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Chapter Text

Lauma washes and chops the freshest vegetables and fruits she can find inside the fridge. She arranges them neatly on a large plate, making sure each color and shape stands out. Next, she carefully slices some rye bread and places it beside the salad. She sprinkles the dressing over everything as a finishing touch.

She watches you sit slouched on the couch, your eyes heavy with exhaustion and her heart aches a little. You are always so tired, always moving too fast through the weekdays and she wants to give you a small relief, something to brighten the rare moments where you can rest. It is the weekend after all, the only time when the world slows down enough for you to breathe and she just wants to make it easier for you, even in a tiny way. She hopes that this simple act, a fresh salad and a warm smile, can remind you that someone cares for you.

When she is done with the salad, she carries the plate carefully to the living room where her lover awaits, holding it steady with both hands. She walks slowly to avoid spilling anything, stopping only to stand near you. She sets the plate gently on the small coffee table in front of you.

“Here,” she smiles and gestures to the salad. “I made this for you.”

You look at the dish and she watches the way your eyes light up with appreciation. She feels so satisfied as you pick up a fork and take the first bite. You chew slowly, savoring the mix of flavors. She watches the way you relax, your shoulders loosening for the first time in days and it makes all her effort feel worth it.

“Do you like it?” she wants to know.

You nod, looking up at her with a tired but grateful smile. She just stands there shyly before the you, her eyes downcast.

“I am so happy,” she says finally. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.”

“You succeeded, Lauma,” you say, lifting your hand up.

She understands the assignment and as if on cue, she immediately bends her knees to sit on the carpeted floor. When her long purple hair is closer to you, you gently pat her head.

“Good girl,” you say as you pat. “You look so beautiful tonight.”

Her cheeks flush crimson and she averts her gaze, focusing on the intricate patterns on the old armchair opposite to you. She looks down to her clothes next, wondering what is so beautiful about them anyway. Tonight, she just wears a simple white nightgown that falls loosely around her body. The soft fabric drapes gently over her shoulders and flows down to just above her ankles. It is nothing special but your kind words always make her heart flutter.

She squeezes her thighs together, feeling a familiar ache between her legs. She rests her head on your thigh, looking up at you with those doe eyes of hers whenever she wants something. This time, it is you. You catch her meaning immediately.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Mmm,” she does not answer, just nestles her face deeper into your thigh.

“So cute,” you say, continuing your gentle pats, a reassuring smile on your lips.

“I have never…” she voice awkwardly trails off as she gathers her courage.

She takes a deep breath and leans in closer, her large breasts brushing against your legs as she does so. She hisses when her nipples rub against the fabric of her nightgown, the friction too delicious to ignore.

“You have never what?”

“Never done anything like this before,” she answers, looking directly at your crotch.

That checks out. She is quite shy and inexperienced in bed, always letting you have your way with her. Over the time you two have spent together, you have learned what she likes and dislikes through experimentation but she has never been the one to initiate. She has always been on the receiving end of things so to have her offer herself so blatantly surprises you.

Regardless, an encouraging smile plays on your lips as you reach down to gently cup her face, tilting it towards your own. Your thumb strokes her cheek, sending shivers down her spine.

“You are all good, my love,” you whisper. “Take your time. I am always right here with you.”

With that, she has all the encouragement she needs. Her shy fingers reach the waistband of your pants and she hesitates, biting her lower lip in nervousness as she slowly unzips your fly. Her trembling hands slip inside to wrap around the soft length of you. She notices immediately and straightens.

“You are not excited?” she frowns.

“I guess not. Why don't you come closer and show me what you've got?”

“Hmm,” she nods, standing up.

Her hands rest on your broad shoulders and she feels the warmth of your skin through the fabric of your shirt. She needs to get you enthusiastic first instead of tired and she knows exactly how to have all your attention. As she begins to move, her hips swaying gently, all her shyness slowly melts away. She let her eyes flutter close, focusing on the rhythm of her dance and the touch of your hands on her hips. Your fingers guide her, urging her to be more sensual and more confident. She obeys instinctively, her body responding to your gentle pressure.

She gasps when she feels your thumbs softly circled her delicate nipples through the fabric. A soft moan escapes her lips before she can stop it. The sound seems to encourage you and your touch grows bolder.

“So soft,” you murmur, cupping her gently.

“They're very sensitive,” she warns, arching her back to press her breasts further into your palms.

Lauma bits her lip when you are done having your fun. You should be plenty excited by now, she decides, and pressed a palm to your crotch to check. What she feels there makes you gasp.

“Ah,” you say, your body responding instinctively to the stimulation. “That feels amazing.”

That is all the encouragement she needs. She bends down to kneel on the floor again, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. She feels ready now. Her hands reach out to hold you, caressing and exploring every inch of you. As she does, her touch grows bolder.

“Easy now,” you sigh, your eyes fluttering closed as she begins to stroke you.

With a deliberate slowness, she guides you towards her, her gaze locked on you as she parts her lips, welcoming you into the warmth of her mouth for the first time. She takes you deep, her tongue swirling around you as she savors the taste of your skin.

“Mmm,” she hums, the vibration resonating through you as she began to move.

“You feel incredible,” you manage to say.

Her big nipples stiffen under the fabric even more as she works you with growing confidence. Your hands find her hair, tangling in the silky strands as you guide her pace, urging her on with encouragement. Her breathing grows heavier, her cheeks flushed with arousal as she loses herself in the simple act of pleasuring you.

As her skills improve, she feels confident enough to take you deeper, her lips stretching to accommodate your girth. She experiments with different rhythms too, trying to learn what pleases you the most. You gasp and thrust against her hot mouth, fueling her desire even more to bring you to the edge. With a final stroke of her tongue, she releases you, her lips puckered around the tip as she gazes up at you with her wide and innocent eyes.

“I don't think I can hold back much longer,” your voice is husky with need.

“Did you have fun?”

“Come here,” you say, not answering her.

You position yourself between her thighs, your hard length pressing against her entrance. Her nightgown pools around you. As you suspected, she has no panties on. You encourage her to wrap her legs around your waist and she tentatively obeys, her hips rising to meet you as you slowly pushes inside her. You both groan, her forehead falling to yours as you fill her completely.

Chapter Text

You wake up the soft hum of your household robot, a soothing background noise. The walls of your bedroom are painted a cool grey, smooth and flawless. On one side of your bedroom, a floor to ceiling window offers a panoramic view of the city skyline. The blinds are automated and you notice your maid has already opened them as per your instructions the night before. On the wall opposite the bed, a giant smart screen is idle with some stock updates. The shelves are almost empty, except for a few books and the latest gadgets neatly displayed.

Despite the calmness of you bedroom, you woke up with an ache deep within your body. You feel it most strongly in his lower abdomen, a dull throb that clouds your mind. As you sits up in bed, your rigid erection springs to attention, bobbing noticeably under the covers. You can't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. The hardness is almost painful, a physical manifestation of all your pent up energy. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, giving yourselves some space to address your morning wood. Your palms gently cradle the heavy length, feeling the heat radiating from it. You stroke yourself slowly, silky smooth skin that seems to tighten with each pass of your fingers. The ache eases as your blood flow increases and you pulsate in your grip. You continue to pleasure yourself, working in a steady rhythm that has you breathing heavier. Your mind begins to wander and you imagine the feel of a warm and willing mouth wrapped around you. The fantasy sends a shiver down your spine and your erection twitches in anticipation, threatening to spill instantly. However, as you near the edge, your grip tightening and your thumb rubbing fast circles around the sensitive head, you stop abruptly. You will find someone else to take care of you.

Outside your bedroom, everything is crisp and clean thanks to Ineffa, your new robot maid. You find her dusting the coffee table in your living room, wearing her signature maid uniform, tailored perfectly to fit her mechanical body. Her apron is spotless, tied in a neat bow at the back and her tiny lace headpiece sits precisely above her smooth blue hair. Her joints move silently, almost human like as she glides the duster across the table. She never tires, never complains and never misses a single detail but there is a specific reason you purchased her yesterday.

“Good morning,” she greets you when she sees you.

“Morning, Ineffa,” you reply, watching her work. “May I ask you for a favor?”

“Of course,” she says, turning to face you. “What is it?” she tilts her head.

“I was thinking maybe you could help me with a personal matter today.”

Her artificial eyes gaze up at you, crystalline and mesmerizing. She must notice your nudity but she does not comment on it. She is your robot maid after all and this is your home. You take a step closer, your erection becoming too painful to ignore. When you tell her what you need from her, a moment of silence passes as she processes your request.

“Of course,” she repeats. “I'm programmed to assist with any task you request.”

“That’s my girl.”

“If this is a need you have then yes,” she nods. “I am prepared to fulfill it.”

“You better get to work then,” satisfied with her response, you take a seat in an armchair nearby.

As you sit down, you watch her approach you with her usual mechanical pace. Your personal robot maid, designed to serve and please you, now kneels down in front of you, allowing you to access her mouth. You waste no time inserting your already hard cock into her mouth. Her mechanical eyes flicker as she processes your order. Slowly, she lowers her face, extending her tongue. The cold and artificial flesh passes over your cock.

You expect the predictable sensation her throat contracting around you but something feels off, like her programming has gone haywire. Her mouth does move though, her tongue flicking out to taste you but it's clumsy and uncoordinated, not at all what you expected. She chokes once and mumbles something you cannot understand, whining in protest as you try to thrust deeper. You pull out, frustrated.

“Ineffa, reboot. Now.”

The metal maid follows your command, her internal systems shutting down and then restarting with a soft beep. When you reinsert your cock into her mouth, she's just as incompetent. This time, her lips squeeze too hard, her tongue scraping against your sensitive glans.

You try guiding her, showing her how to move her head, how to use her lips to suck and stimulate but she's a clumsy and malfunctioning mess, unable to follow your cues properly. Your patience wears thin after the third attempt. Her purpose is to pleasure you and she's failing spectacularly.

You grip her blue hair, forcing her mouth to take your cock for the fourth and final time. She sucks once again but it feel like being wrung out like a wet towel. Even if you imagine receiving oral from a dysfunctional prostitute on the streets, that would probably feel a hundred times better. That is the only thought preventing your cock from drooping in disappointment.

“Ineffa, you're broken,” you say with dissatisfaction. “I'll need a new maid."

She sits still, her face motionless. You sigh, knowing you will have to return her to the manufacturer tomorrow and start the search for a new and reliable servant. Her job as your pleasure robot has come to an embarrassing and unsatisfying end. Still, there are other ways you can use her before you get rid of her.

“You'll face the consequences for your failure,” you say, heart racing at the thought.

“I apologize, my suction was inadequate earlier. It won't happen again.”

“Bend over my lap,” you say, patting your knee. “Undress, too.”

“Understood. Please give me a moment.”

She is quick to undress and when she obliges, your palm rests on her exposed bottom. You trace the curve of her cheek with your fingers before delivering a firm slap that echoes through the room. You suspect she cannot really feel pain. She doesn't protest or try to move away, confirming your suspicions. Instead, she remains still, presenting her ass for you to correct and discipline as you see fit.

Your hand rises once more, doubling the force of the next strike. Again and again, each blow lands with a loud thwack. You continue to spank her in a steady rhythm, your hand rising and falling with a loud crack each time. Her artificial flesh turns red from the repeated blows. After a minute of relentless punishment, your slow your pace, giving her rosy cheeks a gentler rub with your palm.

“That's enough for now,” you decide. “You've had a proper scolding.”

Ineffa, still bent over your lap, simply nods. “Yes,” she replies, “I deserved that.”

She remains silent, awaiting further instruction.

“Now, let's see if your obedience has improved,” you say, grasping your swollen cock.

When you have her on the floor on all fours, you kneel behind her, her attractive bottom presented just for you. Her face is pressed against the floor and head turned to the side, her expression emotionless. Her pussy lips are dry when you spread them apart with your fingers. You run a thumb from the tiny pucker of her ass to her slit, carefully inserting a finger into her snug entrance. As you suspected, she does not require any foreplay.

Her pussy is tight and inviting, her walls clenching around you as you slowly pump in and out, deciding to test her limits. You switch to two fingers, scissoring them to stretch her opening. Once again, she does not react. You wish she would at least whimper, maybe arch her back as she pushes her pussy more against your hand but she does neither. Her body accepts your intrusion without any resistance.

Encouraged, you grasp her hips, your thumbs digging into the soft swell of her red ass. Her hands flat on the carpet as she waits for your next move. Without hesitation, your align your thick cock to her entrance and press forward, sinking into her inch by inch, claiming her body. You start to thrust, your hips slamming against her ass. When you lean over her, your chest pressing against her back, it allows you to plunge deeper. With a final and brutal thrust, you bury yourself to the hilt inside her, your cock pulsing as you release yourself into her empty cunt.

You decide you will not return her to the manufacturer after all.

Chapter Text

Ningguang gestures to the her velvet draped dining table where a feast awaits. The fragrance of spicy food fills the air, inviting her guests to sit down for the evening.

Steaming baskets of dumplings rest at the center of the table, their delicate skins almost translucent. Each dumpling holds a burst of flavor within, some filled with finely seasoned pork and chives, others with shrimp wrapped in a touch of ginger. Beside them is a platter of roasted duck with golden brown skin that crackles at the touch of a knife. Thin slices are arranged around the plates, their rich aroma mingling with the faint sweetness of star anise and honey. A small dish of plum dipping sauce waits nearby. A tower of lotus seed cakes stands tall on a silver tray, the perfect dessert to end the evening with. Each cake is molded into a delicate flower, dusted with fine sugar that sparkle in the candlelight.

Ningguang sits at the far end with a bowl of fish soup in front of her, watching the thin curls of steam twist into the air. The broth is clear yet deep in flavor, carrying notes of ginger, scallion and rice wine. She dips her spoon under tender flakes of white fish that float within the broth, picking up soup and strands of seaweed that get in the way.

“The seasoning is perfect,” one of the guests say as she sets down her chopsticks.

“You always ensure every detail shines,” says another, nodding in agreement.

“Thank you,” Ningguang inclines her head slightly, the corner of her lips curving.

“You did not just gather us here just for pleasantries, did you?”

She takes another sip of her soup before she answers. She lets the taste of the broth linger on her tongue and then she sets her spoon down. Her gaze drifts between her guests, sharp as a jeweler’s eye weighing the worth of rare stones

“I remember something I forgot to do,” she says finally, rising from her seat.

Her chair slides back without a sound and she smooths the folds of her gown before turning away from the table. Her steps are unhurried, as if the simple act of leaving in itself is part of her elegance and charm.

“Will you be gone long?” a voice calls after her.

“Who knows,” she replies without a care.

Ningguang leaves the dining hall and enters a long corridor, her heels clicking lightly against polished stone. The hallway stretches endlessly, lined with carved wooden screens. Red silk hangings stir faintly as she passes, painted with gold threaded cranes that seem ready to take flight. Tall windows reveal the silhouette of the harbor beyond, moonlight flickering on the water like scattered diamonds. The silence is deep, broken only by the echo of her own movements.

At last, she reaches the heavy set of doors, their surfaces embossed with curling clouds and mountains. She pushes them open to reveal her bedroom. A canopy bed sits at the center, its silk drapes embroidered with fiery dragons. Low tables rest nearby, bearing porcelain vases full of glaze lilies, her favorite flower.

“Good evening, my plaything,” she says to you, tied in the center of her bed. “My, you look deliciously trapped,” she says when you do not respond. “How did you manage to get yourself into this predicament?”

She evaluates your helpless situation with a sly and amused smile. Stretching out a manicured hand, she trails her fingers along your bound form, from your bare shoulder to your stomach, leaving trails of goosebumps in her wake.

“I must admit, it is not often I display such…” she searches for the correct word, “carelessness for my guests,” she decides finally, probably referencing to how she left you tied up in here since noon and forgot to check up on you.

You cannot respond, of course. You have been gagged for hours, even though she pretends like you are able to talk any time you want. She takes great pleasure in the fact that you cannot.

“There is something intriguing about you,” she pretends to think. “a peculiar eagerness,” she says and her smile grows, revealing a flash of white teeth, “perhaps even a hunger for submission.”

You swallow hard, your pulse racing with a mix of fear and excitement. The thick ropes dig into your skin, even when you make zero attempts to move.

“Are you ready to surrender yourself utterly to my command?”

You nod, unable to form words. A low and approving chuckle escapes her lips at your response.

“Ah, how delightful,” she muses. “You have thrown yourself into my mercy. Very well, since you have waited so patiently…” she steps closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

With a flick of her wrist, a small portion of your bindings come undone, freeing your left wrist. You instinctively try to bring your palm to her face, to stroke the smoothness of her skin, but she is too far away.

“Here,” she says, stepping even closer. “Let me make you comfortable. You will need use of your hands to properly adore me, after all,” she adds, climbing the bed to straddle your hips.

She leans into your caress, a soft sigh of satisfaction escaping her lips. The tender gesture seems to please her. She loves that you are not angry with her, even though she had forgotten you.

“Good girl,” she says, her voice a sultry purr.

You think about dinner, about how you have not eaten in so long. Ningguang is having a dinner party tonight, you remember. You wonder what the guests are eating right now.

“The party is going great,” she says, as if reading your mind. “Everyone seems to be enjoying the food. Do you know what is on the menu?” she waits for your respond, as if you are capable to replying. “Thought so,” she says when you do not say anything. “You, on the other hand, will be eating something far more delicious soon.”

With a playful chuckle, she grinds her hips, applying delicious pressure that draws a pained groan from your throat. She rolls again, her movements expertly designed to stoke the embers of your arousal. You are helpless to do anything but surrender, your body instinctively reacting to her dominance.

“You see, being bound in my bed is merely the prologue,” she explains, her eyes never leave yours. “Only once you've proven yourself a worthy servant will I consider releasing you from our arrangement.”

With a wicked smile, she reaches for a jeweled plug from the drawers of her wooden nightstand. The toy is an imposing sight, nearly the size of your wrist. You cannot help but shudder at its obscene size and shape, imagining the sensation of being filled to the brim.

Ningguan's moves to sit in front of you. Her grip is unyielding as she forces your legs up, exposing you completely. She positions one plug at the entrance of your ass, the head pressing against your tightly closed hole.

“Scared?” she chuckles, slowly pushing the plug forward. “You mustn’t be. You are going to take this nice and deep.”

You gasp when she begins to apply pressure, instinctively trying to clench. Inch by excruciating inch, the plug invades your body, the tight rings of your ass stretching to accommodate its massive girth. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes from the unbearable fullness but her relentless grip holds you steady.

Finally, the bulbous tip disappears and the plug is seated snugly inside you. For a moment, you are grateful for the temporary rest but she is far from finished. She reaches for the second and even larger plug, holding it up for your horrified gaze.

“Open wide, little pet,” she commands, “Just one more hole remains to stretch and fill.”

You gasp at her implication, struggling against the restraints holding you in place but her strength is unmatched. With a cruel smirk, she begins the process anew. She repositions the second plug and with a grunt of effort, she forces the massive toy into your pussy as well, stretching you to your limits.

“There,” she declares, standing back to admire her handiwork. “That is so much better.”

You whimper and writhe in pain. The plugs bulge obscenely from both your holes, the jewels glinting with each of your uneven breaths. You are utterly stuffed, each plug expanding you to an obscene width.

“Now, let us see if you can properly worship your mistress,” she says, removing your gag.

You take a deep breath, finally released, but before you can form words, she lowers herself onto your face. Her hand snakes down to grasp your hair, pulling your face to her bare pussy hidden underneath her dress. You are unable to look away from her perfection. Instinctively, you part your lips, allowing her to guide you to her throbbing entrance.

“Trying to say something, dear? You will have to wait until we are finished, I’m afraid.”

Your mouth hurts from being restrained all day but when her musky aroma fills your nostrils, your head spin with desire and you begin to forget all your pain and discomfort. With a shaky breath, you lean in and run your tongue up her slippery skin. She lets out a soft moan, her fingers tangling in your hair. The taste explodes on your tongue: sweet, tangy and utterly intoxicating.

Driven by insatiable hunger, you lick and suck, now a slave to your mistress's pleasure. Ningguang's body begins to respond, her legs tightening around your head. She rocks her hips, increasing the pressure. She grinds against your face, her arousal building with each slick glide.

With a shuddering cry, she reaches her climax, her body convulsing around your mouth. You drink up every drop, worshipping her as she rides out the waves of her pleasure. Finally, she stills, her breath coming in soft gasps. She looks down at you, her eyes a fathomless red.

Chapter Text

Dust moves in the air like ghosts. The hallway stretches long and narrow, lined with portraits that seem to watch you no matter where you stand. You drag a cloth across a cabinet’s smooth surface, listening to the rhythm of your own breathing, steady and careful. The house is so quiet that even your smallest movements feel like trespass. Each sound you make feels magnified as if the house itself listens for mistakes.

At the far end, resting on a mahogany cabinet carved with curling patterns, stands the vase. It stands ominously against the dark wood, its porcelain pale as bone. Thin blue veins spiral up its surface like frozen smoke. It looks impossibly fragile, the kind of beauty that demands distance, the kind that punishes touch.

You’ve always been afraid of that vase, not because of its price but because of what it represents. Skirk once told you it belonged to someone important to her and ever since then the object has felt sacred. Whenever you clean near it, your breath shortens and your hands slow. You tell yourself it’s only porcelain, yet some part of you believes that breaking it would be more than an accident. It would be a betrayal, something the house itself might remember.

Skirk likes silence. She says it keeps the mind clean. You tell yourself that’s why you move so quietly. You tell yourself that’s why you barely make a sound when you turn, cloth in hand, and your elbow brushes the edge of the vase.

“Oh!”

It happens in one blink. The sound of shattering porcelain splits the silence in two.

Your breath catches. The cloth slips from your fingers. White shards scatter across the polished floor, glinting like tiny knives. Your pulse hammers against your ribs. You drop to your knees, trying to gather the pieces. The porcelain bites into your skin. You barely notice the sting. If you can just fix it, if you can make it look whole, maybe she won’t see. Maybe she won’t know. You tell yourself that over and over as you fit the shards together.

The lines never match. The gaps show no matter how you turn them. There’s a faint ticking from the clock in the hallway. 3:30 PM. She will be home in half an hour. You swallow hard.

“Think….”

You could hide the pieces, throw them out with the trash but she knows where everything is.

She would notice. She always notices.

Your hands shake as you gather the shards into your apron. You carry them to the kitchen, every step too loud, each one echoing down the long hall. You set the pieces gently into a drawer beneath the sink and close it. You breathe once. Twice. You turn, wiping your bloody palms on your apron. Maybe you can distract her.

Maybe she’ll be tired. Maybe—

The thought breaks as you hear the sound footsteps on gravel outside. Your blood freezes. She’s back early. You move quickly, wiping the floor where the vase had fallen, sweeping away the smallest dust of porcelain. You stand, heart climbing into your throat, and glance toward the door. The lock clicks and the door opens.

Her heels strike the marble like a slow heartbeat.

“Good afternoon,” she says, her voice low.

“Good afternoon,” you repeat suspiciously quickly.

Skirk is tall, her posture impossibly straight. Her coat is black and fitted, cinched neatly at the waist, the fabric smooth and heavy. A faint sheen of rain glimmers on the hem. Her gloves are dark leather, her fingers long and poised, and when she removes them, she does so slowly. Her white hair is pinned back neatly today, not a strand out of place.

Her eyes flick toward you once, and you feel pinned to the spot. There’s no anger yet, just that calm and unreadable stillness. She steps further into the house, glancing around.

“It smells like polish,” she comments. “You’ve been cleaning the sitting room?”

“Yes,” you say, throat dry.

She nods absently. Her gaze drifts toward the empty space on the cabinet, the space where the vase once stood. It takes her only a moment. Her head tilts slightly.

“Where’s the vase?” The question is gentle. That makes it worse.

“I…” you force a smile. “I was dusting and I thought maybe I should move it somewhere safer.”

“How thoughtful.”

She doesn’t blink. You can’t tell if she believes you. Her gaze slides away toward the cabinet again. She runs a finger along the empty surface, then looks at her fingertip as if checking for dust.

“Show me,” she says suddenly.

“Show you?” Your heart drops.

“Yes,” she says, already impatient. “Where did you move it?”

You hesitate only a second, but it’s enough. Her eyes narrow just slightly, just enough for you to feel the ground shift beneath you. You nod quickly.

“Of course.”

You lead her down the hall, full of dread. The sound of your pulse drowns out everything else.

In the kitchen, the air smells faintly of lemon and soap from your cleaning products. The light here is dimmer, filtered through small windows streaked with the rain outside. Copper pots hang in neat rows along the wall, their surfaces catching the weak light like dull coins. The counters are smooth and pale, scrubbed clean until they shine. Every object has its place: knives aligned by size, jars labeled in Skirk’s careful handwriting and chairs tucked neatly into a table. Even the ticking of the clock above the doorway feels measured, as if time itself obeys the same strict order of her home. You stop by the counter.

As her maid, you’ve spent more hours here than anywhere else in the house, yet it never feels like yours. It’s a room that belongs to her even in her absence, shaped by her rules and her expectations. You sometimes imagine that if you were to leave a cup in the wrong place, the walls themselves would whisper the mistake to her and she would punish you for it.

“Well?”

“I…” your throat feels too tight. “I put it under the sink.”

She watches you open the drawer. You suspect she already knows. When the drawer is fully open, the shards catch the light. For a moment, there’s only silence and then she exhales softly, as if amused.

“So that’s where it went.”

You try to speak, but the words don’t come. She bends and picks up one piece, a curved fragment of the rim and turns it between her fingers. The edge is sharp and a small line of red blooms on her thumb. She doesn’t flinch.

“You broke it,” she says finally.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course you didn’t,” her tone is soft, almost kind. It scares you more. “No one ever means to.”

The air leaves your lungs. You stand frozen as she sets the shard down and wipes the small bead of blood against her sleeve. The blood disappears into the darkness of her coat.

“I told you before,” she says quietly, “everything in this house has meaning.”

“Yes,” you don’t know what else to say.

“Every object,” she continues. “Every placement. Do you remember?”

You nod once more.

“Say it,” her gaze sharpens.

“I remember,” you say warily.

You lower your eyes. The silence stretches until you can hear the blood in your ears. You feel like you’ll pass out any moment now.

“Good,” Her lips curve, not a smile exactly but close. “You listen well but you don’t learn. I can replace a vase but what worries me is the pattern. First the tea spilled on the tablecloth last week then the curtains hung unevenly. Now this.”

You want to tell her you try, that you don’t sleep until every surface gleams, that your fingers ache from scrubbing but she’s already watching you with that expression.

“You see,” she says, voice dropping low, “it’s not about the vase. It’s about whether I can trust you, whether you can trust yourself.”

“Then prove it.”

She steps closer. You can smell her perfume, dry cedar and smoke. Your chest tightens.

Chapter Text

“Take them off.”

The command is so simple and so direct that for a moment, you don’t fully process it. Your mind stumbles, confused.

“What?”

“Are your ears as useless as the rest of you?” Skirk’s voice hardens. “Take off your clothes.”

Oh.

This isn't a request. It's an order, backed by an unspoken threat of such magnitude that disobeying feels like a form of suicide.

You begin removing your uniform methodically, almost ritually. The ribbon of your white apron slips from your waist with a quiet rustle. The black dress underneath is plain, pressed neatly at the seams, with a high collar that pinches slightly at your neck. You undo the buttons one by one, feeling the tension in the fabric release, and fold the dress carefully, placing it on the floor. Your stockings come next, dark and smooth, fitting snugly over your legs. You pull them down slowly, careful not to make a sound. The small leather shoes, polished until they shine, are the last to go, set neatly on the floor beside your clothes.

“Faster,” she clips out, her patience already worn thin. “I do not have eons to waste.”

You are left in your underwear. The air now touches your bare arms, and you feel a chill that has nothing to do with temperature. Your skin prickles, and every instinct screams at you to stop, to cover yourself, to run. Hesitantly, you unclasp your bra. The simple garment feels impossibly heavy as it comes off.

“Don’t stop now,” she says and her gaze sharpens, becoming more invasive. It feels physical, like cold fingers tracing the lines of your body. “You haven’t even shown me everything yet.”

Your face burns with a shame so hot it feels like a brand. You force yourself to meet her eyes, a pathetic act of defiance that she seems to find mildly entertaining. Your hands drop to the waistband of your panties. This feels like the final and unforgivable violation. Every fiber of your being rebels. To stand completely naked in the kitchen it is a humiliation too profound to name. Your fingers refuse to cooperate. They shake too much, fumbling at the simple waistband.

“Do you need assistance?” she asks and the threat in her voice is unmistakable. “I can peel the rest from you. I assure you, you will not like my methods.”

The threat spurs you. With a surge of energy, you push your panties down your legs. You have to awkwardly lift one foot and then the other, kicking them away. They join the pile of your uniform on the floor. You don’t bother folding your underwear and then just you stand there completely undressed, utterly vulnerable.

“I haven’t even touched you yet, and you’re practically quivering out of your skin.”

Skirk circles you slowly, like a shark examining a strange piece of driftwood that has drifted into its territory. Her eyes miss nothing. Her finger, unnaturally cold, reaches out and presses against your shoulder. You flinch at the contact.

She moves behind you. You feel her presence at your back, a terrifying power that makes the hairs on your neck stand on end. You fight the urge to turn, knowing it would be a useless and panicked gesture. Tears of helpless fury and humiliation prick at the corners of your eyes. You fight them back, knowing they would only earn you more of her scorn. You clench your jaw.

For a long moment, she just looks. She sees the goosebumps on your skin, the slight tremor in your legs, the rigid set of your jaw. She sees right through the shame and the fear in your eyes.

“Spread your legs,” she commands when she faces you, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Slowly, almost painfully, you widen your stance, making you feel utterly exposed and vulnerable under her unblinking gaze.

“Wider,” she insists. “Don’t be shy now.”

Shame flushes your cheeks but a deeper and more insistent heat begins to coil in your belly. You part your legs further, your stance becoming less a spread and more an offering. The cool air brushes against your inner thighs, a contrast to the inferno building within. Her eyes sweep over your exposed skin, lingering between your thighs. You feel a prickling sensation there, a nervous anticipation. Your body is already humming, a low thrum of desire and apprehension.

“Now,” she says and knees.

She lifts her hand. It moves with a terrifying slowness, tracing an invisible path in the air before it finally descends, not to touch you directly, not yet. It hovers a fraction of an inch from your bare skin, a phantom heat preceding the real thing. You suck in a sharp breath, your entire body tensing, every nerve ending screaming in anticipation.

Her fingertip, surprisingly gentle, finally makes contact but not where you expect. Instead, it brushes the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, just above your knee, a feather light touch that is barely there. It sends a jolt through you anyway, a tremor that shakes your entire frame. She drags it upwards, slowly and agonizingly along the inside of your leg. Your breath catches. Her finger continues its ascent, closer and closer to the epicenter. It brushes the soft skin that frames you, a teasing caress that makes you ache with longing.

You bite your lip, a soft whimper escaping before you can stifle it. You clench your hands into fists when she smiles knowingly, your nails digging into your palms. You squirm, unconsciously rocking your hips forward, seeking the contact she denies.

Her finger finally makes a light and teasing tap, a single and fleeting touch against your clit, so brief it’s almost imagined. The sensation is vivid and sharp, like an electric shock. Your entire body convulses and an involuntary moan tearing its way from your throat. Your legs feel weak.

“Easy,” Skirk warns, though her tone suggests anything but. “Don’t collapse on me.”

She repeats the tap, a little firmer this time, and then again, rhythmically, playfully, like a drummer teasing a beat. Each tap sends a ripple of exquisite agony and pleasure through you. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus, trying to breathe, but it’s impossible. Her touch and her words consume you.

When her finger finally stops tapping, you feel a tremor and a tiny gush, the first undeniable sign of your body’s surrender. You shake your head weakly, unable to believe it, ashamed to be so easily aroused. Her finger finally settles on your clit, not teasing now, but pressing gently. She follows up with a slow and deliberate stroke.

Up.

Down.

It’s a simple motion yet it detonates an explosion of sensation. Your knees nearly buckle.

“Good,” she whispers, satisfied leaning closer until her breath is warm against your skin.

Her other hand now rests lightly on your hip, a steadying presence that paradoxically makes you feel even more unstable. She continues her slow and hypnotic stroking, building the pressure.

Your entire being focuses on that one point of contact, that one exquisite friction. You want to protest, to deny her power, but the escalating sensations silence all resistance. Your head lolls back, your eyes still squeezed shut, feeling only her.

“Open your eyes,” she commands, her tone hardening.

It’s a struggle, but you force your eyelids open, blurry at first and then focusing on her face. Her expression is unreadable. You see yourself reflected in her eyes, a trembling and desperate mess.

Her strokes become a little faster, a little firmer. The pressure builds, a delicious and unbearable torment. Your breath comes in short and sharp gasps now. You feel an insistent throbbing deep inside you, a tightening in your belly. A fresh wave of shame, mixed with overwhelming arousal, washes over you. You want to please her, to give her the reaction she craves, but you also want to hold onto some semblance of control and dignity. It’s a downhill battle. She increases the speed, relentless now, driving you further and further to the brink. Your legs tremble violently, your muscles screaming for release. Your entire body is taut, a bowstring stretched to its maximum. You can’t speak. You can only whimper, a guttural sound that’s half plea and half sob. The pressure is immense, radiating through your entire body. Your vision blurs, dots of light dancing behind your eyes.

“Good girl.”

The words are like a final push, sending you tumbling over the edge. Your body spasms, and a violent and rough cry tears from your throat.

Your legs give out and you collapse to your knees, still trembling, still convulsing from the aftershocks of your release. You are utterly spent, utterly hers, and despite the degradation, relief washes over you. You remain on your knees, head bowed, unable to meet her gaze.

Chapter Text

By the time you collapse against the cool marble of the kitchen, your lungs burn and your legs feel like lead, every muscle trembling. Sweat drips down your temples, soaking the floor, your hair sticking damply to your skin. Your chest heaves with each breath, and the world tilts slightly from exhaustion.

Skirk stands by your feet, arms crossed, watching you with that calm and unreadable expression of hers. There’s a faint and almost invisible curve to her lips, a smugness that cuts deeper than any words could. She makes no effort to hide it, and it claws at you: a reminder that every strained breath you take is hers to command and hers to watch. You are utterly spent, yet the moment she finally speaks, you feel a fresh surge of terror.

“Get up,”

You slowly push yourself up, your limbs heavy and aching, your entire body humming with residual energy. You stand before her, your face flushed and your eyes swollen.

“Clean up the broken vase,” she commands. “Every shard and then polish the drawer until it shines like nothing ever happened. While you do, think about what you’ve taken from me,” she turns, heading toward her study. “I’ll be in the next room. Don’t make another sound.”

The door closes behind her. You stare at the drawer. The porcelain glints up at you, ghostly white. You almost forgot you did that.

You sink to the floor and begin, one piece at a time, still naked. The edges slice your fingers again. Blood mixes with the cleaning solution and the smell of it makes you dizzy. You work until the skin around your nails burns. You wipe, polish and scrub. The minutes drag. You don’t cry, not yet. You just keep moving.

From the study, faint music drifts into the hallway: a slow and mournful melody of classical piano. The notes fall one after another like raindrops on a cold windowpane, echoing through the empty corridors. Each chord lingers, carrying a quiet sadness that seeps into your chest, as if counting your mistakes. Sometimes a minor key screeches unexpectedly, sharp and unsettling, making your pulse hitch. The sound seems alive, following you, pressing against your back as you scrub and polish.

When the drawer finally gleams, you stand, lightheaded. The clock says 5:00. You’re not sure if you’re allowed to wear your uniform again so you take no chances. Naked, you head down the hallway and towards the study where she waits.

“Through the silver night…” she hums inside, haunting melody that drifts through the door.

The door looms at the end of the hallway, tall and imposing, made of dark and polished oak. Its surface is carved with geometric patterns. The brass handle feels cold and heavy under your fingers as you hesitate. As you step closer, the weight of what awaits on the other side presses down on your shoulders and your hand hovers over the handle, trembling. You knock once.

“Come in,” her voice is calm and composed as always.

You open the door. She sits at her desk, relaxed now, no longer in her stiff black coat and gloves. Her hair is loose at the nape of her neck, white strands falling softly over her shoulders. She wears a simple blouse and dark trousers that allow her to move freely. The subtle ease in her posture makes her seem almost approachable, though the weight of her presence still fills the room. She doesn’t look up.

The piano has fallen silent now, the keys resting untouched in the corner, and her music no longer fills the space. On the desk before her, papers are laid out in meticulous order: letters stacked on top of each other, ledgers aligned edge to edge, a notebook open with neat handwriting that winds across the page in perfect columns.

You stand there, heart tight in your chest, watching her. Every inch of her orderly space reminds you of your own small imperfections: the mistakes she notices, the shards you handled, the errors you can never fully erase. Fear and awe curl together in your stomach. You are both terrified and drawn to her and terrified.

“Well?” she says after a pause.

“It’s done.”

She nods, still reading.

“What have you learned?” she wants to know.

“To be more careful,” you assume.

She finally looks up and her eyes fix on you in a way that makes your stomach twist. Her gaze is strict, measuring every inch of your naked body: your posture, the twitch of your hands, the falter in your breathing.

“That’s part of it but not all,” her voice is colder than the room. “What else?”

You think for a long moment. Your throat tightens when you finally realize what exactly she wants to hear.

“That everything I touch belongs to you,” you decide finally.

“Exactly,” she says, now satisfied. Her lips curve slightly.

She stands and walks around the desk. For a heartbeat, you think she’ll scold you again but instead, she reaches out and brushes her thumb over one of the small cuts on your hand. The touch is light, almost tender.

“See what happens when you rush. You hurt yourself trying to fix what’s already broken.”

You nod, unable to speak. She lets go of your hand.

“Go wash up and get dressed,” she instructs. “Bring me some tea when you’re done.”

You nod once more and turn to leave. Her voice stops you halfway to the door.

“Next time,” you hear her say softly, “tell me the truth first. Lies waste my time.”

You look back. She’s already returned to her desk, pen gliding over paper.

-

Back in your bedroom, you turn on the tap inside your bathroom and let the cold water run over your hands. The sound of running water fills the kitchen, sharp and loud in the quiet manor. The red from the vase swirls down the drain, streaking across your skin. Your hands shiver as the water slides over them and you grip the edge of the sink. You look at your broken reflection in the mirror, wishing your shame would vanish as easily as the water.

When you finally step into the shower, letting the hot water hit your shoulders, you move quickly, scrubbing and rinsing with hurried motions. The steam swirls around you, warm and thick, but you barely notice it, thinking only of Skirk’s sharp voice reminding you she wants tea. You lather your body fast, counting seconds in your head, afraid to take too long. The thought of disappointing her pushes you to move even quicker, and the water runs over you in a blur as you hurry to finish.

Once you’re done, you pull out a fresh pair of underwear from your wardrobe, the fabrics cool against your fingers. Slipping into them, you pull out a new uniform too. When you wear the dress, it settles around your shoulders and falls neatly to your knees. You tie the white apron at your waist, and smooth it down until it lies perfectly flat. Your stockings slide up your legs and you fasten your shoes. Standing in front of the mirror, you adjust the apron straps and straighten the collar like nothing even happened.

Chapter Text

You reach for the tea leaves in the kitchen, careful not to spill a single one. You try not to think of what happened here just moments ago. Instead, you focus on the deep amber blend of the leaves. You know Skirk likes her teas strong with no sugar, with just a touch of milk sometimes to soften the edge without dulling its bite. She always says it sharpens her mind, keeps her alert, and suits her best. The aroma fills the kitchen as you measure the leaves, and you imagine her taking that first sip, the corner of her mouth tilting in quiet approval.

You fill the kettle and set it on the stove, watching the water heat until it begins to tremble and steam rises. You spoon the leaves into the teapot and pour the boiling water over them. The rich aroma curls upward, filling the kitchen with warmth. You let it steep for exactly the right time, glancing at the clock nervously and then lift the lid to admire the deep color, proud that it looks just as it should.

Balancing the teapot and one teacup carefully on a tray, you walk across the hallway towards the study once again. Your chest tightens when you knock and she allows you in. You set the tray on the desk in front of her, the steam rising in a thin and perfect column.

She glances at it with a sharp eye. Her gaze lingers and you hold your breath, waiting for the words that tell you whether you’ve done well or fallen short. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even bother to thank you. She never does. She just takes the cup, her fingers brushing yours again, barely but enough to make you flinch anyway.

“Careful,” she says. “You’re shaking.”

You nod, heart hammering. She takes another sip and this time, she lets the tea linger on her tongue, the way a connoisseur would savor a rare wine. She lets her eyes fall closed for a moment, and you swear you see the faintest relaxation in her posture. Just as quickly, her eyes snap open.

“How do you like your tea?” she asks softly, almost conversationally now.

You blink, startled by the casual question.

“I…” you try to think. “I’m not sure,” you say finally.

“You have a lot of time to find out,” she says and takes another sip, savoring its taste. “Every day is an opportunity to learn and sometimes,” she tilts her head slightly, studying you now before she adds, “learning hurts,” her eyes lock onto yours, dark and unyielding, and you feel the weight of her words pressing down on your body.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur. You cook dinner and clean the dishes. You wipe every surface twice, then once more just in case. You polish the kitchen counters until they shine, catching your reflection in the surface: pale and tired, a ghost in black and white. Each task folds into the next until you stop thinking about them at all. You just move, careful and precise, the way you know she expects. By the time the last dish is put away in the cupboards, the house is quiet again, so still that you can hear the grandfather clock ticking away in the hallway.

When she goes to her bedroom for the night, she pauses by the kitchen door. You wonder if she’s thinking about this afternoon, the remnants of which you just spent so long cleaning up. If she is, she doesn’t let it show on her face. Her expression is unreadable as always but she looks somewhat more tired than before. The light from the chandelier catches in her hair, and for a fraction of a second, she looks almost human, not the imperious figure who rules the manor. She doesn’t speak for a while, only tilts her head slightly, as if listening to a sound only she can hear.

“Tomorrow,” she says finally from the doorway, “we’ll go to the antique shop.”

“Why?” you ask and wince.

You’re not supposed to question her. Her eyes narrow in response.

“You’ll help me choose a replacement vase,” she says, turning away and down the hallway.

“Yes, ma’am,” you nod, even though there’s nobody to see it.

So she has been thinking about what happened in this kitchen. Your face burns with shame at the memories. You stand in the empty room, staring at your reflection in the polished counters. Your hands still tremble and the cuts still sting. You press your palms together to stop the shaking. When you close your eyes, you see the vase again: the moment it fell, the sound of it breaking, her voice as she touched you. You open your eyes. The room feels smaller, the air too still.

Somewhere deep down, you realize you’re not afraid of her anger. You’re afraid of her calm, of the way she looks at you like she’s already rewritten you in her mind, reshaped you into something she can own. Maybe that’s what frightens you most, that you don’t know where her control ends and your obedience begins. You allowed her to claim you, after all, since the day you were employed. You can’t help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction, knowing that you have pleased her in the end, no matter the degradation.

You tell yourself you’ll do better tomorrow. You’ll be careful, silent and perfect but part of you knows she’ll find something else to complain about, another flaw to smooth away until you can’t tell what’s broken anymore: you or the things around you. Maybe next time, you’ll earn the right to be treated with a bit more respect but for now, you’ll endure whatever punishments and pleasures she sees fit to bestow upon you.

In the distance, you hear her footsteps upstairs. A door opens and then closes. Silence returns, heavier than before. You breathe slowly, counting each exhale. The house finally settles.