Maid for It

A Maids for It Novella

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Praise for Maid for It:

“…Smart and sophisticated; […] a polished, intelligently written story that satisfied my dark kinks. […] I’m excited to find a new author who is brave enough to tackle the taboo in an eloquent way. I’m looking forward to what Lucy Rodgers offers us next.” — Diana Leigh, The Forbidden Bookshelf

In fear for her life after witnessing a powerful drug lord gun down two rivals, Gabriela Marquez flees Sinaloa for the safety of the United States. No sooner does she arrive, however, than she’s arrested and threatened with immediate deportation unless she agrees to work for Maid for It, a company providing specialty housekeeping services to high-end clients. Gabi soon realizes the “specialty” services she must provide will be of a sexual nature. She should refuse, but she can’t risk deportation. Prostitution is preferable to death.

Her first assignment is in the home of Benjamin Hardcastle, a wealthy and reclusive computer security expert. He’s also Maid for It‘s most exacting client. Determined to please the heretofore unpleasable Mr. Hardcastle, Gabi keeps her past a secret. If he discovers the truth—that she’s been coerced into the role of sexual slave—he’ll send her away.

But what begins as a unwelcome obligation becomes an awakening to the incredible pleasures of domination, bondage, and submission. As Gabi discovers she truly is “made for it,” her secret looms larger, threatening her survival in an entirely unexpected way.


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.


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