AUTHOR'S NOTE: This post continues the story of Holly and Carla, the first parts of which are posted here as The Maid, Ch. 01-02 and The Maid, Ch. 03-04. While these chapters are intended to be enjoyable on their own, readers will, I believe, be considerably more satisfied if they read the preceding chapters first.
CHAPTER FIVE, in which Holly speaks her mind.
If you ever get a chance to fly first class on one of those fancy European airlines, I suggest you take it. Before our trip to Italy, I'd only ever been on dumpy, cramped airplanes, with yucky food and screaming babies and neighbors who insisted on sticking their elbows and knees into my space.
Carla's and my flight to Rome was a whole different ballgame.
We each had our own little cabin, with a minibar and a big screen (for an airplane) TV. Our seats lay back into beds with real sheets and blankets. And the service was next level. There was no waiting for some overworked stewardess to push a little cart through the aisle. Whenever we wanted anything -- wine, snacks, dinner, you name it -- we just put up a hand, and within five minutes it appeared, as if by magic. For a while, I thought if things with Sir and Mistress didn't work out, getting a gig on an airplane like that would be right up my alley, but after seeing how rude and condescending some of the passengers were, I put the idea out of my head.
Throughout the trip, Carla and I acted like your average pair of gal-pals. Let's face it, the airport, much less the airplane, wasn't the best place to draw attention to ourselves with a lot of finger-snapping and "Yes, Miss Carla's." Even in the first-class lounge, where you'd expect to find a lot of kinky people, I served Carla in a way that would look natural to outsiders. After all, kinksters don't a share secret handshake or anything, so you never know who's who.
Unfortunately, our first-class status couldn't save us from a four-hour flight delay, so by the time we landed in Rome, we were even more tired and grumpy than we would have been otherwise. With a lot of effort, I kept my grumpiness to myself. After all, the last thing I needed was to start our Italy trip in the doghouse due to my big mouth.
Almost as soon as we sat in the cab from the airport, our driver -- a hot Tunisian guy of about thirty -- started to hit on us. But to say Carla wasn't in the mood would be the understatement of the year, and she shut him right down. Even in the darkened car, I could see the guy's face blanch at the stream of abuse (which, she later told me, had included some pretty colorful local phrases) that she spewed all over him.
Because of course Carla speaks fluent Italian. How could I possibly have been surprised?
It was about nine p.m. when I saw the lit-up ruins of the Colosseum through the window of the cab, and a few minutes later, we got out in front of the hotel. The Umilta 36 isn't as swanky as some places on the other side of the river, but our rooms set Sir back over a thousand Euros a night. The important thing for Carla was that it was within walking distance of the stuff she wanted to see, so she was satisfied.
She strode straight in to the reception desk, leaving me on the sidewalk to find a bellboy to take care of our bags. There was some confusion with our rooms, but Carla applied her angelic voice and perfect Italian -- this time without the colorful phrases -- to the situation, and after minute or two, she walked away with two keys to a luxury suite, which, in addition to a ginormous sitting room, bedroom and bathroom for her, had an adjoining (much smaller) bedroom and bathroom for me.
The bellboy was one of those annoying types who insist on pointing out every detail of the room in hopes of a better tip (or the chance to hit on you), when all you want is for them to go away so you can collapse in peace. After he'd wandered around for fifteen seconds, Carla got fed up. She stuffed a twenty Euro note into his fist and shooed him out.
"I'm exhausted," she said, closing the door behind the bellboy. "I'm going to take a bath."
"May I attend you, Miss Carla?" I asked. I was also exhausted, but I thought that kneeling next to the bathtub and washing Carla's beautiful body would be the perfect way to unwind.
"I'll manage," she said. "Have my things unpacked by the time I'm finished." She disappeared into the bathroom without waiting for a response, and I got to work.
When we'd checked in at JFK, I noticed that Carla had a third, smaller bag, which she'd packed on her own. The combination to the locks on the two larger bags didn't work on the smaller, so I shrugged and set it aside. I unzipped the large suitcases, revealing outfit after outfit after outfit. Evening wear. Casual wear. Outer wear. Versatile essentials. Accessories. Carla had brought enough stuff to put on a one-woman runway show, all of it so classy that she wouldn't look out of place if she got an unexpected invitation to the Cannes Film Festival.
I frowned, thinking of the three or four frumpy outfits she'd lent me. "But you won't need anything else," she'd said, when I suggested taking a few of her nicer things, just in case. "You'll only be going out to run errands. Do you want to wear an evening gown to the bakery?" She laughed at the idea, and I glumly agreed that jeans and sweatshirts were all I'd need.
As I arranged her things in the huge walk-in closet, my hand somehow couldn't let go of a black, mid-length cocktail dress. It was nearly the twin of the dress Sir had given me to wear to Mistress's fortieth birthday dinner. I held it up in front of myself and sashayed in front of the full-length mirror in the closet door. I pictured Carla and me arriving at some hoity-toity party at a swanky Roman estate, where we'd meet suave European aristocrats, dashing Formula One drivers, charming Italian playboys. All eyes would turn to us as we entered, and...
"What on earth are you doing?" Carla's harsh voice was far from angelic.
I turned to see her standing next to me, wearing a thick terrycloth robe and toweling her hair.
"Nothing, Miss Carla," I said, hurriedly hanging up the dress. "I was just finishing with these. I can't figure out the lock on the other suitcase, though," I added, trying to change the subject.
"Don't bother with the suitcase," she said. "Why are you still dressed?"
Oh, drat, I'd forgotten about that. "Because you didn't tell me not to be?" Yuck. Even I knew how pathetic that answer was.
"I've made it clear you are to be naked at all times," she said. "Not when we travel, obviously, but do I really need to remind you to undress whenever we're back in private?"
"No, Miss Carla," I said. "I won't forget again." I pulled her Mount Holyoke Lacrosse sweatshirt over my head and undid the button on my jeans.
"I should hope not," she said. "I'm going to bed. Get yourself washed up. I'll allow you to sleep with me tonight."
"Thank you, Miss Carla," I answered. I smiled at the thought of falling asleep in her arms again. With luck, she might even find the energy for a bit of fun first.
When I emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, Carla sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She snapped her fingers, and I knelt between her knees.
"I decided I want a snack before I go to sleep," she said. Without further ado, she grabbed my hair and pulled my face into her soap-scented private parts.
On our first night together, I'd made love to Carla. There's no other way to put it. I'd even like to think we'd made love to each other, although I can't be sure. But on our first night in Rome, there was no confusion. I serviced her, end of story. There was no kissing tenderly along her thighs and across her pubic mound. No tongue-teasing her outer pussy lips before entering her. Her forceful grip on my hair told me to get straight to work.
I worked my tongue between her labia, massaging her clitoris with each stroke. I moistened my mouth to make my movements as pleasurable as possible. But Carla was slow to respond. I used every trick Mistress had taught me over the years -- speeding up then slowing down, switching between a sideways and a vertical motion, flicking her clitoris with the tip of my tongue, anything I could think of to entice her pussy to open and her juices to flow.
For ten minutes or more, I lapped and lapped and lapped, to no obvious effect. I worried I'd be unable to please her. But then, she shifted her pelvis slightly and let out a quiet moan. I kept up the same rhythm, fearing any change would interrupt her burgeoning arousal. At last, her labia swelled and her clitoris stiffened. She tightened her grip on my hair and moved her hips in synch with my mouth, rubbing her pussy against me. Her breathing grew heavy, and at last I tasted her juices.
I continued to lick her, and after another long while, her orgasm began to build. My mouth was dry and my jaw ached, but I was determined to put her over the edge. Then, just as she seemed ready to climax, she stopped me, pushing my head away from her gently.
"Wait," she said. She rolled her hips back and again pulled my face into her, this time forcing me down until my mouth found her anus. "Mmmm, that's what I want," she murmured. "That's a good girl..." My lips locked on her, and I probed her with my tongue. "Deeper," she moaned.
Nowadays, of course, analingus has become so common it hardly even counts as kink. But don't forget I'm from a conservative family in Beckley, West Virginia. Even after three years in submission to Sir and Mistress, I still find it pretty demeaning to be made to lick inside the same hole someone poops out of.
Familiar feelings of shame and self-loathing bubbled up inside. I debased myself for Carla, wishing I could be worthy of her -- worthy at least of her contempt, if not her caring -- even though I knew I never would. I was the filthiest, lowest-class whore alive, someone a goddess like Carla shouldn't bother herself even to step on or spit at. I didn't deserve the opportunity to worship even this most degrading part of her perfect body. I grabbed her hips with my hands and forced my tongue into her as deeply as I could.
My pussy was sopping wet.
Carla held my face in her bottom for a long time, rewarding my obeisance with soft moans of pleasure. I removed my tongue from her anus long enough to lick up my drool and tenderly kiss the flesh all around it. I adored her, revered her, venerated her. She reached her fingers into her pussy and pleasured herself. Her moans grew louder.
My own desire became maddening.
In the playroom, when Mistress makes me worship her anus, Sir fucks me from behind, making me squirm in pain and humiliation, but providing a measure of relief to my aching loins. After he squirts into my bottom, he turns me around and makes me suck his cock, to clean off the streaks of sperm mixed with anal lube and flecks of poop, while Mistress destroys my pussy with her vibrating strap-on. The orgasms I receive from this treatment are mind-blowing.
At that moment, I would have given anything to have my pussy or anus destroyed. Anything to quench my tortuous sexual thirst. I worked my tongue, desperate to put Carla over the edge so I could lie next to her and feel the blessed relief of her fingers entering me.
At last, she neared climax, and I forced my mouth onto her clitoris to finish her. Her body writhed in orgasm. She lay back, panting in relief. Once she'd caught her breath, she sat up and stroked my hair. "Good girl," she said.
I whimpered in reply, hoping she'd recognize my desperate need and invite me to lie next to her. Instead, she rolled onto her side and pulled the duvet up over her shoulder.
I sat against the bed, overwhelmed by disappointment and abandonment. The muscles in my groin ached, my pussy was dripping, and I was panting with desire. But when I reached my fingers between my legs and rubbed my clitoris, my arousal seeped away. Without Carla, I had no way to climax.
