Maid for Pleasure

A Maids for It Novella

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Insurance actuary Libby Beckett is the epitome of a successful, independent, modern woman. With her six figure salary, she has a condo overlooking the beach, a BMW, and a closet full of fabulous shoes. So why isn’t she happy? And why do her fantasies always involve whips, bondage, and sexual slavery? Her desires are impossible to explain her buttoned-down accountant boyfriend, which is why when she stumbles across a website for a quasi-dating service for submissive women called Maid for It, she signs up. She’s quickly “matched” to Gavin Huntley, an engineer and inventor possessed of a small fortune and his own private island off the Caribbean coast. After carefully weighing the risks and rewards, as any good actuary should do, Libby breaks it off with her boyfriend and heads to Gavin’s island for what she promises herself will be two weeks to explore her darkest, dirtiest desires. When her time is up, she’ll say her safe word and, as outlined in Maid for It’s contract, Gavin will be required to release her.

But Gavin knows what Libby truly needs, and it’s not to be free. She’s made for pleasure—his pleasure—and he intends to put her to good use. Forever.


Excerpt

The first time I lay eyes on Gavin Huntley is when I descend the stairs of the Lear jet he sent to fetch me from Miami. I know it’s him leaning against the black Mercedes parked on the tarmac because, although I’ve never met him face to face, I’ve seen pictures. Over the past month, we’ve exchanged photos by email. I almost lose my footing on the steps as I recall one very specific picture he demanded I send him before we sealed our deal—me naked in front of a mirror with my legs spread wide, my pussy exposed. The memory both shames and arouses me.

Which is exactly why I’m here, on a private island five miles long occupied by less than a hundred people: to give my body to a total stranger for two weeks, until my vacation time is used up and I have to return to my real, normal life. Already, just at the thought of the wicked things he’ll do to me—with or without my consent—I’m so turned on, my knees wobble as though I’ve become boneless, and I wonder if I’ll wind up slipping down the staircase and pooling into a puddle at the bottom.

Gavin is every bit as handsome as he was in the photos he sent me—wavy, dark blond hair, eyes framed by sexy, black-rimmed glasses, and a wide, full mouth that’s both beautiful and utterly masculine. Dressed casually in a fitted, dark gray T-shirt and a pair of jeans, he folds his arms across his chest and watches me totter toward the tarmac. He’s taller, broader, and more muscular than I imagined from those photos, but then, he told me they were taken for business and marketing purposes. I should have expected they would make him appear more approachable, less commanding.

But commanding is what I’m here for. To be commanded. To be dominated, taken, and used.

My mother would be horrified if she knew I was doing this. She didn’t deliberately have me out of wedlock and raise me as a single parent because she wanted me to let a man treat me like a slave. But I’m not doing this for her. I’m doing it for me. For once in my life, I’m doing what I want, not what people expect of me.

Besides, it’s only temporary. When it’s over, I’ll go back to my condo overlooking Redondo Beach. I’ll drive my smart BMW 320i to and from my high-paying job at the insurance agency that’s “always got you covered.”

As I reach the second-to-the-last stair, the tropical breeze lifts the skirt of the French maid costume I donned during the flight, and there’s no doubt in my mind that Gavin has caught a glimpse of the triangle of hair beneath it. I’ve followed the instructions I received from Maid for It, the online dating agency that matched me to Gavin a little over a month ago, and that includes wearing nothing beneath my skirt, not even a thong.

Not that the rest of the getup leaves anything to the imagination. Between the cupless bra I’m wearing, which significantly enhances my cleavage but does nothing to camouflage my assets, and the thin material covering my breasts, I might as well be naked. The thought causes my nipples to stiffen and a rush of moisture to gather between my legs. If he wants to fuck me in the car before we even leave the airstrip, I won’t object.

Of course, it wouldn’t matter if I objected anyway. That’s sort of the point.

I finally reach level terrain and continue to walk toward him. I’m a bit surprised that he isn’t coming to meet me halfway, but then, I didn’t bring any luggage—everything I need will be provided here—so it’s not as though I need help carrying anything. Still, it’s oddly nerve-wracking to have him studying me so intently as I approach, not saying a word. He reminds me of a lion watching and waiting to ambush its unsuspecting prey.

I’m hardly unsuspecting, though.

When I get within five feet of him, I find I have to say something to alleviate my growing tension. “Thank you for coming to meet me, Mr. Huntley.”

He lowers his glasses with one finger and looks over the rim at me. “Master.”

I stop in my tracks. Despite the warmth of the Caribbean sun, I shiver. It’s a word I’ve longed to say to a man. To say it to a virtual stranger is exhilarating. “Thank you, Master,” I say, lifting my skirt as I dip into a wobbly curtsey.

The gesture earns me a curve of those full lips that’s almost a smile. Almost, but not quite.

Without another word, he opens the car door and gestures for me to get in. For the first time, I realize he didn’t drive here himself. A man in a chauffeur’s cap sits in the driver’s seat. The inside of the Mercedes is air-conditioned and inviting, and the chauffeur doesn’t even turn his head to acknowledge me as I get in.

I scoot across the cool ivory leather, coming to rest on my naked ass on the passenger side as Gavin folds himself in beside me. When he closes the door, the driver takes that as a signal and pulls away, with no words exchanged.

Despite my mathematically oriented professions, I’m a fairly talkative person, and all this silence strikes me as worrisome. I came here for sex—the hardest, dirtiest, most extreme sex possible—but I assumed there’d be at least some conversation. Gavin was chatty enough in our IM sessions, describing to me in lurid detail every depraved and delicious way he planned to have me. That he’s so quiet now makes me wonder if he’s changed his mind. Or worse.

A wave of panic crashes over me. I did my research. I’m not stupid enough to put myself in the hands of a stranger without some assurances that he’s not an axe-murdering lunatic. But just for a minute, I consider the possibility that a man who owns his own Caribbean island inhabited only by people who work for him might be able to keep something like that a secret. Then I remember the very large bond Maid for It requires men to pay as an assurance that the women in these arrangements won’t be harmed, and some of my concern dissipates. Even rich men don’t like to waste money.

Especially rich men.

“How was your flight?”

I jump, surprised by the sudden foray into conversation. “Um, fine.” Then, deciding that response might imply I didn’t appreciate the opulence of his private jet sufficiently, I add, “The leg from Miami to here was fantastic.”

He nods. “Did you have any trouble getting to the hangar in Miami?” His voice is dark and creamy, like a perfectly pulled double espresso.

“It was a little tricky,” I admit, squirming in my seat as another rush of moisture dampens my pussy. “But once I found the right person to ask, it was no problem.”

“Good.” A few seconds of silence tick by. Just as I think that might be all he has to say for now, he says, “I hope you’re ready to work, Libby, like you’ve never worked before. I have a lot in mind for you to do for me.”

I assume work is a euphemism for fuck, which Gavin probably doesn’t want to say with his driver listening. Although as far as I can tell, the guy is deaf, dumb, and blind. Well, except for the fact that he seems to be negotiating the narrow roads that carve through the dense jungle that surrounds the airstrip, which I don’t suppose he could do if he were blind.

“I’m definitely ready to work,” I answer, a little breathlessly. Right now, in fact. If he lifted me onto his lap and plunged his cock into me this very moment, think I’d come in two seconds flat.

Sadly, he doesn’t do that. Instead, he points out the window at the passing landscape. “What do you think of my island?”

There isn’t much to think, since I haven’t seen much of it yet, but as a Southern California girl, there is one thing I can say. “It’s really green.”

To my surprise, this pathetic observation brings a smile to his face. “In more ways than one.”

“I don’t understand.”

He looks almost boyish, suddenly, like a kid who knows he brought the best present to the birthday party. “Everything about what we’ve done on this island is green. Pretty much everything we’ve built here is powered by a combination of solar and wind generation. We have a few backup generators that run on liquefied natural gas if we get into a pinch, but that’s only happened twice since we started. And do you notice how quiet the car is?”

Well, no, I haven’t noticed. I guess I just assumed a high-end Mercedes like this would be really quiet. But now that he mentions it…

I nod.

“It’s electric. No gas engine at all. Of course, on an island this small, it’s not like you’d ever need a 40 miles range anyway, right?”

That’s true enough, and I wonder what it would be like to live permanently on an island so small, you could walk from one side to the other in less than an hour. Having grown up in LA, where there are streets like Sepulveda and Sunset that are easily as long as this island, it’s hard to imagine being confined to such a small space. Almost claustrophobic.

I’m glad I’m only staying for two weeks. But Gavin doesn’t know that, and I can’t let him know that. Not yet.

“That’s really impressive,” I say, trying to focus on the conversation. It’s obvious he’s proud of what he’s accomplished here, and honestly, it’s worth being proud of. Most businessmen would think about the bottom line first and do whatever was cheapest. That he’s developed this island in an environmentally sensitive way says a lot about him, and I’m feeling better again about my decision to turn myself over to him. “Did you do most of the industrial design?” I ask.

Industrial design is how Gavin Huntley got rich enough to afford to buy his own private island off the coast of Puerto Rico before his thirty-fifth birthday. He’s nothing short of a genius when it comes to designing robotic and electronic devices and interfaces. Or so Wikipedia told me. The entry on him listed several dozen devices he’s designed that revolutionized industries, but none of them meant anything to me because I don’t know anything about manufacturing.

“Yep,” he confirms, “this island is pure Huntley, from top to bottom. Well, except for the parts Mother Nature created.” He points out the car window, and I gasp.

We’ve exited the jungle and turned onto a road that hugs the coast. As a California girl, I’m not usually all that impressed by ocean views; I see them every day when I look out my window, after all. But this coast—it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before, except maybe in pictures or on TV, and even then, I’m not sure any of those places could outshine this.

The road runs along a curved bluff that overlooks a vast ocean that’s so sharp a blue, it almost stings my eyes. In some places, waves crash against a rocky shore, while in others, they wash lovingly over narrow stretches of sandy beach. At the far end of the small bay created by the bluff, opposite the direction we’ve turned, there’s a small harbor where a half a dozen or so pleasure craft are anchored. A few more ply the waters, their sails puffed out by the wind like marshmallows. On one of the small beaches we pass, a couple has pitched umbrellas in the sand, and they sip on large drinks while their two young children frolic in the water.

It’s absolutely idyllic.

Gavin must see my appreciation in my stunned expression. “I know. I felt the same way the first time I saw this view.” He leans over me and point to our left, toward the high point of the bluff at the other end of the cove. “That’s my house, there.”

At first, I don’t understand what he’s talking about. What house? All I see is a black stone cliff rising from the turbulent blue waters and the jungle cover atop it. But then, I begin to make out the shape of something that isn’t cliff jutting from the top edge of the precipice, and I realize it’s a man-made structure. I’m not completely sure of this until the sunlight happens to catch it in just the right way, glinting off what can only be glass. Windows.

He’s built his house right into the cliff, so seamlessly that it’s almost invisible. As we climb the hill and round a bend, the far end of the cove disappears behind the jungle, and I’m left to imagine what on earth such a house could possibly be like inside.

“So, are you glad you came?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say truthfully. Even if all I ever get from this trip is this incredible view, it will have been worth it.

But I’ll be even gladder when I’ve come.


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