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A French maid’s uniform.
A skimpy, “sexy” French maid’s uniform.
I check the drawers and closet, but there’s nothing else even remotely usable as clothes. I’m sure that’s not an accident.
When I finally slide it on, it’s abundantly clear this “uniform” is more for Master than for me. The ruffled bloomers are basically just a thong, with tufts of fabric at the top of my ass and barely covering my privates in front. The skirt is barely long enough to cover my hips, and it doesn’t even do that much because the tulle underneath it keeps it puffed out to the sides.
The bodice is a lace-up corset that cups my breasts from the sides and presses them dramatically up and in. So much so that my nipples peek out over the upper edge of the corset, and my breasts strain against the stitching.
Set out with this negligee in a pink box are a pair of Fuck Me stiletto shoes that I know I don’t have a choice about. It’s wear or be worn, more or less. So I brace myself, slip them on, and struggle to balance myself for a solid five minutes before finally gaining my footing and click-clacking my way to the door.
It’s clear Master wants me to go find him. Why else would he have clothes sent to me without sticking around to watch me put them on?
Before I do go to find him, I quickly twist my hair up into a neat bun and knot it into place. If he wants the full look, he’ll get the full look.
Master is fairly easy to find—my first guess, the living room, was the correct one. He’s sitting in a leather reclining chair wearing nothing but a robe and puffing on one of his thick cigars.
“Just in time,umnitsa.” He gestures for me to come closer, so I do. Slowly, and with great consideration for my ankles. “I was starting to worry.”
I force a small smile to my face. I have a feeling that if I want to avoid a repeat of last night, I need to play his sick games.
His darkly heated gaze travels slowly over my body. He flicks his hand to make me turn around, then mutters his approval. “Very good,umnitsa. Now… clean.”
I can’t prevent my brow from hitting my hairline. “Sorry, what?”
“You heard me.” He waves a casual hand to the room around us. “Clean.”
I frown. “I don’t understand?—”
“It’s simple. You have experience as a maid. I need a maid. You are wearing a maid’s uniform.” He drums his fingers along the arm of the couch. “Now. Clean.”
This is when I spot the bucket of cleaning supplies on a nearby end table.
Heliterallywants me to clean.
Okay…?
I guess it’s better than getting beat up or drugged or branded or whatever sick fucking shit this pervert can think up. So I grab a bottle of spray polish and a rag, walk over to the coffee table, and get to work.
There’s nothing sexy about polishing furniture. Squirt cleaner onto a cloth, rub, repeat.
But the way Master groans and looks at me makes me realize this is a game to him—one that involves me bending over in skimpy clothing and giving him a constant eyeful of my curves.
I focus less on doing an actually good job polishing and more on moving quickly from task to task. Maybe furniture polishing was not the best place to start, since almost everything that needs it requires me to bend over.
I’m wiping down another end table when I hear Master groan.
And then the telltale sound of his hand smacking skin. Repeatedly.
I don’t know why I turn around to look. I really don’t want to. But I think I’m taken by surprise at his openness, and his boldness, and also mildly curious to see if my guess is correct.
Which it is: he’s pulled his robe aside and is now very openly stroking his penis in front of me.
“Keep cleaning.” Master nods for me to continue. He slows his pace as I turn, licking his lips with appreciation in his eyes. “Don’t miss a spot.”
Fear shivers up my spine, and I scrub harder at the first table. I don’t care if my breasts fly out at this point—I just want to get this done and over with enough that he’ll leave me the fuck alone.
But it’s not even five minutes later when I feel his large hand clamp down on my shoulder.
