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Review This Story || Author: Jill Smith

Maid

Part 2

       I felt so weird. I have had nightmares before where there's some person in my dream that I have some sort of passionate encounters with, and the rest of the dream I feel guilty and terrible, and sometimes in the dream Rob finds out, and sometimes he doesn't and he reacts in a variety of ways. Sometimes he doesn't care. Sometimes he's angry and walks out on me. Sometimes I don't tell him and I know I'll have to hide it forever.

       It was all the more tortuous in reality. I wanted to tell him, but I knew I couldn't. We would have to move out of town the way she was talking. She didn't know any of my family, thank god, but she could ruin my life here. It's a small city, with a small artistic community, and a fast rumor mill. All it would take would be a hand full of flyers and I would have to lie, and I would always know that everyone suspected that I was a pervert.

       I tried to talk about things. I didn't know what to say. I'd always just naturally told Rob about my day, or not told him about my day. I didn't know what to do. I for the first time couldn't tell him what was on my mind and it was confusing. So I could only think of one thing to do: we made love. It was wonderful, though I struggled not to think of Marianne. I was so ready and excited. And afterward the release of an orgasm was completely relaxing and I no longer felt like I needed to tell him about my sexually charged afternoon. That if he sensed anything sexually charged about me, it would be that we had made love.

       I had sex with Rob nearly every night that week, and on one day we had sex twice. Every time I thought about Marianne, and was tormented by the situation, about how much her twisted manipulation of me was a terrible agony to me, to my principles, to my devotion to Rob, to my confidence that I was a good person, and when all those terrible feelings would inevitably turn into the shame of my arousal. When all these things happened in my mind and I was worried that Rob would sense it and I would press against him, kiss his ear, open his pants, touch myself. I finally understood why it is that people who are having affairs make love to the partner they are cheating on more often.

       When I returned the next week I came in, with my head hanging.

       Marianne opened the door and motioned me in.

       "I want to you change. Your clothes are in the bathroom You can start cleaning the bathroom first this week," she said matter of factly.

       I walked to the bathroom feeling defeated. There were some plain looking clothes lying on the counter. I had fully expected some plastic french maid's outfit. I picked up the item on top, a plain white apron. There were bloomers, a skirt, a blouse, and a little bonnet. It looked kind of like Little House on the Praire gear.

       I changed quickly and started scrubbing the bathtub with hot water. I was jumpy. Everytime I heard a sound I thought Marianne would come through the door and make me lick the toilet clean. I was scared and it seemed my breasts and pussy were ultra sensitized by the fear and the memory.

       Finally she knocked at the door. "What's taking you so long?"

       I opened the door and looked at her searching for pity. I didn't understand what she wanted.

       "Use the cleaning supplies, and be done in ten minutes," she snapped.

       I was happy to use Comet and cleaned the bathroom in ten minutes, which was certainly a record. But as I finished I felt the fear return, knowing I know had to face her.

       "Hands and knees maid," she said pointing at the floor.

       I did as she told me, and she lifted my skirt and unbuttoned my bloomers, so my ass stuck out of the clothes.

       "Did I tell you to keep your underwear on?" she asked with an annoyed tone. She tromped over to her desk and opened and closed something.

       "How many times did you have sex this week?" she asked. I could feel her standing to the side of me.

       "Six or seven times," I answered softly.

       "Did you have orgasms?"

       "Yes," I said.

       Her hand slipped under my panties and pulled at them and then I felt the elastic release as a pair of scissors cut through them. She cut through to one side and then the other and pulled them off me.

       "No more orgasms maid. You are not allowed to orgasm," she commanded.

       I wanted to protest, I wanted to explain. I wanted to question her. How could I make love to my boyfriend and not come? He would be so upset if I didn't come. He would feel like a failure. It was very hard to get him to give up if I just didn't feel like coming.

       But Marianne answered my question for me.

       "You will fake orgasms from now on. You will service him at least once a day, fucking him, blowing him, whatever," she paced around me while she spoke, and it made me unnerved that she wasn't in one place. Rob certainly will like this, I thought, he's always wanted to have sex every day, but until last week I could never keep up with him. I now had the motivation of blackmail.

       "Do you have something to record audio on?" she asked.

       I paused, and asked confused "Here?"

       "No, just answer my question," she asked.

       "I don't know. I don't think so," I said.

       "Okay, well you can borrow my recorder than," she offered. "I'll explain while you do the laundry. Follow me."

       I pushed myself up, but before I could get to my feet she kicked me over.

       "Stay on your hands and knees," she said and walked toward the bathroom.

       "The laundry's in the tub," she said.

       I got up off my hands and saw the tub was full of laundry. It was probably only two loads, or so, but it looked like two or three days of hand washing. I turned on the faucet and poured in some soap and started smashing the water through the clothes. I could feel Marianne's shadow over me.

       "While you do the laundry say, loud enough for me to hear you over your washing, 'This cunt belongs to Marianne, these tits belong to Marianne, this mouth belongs to Marianne, this body belongs to Marianne,'" and then she waited for me to start.

       I closed my eyes tight, I hated this. This wasn't sexy. I mean chanting and wearing an amish outfit and doing a shitload of laundry by hand. It was a little infuriating actually.

       Then she suddenly grabbed my hair and submerged my head into the hot soapy water.

       She let me up again.

       "This cunt belongs to Marianne," I began, shocked. I started washing the clothes vigourously. "These tits belong to Marianne."

       "Louder Becca, I don't plan on hanging out in the bathroom. I have other things to do," she said impatiently.

       I took a breath and said louder, "This ass belongs to Marianne. This body belongs to Marianne. This cunt belongs to Marianne."

       I felt her leave. I kept up my chanting. At first it seemed kind of silly, other than keeping my face out of the filthy washing water, but then as I shouted and scrubbed her clothes, and her husbands clothes, my body started responding to the chant. I could feel my tits as they swayed loose and braless. They pulsed with the attention as I nearly shouted that they belonged to Marianne. My pussy throbbed when I leashed it with my words to Marianne's command. I grew more excited as I recalled my mouth licking her stove and floor while she ground into my flesh and stroked my cunt with her foot.

       Her clothes in my hands seemed to turn to flesh. This blouse is the skin that covers Marianne's breast. These jeans squeeze Marianne's thighs. Everything became sensual and I started to say my phrases louder, and I started to feel the words, to believe the words.

       "This body belongs to Marianne. This cunt belongs to Marianne," my knees started to ache from kneeling on the floor and my arms seemed uselessly weak. I felt terrible and defeated. I was ashamed to shout her chant. It seemed like a sure sign that she would win. My body would grow more and more exhausted, my muscles would feet they were at their end. Then I would here myself that my body was Marianne's I would know that her will would force me to find just a little more strength, and everytime I wanted to stop, I abandoned my own will and accepted that Marianne's power would drive me.

       It was almost two hours of chanting and washing. I went through so much in my chanting. Disgust, scorn for her, for myself, shame, joy, surrender, hopelessness, it seemed I went through every human emotion just in chanting the same thing again and again.

       "These tits belong to Marianne. This mouth belongs to Marianne,"  the mouth that said these words. The words were not my own. It seemed that in saying this, in her having me brainwash myself I might actually come to believe her, to believe myself.

       She came back "That's enough, wring the clothes out and we'll go to the yard and hang them."

       I wrung them, which was a long chore in itself, and went out to the yard, where she sat in a yard chair.

       I started hanging the clothes, completely exhausted. My arms, shoulders and abs burning. My attention was all on Marianne, though I couldn't look at her. I wanted to know if she was looking at me thinking about me, making plans for me. But I didn't want to look at her. I didn't want her to see my eyes, as if I was worried she might know what I was thinking.

       "Move sexy when you move," she said from her lawn chair. A disembodied voice, since I couldn't look.

       I couldn't imagining hanging the laundry in a sexy way. I kind of put an artificial sway in my hips and tried to find some sass in my movement.

       "You look stupid Becca," she got up and walked towards me. I looked at her and she looked irritated. She searched through the wet clothes and handed me a t-shirt and blue jean shorts. "Change into this."

       I looked around at the other yards. The various possibilities of someone seeing me.

       "Go ahead. The faster you change the less likely someone will see you," she returned to her chair. "And change facing me."

       I dropped my bloomers first and started to pull the shorts on underneath the skirt.

       "No," she said simply and I obiediantly dropped the shorts knowing she wanted me to have to expose myself.

       So I took off the blouse and then felt my first sense of exposure, of the air cool aagainst my breasts. My body reacted by raising every tiny, soft blond hair on my body, my skin errupted in pointless protective bumps. I unbuttoned the skirt, which was time consuming and meant I was standing there with no top in the slight breeze even longer. Once it fell to the ground I immediately grabbed the shorts and started pulling the wet heavy material over my thighs. They were a little snug. Marianne was a inch or two shorter than me, so they rode high, and came down low once I desprately forced them over my hips. I grabbed the t-shirt and pulled it on, but the wet cloth clung to my nipples and made them darker, somehow sleazier.

       "Okay, now try again, maybe you'll feel sexier now."

       I went back to the work of hanging the laundry. She was right, it was much easier to move in a sexy way. My body wanted to exaggerate the curve of my hip by jutting it out this way. It made me want to be a little further from the laundry line than was necessary, so that one could see my body stretch long through the arms and legs. Even as the clothes dried on my body, my personal warmth drying them much more quickly than I had thought they could dry. But the sensual feeling lingered in my limbs and I continued to dance as I wrung the clothes and hung the clothes. The job was taking longer than it needed to. I wanted to stretch it out. I wanted her to want me. I didn't want the feeling. I didn't want to try and attract her but here I was wishing for it.

       I heard a soft footstep on some leaves in the yard, and felt her moving toward me. I froze and then felt her behind me. Her breasts pushed into my back and I didn't move away. How did she do this so quickly? Make me hers so quickly? I always had imagined I would have to be cruelly tortured to be enslaved. And I never thought I would want anyone but Rob. I considered myself faithful. But I didn't pull away from her. Her chin touched my shoulder and she tilted her head into my ear.

       "Do you swallow Rob's cum when you give him blow jobs Becca?" she asked in a sexy whisper. My body hummed at her breath on my ear.

       "Yes," I said simply.

       "Yes what Becca?" she prodded pushing her body into me, tilting her head into my neck and pushing her hot breath through my hair.

       "Yes I swallow Rob's cum," I said with a little pain, but feeling a kind of anticipation. I felt like if I answered her maybe I would get a reward, maybe she would touch me more, touch my hard nipples, or pet my wet cunt.

       "I want you to show me how you do it," she took my hand and led me to the side of the house.

       It was very private there. The garbage cans blocked us from the street. The house was behind her, and a fence behind me.

       "Kneel in front of me like you're going to suck my cock Becca," she said.

       I was only too happy to. I hoping she would lift her skirt and I would get to kiss her slit. As soon as I kneeled I remembered all my time on the bathroom floor today. My knees ached.

       She reached to the hose coiled on the side of the house and unravelled a few loops of it.

       "Show me how you suck Rob's cock," she said handing me the green tube.

       I looked at her, my excitement dropped. I remembered how terrible this all was. What was happening to me? I couldn't just keep doing this. I was just going to have to figure something else out.

       "Take it," she shook the thing at me a little bit.

       I lamely took it in my hand, but just held it up next to me. My brain was spinning in a pointless loop of telling my body to get up and leave, and then my brain canceling the order because it might be everything, my boyfriend, my friends, my reputation as an artist, everything would be gone. I was stiff and motionless.

       She pulled a small thing out of her pocket. I couldn't tell what it was until I heard my own voice eminating from it "This cunt belongs to Marianne, these tits belong to Marianne, this mouth belongs to Marianne, this--"

       She stopped it. "That last part was the part I was looking for."

       She rewound it and it did it's unearthly backward ghost talk before she played my voice again, "--to Marianne. This mouth belongs to Marianne," it repeated.

       "Do you think anyone you know might like this tape as much as me Becca? Because I really, really like this tape. But if you think someone else might like it more I could mail it to them. Do you think someone else might like it? I could send it to Rob. He loves you. He loves the sound of your voice. But I'd really hate to part with it. I love it. What do you think Becca?" she pretended to ask.

       I put the metal end of the hose to my lips.

       "That'a girl," she said smiling.

       I kind of kissed it lamely, looking at her, trying to beg her to end it.

       She crouched down and put her face in front of mine. She spoke softly, "Open up."

       I opened my mouth at her gentle prodding and let the bitter metal fastener past my teeth.

       "Yeah, that's how you do it," she said petting my hair.

       Tears sprung to my eyes. This was so terrible. Sucking a garden hose as if I were trying to seduce cum from it. I hated it. I slowly pulled my mouth up and down the slick green surface. I could feel habit dictating my movement. My body had a pattern, a way it was accustomed to doing this action. I felt my neck tilt to get another angle on it. I felt my hand squeezing the hose gently. And my body started to hum the familiar electric hum of arousal. I felt like Pavlov's dog. My body said it we are sucking something we will get fucked and it was excited and happy. My brain was no match for my body.

       "Oooh yeah Becca suck that hose, yeah I think you might make it cum. You're such a nasty slut you can make a hose cum," she said gleefully.

       Her words made me feel angry, and my angry made me warm. Her words gave me fury and my fury gave me tension. My tension became speed. I started sliding my mouth on the hose a little faster, more passionately.

       "Yeah, use my mouth on that hose," she encouraged gleefully. I was raging and excited. Usually when I was here I knew I would make Rob come, but here I was sucking a hose.

       Marianne stepped up and took the hose in her hand at her pelvic bone's level. She took her other hand to the back of my head and started fucking my face with the horrible thing. I was worried the metal would come too far back and break a tooth. Maybe Marianne was cautious or maybe she was lucky, but she didn't hurt my teeth. But she seemed wild, like the thing was her body, like it was her dick and she moved her pelvis and pulled my hair and pushed my hair. It got so frantic, I felt so much the intensity of giving Rob a blowjob.

       "Hold it now. Swallow it," she said pushing it in firmly. She went to the wall and turned the spigot.

       "Oh yeah I'm coming Becca," she said laughing at me.

       A small trickle of freezing water came from the hose and I swallowed it.

       "Yeah baby, swallow it all," she said and she turned it a little more.

       I swallowed as much as I could, but there was only so much I could swallow, it was so cold, and I felt I needed to catch my breath.

       Then she opened the tap wide, the hose burst from my mouth and sprayed my face.

       "Yeah rub my cum on your face," she said and walked up and kept the cold hose aimed in my face. The water pressure burned a little. I put my hands up more to protect my skin more than to rub anything.

       Then she trained the stream at my breasts, the cold water sent a chill through my whole body. It felt like every bone instantly started to ache.

       "Rub that cum on my tits," she ordered.

       I rubbed my breasts --her breasts?-- squeezing them, kneading them, trying to protect them.

       "Whose tits are those?" she said.

       "They're your tits," I said painfully.

       She grabbed one of my arms and pulled my hand free of my breast. I let the other drop obediantly. My breasts were completely visable through the t-shirt.

       "Whose tits are they?" she repeated vigorously.

       I answered more powerfully, hoping she would turn the hose away. "They're your tits Marianne!"

       She turned the hose away and turned it off. Before she was done tidily putting it away I was shivering.

       "Come on, lets get you inside."

       She guided me to the kitchen floor and told me to mop it with her breasts.

       I basically had to lie on the floor lifting my ass to pull my breasts back and forth across the floor.

       She went to the other room and came back five minutes later with my dry clothes, but of course no underwear since they had been demolished. And told me I could change.

       I, happily and quickly, changed into my warm things. As I did so she noted how red my knees looked.

       "You look like you've been sucking cock all day for a living," she said lightly. "Would you like some wine?"

       I nodded. A drink sounded great. I felt so insane, so full of crazed, panicked energy. I was horny and adrenalin was rushing through me. A glass of wine seemed like it might help.

       "Go on to the living room and start cleaning the coffee table. I'll be right in," she said reaching for a glass from the kitchen cupboard.

       The coffee table was completely clean of debris. There was a ring or two. I kneeled next to it and started to lick it's slick acrylic surface.

       "That's a good girl," she said to me, like I was a dog.

       She sat at the computer and started doing something as she talked.

       "So we found out the tape recorder works just fine. It notices when there is sound and starts recording. It's not very high-quality you might have noticed," she paused. "Don't forget to get the legs clean too, and then you can have your wine."

       I ran my tongue down the legs of the coffee table, meticulously covering the surface with my tongue. Surely she would have to clean this again? Why was I being so careful? Why did I want to obey her humiliating orders?

       "So when you use it you'll have to be good and loud," she click on this and that, moving the mouse around. Her eyes darted around her screen. "That's good. You may sit on the sofa and drink wine now. Dennis will probably be home soon."

       I sat down on the couch, wine in hand. I felt like a fraud. I felt like I was pretending to be some kind of normal person that just sat talking with friends on couches drinking wine with peers. It didn't feel as natural as the last time I sat on a couch at another person's house. I didn't know how to hold my body. Everything felt like a sexual gesture, crossing or not crossing my legs sitting up straight, or folding into myself retreatingly. I couldn't escape my condition.

       "Every time you make love with Rob this week you will say my name. You'll say it very slowly. He won't hear it. He'll be fucking away and you'll moan my name a letter or two at a time. Like this, com'ere," she said and curled her finger and leaned toward her. She leaned toward me like she was telling me a secret and then she started to softly moan, taking dramatic little breaths "Mmm, mm, ehhhr, yee, ahhhnn."

       My blood started to pump gently, slowed by the wine. Each letter was such a convincing little moan that it didn't feel like a demonstration, it felt like she was excited. I hummed almost inaudibly with mutual pleasure.

       "See, you get the picture," she said pulling away suddenly and coldly. "If you orgasm this week and I find out about it, things will only get more difficult. If I find you're obeying me you'll get you're nasty little fantasies back and eventually you can give your notice and be free, but at the moment you're mine, got it?"

       I nodded as I gulped a large swallow of wine.

       "Make your oath, tell me you won't give yourself any orgasms with my cunt," she said and turned on the tape recorder.

       The fraudulence of my equality sitting on the couch with the wine became overwhelming. It seemed harder to be subservient like this, but I knew it was true that I was bound to her command at least until I could get my stories back. "I promise not to have any orgasms with your cunt this week."

       "This tape recorder is a little low quality. Say it one more time, louder, and say your first and last name," she said like a friendly secretary.

       "My name is Becca York and I promise that I won't have an orgasm with Marianne's cunt this week," I said, perhaps with a tinge of anger.

       "And the cunt to which you refer, where is this cunt?" she said with a tone of naivite.

       "It's between my legs," I said clearly, while I glared at her, trying to kill her with my stare.

       She fussed with some cords and clicked here and there on the computer and then replayed the recording through the speakers.

       "Great. It seems like everything is in order," she said to the sound of her husband's car pulling up. She handed me the tape recorder. "Oh, and make sure you perform the chant you learned today for an hour before you have sex tonight, and inbetween every time you have sex this week. Okay?"

       "Whatever," I said putting the wine down and gathering my things.

       Dennis walked in, seeming to be in a good mood.

       "Hey Becca, how's it going?" he threw at me while taking his wife's arm gently and kissing her cheek and said in a near whisper. "Hi sweetie."

       "Oh it's fine, thanks. How's it going with you?" I said tying my shoes wanting to burst with anger.

       "Good thanks. I was going to make tacos, how's that sound Marianne?" Dennis offered from the kitchen.

       "Great honey, thanks. Oh guess what Dennis? Becca and I were talking about going to that meditation retreat in May," she said.

       I looked up at her, and stopped rushing.

       "Don't forget to tell Rob you'll be out of town for those six weeks for the retreat," she said helpfully. "But don't worry I'll remind you again, and I think the ashram will send you a packet in the mail next week."

       "Thanks Marianne," I said.

       She handed me my sixty dollars for cleaning.



Review This Story || Author: Jill Smith
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