Chapter Three: Finders Leaders
Is this what I want, or is this what I need?
It's funny how the questions never seem to stop -- even after the seemingly impossible has become true. I've achieved my goal, I've found a maid to cast me down and step on me on her way to the top.
You'd think that would be the end of the struggle. The end of uncertainty, fear, and self-doubt.
Apparently, it isn't.
It's funny: when I was hopelessly mired in my doomed and toxic quest for a maid that would snap at me, I used to question myself all the time... but that never stopped me.
I fully realised that I was exploiting financially vulnerable girls to fulfill my sexual fantasy. That I was being a terrible employer to them, causing real psychological harm to them... sexually harassing them, even.
I fully realised it would have been cheaper and easier to get some therapy. I questioned my sanity, my morals, my value as a human being...
But those questions never stop me.
So, now, I fully realise that Nora is slowly and deliberately flaying my identity, stripping away every load-bearing piece of my life and my self-perception, until all protection, every outer layer is removed, and all that remains is the raw, quivering slavegirl underneath.
And so I ask myself: what the hell am I doing? I question it, I question whether it's lack of caution or addiction or even insanity, because the things I'll give away now, are things I may not ever claw back, if I change my mind down the line...
But here's the kicker. My questions have never stopped me before.
Why should they stop me now?
"Time for an outfit change," Nora says, as she rifles through my closet, yanking out dresses and laying them on the bed. Claiming them as her own.
Next she moves to my vanity, draping herself in my jewels, admiring each piece in the mirror before replacing it back where she found it... but not how she found it. Not exactly.
We both know there is an undeniable change, here. We both know it's all hers, now.
"There now," she says, turning to me with a predatory smile, my grandmother's glimmering necklace around her neck. "Don't I look the part of the lady of the house?"
Ugh.
That final question makes me twitch in desperate arousal. Fuck. There is nothing erotic about the words in isolation, nothing at all, and yet... this is more erotic than sex itself. An utter and unmistakable affirmation of power, veiled in the form of a cloy joke, a playful quip.
This young girl from middling background is running circles around me. She's smarter than me. She's already got me, in more ways than one. I'm eating out of the palm of her hand.
More than that, she has a sixth sense for finding all the chinks in my armour... then sticking her fingers in, and prying them open, like gaping wounds.
Prying me open, like an oyster.
"Yes, Keeper," I say, shakily. "You do. Because... you are."
"Good girl." She pets my hair, and I immediately lean into the touch, like a love-starved pet that would do anything for praise, for acceptance, for validation. I thought I was an adult, wealthy, elegant, successful, privileged...
But Nora is showing me the truth. I'm an easily controllable, intellectually simple animal, highly responsive to the basest of incentives. Domesticated.
"Now," Nora says, clapping her hands once, "let's get you into something more suitable for a maid."
My heartbeat spikes upward like a rocket as soon as the words leave her mouth -- and now I know why she brought a parcel with her this morning. And sure enough, as she unpacks it and unfolds it, I see a beautiful, flowing dress...
A rather skimpy, sexualised one. My cheeks turn beet-red. It's a maid uniform, alright... and not a professional maid uniform, let's put it that way.
Nora's eyes glimmer as she holds up the uniform, showing it to me in all its glory... if a symbol of slavery can carry glory, that is. Perhaps glory to my owner, but certainly not to me. It's designed to accentuate my demureness and sexual object status, while stripping me of my class standing, my privilege.
To socially demote me to the very bottom of the ladder, while she claims the top to herself. A lady turned maid, and viceversa...
Nora holds it up against my body, measuring my worth with a critical eye.
"Ah, this one will do perfectly,"she says, once again with mock coyness, as if she's just found this dress rather than deliberately purchase it and bring it here. Her eyes gleam with triumph, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. "This will do. It's demure, yet it'll cling to your curves. You'll make a lovely serving girl."
Ugghhh. God, I'm getting so wet at the thought. Whore. Toy. Pet. All these words are hot, in their own connotation.
But serving girl...
That's so personal. So intimately connected to my warped desires. To my downfall, and self-destruction.
To my demotion.
"Come," Nora commands, leading me away from my lavish master bedroom, down a flight of stairs and then another -- almost like my tumble down the social ladder is taking physical form as I descend deeper into the bowels of my own mansion.
A cold realisation -- and the liquid heat of sexual need -- settles over me as I begin to realise where my keeper is leading me.
The help's room.
None of the maids I've ever hired has expressed any interest in relocating here. So, while the room exists -- and a part of my mind always dreamed that one day, a maid would relegate me into it -- it's never seen any occupant... until today.
I am to be its first. The first maid to take residence in these cramped, modest, supremely humble quarters.
Why does that feel so fitting?
