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

“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.