Page 46 of Need

I had no idea one of the most arduous aspects of submission was the simple concept ofwaiting.

“Now, you’ll stand there and look pretty until I call for you,” he’d said, after ensconcing me alongside the door to our office. It had been a long while since I’d been in the room, and it was certainly in much less surreal circumstances than I now found myself.

At least you’re not gagged this time.

It was afternoon now, and the incredibly slutty maid’s uniform Nick had stipulated for me that morning was no easier to get used to now that I’d been in it a few hours, than it was when first donning it under Nick’s sparkling, lust-filled gaze. The buttplug he’d forced into my ass after I’d put on the humiliating get-up didn’t help either, but he’d assured me with almost paternal calm, “You’ll be glad I made you wear this…later on.”

The maid uniform was essentially a one piece, whalebone corseting built into it that cinched my waist dramatically and made it uncomfortable to move in certain directions. At least I could breathe. What it also did was display and project my breasts in the most blatant, objectifying manner possible. This was made worse by the open neckline which swept down and under my chest rather than covering it at all. It was accented with a soft white chenille that set off the black and drew the eye unerringly to my breasts. All I was allowed to cover them with was a mockery of a bodice, made of only a black lace material little better than muslin—and hiding even less. In concert with the cool of the air, my embarrassment, and the constant frictioning of the rough lace, my nipples were erect almost constantly, something Nick took great pains to acknowledge numerous times throughout the day.

I’d been dispatched—after first being made to kneel and suck Nick’s cock until he filled my mouth with his thick, salty cum—to clean the whole house. Nick had pronounced that I was going to be his “service girl” for the day. Though I’d resigned myself to simply cleaning and probably cooking for him while he worked, it also wasn’t something at all unappealing. It held a simplicity to it, in a way.

He ordered, I obeyed.

There was a time that such a prospect would have offended me, perhaps enraged me. Now? It seemed to only fill me with wonder, and not a little bit of arousal too.

Jesus, how far have you fallen?

Apparently, quite far indeed.

Standing there, though, I marveled at how wrong my assumption was. It turned out what he intended wasn’t at all what I imagined.

For one thing, he’d never gone long without interrupting me. Sometimes, he would call me into the office to fetch him something. At others, he simply had me kneel at his chair, while he fondled my lace-covered breasts absently, as he typed away. Once after dispatching me to the kitchen to get him a cup of coffee, upon my return he had me sit in his lap while he worked, the report on the screen so much gibberish to me.

But there was an intimacy to it, even when he paused to play with my pussy, his fingers sliding deviously between the lips of my sex, circling and tweaking my swollen clit, slicking the curls of my pubis with my own embarrassingly copious—and fragrant—wetness. He worked me up until I was moaning, my head lolling upon his shoulder, my hands clutched about his forearm, though whether to stop my torment, or hasten it, I wasn’t sure of myself. All I knew was that he was killing me with pleasure, and I both wanted more and ever feared receiving just that.

Nick cleared his throat, bringing me back to the present. As I stood there, the only sound was Nick’s typing on his keyboard and the occasional deep “hmm” from his lips as he read something over.

The coolness of the air in the room played at the stickiness of my core. This was made much worse by the fact that the ruffles of the bottom hem of the uniform just came down only to the level of my mons. Fortunately, he’d stipulated smoky thigh-highs and matching sky-high heels to go along with the uniform, but it still left me entirely exposed, the hemline hinting openly at the curls of my pussy, the curves of my bottom clearly visible underneath. It left me feeling more naked than if I hadn’t been wearing a stitch of clothing at all.

Waiting in silence, I couldn’t help but replay the events of the previous evening in my mind once more.

Following one of the most violent—and hottest, though I wasn’t going to tellhimthat—fuckings Nick had ever given me, he’d taken me into the bath. Only it was like no other bath I’d ever had. I don’t think I’d ever been cleaner, so incredibly thorough had he been. I think my tits were especially clean, considering how long he’d had me pinned against the tiled wall of the shower, while his strong hands harshly squeezed, fondled, and slapped my breasts. He didn’t stop until my legs were going wobbly, my pained moans echoing off the walls as he twisted and pulled at my impossibly hard, throbbing nipples.

Worse, though, was being made to bend before him, my ass on full display, his gruff voice ordering me to “spread that cunt, bitch. I want to see if it’s fully clean.” For long moments, my face hot, I’d stared down at my feet, my fingers splaying my labia so wide it burned. Finally, Nick had patted my ass condescendingly. “Incrediblywetagain, slut. But clean enough, I suppose.”

The rest of the day, it seemed he’d wanted to reintroduce me to every part of the house again, and use me there. But even if he stirred me up on his long, thick fingers, drove me insane on his clever tongue, or staked me once more on his big cock…he never once let me come. Even when I begged.

And I didn’t want to think about how much I’d begged.

The best part of the day, though, was dinner. Surprisingly, he’d cooked for me, making me sit—naked, of course—on the island counter while he cut, chopped, and cleaned. Now and then he’d stop to suck hard upon a nipple, or slap a breast with a spatula, his mischievous gaze glittering at me the whole time, but largely he just let me watch.

There is little in this world sexier than a man who knows his way around a kitchen. And Nickalwayshad.

Though he hadn’t let me sit at the table with him, telling me that “whores kneel at dinner” instead, he’d fed me from his fingers, the whole time fondling my breasts, squeezing and caressing my ass, playing with my hair, and stroking every line and curve of my face. He stared down at me more than once as I’d knelt there, a possessive heat in his dark gaze that had my pussy letting down so strongly I was afraid I’d leak onto the floor, despite my recent bath.

It was the most erotic meal I’d ever had.

Ironic that, to discover these connections between one another…only after it was much too late.

For dessert, rather than one of his wonderful concoctions, I got his hard cock in my sore pussy, bent over the dining room table, the glasses clinking as the table rocked and creaked under his punishing thrusts. After he’d come deep inside me again, he’d dismissed me with a harsh, stinging slap to my ass. “Bedroom, slut.”

And still, he hadn’t let me come.

That night, he’d taken me to bed quite early, and as exhausted emotionally and physically as I was, I was actually grateful for it.

For hours we laid there together, naked, and he touched me, anywhere, everywhere. Sometimes his caresses were loving and gentle, at others, possessive and demanding.

Still, he would not let me come.

---