Maid for It (A Maids for It Novella)

By Lucy Rodgers

Cover art: Robin Ludwig Design
(gobookcoverdesign.com)

Editor: Natasha Fondren

© Lucy Rodgers, 2011
All rights reserved

ISBN-13: 978-0-9855729-0-7

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

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Publisher's Note:

This book is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Contact:
[email protected]

Author Website:
http://lucyrodgers.wordpress.com

“Will the defendant please rise?”

My attorney, a middle-aged white man whose
mottled complexion reminds me of an old corn tortilla, nudges me in
the ribs and stands up. I get to my feet, my knees wobbling.

What if the judge sends me back to Sinaloa?
I’m as good as dead. My family scraped together the money to get me
out of Mexico, to send me to the United States where I’ll be safe.
They won’t be able to afford to do it again. And if I so much as
show my face on the south side of the border, Helio Cantavares will
have me killed.

I need to stay here. I clutch the crucifix
that dangles from my neck and say a silent prayer.

“Gabriela Marquez,” the judge intones, “you
have been found guilty of entering the United States without proper
documentation and should be subject to immediate deportation.”

My stomach sinks, a stone hitting the bottom
of a well.

“However, in your case, the court will make
an exception. The company, Maid for It, has indicated that it will
hire you and apply for a proper visa should your work prove
acceptable.”

The sharp corners of the cross dig into my
palms, the pain the only thing that keeps me from slumping to the
floor in a flood of relief.

“Do you understand the ruling of this court,
Miss Marquez?” The judge gives me a stern glare.

“
Sí
, I mean yes, sir,” I say.

“Very well, then. You are released to the
custody of your employer.” He bangs down his gavel.

I am sick with gratitude and turn to search
the gallery of the courtroom for my savior. A man rises to his feet
and beckons me. He’s not much taller than I am, but in his prime
and powerfully built. His eyes are hard, like marbles. Instinct
tells me I have leapt from the
comal
and onto open flame,
but it doesn’t matter. Nothing this man can do to me can be worse
than what Cantavares can.

It can only be just as bad.

The marble-eyed man leads me to a limousine
waiting outside the courthouse and motions me to get in. A driver
wearing a suit and chauffer’s hat shuts the door behind us.

As the car pulls away from the curb, the man
asks, “You speak English, Miss Marquez?”

“Yes,” I answer.

He gives a curt nod. “Good. A rudimentary
command of the language is a requirement for the job.”

I want to ask what, exactly, the job is, but
I don’t. Instead, I say, “My English is more than rudimentary. I
used to teach English.” Before I stumbled into the cartel’s
business and made myself a target.

“Excellent,” he says.

I can see I’ve impressed him. Whether that is
good or bad, I’m not sure.

“So, Miss Marquez, I’m certain you are
curious to learn why I’ve hired you and what you will be doing for
my company.”

“I will do anything that keeps me in the
US.”

He chuckles. The sound is more sadistic than
amused, and a ribbon of fear curls down my spine. What have I
gotten into? Surely a US court wouldn’t send me with him if he
weren’t a legitimate businessman.

“I’m glad you’re willing to do anything,
because that is the first requirement of the job. But before I go
any further, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Evan Daniels, CEO
and owner of Maid for It, and you, my dear, are my newest
maid.”

“Maid? As in you wish for me to clean
houses?”

I can do that. It’s a step down for someone
who used to be a teacher and hardly a use of my education, but I
didn’t expect to do better as an illegal immigrant, anyway.

He laughs again, the sound so humorless it’s
chilling. “In a manner of speaking, yes.” He reaches down and
undoes the buckle of his belt. “You see, Miss Marquez,” he says as
he pulls the belt free and unbuttons his slacks, “Maid for It
offers what we call ‘specialty cleaning services’ to upscale
clientele. In addition to cleaning houses, you may also be asked to
perform other, slightly dirtier tasks, if you take my meaning.”

I do take it, and how can I fail to as he
extracts his partially erect penis from his shorts? My gut twists
with a combination of shame and loathing.

I’m going to be a prostitute. A sex worker. A
whore.

He sees my horror and reaches out to caress
my face. Bile rises in my throat at his touch.

“Now, now, Miss Marquez, it’s not as bad as
all that. The men I cater to are all single, extremely wealthy, and
considered quite good catches. Most of my ‘maids’ eventually catch
on—that is, if they can do the job well enough. And there’s no time
like the present to prove you have the chops to satisfy my
demanding customers.”

He slides his hand around the back of my head
and pushes my face down toward his crotch. My first instinct is to
resist, but I’ve always been a practical girl. What other choice do
I have? I’m at Mr. Daniels’ mercy, trapped in his limousine as it
rolls through the unfamiliar streets of Los Angeles, and I’ve been
entrusted to his care by the law. If I escape, I’m sure to be
caught. Sure to be sent back to Mexico. And there’s no place safe
for me on that side of the border. I need Evan Daniels’s
protection, and if I need to suck his cock or anyone else’s to stay
alive, I can do that just as well as I can clean houses.

Opening my mouth, I flick my tongue over the
spongy head before closing my lips around the shaft. Just like the
rest of him, his dick is on the short side but thick. I’m untutored
at this sort of thing, but I go with my instincts, sliding my mouth
up and down along his length, squeezing my lips tight as I go. His
cock gets harder and thicker, which I take to mean I’m not doing it
wrong.

After a few minutes of this, he grunts. “Not
bad for an amateur, but if you’re going to be a pro, you’re going
to have to learn to go all the way.”

I don’t understand what he means at first,
but then his fingers twist in my hair and he forces my mouth
farther down onto him, until the head of his cock is seated in the
back of my throat. I make a desperate, choking noise, but he
ignores it.

Raising my head slightly, he pushes me back
down again.

“Breathe through your nose and relax,” he
orders.

Breathing through my nose I can do; relaxing
I’m not so sure about. I’m afraid I’m going to gag, maybe even
vomit, but as he keeps at it—up and down, in and out—something odd
happens to me. A tingling sensation starts in my belly, and
moisture gathers between my thighs. My heart beats erratically, and
I’m hot all over.

I hear a moan and realize it’s me, and more,
that it’s not a sound of fear. It’s a sound of need.

“That’s right, baby,” he encourages. “A man
needs to fuck that pretty mouth hard and deep to be satisfied.
You’re doing great.”

I clench my thighs together, trying to stem
the rising tide of arousal that gathers there. I don’t know how I
can be turned on by this, but I am, and it’s more frightening than
being raped because it’s not coming from outside of me, but inside.
He’s flipped some strange switch inside of me and turned on a
thousand-watt bulb, and I can’t turn it off.

“Oh fuck, yeah.” He groans and stiffens and
drives in one last time, so far I think I’m going to swallow his
entire dick, and then his cum spurts down the back of my throat. I
can’t taste it, but the thick, hot liquid slides down in waves, and
I’m shivering as though I’m freezing.

He releases his grip my head and lets me up.
Semen is still leaking from the head, and my tongue darts out to
lick my lips.

I don’t know if he sees it or not, but maybe
he does, because he says, “Lick it clean. The maid’s job is always
to leave her workplace clean.”

I don’t even think about resisting. Bending
over, I lap up the bitter-salt remnants of his spend like a
cat.

He settles back against the leather-cushioned
seat and sighs. “Well, one thing is for sure, Miss Marquez. You
were definitely made for it.”

I’m dressed in a French maid’s costume. The
skirt is so short, passersby can probably catch a glimpse of my ass
cheeks when I lean forward to knock on the door.

The door belongs to the palatial home of one
Benjamin Hardcastle, the ridiculously rich and notoriously
reclusive cybersecurity expert. From what Mr. Daniels has told me,
Mr. Hardcastle is paid insane sums of money to hack into government
and business computer systems, thereby demonstrating the flaws in
their security. He does all of this from the comfort of his lavish,
Italianate villa overlooking the coast in Malibu.

Mr. Hardcastle is also Maid for It’s most
exacting, most demanding customer. No maid has ever lasted in his
employ for more than six weeks, and most have been fired within two
days.

As I lift the ornate brass knocker and rap it
against the door, I flash to the scene in
The Sound of Music
where Julie Andrews arrives at the von Trapp estate. The only
difference between Maria’s dilemma and mine is that I have no
convent to return to.

I’m trembling by the time the door opens. In
another echo of Rodgers and Hammerstein, the person answering the
door is clearly not Mr. Hardcastle himself, but the butler. Unlike
Maria, I’m not fool enough to imagine that a computer hacker would
hang around his house all day wearing a tuxedo with tails and a red
bow tie. Of course, her assumption wasn’t as absurd in 1936 as it
would be today.

The butler has hair that’s elegantly gray
around the temples and a nose that’s long and straight—“All the
better to look down at you with, my dear”—gives me a brusque nod.
“Punctual, I see.”

It’s an odd greeting, but it appears to be
all I’m going to get as he opens the door and steps aside to let me
enter.