This is intended for adults 18 and over. If you are offended by graphic descriptions of a sexual or violent nature, please do not read or download this. If this is illegal wherever you are reading this, please . . . read on. Remember to have fun and in the end, cum! All characters portrayed are at least 18 years old. (M/F, non-consensual/reluctance, Teen, Bondage, Light S&M)
The writer of this piece does not necessarily condone nor commend rape or non-consensual sex acts. The following piece should be interpreted as a role playing exercise. Please Note: The writer is also more interested in exploring the sexual and emotional relationships between two people, rather than jotting down some boring, asinine erotic story.
This story can be interpreted in any way the reader wishes it to be interpreted; a moral lesson, an intuitive allegory. There are as many interpretations as there are people that populate the earth. It is a story of Dominance and Submissiveness. Of Ignorance and Knowledge. Of Man and Woman. Of Good. Of Evil
Thanks to LadyCibelle for editing!
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"What is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil."
Friedrich Nietzsche,
Beyond Good and Evil, Aphorism 153
Everyone hated him. That's why he was forced to pay so much. Arrogant, alcoholic, often sadistic, always misogynistic – never a good mix in anyone's books. The easy cash in hand nature of the work was often the sole reason she stayed, and the simple disposable income always came in handy.
Mr. James, the man of the house, was not what you'd exactly call obscenely wealthy, but he owned much of the arable land in the area, the only few businesses in the middle of the small township and consequently had a very good stable income. As a result, he could afford to keep Jocelynn as his maid, though she often felt more like a babysitter at times. Not that the James' had any kids – just that Mr. James often needed a lot of looking after when he started drinking, often after his bored wife hit the town every second night or so.
Jocelynn was only employed to do menial work – cooking, cleaning, washing and ironing, that kind of thing – four or five times a week after she finished school, 5 till 9pm. Sure he had his eccentricities. Every now and again he would get her to do some shitty, festy job – scrub the grotty toilet, or clean the garbage cans out – and he always seemed to watch her carefully as she did it. Mr. James was almost always drinking – usually strong whiskey – by around 6ish, which meant he'd be fairly drunk by the time she went home. The last hour or so would be particularly tense as she tried to avoid rubbing him the wrong way, knowing first hand that he usually took his anger out on her. Drunken tirades and verbal abuse were becoming the norm rather than the exception. His drinking made him aggressive and arrogant.
Jocelynn, on the other hand was quite naïve, virginal and innocent. Pious as Christ. She was no supermodel, but she was rather attractive in her own confident way. It was the way she carried herself on eggshells that made men's heads turn. The light, lolloping gait and raised chin, her alert eyes constantly aware and searching. Where Mr. James was tall (over 6') trim and tanned, Jocelynn was diminutive (5'2"), voluptuous and chalk white, with a cheeky dimpled smile and a condensed spattering of dusky freckles across her round, unremarkable nose, rounded cheeks and shoulders. Her hair was dark red, almost maroon, and swept down long and straight to her shoulders, where it, curled slightly at the tips, a sharp contrast to Mr. James' bleached, close cropped style. They did share the same shocking green eyes; but where Jocelynn's were wide, long lashed and inviting – almost mischievous – Mr. James had the cold narrow eyes of a man who had not only seen pain, but was prepared to inflict it on others. Jocelynn's told you everything about her. Her employer's answered to no one.
Tonight she only had to stack the dishwasher and endure Mr. James for another hour and a half before her mother would pick her up and take her home. She was tired, sweaty and irritable. Mr. James – for whatever reason – had stipulated that she wear a maid's uniform; and in this day and age too!
It was a stereotypical maids outfit – a brief black one-piece dress, tight and low cut, edged with frilly lace edging and separate apron; black seamed stockings with garter, and tall gleaming black stilettos. A tiny white bow sat on a black strip of satin that circled her adipose throat, matching perfectly with the ribbon adorning the maids cap on her head, both also edged with the ubiquitous white lace. He had given her a flimsy g-string and bra set – again, lace edged – though she refused to wear them most of the time. She had shown them to her mother, concerned at one stage. She merely smiled. "I worked for him in a very similar outfit years ago," smirking at some distant memory as she looked her daughter up and down. Was it approvingly? Most irritating is that there was something indefinably appealing about the uniform . . .
Now, in Mr. James' kitchen, she roughly shifted the fabric across her bust, pulling it up over her massive breasts again – she hated her almost freakish double D breasts so much in the bodice – always in the bloody way – as the dress had obviously been made for someone smaller. But then, she hated her boobs regardless – she was always getting unwanted attention, and buying brassieres was, to say the least, a bitch. The boning of the bodice cut sharply under her massive chest, making her itch constantly, to say nothing of the skirt – "T'would make a whore blush," as her grandmother would say. Mr. James' shouted taunts snapped her from her thoughts.
"Give us another drink, darling," he slurred. Jocelynn sighed inwardly and grabbed fresh cold can from the fridge for him. One and a half hours, she reminded herself.
Mr. James had his back to Jocelynn as she strode through the broad lounge room door, hurling abuse at his beloved plasma widescreen TV. Jocelynn quietly placed the can at his side and turned on her heel. She heard the sharp crack of the can. "Nuh uh," he barked, "Sit." He indicated to a rotund, fleshy footstool in front of him. "Here, have some."
Jocelynn dreaded what was about to happen. She'd heard the rumor and insinuation. How he turned young girls into women. She'd tried to ignore it. They rarely complained, true, and no one had pressed charges, but it scared her. The unknown. He was well known as a lecherous man, despite being only 49 and unconventionally attractive. However, she'd never seen him so drunk in all the time she'd spent at the house.
The living room was so . . . oppressive. Shaded slender-beamed lighting threw most of the large room in shadow, the TV the prime light source in the room. A long, tall bookshelf sat on the right of the double doors, full of popular classics – Crime and Punishment, Great Expectations, Lolita, complete Shakespeare. Lots of Penguin Editions. All in pristine quality, like they'd come straight from the book store. The only books that appeared to have been read even vaguely was de Sade – well-thumbed and annotated – and American Psycho, still with the book mark only a quarter of the way through. His DVD collection much wider, mainly action, thriller and pornographic. A massive Roy Lichtenstein print hung above the grey stone-look hearth on the left.
He was always with a well-stocked liquor cabinet, though. He became a different person when he drank. With vodka, thankfully, he was usually asleep before he left, dribbling down his front. Beer, on the rare occasion he could stand the taste, made him merry, cheery, almost humorous. Of course, he thought himself the veritable comedian. She hated it when he drank bourbon, like tonight. He turned into the kid who sits around pulling the wings off flies, out of curiosity. Interested in the reaction. But then, that's where Dahmer started . . .
"Drink," he repeated. Jocelynn sank lower and attempted to sink into the stool. She raised the can and sipped apprehensively, squinting at the taste, if only to appease him. A hot flash ran across her temples at the taste of the bourbon. She tried fluttering her eyelids and donned a cutesy smile, hoping her "Bambi" eyes would put him off. It didn't.
"I fucking told you to drink it, you stupid bitch," he shouted, "It would help if you were fucking
grateful
when you're offered a treat!" Abruptly incensed, he grabbed the can and tipped the base of it up, emptying the half of the can down her throat. The rest of the syrupy coke mix ran down her chin and neck, soaking her up thrust breasts, and drenching the already sweaty bodice of the uniform. "Jesus fucking Christ," Mr. James exploded, "What the fuck are you doing? Take that shit off."
Jocelynn looked up sharply. "Am
I
doing?!" Wide eyed and trembling with realization, "Wait. What?" She choked, "All of it?"
"Everything you got wet," he replied. Too easily.
"But I didn-"
"Everything
you
got wet," he repeated, "Are you gonna fucking argue? Are you being PAID to argue? I told you to drink it," he snarled aggressively, lurching forward in his seat. He made a grab for the cleavage of the dress, knocking her backward off the stool, landing heavily on top of her, straddling her chest. He seemed lost for a moment, hunting, mumbling: "Didn't fuckin' think so . . ." His hands roamed across the bodice of the garment, searching for the fasteners. He forced her arms down to her sides when she struggled, kneeling on them, disabling her completely. "Do you want me to take this out of your fucking pay?" Their eyes met for a dark moment and the elders burned like fire. Jocelynn's gaze veered off vacantly toward the ceiling.
"No." She whimpered. Jocelynn shivered, despite the fact that the heating was turned right up on that chilly night, "What . . . what are you going to do?" She felt helpless; she couldn't believe that this was happening. She was also wondering how she would feel about it in different circumstances. Desire wasn't the right word, but it was the first to spring to mind. She stuttered, "Wh- What's going on? What are you going to do?"
"Oh, not much. Well . . ." He paused, "I'm going to fuck you," he paused, still looking over the bodice, then sneering; "Unless you resist. Then I'll rape you." So matter-of-factly, almost to himself, "And it won't be pretty . . ." He chuckled. An empty, primal snort. Still immobile, Jocelynn started to cry. Not so much at the pain in her arms, or the embarrassment, more just the shock of what was going on; Mr. James remained emotionless, looking almost curious, astride her. All vestiges of arrogance seemed gone.
Seemed
.
He waited, observing. She grew more hopeful when she saw that he had stopped being so forward. He pressed a thumb against her swollen eyelid, wiping the moisture away. He repeated the action again with the other. She sniffed, "Why are you doing this?" A whimper, "Taking advantage of me? I'll quit. I'll never work here again," her voice rose, trying to sound older than she felt, "I'll go to the police. I'll, I'll . . . I'll hate you
forever
