—is at his mercy. If he wants to make me stay up all night, he can and he will.

“You are very kind, Sir.”

His expression hardens. “I’m not kind at all. I am, in fact, a misanthropic bastard. I didn't let you sleep out of the kindness of my heart. I let you sleep because I plan on keeping you awake all night long.”

The combination of threat and promise in those words causes that now-familiar heat and weight to swell between my legs. No matter what my mind thinks, my body wants what he’s offering. No, not what he’s offering, but what he’s telling me he’ll take whether I want it or not. I don’t have to agree to fuck him; I just have to do it. I am unreasonably, inexplicably aroused by this fact.

I’m too confused by my own thoughts to say anything, so I merely bow my head in acquiescence.

The sound of a chair’s feet scraping over the floor makes me look in that direction. Sir has pulled out a chair for me. I do the obvious thing and sit in it.

“Travis,” he barks, “bring in dinner.”

The butler appears almost instantly in the arched doorway that separates the kitchen from the dining room. He spoons a mixture of stuffed pasta—I don’t know what shape, exactly, since I only know the names for a few different kinds of Italian noodles—bathed in a golden orange sauce across my plate, then Sir’s. He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a plate filled of grilled asparagus, which he places in the center of the table between us. Finally, he retrieves a decanter of red wine from the sideboard and pours us each a glass.

“Will that be all, Mr. Hardcastle?”

Sir nods. “Yes, Travis. We won’t be needing you again this evening.”

The butler executes a sharp bow and exits.

My stomach emits a low, painful growl at the sight and smell of food. I daren’t eat before Sir does, however.

“Eat,” he says. “You’re going to need your strength.”

That sets off a different sort of flutter in my belly, but I obey. The first forkful is so delicious, I almost faint with the wonder of it. The sauce is silky and piquant, the pasta al dente and filled with a salty-savory cheese and herb stuffing. I’ve never eaten anything like it.

Sir watches me with something akin to pride. “You appear to like it,” he says after taking a few bites himself.

“It’s wonderful. What is it?”

“Asiago-stuffed tortellini in a pumpkin sauce. My own recipe.”

My head snaps up in surprise. “You made this?”

I immediately wish the words back. They imply a curiosity and forwardness I’m not sure I’m permitted to have.

But Sir smiles and pins me with his gaze. “Who else?”

The question and his hard eyes make me want to squirm. “I just didn’t think…that is…I thought perhaps you had a cook.”

“Travis is my only employee—well, unless you include yourself in that number—and he can’t cook his way out of a paper bag. I wasn’t always rich, and before I was, I taught myself how to cook. I like good food, and since I prefer not to go out, cooking for myself ensures I eat what I like.”

I’m still too unsure of myself to observe that if he hadn’t made a fortune as a computer security expert, he probably could have gotten rich as a chef. I simply continue to eat. When he prompts me to drink my wine, I do that, too. I finish the portion on my plate in embarrassingly short order, and he serves me more, encouraging me to eat more.

By the time I polish off my second portion, I’m both very full and a little tipsy. The wine is headier than I expected, and he kept refilling my glass before I drained it, so I’m not entirely sure how much I’ve had. I’m floating on a haze of contentment when he pushes his chair away from the table and gets to his feet.

“Undress me,” he orders.

It takes me a second to process the command, but once I do, I slide from my seat—really, as lightheaded as I am, sliding is all I can do—and begin by pulling his T-shirt up over his tightly muscled abdomen toward his chest. As the fabric bunches around his pecs, though, I realize he’s not planning to do much of anything to help me get the shirt off over his head. He’s more than a head taller than I am, and unless he bends over to assist me, there’s no way I’m going to get it off him.

He’s watching me, amusement glittering in his eyes, as I ponder this dilemma. This is another test, then—to find out whether I truly will obey his every command, no matter how outrageous or difficult.

I consider for a second, then pull my chair in front of him and stand on it. Now I’m taller than he is, and he nods with approval as I drag the shirt up again, and this time he obliges me by raising his arms so I can tug it off over his head.

The sight of his broad, bare chest makes my stomach do a swan dive, and now my fingers are trembling as I get down from the chair and begin to work on removing his pants. The bulge in his jeans is unmistakable as I unbutton his waistband and tug down on the zipper. Heat radiates from him along with the musky scent of male genitalia. His cock pops free as I pull downward, not quite fully erect but nearly so, and I want to take it in my mouth, to lick and suck it, but that’s not what he asked me to do, and so I work his jeans and shorts over his hips and down to the floor.

When I’m kneeling at his feet, he lifts each one to assist me as I remove his loafers and then again when I tug each pant leg down and off. He’s wearing only socks now, and these I peel off his tautly muscled calves, reveling in the sensation of the prickly hair of his legs against my fingertips.

I look up at him, waiting for his next command and doing my best to ignore the lure his dick presents as I gaze upward.

He gives me one of those almost-smiles and says, “Go to the gym.”

Fortunately, I know exactly how to get to the workout room from here, since Travis showed it to me on the day I first arrived. Perhaps the existence of that room with its plethora of weights should have signaled me that my employer would not be a 98-pound weakling, but at the time, I’d imagined it as more for show, especially after the butler told me Mr. Hardcastle spent most of his time working.

Outside the workout room is a long, narrow swimming pool, the end of which appears to fall into the Pacific Ocean beyond. I thought before it was for show, too, but now I suspect Sir has logged many, many miles in that pool.

When I reach the designated room, Sir brushes past me and lies on his stomach on a wide bench that’s about waist high. The muscles of his back, ass, and legs stand out in high relief as he settles himself.

“I’ve been tense all day. Give me a massage.”

A massage? Once again, I’m flustered by the unpredictability of his requests. Suddenly, I’m the one who is impatient. The suspense and anticipation are going to drive me mad. Does he want to fuck me or doesn’t he? Will he keep me or won’t he?

“You can start at the shoulders,” he suggests, his tone a little terse. He’s giving me a chance to pretend I’m simply not sure how to begin, but if I don’t start now, I’ll be in violation of the one rule.

No hesitation, no questions.

I stand beside the table and place my hands on his shoulders. I’ve given massages to friends and family members, of course, but they were always brief and certainly never when the person I was massaging was naked and sporting a physique that literally made me weak in the knees. I knead the muscles around his neck and shoulder blades uncertainly, not sure how much pressure to apply—or how much I can apply with my small, not particularly strong hands.

“That’s it,” he murmurs in encouragement. “A little harder.”

I exert more force, though it isn’t easy for me, and he groans with obvious pleasure. I like the sound, and so I continue, working my way down his back to his butt and thighs and calves. By the time I finish his feet, my hands are cramping up until they look like claws, and I pull away, assuming I’m done.

But then with a low rumble of satisfaction, he rolls over onto his back and says, “Now this side.”

My eyes widen with horror. I can’t go on. My hands are aching. I can’t question and I can’t hesitate, but I can ask for mercy. Except the stony expression on his face warns me he’s in the mood to brook no arguments, and so I flex my fingers and begin again, starting from the bottom up this time.

When I reach his thighs, the pain in my hands is so intense that tears well in my eyes. I know he sees the tears, but he doesn’t release me from my torment. Not even when I gaze longingly at his now fully erect cock and lick my lips in a desperate attempt to signal my willingness to suck him if only he’ll let me stop.

Please, Sir, please. I won’t ask for mercy. That might be all it takes for him to send me back to Daniels, and then for Daniels to have me sent back to Mexico. It’s too great a risk, no matter how much pain I’m in.

I knead his marbled abdominal muscles, my tears dropping from my face and onto his skin. He seems utterly unmoved by my distress until I reach his pectorals, and then he closes his hands around my wrists.

“Do you want to suck my cock now, Slut?”

It’s the first time he’s ever asked me what I want, and I don’t know how to respond. If I say yes, he may be angry because it means I don’t want to finish the task he demanded of me. But if I say no, he may be angry because, as his whore, I should always want to suck him.

“I want whatever you want, Sir,” I finally manage to say.

That makes him smile, and this time, the smile reaches all the way to his eyes. “What a diplomat you are. I may keep you yet.”

Oh God, I hope so.

He releases my wrists and circles his penis with one hand, angling the head up toward me. “Take it in that sweet little mouth of yours. I want it nice and wet before I fuck you.”

Wet heat flickers between my thighs. I’ve been anticipating this for so long, just hearing the word from his lips is a kind of completion. He really means to do it this time. Maybe it’s foolish for me to think that it matters this much, that if I give him my body, he’ll understand the true depth of my willingness to obey him, but I can’t shake the notion that he’ll be more committed to protecting me once we’ve crossed this barrier.

I bend over and touch my tongue to the silky tip, lapping up a drop of precum before licking the length of him from stem to stern. My hair tumbles down like a waterfall, shielding my face from him as I close my mouth around him and begin to suck. He makes a guttural sound in his throat as I slide his cock toward the back of my throat. I can’t accommodate all of him, but I manage to encompass a solid two-thirds of his shaft before I glide up again.

He reaches down and lifts the curtain of my hair with one hand so he can watch me work. “That’s it,” he groans softly, and I redouble my efforts, forcing even more of his length into my throat.

I startle when I feel his free hand slide along my thigh, under the satin fabric of my gown and then between my legs. He dips his fingers between my pussy lips, and the slippery fluid of arousal gushes from me in answer.

“God, you’re wet. You really love cock sucking, don’t you, you dirty little whore?” The words dirty little whore are an endearment coming from his lips.

I’m too engaged in the actual act of cock sucking to answer the question, but he doesn’t seem to require a response since the answer is clearly that I do. As I continue to bob my head up and down, he searches for and finds my clit, stroking it hard and fast. I come quickly, in a fiery burst that’s as short and satisfying as a single firework, which is to say glorious, but somehow inadequate.

“All right, that’s enough,” he says, roughly disengaging his cock from my mouth. “Take off the dress and get up on the bench.”

My heart pounds in my throat. This is it. I slip the straps of the gown from my shoulders. It makes a satiny sigh as it collapses to the floor. By the time I step out of the purple circle of fabric, he’s vacated the table. I climb onto it and find the leather padding pleasantly warm from his body heat.

His eyes rake over me, hot and dark as coals despite the light green rings of his irises. The pure carnal intent in his gaze blisters my skin, makes me painfully aware of the weight of my breasts, the sensitivity of my hardened nipples, and the swollen dampness of my pussy.

The bench was waist-high to me, but it’s perfectly level with his hips. All he needs to do to fuck me is spread my legs and slide inside me, but perversely, he doesn’t do that.

“Get on your stomach.”

My breath hitches but I roll onto my belly, my nipples aching as they press against the bench. I wonder what he has in mind as he walks behind me. Or at least I wonder as long as it takes him to position me the way he wants me at the very end of the bench—my knees drawn up beside me, my forehead pressed against the leather padding and my ass tilted up toward the ceiling.

He slides a finger in and out of my sopping cunt a few times, dragging the slippery moisture outward to saturate my entry. My muscles tense in apprehension as he withdraws his finger and presses the velvety head of his cock there instead. I know I should relax, but I can’t. Not now.

Without warning, he grabs my hips and thrusts forward.

Santa Maria, Madre de Dios!

I clench my hands into fists, my fingernails scoring my palms. The pain is brutal as I go from empty to torn asunder in a single heartbeat. I’m not sure what hurts more, his girth or his length, but it hardly matters. Either way, I’m sure he’s shifted the geography of my body, and I wonder if the land feels this way after an earthquake—broken, buckled, ruined.

Ruined. The use of the word to describe a fallen woman makes sense to me now. I’m sure I’ll never be whole again.

“Jesus fucking God, you’re as tight as a virgin.” His breathing is harsh, uneven, and I realize he’s trembling as he twists himself a deeper inside me.

That’s when the tears start. I can’t stop them, because I am a virgin. Or I was. Now, I’m damaged goods.

But the instinct for self-preservation tells me not to communicate the true measure of my distress to him, and so I remain obediently motionless as he works his cock in all the way to the balls. I bury my face in the leather padding and steel myself to endure this for however long it takes.

With a grunt of satisfaction, he begins to fuck me, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out, each withdrawal and thrust another assault on my raw flesh. Though he doesn’t piston me hard and fast, there’s nothing gentle about his frank possession of my body, the way he drives in and out of me telling me I’m his to take whenever and wherever he likes. Whether I like it or not.

And I don’t like it, or that’s what I tell myself, but then he reaches around my waist and finds my breast. He takes the distended nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling and pinching it, and it’s the oddest thing because it’s as though my nipple is connected to my clit. Each throbbing, pleasurable sensation his fingers awaken blossoms between my legs. The pain of his invasion hasn’t lessened in the slightest, but now it’s becoming muddled with arousal, and I can’t decide if I hate it or love it.

“Fucking hell, I can’t wait.” His voice is thick and coarse as gravel.

I don’t understand what he means until he stiffens and shudders, and I feel the warm jet of his seed spurt up into my womb, the hand that still steadies my hip digging into my flesh.

He pulls out a few seconds later, and there’s an instant gush of wetness as his cum pours out of me. I keep my face buried in the damp cushions, the pain resolving itself into a raw soreness that’s almost bearable. His feet pad across the floor, and a few seconds later I feel a soft, terry cloth pressed against my dripping cunt, soaking up the remnants of his spend and my arousal.

The cloth slips away, and there’s silence.

Then suddenly, his fingers bite into my arm, and he yanks me to a sitting position.

“You were a fucking virgin,” he accuses, his eyes hot and furious as he shoves the white cloth, marred with streaks of blood, under my nose as proof.

Panic sets into my stomach as my mind races for the proper response. Is he angry because I didn’t tell him or because he hates virgins? I didn’t think he’d care one way or the other about my virginity, but now that I know he does, I’m not sure what to do.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Christ!” He flings the cloth to the floor and rakes his fingers through his hair. “You’d better come clean with me, Gabriela Marquez Lucero, and fast.”

“Come clean?” I squeak, although I understand the metaphor perfectly, buying time.

His eyes narrow. “Come clean as in tell the truth. As in how the hell does a virgin know she’s into sexual submission? As in how the hell can a virgin willingly wind up with a procurer like Daniels?”

Terror coalesces in my chest like a cold, gripping fog. It stops my heart from beating, my lungs from breathing. I feel pinned, trapped, entombed. The wrong answer could lead me to the grave.

“How does anyone know? I just do, just did.” The tears that stopped when he finished fucking me begin anew. If he doesn’t believe me, doesn’t settle for the only explanation I can give him, I’m not sure what I’ll do.

He studies me, his features impassive, but I can see the gears turning inside his head. He knows I’m holding something back, but maybe he cares for me enough by now that he doesn’t really want to let me go. I think I’ve pleased him with my obedience and that he likes the way I suck his cock and how it feels to fuck me. If the truth might ruin what he’s found in me, something I know he hasn’t found in anyone else, he might not be dead set on discovering what that truth is.

And so I slide off the bench and kneel at his feet, wrapping my arms around his thighs. “Please, Sir, you know what I say is true. What you do to me, what you make me do to you…it arouses me, makes me wet, turns me into a dirty little whore. I know what I need, and what I need is you.”

A wry smile twists his lips. “Perhaps you just need anyone who’ll force you to submit.”

“If I do, would that not be proof that I know what I want, that I came to you willingly?”

“Hm, perhaps it would,” he admits. “But since I’m the first man ever to fuck that sweet little pussy of yours, I’d like to think I’m special now.” There’s a note of triumph in that statement that gives me hope.

“You are special, Sir. If any man would do, why would I beg you to keep me?”

“Is that what you’re doing?” he asks, filtering his fingers through my hair as if it’s the softest, finest silk.

“Yes, Sir, please, I am begging you not to send me away.” The tears cascade down my cheeks now, a veritable deluge. “I want to be with you, to suck you, to fuck you, to do whatever you bid.”

Please, please, let him believe me.

He twists his hand in my hair and hauls me to my feet. It doesn’t hurt, really, but I wince anyway.

“Whatever I bid?”

I nod as vigorously as I can with his fingers wrapped in my hair.

His mouth sets in a grim line. “Very well. I know there’s something you’re not telling me, but frankly, I don’t think I give a shit anymore. If it’s me you want, then it’s me you’ll get, but you may find you don’t like the real me, especially now.”

Now I shake my head. “I will like you.”

He lets out a short, sharp bark of laughter. “I don’t need you to like me. What I need is for you to be my slave. Do you understand what that means?”

I bite my lip. “I think so,” I answer shakily, although I’m only guessing how being his slave is different from being his whore.

“For starters, it means you no longer have the privilege of asking for mercy. You will do whatever I want, whenever I want, no matter what. If you fail to obey to my satisfaction or if you beg me to stop, I won’t send you away, but I will punish you. Severely. And finally, from now on, you will not call me Sir, but Master.”

My mind races to process this shift in our...I shy away from the word relationship and settle on contract.

It’s not as if I’ve ever wanted to ask for mercy. Even when he was fucking me and it hurt almost unbearably, I didn’t consider stopping him. So it’s not as if I’m giving anything up by losing that privilege. And since I also won’t ever fail to obey him, the threat of punishment is no threat at all, especially when it comes with the promise that he’ll never send me away. That certainty sends a thrill through me, the opposite, I’m sure, of the fear and revulsion he expects his demands to evoke.

“Do you agree?”

I meet his eyes, steady and firm in my conviction. “Yes, Master, I agree.”

“In that case, my dear slave, it’s going to be a long, hard night for you. You may find before it’s over that you wish you’d asked me to send you away.”

A smile tugs at my lips, because I’m starting to sense that he’s not nearly as cruel or callous as he wants me to believe. Somewhere beneath that ruthless façade is a man I’ve touched in some way that’s more than sexual, and we both know it.

More than that, he must know his warnings strike inside me a chord not of fear, but of desire. The idea that he’s going to force me to have sex with him all night long—and that it will be rough, unrelenting sex—fills me with a dark, primal longing. I know it won’t be easy, and it will probably even hurt. I’m already sore, and I’m likely to be much more so by morning.

And I don’t care. I even want that soreness, a physical reminder of his possession of me, of his promise to keep and protect me. In an odd way, I hope it always hurts when he fucks me so that I can never forget I’m his.

I’m contemplating the perversity of my thoughts when he slides open a pocket door in the rear wall of the gym that I hadn’t even realized was there. Behind it is another room, and I wonder why Travis didn’t show it to me on my first day. Surely it’s another room of the house that requires cleaning.

But then I catch a glimpse of what the room contains, and I catch my breath. Now I am afraid.

It wouldn’t be accurate to call the room a dungeon, because it’s not dark or dank or filled with the skeletons of dead bodies chained to the walls. But the implements it contains would certainly be right at home in a dungeon. I catalog them with a growing sense of hysteria.

Leather straps, some clearly meant to be used as restraints, others intended as whips.

A variety of shackles and, yes, chains.

A bench similar to the one in the gym, but narrower and fitted with manacles clearly meant to hold the occupant’s hands and feet in place.

Finally, a set of ropes that hang from the ceiling, the purpose of which I imagine is the suspension of a human being. Of me.

Madre de Dios, what kind of monster have I given myself to?

I glance furtively at the door that leads out of the gym and into the main house. Can I make it in time?

But of course, that’s silly. Where would I go? I’m stark naked, and it’s the middle of the night. Even if I made it to the street, which is unlikely, what then?

“You’re not thinking of running away, are you?” my master asks, his voice low and, unaccountably, a little amused. He takes a step toward me and, reflexively, I take a step backward.

That’s a foolish move, because he’s instantly right next to me, grabbing me by the arm. He marches me into the room, where I get an even closer look at his instruments of torture, items clearly designed for the purpose of rendering his victims helpless. If this is what he wanted of the other maids who came before me, I understand why they refused to obey.

But I’ve not only agreed to obey, I’ve ceded the one bit of protection I had. I’ve given him everything. Mexico and certain death suddenly seem welcome.

“Don’t be afraid, Gabi.” The words are so gentle, so unlike his usual unyielding persona that my pulse slows from sprinting to merely racing. “This room isn’t for punishment, but for fun. For both of us.”

Fun? Is he insane? “How can I have fun if I am chained up and beaten?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish them back. Will he be angry that I’ve questioned him? Will he chain me up and beat me here and now for my insolence?

He slips his hand under my chin and lifts my face. There is no anger in his eyes. In fact, what I see there looks like…sympathy.

“You will just have to trust me that, when the time comes, you will enjoy everything here as much as I do. Pain and pleasure are closely linked, two sides of a single coin. You’ll learn as time goes on that I will never give you more of either sensation than you can bear.”

I want to believe him, but I’ve only known him a day. The enormity and finality of what I’ve done by binding myself to this hard, inscrutable man crashes over me like the waves on the beach below his house.

“In any case,” he continues, perhaps sensing he won’t convince me right away that his intentions aren’t malevolent, “I’m not ready to introduce you to this side of pleasure just yet, so you’re safe from chaining and beating today. It’s just that I keep all the toys in here, and I have in mind to use some of the more…standard ones tonight.”

My mind blanks out, refusing to contemplate what “standard toys” might be. He leaves me and opens a cabinet, retrieves a plastic box that’s about the size of two shoeboxes, then returns to my side.

“Go up to my bedroom now, Gabi, and lie down on the bed. I have a small matter of business to take care of before I meet you there.”

My eyes drift from that box to his face. His features are set again, the ruthless, brook-no-arguments dominant securely in place again. The face of my master.

I turn and head for the stairs to his room. What other choice do I have?

He wasn’t exaggerating when he told me it would be a long, hard night. The box turned out to contain an assortment of dildos and vibrators in various shapes and sizes. The reason he wanted them became apparent after he fucked me the first time—rather slowly and sweetly in the missionary position the Church considers most holy. After he came, he needed some time to recover before he could take me again, but I was to be given no opportunity for recovery. My pussy has never been empty, filled by turns with toys, his fingers, or his cock, and I’ve come with the help of his fingers or mouth or one of the vibrators so many times, I’ve lost count.

Now, as dawn seeps in through the cracks in the curtains, I’m so raw and bruised from the relentless penetrations that when I feel his slick fingers probing my rear entry, I’m actually relieved. The sensation as he slips past the tight ring of resisting muscles is strange but not unpleasant, and certainly not as painful as being divested of my virginity was.

His eyes grow heavy-lidded as he pumps his finger in and out, adds a second finger, and slides his thumb across my weary clit. I don’t know how I can possibly come again, but when he replaces his fingers with one of the average-sized dildos—I think average because they’re not enormous like my master is, but perhaps six inches long and an inch and a half in diameter—and then places his mouth on me, I know I’m wrong. There’s another orgasm in me, and it builds with surprising speed under his expert tongue and the biting fullness of the dildo in my ass.

This is bad. Dirty. Wrong. And I fear that’s exactly why it feels so good.

I stiffen and arch as the climax hits me. He raises his head, removes the dildo, and mounts me. I’m still coming as he thrusts his cock into me with a deep growl of satisfaction. He’s too big, but somehow my body stretches to accommodate him and, although it hurts, the pain is almost like pleasure. He called them two side of the same coin, and even though I can’t believe I’ll ever like the toys in that room, I have to admit it’s true. Agony and ecstasy are close cousins, and what I’m feeling now is both.

He leans forward and captures my mouth in what I realize is our first real kiss, his tongue stroking mine with a kind of hot desperation as his cock tunnels into my most forbidden territory, over and over. Once again, I feel continents shift, mountains rise, valleys fall. He’s remaking me, I realize, shaping me so his desires become my desires, and there’s nothing I can do to prevent it. Perhaps I don’t even want to.

Perhaps he’s not really changing me at all, but simply showing me who I always was.

Unbelievably, I come again, gasping with the force of my release. It takes him by surprise, and as my muscles clamp down on him, his features contort into their own mask of agony-ecstasy. He thrusts in one last time and comes, too.

He collapses to one side of me, his breathing harsh and ragged in my ear.

“Jesus, I think Daniels finally got it right.” His hand cups one of my breasts, a gesture that’s more proprietary than carnal. “Go to sleep, my sweet little slave. I’ll tell Travis you’re to have the day off from housecleaning, too. I think you’ve earned it.”

I’m surprised by his largesse, but I’m even more surprised when, ten minutes later, he snores gently. He’s fallen asleep. I daren’t move and wake him, and so I lie there, awake, the weight of his hand on my breast and the soft gust of his breath against my cheek filling me with a peace like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

I think I love him.

I’ve been with my master for six weeks now.

So far, he hasn’t taken me to that room, which has come to seem more curse than blessing. Whenever I clean the gym, I stare at that door and remember what’s behind it, and a hive of bees takes up residence in my stomach, buzzing and zipping in a frenzy of fear and anticipation. I find myself wishing he’d just take me there and do whatever it is he plans to do with me so that I can stop imagining what will happen and how bad it will be.

As the days pass, however, it’s becoming harder and harder for me to imagine that he would ever truly hurt me. He’s a hard man and an uncompromising one, but I’ve come to realize that, far from being inscrutable, he’s the most transparent and comprehensible male I’ve ever known. Unlike the few men I dated briefly back in Sinaloa, there are no games with him, no vague hints, no hidden agendas. He tells me exactly what he wants when he wants it—whether it’s for me to scrub the kitchen floor until it shines or to bend over in front of the window that overlooks the beach and let him take me where anyone who happens to look up as they walk by the house could see us. Rather than feeling trapped by his demands, I’m freed by the certainty and security they provide.

I’ve learned not to expect to see him every day. Sometimes he disappears into his office, which is separated from the main house by a small courtyard, and doesn’t come out for days at a time. I’m sure he must have food and a bed in the small outbuilding, which I’ve never been invited to enter, although perhaps he doesn’t need the bed. He seems to require far less sleep than normal people; I’ve never known him to sleep for more than about four hours at a stretch. I sometimes suspect he may not sleep at all during some of these intense periods of work, because he often takes me to bed when he resurfaces, whatever the time of day, fucks me with fierce, swift intensity, and then falls into a deep sleep for several hours.

He still has the capacity to surprise me, though. Last week, for example, he declared that I needed something to wear other than my maid uniform and took me shopping…on Rodeo Drive, no less.

It’s become apparent to me that my master isn’t reclusive because he is shy or retiring, but because he has no tolerance for incompetence, laziness, or stupidity, and frankly, most people one encounters in public fall into one of those three categories, if not more than one. And so, the fact that he chose to accompany me on the trip instead of sending me with Travis is tantamount to a declaration of love, especially since it forced him to interact with any number of salespeople who set his teeth on edge.

Every item of clothing he purchased for me is exquisite and tasteful. Oh, there was a little side trip to an “adult” boutique, the entire inventory of which made me blush pink as a carnation, but I’m fairly certain he doesn’t intend me to wear anything he bought there in public. Especially since he almost took the head off the pimply-faced, leather-clad boy behind the counter when the boy had the poor judgment to remark that I had “amazing tits.”

Today, he let me go to the grocery store. Ever since I surprised him one night with a meal of homemade tortillas with mochomos and rice, I’ve been doing more of the cooking, which pleases me since I miss the flavors of home. More than once, however, Travis hasn’t bought the right ingredients, and I complained the other night that he obviously wouldn’t know the difference between a jalapeno and a bell pepper if it bit him on the ass. My master laughed at that, and today, he sent me to out to shop. Alone.

I could run, and he knows it. The fact that he trusts me not to fills my heart with a joy that feels too big for my chest to contain. As I park the BMW in the garage and pop the trunk, the door to the house opens and Ben fills the space, watching me as I get out of the car. I’m wearing a royal blue silk blouse and a pair of black slacks, my feet encased in low-slung black sandals.

I smile at him. “I’m back,” I say, stating the obvious.

“Yes.” His expression is unreadable, and I experience a moment of doubt. Did I take too long? Does he think I considered running?

“I just need to get the bags from the trunk.” I start to walk around to the rear of the car.

“Come here,” he says, his voice thick and raspy.

Obedience is second nature to me now. As I walk toward him, I try to decipher his puzzling mood. Is he angry? Disappointed? Frustrated?

Only when I reach the foot of the set of steps that leads from the garage into the house does it dawn on me. He’s relieved. Which means he was afraid. And he didn’t want me to know.

I ache to throw my arms around his neck and pepper him with kisses, assure him that I’ll never, ever leave him. But that would tell him that I saw this tiny chink in his impenetrable armor, and I know that would mortify him.

And so I bow my head and say, “Yes, Master?”

He strokes the hair at the back of my head. “Come inside. Travis can bring in the groceries.”

I follow him into the house, my stomach buzzing with the sense that something momentous is about to happen. He heads through the kitchen and out into the dining room, and for a heart-stopping second, I think he’s taking me to that room. But then he turns and heads into the living room and picks up a small, square box from the coffee table. I know immediately it’s a jewelry box, but it’s much too big for anything like a ring.

He clears his throat, and I realize he doesn’t quite know where to begin. Another first.

“I’ve wanted to give this to you for a while,” he says slowly, “but I needed to be sure you were ready for it. Now, I know you are.”

“Because I came back?”

He nods. “You didn’t have to.”

I suppress a smile. I don’t want to point out that I couldn’t have gotten far on a tank of gas and one hundred dollars in grocery money. Aside from anything else, if I did, it would prove I’d at least given the idea consideration.

“I didn’t want not to come back.”

“And now that I know that, I know you’re ready for this.” He opens the box.

I catch my breath as the diamond-encrusted contents catch the light and send it arcing in all directions. As my eyes adjust to the brilliance, I see it’s a necklace. Well, not really a necklace, but rather a solid platinum choker. Nestled in the satin bedding beside the choker is a tiny key.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, although I don’t fully grasp its significance.

He lifts it from the box and hands it to me. Now I can see the words inscribed in the metal at the back of the choker.

Property of Benjamin Hardcastle

I run my fingers over the letter, engraved in elegant calligraphy. It’s beautiful and…heavy. Not just literally, although the half-inch thick band with its diamond studs undoubtedly weighs several ounces. But what it’s truly heavy with is symbolism.

I lift my eyes to meet his. “A collar?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” And I do.

This is the final step in our journey as master and slave. By putting on this piece of jewelry, I’m not merely accepting his ownership; I’m embracing it. Encircled by it. Bound to it.

“Will you wear it?”

I look from him to the gorgeous band of metal in my hand. I’ve already given myself to him completely, allowed him total control of every aspect of my life. Whether I wear the collar or not, I’m every bit as much at his mercy.

And yet, there’s something about donning this tangible representation of our bond that makes me hesitate. My sister-in-law told me before she married my older brother that, although they’d been living together for almost two years, there was something about the act of putting on the ring and saying the words in church that made it different. Permanent. Irrevocable.

Although there’s no church, this collar feels the same.

Six weeks ago, I thought I loved him. Looking back, I know that emotion was real, but not personal. I didn’t love Benjamin Hardcastle specifically. I loved the idea of him, big and dominant and possessive and, most of all, protective.

But do I love him now? He’s still big, dominant, possessive, and protective, but he has also become a human being to me. For every one of his admirable qualities—intelligence, honesty, industriousness, intuition—there is a corresponding flaw—impatience, ruthlessness, perfectionism, arrogance. I’m not immune from the effects of any of those flaws; in fact, I’m the most vulnerable to them of all.

My secret weighs as heavy on my heart as the collar weighs on my hand. If I trust him enough to wear it, I should trust him enough to tell the truth. And yet, I can’t. Not because I don’t trust him, but because I need him to trust me.

I drag in a long, slow breath, my decision made. Reaching behind my neck, I unclasp the chain that holds my crucifix around my neck and slip it into my pocket. I can only have one master.

“Yes, I’ll wear it.”

Triumph darts across his features, so quickly I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t become so intimately familiar with his every expression.

Do I love him? It’s as obvious as the existence of air that I do.

He takes the collar from me and uses the key to release the lock at its back. The band swings open to slide around my throat by means of a cleverly concealed hinge at its front. My master slides it on, and I lift my hair to give him access to lock it in place at the back of my neck. The snick of the key sends a shiver through me, the weight of the cool metal settling around me like a shackle.

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, they’ll know I’m keeping something from them. They’ll ask questions 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, 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 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.”

But even as I say the words, I know they’re a lie. I was afraid to disobey. More afraid than I was of drowning. And that, I suddenly realize, is the most damning condemnation I can level against him. I’ve told him that although I’ve given him my life, I don’t truly trust him with it.

I want to throw myself at his feet, beg him for forgiveness, promise him that next time, I’ll do better. It’s too late for that, though. Something has been broken beyond repair, and truth is beginning to drag me back to earth.

He pulls me down onto his lap in a deck chair. With a sigh that carries a world of both patience and exasperation, he says, “I’ve known for a long time that you weren’t telling me the whole truth about how you came to work for Daniels. I promised myself I’d find out eventually, work you into trusting me enough to tell me, but after this, I know that was never going to happen. But now, you’re going to tell me anyway. All of it. Because I don’t for one moment believe you came here with any idea of what you were getting yourself into.”

I close my eyes, the nausea I felt when I first hit the pool deck rising to my throat again. I’ve already wounded him with my lack of confidence in him. Now, I’m about to destroy everything we’ve built in the past two months.

But God help me, it’s what I have to do.

The story comes out through my tears in halting, disjointed sentences. How I turned the wrong corner from the Instituto Technologico and looked Sinaloa’s most notorious drug lord in the eyes as he shot two of his rivals in an alley. My family’s certainty that Cantavares would soon discover my name and send someone to ensure I never revealed what I saw to the authorities. The desperate effort to pull together enough funds to smuggle me to the United States through the most expensive, most dependable pollero in Sinaloa, known as El Nariz for his formidable nose. How after two days of travel over bumpy roads, paying off multiple federales and passing through multiple checkpoints with ease, the drop house was busted by La Migra on the day I arrived.

Looking back, it all seems to have happened so fast, but at the time, every minute was excruciating as an hour. The constant fear, first of being caught, and then of what would happen after we were caught.

I explain about the judge and his order that I work for Maid for It in exchange for avoiding deportation. Ben’s eyes narrow even farther at this revelation.

“A judge ordered this? Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course, I’m sure.”

“In the courthouse? With bailiffs and attorneys and robes and all that?”

I don’t know what he’s getting at, but I nod.

He bites out a curse.

“Is that bad?” I ask.

His expression is black but he strokes my back gently, reassuring me. “It is bad, but not for you. You did nothing wrong.”

“So you understand why I couldn’t tell you the truth? You forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” He slides me from his lap and stands up. “I have work to do now.” He turns in the direction of his office.

“Oh,” I say, baffled. I was expecting something more dramatic to happen. Like for the sky to fall or the earth to stop revolving around the sun. His response—or lack of one—is an anti-climax of epic proportions. “What should I do?”

He looks over his shoulder at me, but I can see by his distant expression that he’s already gone. Where, I’m not sure. “Relax. Watch TV. Read a book. Enjoy yourself. God knows, you deserve it.”

As I watch him go, committing the outlines of his back and ass and legs and the fluid, easy way he moves to memory, the same panic that gripped me when I was thrashing in the pool threatens to 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 hadn’t I realized there was something wrong with the raid and the trial? It all seemed so real, but in retrospect, I should have known something was off. A judge ordering me to work for a specific company in exchange for being permitted to stay in the country? Without a green card or a Social Security Number? I may not fully understand the US legal system, but I know enough to know it doesn’t work like Mexico’s. And what happened in that courtroom was Mexican in feel, not American.

Ben reaches out and lays a hand over mine. I realize I’m trembling. With rage. With humiliation. With self-disgust.

“You were running for your life. Few people in your position would have questioned what happened, and even if you had, what would you have done? Run to the police? Called the Mexican consulate?”

I sigh. He’s right. Like always. So perceptive, my master who is no longer my master.

“And now I’ve made it possible for you to go home to your family, where you belong. I learned while I was tracking down Cantavares that you used to teach English and English Literature at the college in Sinaloa. They haven’t filled your position yet, apparently. And your family is desperate for you to return. They miss you terribly.”

“You’ve spoken to my family?” I want to ask if they know what’s happened to me, if they’ll be ashamed or embarrassed by what I’ve been through, by what they inadvertently put me through.

“Not directly, no. I doubt they would take kindly to me if they discovered I’d spent the last two months treating you like my property and effectively raping you.”

A fierce burst of anger singes my veins. “You didn’t rape me. It was never rape.” I love you.

“I’m afraid many people wouldn’t agree with you. Especially the people who love you.” He removes his hand from mine and stands up. “You were never meant for this life, Gabi. I may have been able to make you want me, but only because you were too frightened to resist.”

“That isn’t true. I was never afraid of you. Not really.”

“I should have known right away you were too good to be true, but I was selfish. You were so beautiful and so submissive, I wanted to keep you. But you were also so afraid I’d send you away, and that didn’t make sense. None of the other maids Daniels sent were afraid of that, and I believe it’s because none of them were coerced as you were, that they came to the US of their own volition. Somewhere along the line, Daniels must have started running out of willing victims and so he started recruiting unwilling ones as well, you among them.”

I nod, but inside I’m a riot of emotion. I can go home! Back to my job, my family, my friends. Back to everything that’s beloved and familiar. But to do that, I have to leave my master.

I’d rather cut off a limb.

I’m ready to get on my knees, to throw my arms around his legs, to beg and plead with him to let me stay. It’s worked before. Why not this time?

But before I can even start to get off my chair, he holds up a hand. “You need to go home, Gabi. Nothing you can do or say will change my mind on this. Right now, you see me as the person who saved you—first by letting you stay when your life was in danger and now for eliminating that danger. And what we had—the master/slave bond—it’s very powerful. You had no experience with anything like it before. You can’t make a rational decision about where you belong under those conditions.”

“I do know what I want,” I protest. “I want you. I want us. I even want the…the playroom.”

That makes him raise an eyebrow. I can tell, for a second, I’ve almost gotten through to him.

“Please, don’t treat me like a child,” I plead.

He looks at me for a long time. At last he opens his mouth, and I have a glimmer of hope. He’s going to let me stay.

But what he says is, “I’m not treating you like a child. Since you’re still wearing my collar, I’m treating you like my slave. And your Master says you need to go home.”

I bow my head, blinking back tears. Even now, I can’t defy him.

A rustling sound tells me he’s gotten to his feet, but I don’t dare look. I imagine he’s leaving me alone again, but instead, I feel him push aside the hair at the back of my neck.

I tense, every muscle in my body going rigid, poised for flight. I know what he’s about to do. No, no, no.

But it’s already too late. The key is already in the lock, the lock is already turned, the hinge is already open, and the glorious, defining weight of the collar is gone.

He was right when he told me his punishments would be worse than anything I might experience in that room. Nothing could be worse than being free.

“Aeromexico Flight 934 to Culiacan will now begin boarding. Please have your boarding passes and passports ready for inspection at the gate.”

The loudspeaker announcement repeats in Spanish while I rifle in my handbag—Coach, a parting gift from Travis of all people—for the Mexican passport Ben procured for me. I can only assume he has as many important clients in the Mexican government as he does to the American, because it’s the genuine article, not a fake, delivered by a high-level representative from the consulate who arrived in a liveried limo.

“We will begin our boarding with passengers seated in first class.”

I stand up, sling the bag over my shoulder, and grab the handle of my rolling carry-on bag. My feet are leaden as I thread my way through the throng of coach passengers who crowd the path to the gate, waiting to charge when their “zone” is called. I fall in line behind a tall, neatly dressed businessman with graying hair. The gate attendant is scanning his boarding pass when the full import of what I’m about to do comes crashing down on me.

Once I get on this plane, I’ll never see Ben again. Never touch him, never kiss him, never suck his cock, never sit in his lap on the pool deck while unsuspecting passersby watch us fuck. Never feel him trail his fingers through my hair as though he’s discovered some mysterious new element or lie in his arms while he falls into one of his all-too-rare, all-too-brief slumbers.

Even if he’s right and I would never have chosen to become his slave if not for the threat of deportation and death, those threats no longer exist. Cantavares is dead. And there’s no reason for me to worry about deportation. If Ben can get me a legitimate Mexican passport in two days, he can get me a visa to stay in the US at the snap of his fingers.

Free will. I have it again.

And there is no way I’m getting on this plane of my own free will.

“Miss,” the gate attendant says expectantly, holding out her hand for my documents.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I find I’m in need of the ladies’ room.”

The attendant gives me a sympathetic look and points to the left. “The closest one is that way, miss.”

“Thank you.”

I walk as sedately as I can in the direction of the ladies’ room. As luck would have it, it’s also the same direction as baggage claim and the exit. Once I’m past the entrance to the restroom and out of sight of the gate, I break into a jog.

Ben was right when he said I needed to go home. He was just wrong about where home is.

I swing the door to Ben’s office open, knowing that’s where I’ll find him. It’s his retreat, his sanctuary, and the only place he’s going to be on a day like today.

I’m not wrong. He’s sitting in front of his computer, but he’s not working. Instead, he’s looking at a picture on the screen.

My picture. The one Evan Daniels had taken of me for the Maid for It website. The website is long gone, shut down on the day Daniels was arrested, but Ben managed to save my photo.

Confidence swells in my chest. He didn’t send me away because he didn’t want me anymore, but because he did.

I’m not sure if it’s the sound of the door opening or the sudden flood of light as the summer sun cuts through the interior darkness, but he shifts in his chair, disturbed by the intrusion.

“I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed, Travis. I don’t need a fucking nursemaid.”

My lips tug at the corners. “How about a maid to fuck instead?”

His reaction is every bit as dramatic as I expected. He swivels his chair around violently. For a second, I think he’s convinced I’m a hallucination, but it doesn’t take long for him to realize I’m flesh and blood.

He stands up, his expression menacing. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on a flight to Mexico.”

“I decided not to go.”

In two steps, he’s looming over me. “It wasn’t up to you to decide.”

“Yes, it was,” I say evenly, despite the fact that I’m trembling, half with fear, half with arousal. Or maybe they are the same thing.

“I’m your master. I ordered you to go home.”

I could argue that since he took off my collar, I’m not his slave anymore, but I don’t. Instead, I say simply, “I know.”

“Then why are you here?”

I blink up at him and shrug. “I realized that this is home. You are home.”

That takes him aback, at least for a few seconds. He grabs my shoulders, probably to shake some sense into me, but as soon as his hands close around my flesh, his eyes darken and his nostrils flare. We’re both reminded of all the times we’ve done this before, the times he’s exerted his power and I’ve submitted. Only neither of us is thinking about me leaving. We’re both thinking about him pushing me down and fucking me senseless.

His lips thin. “You’re not going to change my mind about this, Gabi. You’re going back to Mexico if I have to tie you up and put you on the plane myself.”

“Then I suppose that’s what you’ll have to do.”

He tightens his fingers on my shoulders, and I wince.

“You’re not going to cry and plead for me to keep you like before?”

“Would it make a difference if I did?”

He pauses, a flicker of indecision crossing his features. “No.”

But in that space, I see opportunity. Hope.

“Then you had better go get the rope.”

“Don’t test me, Gabi,” he warns.

“I’m not testing you.” You’re testing yourself.

He releases my shoulders and a tense silence dances between us. We’re both breathing fast, both angry, both aroused. I don’t have to look down to know he’s sporting a healthy erection.

“Fine,” he says at last. “You can stay. On one condition.”

My stomach tightens, not only because his tone is ominous, but because it was too easy. Swaying him should have taken a lot longer, a lot more effort.

But I stiffen my spine. “I’ll do it.”

“You don’t even know what the condition is.”

“It doesn’t matter what it is. I place myself at your mercy.”

He drags a finger along my jawline. “You’re not going to get much of that.”

By the time we reach the main house, I know where he’s taking me. That room. And even though I once wished he’d take me there and get it over with so that I could stop living in dread of what would happen there, now I really am frightened. Not because I think he means to hurt me in any lasting way, but because I know he means to break me into begging him to let me go. Before, he might have taken things slowly, taught me in small, manageable increments how pain and pleasure could merge. But now, there will be no such generosity.

When we enter the room, I can’t stop myself from shrinking back. The instinct to run away is primal and instantaneous. I’m not sure what I fear more—the restraints or the whips and floggers. Both seem equally cruel, equally awful.

And then he points to a platform on the far side of the room, one I didn’t notice when I peeked in before. It’s about four feet long, three feet wide, and approximately two feet off the ground. A variety of metal objects are affixed to each end of it. Shackles. And not just for wrists and ankles, I realize, but for my throat.

“Take off your clothes and get on. Knees and elbows.”

I swallow audibly. I know now what I’m most afraid of.

Conquering the urge to throw myself at his feet and beg him not to make me do this, I strip then climb onto the platform. My crucifix, which I put on after he removed the collar, dangles from my neck. He closes the iron shackles around my ankles first, then comes around to the front. My eyes are level with the zipper of his slacks, and I can see the thick bulge of his erection as he locks my wrists in place.

“Lift your head.”

The throat shackle is affixed to a telescoping post, which he adjusts before closing it around my neck. Unlike the collar, it’s tight. If I slacken at all in my position, I’ll begin to choke.

He steps back and looks at me, as though to admire his handiwork. Although I’ve assumed this position plenty of times for sex, my confinement makes me feel each part of my body more acutely. The hard surface of the platform already rubs my knees and elbows raw. My breasts hang like foreign weights from my torso, heavy and pendulous. My neck, forced to hold my head upright, will soon begin to ache.

After a brief, satisfied nod, my master—or is he Sir or only Ben to me in this moment? I’m not sure and that increases my unease—walks away. I can’t turn my head to see where he’s gone or what he’s doing, and my dread of what’s to come grows.

When he returns, I hear him laying things on the platform beside me, but I can’t see what. I close my eyes, as though that will make my lack of knowledge more bearable.

“Open your eyes.” He’s standing in front of me, his expression surprisingly gentle. “I want you to know before we begin that I won’t leave any permanent marks on your body. I won’t break any bones or cause you any internal harm. But what I’m about to do is going to feel like pain. Do you understand?”

Feel like pain? If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…

I clamp down on my rising panic. “Yes, Master.”

As soon as the word ”master” crosses my lips, I regret it. What if I’m not supposed to call him that anymore? Will he be angry? Hurt me even more?

But all he says is, “Good.”

My stomach flutters with anxiety as I follow him with my eyes until he’s out of my line of sight.

I hear the jingling of lightweight chains and bite my lip to keep from whimpering. I’m scared but also curious. What is he handling that’s making that noise and how does he plan to use it?

I don’t have to wait long to find out. His hand brushes against my breast and then something clamps down—hard—on my left nipple. Tears rush to my eyes as agony rockets through my body. But he isn’t done. The right nipple receives the same treatment seconds later, and oh, Dios Mio, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

Why did I ever believe he wouldn’t truly hurt me? This is excruciating. And he likes to do this to women. To immobilize them and torture them. What kind of monster is he?

I’m weeping silently when I feel the final pinch—between my legs. My clit. Puto! He’s a beast. How could I believe I loved him? What a fool I was to return.

He removes his hand from between my legs and I realize a lightweight chain connects the three clamps. As gravity pulls the chain downward, the clamps tug at my abused flesh, dragging a sob from my throat.

“I warned you it would feel like pain, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Master.”

“If you give it time, it will become pleasure.”

That’s like saying if you give death time, it will become life, but I don’t argue. He’s a madman. A sadistic lunatic. Suddenly, this has become not an exercise in convincing him to keep me, but one in surviving long enough so that I can escape.

As if he reads my mind, he says, “You can ask me to stop any time.”

“I can?”

“Of course,” he says, his tone utterly nonchalant.

“And you’ll stop? Let me go?”

He laughs, deep and low in his throat. “I didn’t say that. On the contrary, the more you ask me to stop, the longer and harder this will be. On the other hand, if you beg me to hurt you more, I may be motivated to go easier on you.”

So that’s the way it’s going to be. I lick my lips. At this point, I’ll do anything to lessen my torment. “Please, Master, hurt me more.”

“As you wish.”

The sound of lubricant squirting from a tube reaches my ears, and at first I have the hope that maybe he’ll just fuck me now and get it over with. But what I feel slide into my ass isn’t his cock, but a large, vinyl butt plug. I moan as he twists it in to the hilt, each of the toy’s progressively larger ridges more pleasurable than the last.

Pleasurable? I blink in confusion, as it dawns on me that my nipples and clit have begun to tingle, not with pain, but with arousal. How—?

A paddle smacks my ass. Despite the limited range of motion the shackles give me, I jolt forward. The toy rocks inside me and the chains swing, pulling on my sensitized flesh. My skin burns where the paddle struck me, but I can’t say it hurts. Or, more accurately, it hurts, but in a strangely good way.

Another blow falls on the opposite cheek with similar results. My breathing accelerates as he continues to paddle me. I imagine my ass must be bright red, and the thought increases my arousal. The chain swings beneath my body, each tug providing a fresh jolt of stimulation. The sensation reminds me of what it feels like when my master pinches and tugs on my nipples while he fucks me or plays with my clit, only fiercer, more direct.

He must have put down the paddle, because he slips his fingers between my pussy lips and coats them with the liquid evidence of my desire. The movement causes the clamp on my clitoris to jerk harder, and I suck in a shocked breath as I almost come.

“Christ,” he mutters, yanking his hand away.

He’s angry, but I can’t fathom why. Unless…it’s because he doesn’t want me to like this.

Comprehension comes in a deluge through the haze of my pleasure-pain. He’s trying to prove to both of us I don’t belong here, but my body isn’t cooperating with his plans. As much to my surprise as his, it’s proving exactly the opposite.

“Please, Master, hurt me more.” Only now, I mean it.

“Fuck.” It’s a guttural curse, but I’m no longer afraid.

That is, until I smell sulfur and flame. He’s struck a match. I cringe. Santa Maria, is he going to burn me? But no, surely not. He promised he wouldn’t do anything that would leave permanent marks, and burning me would do just that. Wouldn’t it? Or has he changed his mind, changed the rules since my body has perversely decided to ignore his script?

The first inkling of what he’s about comes when I catch the faint scent of melting wax. A candle? But why? I’m baffled, but I’m not scared, merely curious. And then hot wax dribbles onto my back, singeing my skin.

I can’t suppress a yelp. This hurts, a lot—a thousand times more than the clamps or the paddling, but to my amazement, the stinging only lasts a few seconds. As the wax cools, however, it becomes almost soothing.

He seems not even to notice my distress, because he continues to pour stripes of wax across my back, each one just as painful as the last when the scorching liquid hits my skin, just as soothing when the it cools and hardens. I’m bombarded with sensation—the wax, the ache of my flesh where he paddled me, the biting fullness of the plug in my ass, and the tug of the clamps on my throbbing nipples and clit. I float in a haze that’s made up of both pain and pleasure. I’m not sure where one ends and the other begins anymore.

Two sides of a single coin, he said.

And they are. I understand now. Even an orgasm is as much torment as it is release, both exquisite and excruciating.

“Please, Master,” I beg, sobbing now, “hurt me more.”

Suddenly, he’s standing in front of me, his hand beneath my chin. “I can’t,” he says softly. “Not when I need to kiss you.”

He bends down and captures my mouth with his. It’s a long, leisurely kiss, almost sweet, and yet it fires every nerve ending in my body with fresh, carnal longing. His tongue sweeps over mine, dances in the hollows of my mouth. Trapped in my shackles, I can only taste him with equal fervor, trying to communicate the only way I can how much I want him, how much I need him, how much I love him.

Finally, he lifts his head. “I’m sorry, Gabi.”

The panic that’s never far from my mind flutters in my chest. “Sorry? Why?” If he’s about to send me away after all this, I might kill him.

“Because I can’t wait to release you from your shackles to be inside you. I have to fuck you now.”

A laughing sob escapes me. “Oh God, please do.”

In no time flat, he’s behind me, his cock probing my slick entry. He doesn’t stop to release the clamps or remove the plug from my ass. As he tunnels into me, I’m so full, both literally and figuratively, I feel I might burst at the seams.

The kiss may have been sweet and leisurely, but his possession of me is swift and violent. It’s as if all the emotions he’s been nurturing for the past two months have built into this one moment. I didn’t know before where pain ended and pleasure began; I’m not sure now where my master ends and I begin. The fact that I’m held nearly motionless makes me feel even more like an extension of him, the completion of his desires, the embodiment of his will.

He reaches between my legs and releases the clamp from my clit. Blood comes rushing back and with it, the most overpowering orgasm I’ve ever experienced. Every organ in my body is involved—heart, lungs, spleen, liver—and every muscle from the top of my head to the tips of my toes contracts and trembles. I would collapse beneath him, but the shackles trap me, forcing my liquefied limbs to support me even though that seems utterly impossible.

And through it all, he keeps fucking me. “Beg me for more,” he orders.

I won’t survive more, but I don’t think I care. “More, Master, please, fuck me more.”

His fingers find my clit, so raw and engorged that his touch is agonizing, and with the other hand, he pulls on the chain that’s attached to the clamps. Fire grips me, and the climax that wasn’t even over yet begins again, harder and more excruciating than before.

I lose control of my limbs, my head sagging forward. The shackle presses on my windpipe, but I can’t lift my head to stop it or speak to alert him to my distress. Blackness closes in, narrowing my vision, focusing my senses on the unbelievable ecstasy coursing through my veins.

If I die, it will have been worth it.

An acrid, bitter scent rouses me to consciousness. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”

I wrinkle my nose and push away the hand that waves the smelling salts beneath my nostrils. “Sleeping Beauty was awakened by a kiss,” I grumble.

Ben chuckles. “That can be arranged.”

He sits on the platform beside me, and I realize I’ve been released from my shackles. I’m lying on my back, my head propped on something soft. The nipple clamps and the butt plug are gone, too, although I’m still naked.

He bends down and bestows a chaste kiss on my lips. “Better?”

“Not the same.” My voice is hoarse, and I rub my throat reflexively. “I’m already awake.”

“We could do it again if you like,” he offers.

Despite a low flare of heat at the suggestion, I shake my head. “I’d love to. But later.”

Did I pass out from lack of oxygen or from pleasure? Does it matter? He seemed to know exactly what to do to revive me, and he doesn’t appear the least bit perturbed by my lapse into unconsciousness.

He brushes a lock of damp hair away from my forehead. “Too bad. I’m afraid I didn’t quite finish.”

I follow the direction of his gaze to his crotch. His cock still protrudes, erect and glistening with my juices, from his fly. It’s long and thick and very, very hard. Just the way I like it.

Although I’m in no condition for more sex—I’m sore everywhere, although it’s a blissful kind of soreness—I lick my lips. I know what I want. What he wants.

“Fuck my mouth,” I croak.

He raises his eyebrows. “If you’re going to stay, you need to remember who gives the orders around here, Slut.” There’s no censure in his voice, though.

Joy sings in my veins. I’m going to stay! I’ve won.

But I lower my eyelids demurely. “Please, Master, I beg you to fuck my mouth.”

“Well, when you put it that way…” He grins and climbs onto the platform, straddling my head.

I open wide and take his cock into my mouth. He frames my face with his hands and holds me in place as I close my lips around him. From there on, I don’t have to do anything other than act as a willing orifice for him. He does exactly what I asked and fucks my mouth, driving down into my throat until he comes with a satisfied groan. As I swallow his seed, I am utterly at peace.

When he finishes, he pulls out and tucks his slackening cock back into his pants. Without a word, he walks over to one of the cabinets on the opposite side of the room—the one he retrieved the “standard toys” from on our first night together—and pulls something out. He tucks it behind his back so I can’t see what it is, although I can tell it’s small enough to fit in one hand.

I feel a flutter of anxiety. After all the new sensations I’ve learned to accommodate and enjoy today, I’m not sure I can handle another.

But when he reaches my side, what he pulls from behind his back is a familiar, black velvet-covered box.

My collar.

“Will you wear it and be my slave again?”

My heart squeezes tight. Is there any question? And yet, I can tell from the tone of his voice that he’s not entirely sure how I’m going to respond.

From some reserve of energy I didn’t know I possessed, I bolt to a sitting position and fling my arms around his neck. “Oh, yes, master, yes.”

While he removes the collar from the box, I once again take off my crucifix. As he did the first time he put the collar on me, he unlocks it with the key and slides it in place. I tilt my head to one side to allow him to lock it.

“I’m never letting you go now, you know.” He turns the key over and over between his thumb and forefinger.

“I know.”

“And this room—this isn’t the last time we’re going to use it. If you’re going to stay with me and be my slave, you have to accept and fulfill all my desires, not just the ones that are easy for you.”

“I know that, too.” And I’m glad. Because just as he remade my sexual desires to meet his demands, he’s remade my experience of pain and pleasure to suit his needs. I’m not just a shifted landscape any longer; I’ve become a whole new planet. One that truly is “made for it.”

“Can you walk?” he asks, getting to his feet.

“I think so,” I answer, although in truth, I’m not sure.

“Good.” He disappears into the gym and returns with a white terrycloth robe, which he wraps around me.

The wax that’s cooled and dried on my back cracks and itches, but I hardly notice as he leads me out onto the pool deck and up to the railing that overlooks the beach. After the relative darkness of the playroom, the bright sunlight glancing off the sand and the waves makes me squint. The scent of salt and sea hangs heavy in the hot summer air.

He leans his elbows on the railing and looks out onto the ocean. “I had another slave once. One I loved as much as I love you.”

My heart does a spinning nosedive into my belly then catapults into my throat. Did he just admit he loves me? While in the same breath telling me he once loved someone else?

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

“What happened to her?” I ask, because for some reason, he wants me to know about her. A myriad of possibilities tumble through my head, the worst one being that perhaps somehow he killed her in the playroom like he could have killed me.

He turns the key over in his hand again, watching the light glint off its smooth, silvery surface. “Her family thought I’d brainwashed her, like some sort of cult leader. That she would never have tolerated being my slave if I hadn’t forced her into it somehow. They kidnapped her and took her to a psychiatrist. By the time I tracked her down, they’d brainwashed her into believing I was some kind of monster.”

I touch my collar, remembering my reaction when he told me the GPS unit wasn’t there because he didn’t trust me, but because he didn’t trust other people. At the time, I thought he was just saying that to make the existence of the unit more palatable to me. Now I know he was dead serious.

“That’s why you wanted to be sure I was here willingly.”

His gaze still fixed on the key, he nods. “Janna had never been in a dominant/submissive relationship before she met me. I went to Maid for It because I was trying to be certain I never made the mistake of getting involved with an untutored submissive again. I didn’t want to go through that shit again. And now…with you.” He holds up the key. “I want to keep you, but I have to be sure you’re never going to leave me. Not even if your family comes to ‘rescue’ you.”

I slide up behind him, wrap my arms around his waist, and rest my head against his shoulder. “I’m never leaving you. Not even you can make me leave you.”

A low laugh rumbles through his chest. “You are a bit obstinate. But what about your family?”

“I texted my brother on the way home from the airport and told him I wouldn’t be coming back to Mexico, that I’d fallen in love with someone here.”

“So they’re not going to come on a crusade to save you from white slavery?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t tell them about any of that. I’m still ashamed I didn’t realize it was all a hoax.”

“Aren’t you going to miss them? Don’t you want to see them?”

“I do miss them, but when I left, I assumed I’d never see them again. And when I was about to get on that plane, I realized I’d rather never see them again than never be with you again.”

He spins around and reverses our positions, so now he’s behind me with his arm wrapped around my waist and his cheek resting on the top of my head. “But you would like to see them?”

“Well, yes, of course I would, but…”

“Do you think they would come to LA for a wedding? I’d pay their airfare and expenses, of course.”

I twist in his arms to face him. “A wedding? You want to marry me?”

“Well, for all my pull with the US government, I haven’t yet managed to get them to recognize the master/slave relationship under the law, and being married to you would make getting your green card a hell of a lot easi—“

He’s forced to stop talking as I press a fierce kiss to his lips. Although I’m the aggressor at first, it’s only a few seconds before he takes over, his tongue exploring my mouth as his hands cup my ass through the terrycloth. After a long time, he raises his head and smiles at me.

“I’m glad you approve. Now, there’s just one more order of business to take care of.”

My brow furrows. “What’s that?”

He holds up the key. “This. I don’t think we need it anymore.”

Turning toward the beach, he hurls it as far as he can. It lands in the sand near the edge of the tide line. A few seconds later, a wave comes and drags it out into the ocean. In a few minutes, it will be gone forever.

And that’s just what I want. Forever.

The End

An excerpt from

Maid for Pleasure

Available Now!

Insurance actuary Libby Beckett is the epitome of a successful, independent, modern woman. With her six figure salary, she has a condo overlooking the beach, a BMW, and a closet full of fabulous shoes. So why isn’t she happy? And why do her fantasies always involve whips, bondage, and sexual slavery? Her desires are impossible to explain her buttoned-down accountant boyfriend, which is why when she stumbles across a website for a quasi-dating service for submissive women called Maid for It, she signs up. She’s quickly “matched” to Gavin Huntley, an engineer and inventor possessed of a small fortune and his own private island in the Caribbean. After carefully weighing the risks and rewards, as any good actuary should do, Libby breaks it off with her boyfriend and heads to Gavin’s island for what she promises herself will be two weeks to explore her darkest, dirtiest desires. When her time is up, she’ll say her safe word and, as outlined in Maid for It’s contract, Gavin will be required to release her.

But Gavin knows what Libby truly needs, and it’s not to be free. She’s made for pleasure—his pleasure—and he intends to put her to good use. Forever.

The first time I lay eyes on Gavin Huntley is when I descend the stairs of the Lear jet he sent to fetch me from Miami. I know it’s him leaning against the black Mercedes parked on the tarmac because, although I’ve never met him face to face, I’ve seen pictures. Over the past month, we’ve exchanged photos by email. I almost lose my footing on the steps as I recall one very specific picture he demanded I send him before we sealed our deal—me naked in front of a mirror with my legs spread wide, my pussy exposed. The memory both shames and arouses me.

Which is exactly why I’m here, on a private island five miles long occupied by less than a hundred people: to give my body to a total stranger for two weeks, until my vacation time is used up and I have to return to my real, normal life. Already, just at the thought of the wicked things he’ll do to me—with or without my consent—I’m so turned on, my knees wobble as though I’ve become boneless, and I wonder if I’ll wind up slipping down the staircase and pooling into a puddle at the bottom.

Gavin is every bit as handsome as he was in the photos he sent me—wavy, dark blond hair, eyes framed by sexy, black-rimmed glasses, and a wide, full mouth that’s both beautiful and utterly masculine. Dressed casually in a fitted, dark gray T-shirt and a pair of jeans, he folds his arms across his chest and watches me totter toward the tarmac. He’s taller, broader, and more muscular than I imagined from those photos, but then, he told me they were taken for business and marketing purposes. I should have expected they would make him appear more approachable, less commanding.

But commanding is what I’m here for. To be commanded. To be dominated, taken, and used.

My mother would be horrified if she knew I was doing this. She didn’t deliberately have me out of wedlock and raise me as a single parent because she wanted me to let a man treat me like a slave. But I’m not doing this for her. I’m doing it for me. For once in my life, I’m doing what I want, not what people expect of me.

Besides, it’s only temporary. When it’s over, I’ll go back to my condo overlooking Redondo Beach. I’ll drive my smart BMW 320i to and from my high-paying job at the insurance agency that’s “always got you covered.”

As I reach the second-to-the-last stair, the tropical breeze lifts the skirt of the French maid costume I donned during the flight, and there’s no doubt in my mind that Gavin has caught a glimpse of the triangle of hair beneath it. I’ve followed the instructions I received from Maid for It, the online dating agency that matched me to Gavin a little over a month ago, and that includes wearing nothing beneath my skirt, not even a thong.

Not that the rest of the getup leaves anything to the imagination. Between the cupless bra I’m wearing, which significantly enhances my cleavage but does nothing to camouflage my assets, and the thin material covering my breasts, I might as well be naked. The thought causes my nipples to stiffen and a rush of moisture to gather between my legs. If he wants to fuck me in the car before we even leave the airstrip, I won’t object.

Of course, it wouldn’t matter if I objected anyway. That’s sort of the point.

I finally reach level terrain and continue to walk toward him. I’m a bit surprised that he isn’t coming to meet me halfway, but then, I didn’t bring any luggage—everything I need will be provided here—so it’s not as though I need help carrying anything. Still, it’s oddly nerve-wracking to have him studying me so intently as I approach, not saying a word. He reminds me of a lion watching and waiting to ambush its unsuspecting prey.

I’m hardly unsuspecting, though.

When I get within five feet of him, I find I have to say something to alleviate my growing tension. “Thank you for coming to meet me, Mr. Huntley.”

He lowers his glasses with one finger and looks over the rim at me. “Master.”

I stop in my tracks. Despite the warmth of the Caribbean sun, I shiver. It’s a word I’ve longed to say to a man. To say it to a virtual stranger is exhilarating. “Thank you, Master,” I say, lifting my skirt as I dip into a wobbly curtsey.

The gesture earns me a curve of those full lips that’s almost a smile. Almost, but not quite.

Without another word, he opens the car door and gestures for me to get in. For the first time, I realize he didn’t drive here himself. A man in a chauffeur’s cap sits in the driver’s seat. The inside of the Mercedes is air-conditioned and inviting, and the chauffeur doesn’t even turn his head to acknowledge me as I get in.

I scoot across the cool ivory leather, coming to rest on my naked ass on the passenger side as Gavin folds himself in beside me. When he closes the door, the driver takes that as a signal and pulls away, with no words exchanged.

Despite my mathematically oriented professions, I’m a fairly talkative person, and all this silence strikes me as worrisome. I came here for sex—the hardest, dirtiest, most extreme sex possible—but I assumed there’d be at least some conversation. Gavin was chatty enough in our IM sessions, describing to me in lurid detail every depraved and delicious way he planned to have me. That he’s so quiet now makes me wonder if he’s changed his mind. Or worse.

A wave of panic crashes over me. I did my research. I’m not stupid enough to put myself in the hands of a stranger without some assurances that he’s not an axe-murdering lunatic. But just for a minute, I consider the possibility that a man who owns his own Caribbean island inhabited only by people who work for him might be able to keep something like that a secret. Then I remember the very large bond Maid for It requires men to pay as an assurance that the women in these arrangements won’t be harmed, and some of my concern dissipates. Even rich men don’t like to waste money.

Especially rich men.

“How was your flight?”

I jump, surprised by the sudden foray into conversation. “Um, fine.” Then, deciding that response might imply I didn’t appreciate the opulence of his private jet sufficiently, I add, “The leg from Miami to here was fantastic.”

He nods. “Did you have any trouble getting to the hangar in Miami?” His voice is dark and creamy, like a perfectly pulled double espresso.

“It was a little tricky,” I admit, squirming in my seat as another rush of moisture dampens my pussy. “But once I found the right person to ask, it was no problem.”

“Good.” A few seconds of silence tick by. Just as I think that might be all he has to say for now, he says, “I hope you’re ready to work, Libby, like you’ve never worked before. I have a lot in mind for you to do for me.”

I assume work is a euphemism for fuck, which Gavin probably doesn’t want to say with his driver listening. Although as far as I can tell, the guy is deaf, dumb, and blind. Well, except for the fact that he seems to be negotiating the narrow roads that carve through the dense jungle that surrounds the airstrip, which I don’t suppose he could do if he were blind.

“I’m definitely ready to work,” I answer, a little breathlessly. Right now, in fact. If he lifted me onto his lap and plunged his cock into me this very moment, think I’d come in two seconds flat.

Sadly, he doesn’t do that. Instead, he points out the window at the passing landscape. “What do you think of my island?”

There isn’t much to think, since I haven’t seen much of it yet, but as a Southern California girl, there is one thing I can say. “It’s really green.”

To my surprise, this pathetic observation brings a smile to his face. “In more ways than one.”

“I don’t understand.”

He looks almost boyish, suddenly, like a kid who knows he brought the best present to the birthday party. “Everything about what we’ve done on this island is green. Pretty much everything we’ve built here is powered by a combination of solar and wind generation. We have a few backup generators that run on liquefied natural gas if we get into a pinch, but that’s only happened twice since we started. And do you notice how quiet the car is?”

Well, no, I haven’t noticed. I guess I just assumed a high-end Mercedes like this would be really quiet. But now that he mentions it…

I nod.

“It’s electric. No gas engine at all. Of course, on an island this small, it’s not like you’d ever need a 40 miles range anyway, right?”

That’s true enough, and I wonder what it would be like to live permanently on an island so small, you could walk from one side to the other in less than an hour. Having grown up in LA, where there are streets like Sepulveda and Sunset that are easily as long as this island, it’s hard to imagine being confined to such a small space. Almost claustrophobic.

I’m glad I’m only staying for two weeks. But Gavin doesn’t know that, and I can’t let him know that. Not yet.

“That’s really impressive,” I say, trying to focus on the conversation. It’s obvious he’s proud of what he’s accomplished here, and honestly, it’s worth being proud of. Most businessmen would think about the bottom line first and do whatever was cheapest. That he’s developed this island in an environmentally sensitive way says a lot about him, and I’m feeling better again about my decision to turn myself over to him. “Did you do most of the industrial design?” I ask.

Industrial design is how Gavin Huntley got rich enough to afford to buy his own private island off the coast of Puerto Rico before his thirty-fifth birthday. He’s nothing short of a genius when it comes to designing robotic and electronic devices and interfaces. Or so Wikipedia told me. The entry on him listed several dozen devices he’s designed that revolutionized industries, but none of them meant anything to me because I don’t know anything about manufacturing.

“Yep,” he confirms, “this island is pure Huntley, from top to bottom. Well, except for the parts Mother Nature created.” He points out the car window, and I gasp.

We’ve exited the jungle and turned onto a road that hugs the coast. As a California girl, I’m not usually all that impressed by ocean views; I see them every day when I look out my window, after all. But this coast—it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before, except maybe in pictures or on TV, and even then, I’m not sure any of those places could outshine this.

The road runs along a curved bluff that overlooks a vast ocean that’s so sharp a blue, it almost stings my eyes. In some places, waves crash against a rocky shore, while in others, they wash lovingly over narrow stretches of sandy beach. At the far end of the small bay created by the bluff, opposite the direction we’ve turned, there’s a small harbor where a half a dozen or so pleasure craft are anchored. A few more ply the waters, their sails puffed out by the wind like marshmallows. On one of the small beaches we pass, a couple has pitched umbrellas in the sand, and they sip on large drinks while their two young children frolic in the water.

It’s absolutely idyllic.

Gavin must see my appreciation in my stunned expression. “I know. I felt the same way the first time I saw this view.” He leans over me and point to our left, toward the high point of the bluff at the other end of the cove. “That’s my house, there.”

At first, I don’t understand what he’s talking about. What house? All I see is a black stone cliff rising from the turbulent blue waters and the jungle cover atop it. But then, I begin to make out the shape of something that isn’t cliff jutting from the top edge of the precipice, and I realize it’s a man-made structure. I’m not completely sure of this until the sunlight happens to catch it in just the right way, glinting off what can only be glass. Windows.

He’s built his house right into the cliff, so seamlessly that it’s almost invisible. As we climb the hill and round a bend, the far end of the cove disappears behind the jungle, and I’m left to imagine what on earth such a house could possibly be like inside.

“So, are you glad you came?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say truthfully. Even if all I ever get from this trip is this incredible view, it will have been worth it.

But I’ll be even gladder when I’ve come.

~ End of Excerpt ~

And Coming Early 2013

Maid for Submission

Investigative journalist Ekaterina Tarasova needs to get out of Russia and fast. She finds her escape in the form of an online dating service called Maid for It. In exchange for her agreement to enter into a sexual relationship with one of the service’s clients, she can emigrate quickly and legally to the US. Desperate to put as much distance between herself and Russian authorities as possible, Katya jumps at the opportunity. After all, once she’s in the US, she can apply for political asylum.

As soon as her flight touches down in LA, however, she’s whisked to the home of her “mate”. Once she meets the handsome and compelling Lawrence O’Neill, Katya discovers she isn’t in a tearing rush to apply for asylum. After he introduces her to the pleasures of sexual submission, she’s even less inclined to do so. That is, until Lawrence makes it clear he’s not the only person she’s expected to submit to. Katya knows she must leave or risk becoming nothing but a sexual plaything, but how can she now that she’s learned she’s made for submission?

About the Author

Lucy Rodgers writes dark erotic tales that explore the three C’s: consent, coercion, and captivity. Her stories include some combination of forced seduction, questionable consent, lack of safe words, indoctrination, and slavery/ownership. Lucy’s books are intended for mature readers who understand the difference between fantasy and reality and who are looking for erotic literature that explores not just the physical but also the psychological and emotional aspects of sexual bondage and domination.

You can learn more about Lucy and her books at http://lucyrodgers.wordpress.com.

Table of Contents

Maid for It (A Maids for It Novella)

Midpoint

About the Author