Page 14 of Lily

Chapter Seven

Roselia winced with every step she took. The four stripes she’d begged her Master to inflict on her backside were more painful than any he’d ever given her before. The sadist was masterful at landing them evenly so that one stripe was on the back of her thighs just above her knees. The next was several inches higher below her butt cheeks. The next had landed directly over her ass. And the final strike had landed at the top of her ass.

The one high on her thighs was the worst because it was nearly impossible to sit on the toilet to pee. The bastard knew this. He took perverse pleasure in watching her squat over the commode to do her business and would chuckle when she returned to the room.

She’d been here four months, and she didn’t think she could live like this much longer. Her master was so mercurial that it was impossible to predict what might set him off from day to day.

It had taken her only a week under his roof to learn that she would never fully please him. She could cook the bacon to perfection, but the eggs were too runny. Or she prepared the eggs perfectly, but the bacon was too crispy.

She could vacuum the carpet in lines four days in a row, and the next day, he would go into a fit of anger because he preferred the vacuum stripes to be diagonal.

Roselia had learned to keep her head down as much as possible. It kept him from seeing her wincing. Days like today were the hardest. He’d never struck her that hard that many times, and especially not the day after another severe punishment.

Yesterday, he’d accused her of leaning over the side of the couch too far to fluff up the pillow and intentionally grazing her nipples across the leather. Not only would she never intentionally let anything touch her nipples, but she hadn’t come even close to letting them graze the leather sofa.

Her Master had forced her to lift her arms high above her head and stand still while he’d struck her breasts two times, once above and once below her nipples. Both of those strikes had come close to breaking the skin. She’d been left with thick red welts that hurt so badly she couldn’t hold back the tears and was still struggling to do so today.

There was no arguing with her Master. When he made up his mind about something, it was better to go along with it rather than risk his wrath by accusing him of making a mistake. She’d only done that once. He’d not only caned her ass twice right where her thighs met her butt cheeks, but he’d made her kneel for the next eight hours on what he called his punishment rug. It looked a bit like a welcome mat, except the surface was made of tiny hard points that reminded her of toothpicks. They’d dug into her knees all day, causing tears to run down her cheeks.

To make things worse, he’d forced her to accept an open-mouth gag, which nestled behind her teeth and fastened tightly at the back of her head. It was tight and painful and caused her to drool on herself all day long.

Her Master had said the gag would teach her not to speak out of turn in the future, and he’d been right. She had never again argued with him when he’d wrongly accused her of some misbehavior.

As badly as Roselia’s backside hurt today, she kept reminding herself it was not as bad as that punishment had been. Nothing had ever come close. The combination of kneeling for eight hours while drooling and trying to ignore the pain across her ass had been challenging, but he’d also sat next to her the entire time at his desk working, glancing at her every fifteen minutes to remind her to stop swaying, to pull her shoulders back, to thrust her tits forward so he could look at them. And on and on.

True to his word, she had learned a lesson. It wasn’t a logical lesson, but she’d learned one.

“Stop whining, girl,” her Master admonished as she dusted the shelves in his office. He hadn’t let her work in any other room today, and he was being particularly hard on her because he had a guest.

The days her Master had company over were the most challenging. Like the men who’d come and gone from Master J’s estate, it boggled her mind that so many men could casually come to the house without flinching over the nearly naked “maid” wearing a shock collar, pigtails, and no shoes. Did any of them honestly think what she did was consensual?

Every time her Master informed her there would be a guest, she had mixed feelings. On the one hand, she hoped that with each visitor, someone would leave the house and immediately call the authorities.

On the other hand, her Master was harder on her when guests were present. He liked to show her off like a prized cow. He would make her stand for long periods of time in the inspection pose with her hands locked behind her head and her feet wide so that whoever was visiting could see his slave’s assets. He would comment on her fine tits and her smooth cunt.

If anyone suggested touching her, he would growl and tell them he was the only one permitted to touch his slave. He did not share.

The irony in all that, and one of her saving graces, was that she could count on one thing from her Master—he had never once touched her sexually. She had no idea why. He bragged about her smooth skin, her tight cunt, and her even tighter asshole, but he had never tested the merchandise.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t miserable. Roselia had never been so tired in her life. Even the months of intense training under Master J hadn’t compared to how hard she worked in her new Master’s home. She got up every day at five o’clock and worked hard until usually nine or ten at night. He’d initially told her he would let her go to her room at eight, but he reneged on that more often than not.

Most evenings, just when she thought she would drop from exhaustion, he would declare that she certainly could not retire until she’d done something outrageous, like mopping the entire enormous foyer and cleaning every single step on the winding front staircase on her hands and knees.

She dragged herself to her room every night, showered as quickly as possible, brushed her teeth, and peed. The most excruciating task each night was lifting her arms to dry her hair before bed. If she didn’t do that task to his satisfaction—and he was always watching her on his monitor—he would discipline her first thing in the morning.

Yanking her out of her pity party, her Master’s voice boomed in the room. “Do you not hear the doorbell, girl?”

She flinched and spun around. She had not heard it. “No, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll go get it right now.”

Roselia walked to the door as quickly as she dared, having perfected the exact gait he would allow, not so fast that she was running but fast enough that she acknowledged the constant urgency of his requests.

Greeting his guests at the front door was the strangest one of her million assignments. After all, she opened the door wide, wearing the same uniform every day. Her tits were always pushed uncomfortably high, and her nipples had been trained to remain hard at all times. She often wondered if that were even possible. Could her nipples actually stay hard simply because he insisted on it?

“Good morning, Sir,” she greeted the man who stepped into the house. “Master is in the study. I’ll show you the way.” She shut and locked the front door, not daring to get close to the threshold. She had yet to be shocked by the collar, but she would never risk finding out what would happen.

Today’s guest was a man she’d greeted several times before. He was a bald man in his late sixties who’d been friends with her Master going back to their childhood. She’d easily pieced that together over the weeks.

Finding him at the door was always a disappointment because she already knew he would not save her—another missed opportunity.

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