Content warnings for this story (click here for guide):
“Right, Elly,” said Tom, rolling up his sleeves. “You can start by lifting your skirt so I can check if your knickers need changing.”
“Of course they don’t!” said Eleanor, appalled. “I’m not a child!”
“Oh, they’re fine? Then you won’t mind me looking, will you?”
Tom stood back, arms folded. Eleanor flushed as he stared at her. Neither one moved for a few seconds.
Tom sighed, reached into a pot on the side and pulled out a wooden spoon. Without warning, he bent Eleanor over the counter, flipped up her skirt and began swatting the backs of her thighs.
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
Eleanor yelped and screeched as the simple tool stung her again and again. She kicked up her legs, but was held in place by Tom’s strong hand, as he continued dealing out her spanking.
“It would have been more dignified if you’d just lifted up your skirt like a good girl, Elly,” he noted. “Now I’m seeing your knickers anyway, and you’ve earned yourself a bright pink bottom.”
“Stoppit! Stoppittttt!” she begged.
WHAP!
“Are we going to be good for our uniform inspection?” Tom asked.
WHAP!
“Ughhh! Yes, Sir!”
Tom let the dishevelled maid back up and she stomped into position. Eleanor’s hair was mussed and her mascara had strayed down her cheeks.
“Oh dear. I’m marking you down for make-up, Elly,” he grinned. “Very smudgy. Now, be a good girl and show your master your knickers.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes to the heavens, lifting the scrap of satin that served as her skirt, then dropping it back down.
“Ah-ah!” said Tom. “Not so fast.”
Eleanor sulkily lifted the skirt once more, then gasped as Tom pulled down her frilly knickers.
“Oh, that is interesting,” said Tom, examining the fabric. “Step out of these, please.”
Eleanor wobbled on her heels as she let him remove them. Tom brought the underwear up to her eyeline, where tell-tale white marks could be seen, in addition to a new little damp spot.
“Do you know what I think?” he asked.
Eleanor shook her head, face flaming. She tried to yank down her skirt but Tom picked up the spoon once more and a sharp tap sent her hemline obediently back up.
“I think,” said Tom, “that somebody’s very excited to clean for her master.”
“That’s not –”
“Good grief. My little Elly has made such a mess of her underwear. Being my maid is getting her very wet indeed.”
“What? No!” Eleanor protested, feeling herself get even wetter between the legs. “That’s – there must be something wrong with the fabric! It’s cheap fabric!”
“These are knickers you approved for your employees,” said Tom. “Surely they’re exceptional quality? You charged new recruits £100 for replacements, as I recall.”
Eleanor clenched her fists by her sides, her knickers around her ankles.
“Fine! They weren’t!” she blurted. “They were dirt-cheap! We got them for nothing and just charged a premium!”
Tom raised an eyebrow.
“Well I do believe that,” he said.
It sounded bad. Mostly because it was. Eleanor thought on her feet, keen to avoid another smacked bottom.
“Look, it was simply to discourage carelessness!”
“Of course it was,” said Tom, smiling. “Regardless, I don’t think cheap fabric can make clean knickers look like a naughty girl has squirted in them.”
“How dare you! I did not – “
Tom put a shushing finger to her lips and Eleanor gasped as he reached between her legs and thrust two digits inside her.
“Am I imagining things?” said Tom, as he pushed firmly in and out, trailing his wet fingers up over her clit before plunging back inside. “Because it feels as though I’m inspecting my maid and finding her absolutely sopping.”
Eleanor couldn’t help herself: she moaned as his strong fingers invaded, grinding greedily against them.
Suddenly, Tom withdrew his fingers and held them up to her face. Eleanor looked at the glistening liquid covering them, still dizzy from Tom’s touch.
“You’ve made a mess, haven’t you?” he said. “Tell me.”
“I… I’ve made… a mess…” panted Eleanor, on the edge of coming.
“A good maid doesn’t make mess, does she?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“No, she doesn’t. What does she do?”
“She… cleans up…mess,” said Eleanor woozily. Come on, I just need a little more, she thought.
“Well then,” said Tom, holding his fingers close to her mouth.
Eleanor hesitated, but her desperation broke her. She opened her mouth and began to suck the cum-soaked fingers. She tasted herself as Tom pushed in and out; she worked her tongue around them to clean them for him.
What was she doing? This was pathetic. She had been a Forbes Rising Star at 27, for God’s sake! Now here she was, bimboified for her former rival, forced to serve him, and sucking his fingers the way she used to suck cigars!
Before she realised what she was doing, Eleanor’s hand had snuck down to her swollen clit.
“Naughty girl!” scolded Tom, gripping her wrist. “I didn’t say you could touch yourself. If I catch you doing that without permission, you’ll be doing your duties in padded chastity mitts.”
Eleanor roared in frustration. She remembered men begging her to date them, leaving roses at the office and booking luxury hotels minutes after meeting her. She remembered laughing in those men’s faces as she walked by, arm-in-arm with her latest intern. Once upon a time, Tom had been one of those men.
Now she found helplessly, obviously horny and not even allowed to masturbate.
“You could try asking permission,” said Tom.
Eleanor was outraged, but her body took the wheel. Disgusted at herself, she pleaded:
“Ughhhh! Fuck you. Fuck – please can I touch myself?”
Beat.
“…Sir?”
Beat.
Curtsey.
Tom smiled. “No. Not right now. You need to get things ready for my party tonight.”
“Bastard!” she blurted.
Tom wordlessly noted the demerit in Eleanor’s book.
“We’ll have less of that kind of language,” he said, “Unless you’d like me to wash out your mouth with soap. Now, run along and scrub those mucky little hands, please.”
He gave her a little pat on the bottom, which sent a fresh jolt through her.
“I’m timing you in the bathroom, don’t forget, and unless you tell me you need to use the toilet, the camera will be on, so no naughty hands while you’re in there, or there will be consequences.”
Eleanor growled to herself, gagging to push herself over the edge.
“When you’ve washed your hands, you can set the table,” said Tom. “The best cutlery is in the walnut box.”
***
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, thought Eleanor as she set out the silverware and wine glasses. Then she paused and smiled.
Hmm. At least he didn’t check my corset and find the letter.
She felt down her cleavage and was relieved to find the document still there. She would need to keep that safe until she could go to bed.
Ugh, she thought, as she polished the rim of a crystal decanter. He’d better not be expecting me to share his bed. This was a one-off. I was tired, I was caught off-guard. I am not horny for this piece of shit.
“Food will arrive in 1 hr 45 mins, and guests in two hours,” called Tom. “You might want to take yourself to the bathroom and make yourself presentable. There’s make-up in there for you. I want to see a perfect Pretty Maids pout!”
If looks could have killed…
“Oh, and in case you’re concerned about your trademark hair giving you away,” said Tom, “I’ve left you a couple of options in the bathroom for disguising it.”
Shit! Eleanor had forgotten her distinctive mane. She had been described in a Finance Forward profile as ‘the lion of service excellence’, and the nickname had stuck.
“Do let me know if you need a two-minute toilet break, Elly,” Tom reminded her. “If you don’t ask, the cameras will stay on in there.”
Eleanor threw the serviette she’d been holding at him as she stormed past, muttering: “I’m fine.” The letter would have to wait. She didn’t trust the camera to stay off.
“Oh, and Elly?” Tom called after her.
“WHAT?”
“Did you want your little mask, or will you be greeting the guests without?”
Elly stomped back in, snatched the mask from his hand and raged off back to the bathroom.
***
Eleanor entered the bathroom and gave the camera the middle finger. She was maddeningly turned-on, and furious at both Tom and herself.
Tom had indeed left some options for her hair. In front of her, she saw a full frilled mob cap (“ugh”), under which she could tuck her locks. Next to this, a long blonde wig with two girlish bunches of cascading curls sat on a dummy head (“nope!”) and finally, a bottle of blonde hair dye.
Incensed at the choices on offer, she snatched up the mob cap. Better this horrible thing than ditzy blonde curls, she grumbled to herself.
At least the letter was safe, she thought. She’d have to wait until after the event before reading it, but she’d been promised the guests would not touch her. If she could ply Tom with enough drink, he’d be spark-out by throwing-out time.
She wrinkled her nose at the make-up selection. Cheap, tacky, garish: fuchsia lip gloss, measles blusher, mascara that ran horribly. A far cry from the exclusive freebies she would find in gift baskets from exclusive brands.
When she examined the bottles, they were indeed approved Pretty Maids brands. Maids were required to keep a stock of PM Beauty products – ostensibly because Pretty Maids had a ‘brand palette’ and the girls needed to represent them correctly, but really it had been another money-spinner. And as with the uniforms, the products were cheap crap, repackaged as luxury. The cheapness had also served a second purpose: clients loved having the opportunity to tell off their maids for smudged lipstick or panda-eye marks. These watery products would not stay in position for five minutes, so the opportunities to punish her maids had been plentiful.
She ran a cleansing wipe over the smoky mascara trail on her cheek, and chose the least gruesome shade for her lips.
She wouldn’t give Tom the satisfaction of spanking her for messy make-up. From now on, he’d check every reflective surface to ensure he never had cause to smack her bottom again.
Oh God, she thought to herself. She was talking herself into obeying him. Keeping herself pretty and neat for him. His spankings were actually conditioning her to make herself into a perfect maid.
“UGH!” she said out loud.
Well, maybe she should just go the other way to embarrass him for a change. She’d be immaculate and sweet until the guests arrived, then bring out her surliest, rudest, messiest self, behind her mask. What was it they always used to tell new employees? As your client’s maid, you are their representative to visitors and guests. Very well. She would show him up as being weak and incapable of controlling his staff. He wouldn’t dare punish her in front of the board. Not if they were set on reforming the image of Pretty Maids.
She smiled to herself as she slathered on pink lipstick, combed in fresh mascara and tied on her black silk eye-mask.