Maid for It (A Maids for It Novella) by Lucy Rodgers

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.