Maid's Instruction Read online

  Copyright Katt Ford 2020

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  All characters in this story are over the age of eighteen

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  Read Parts 1-7 here

  Read Part 8 here

  Read Part 9 here

  Read Part 10 here

  Read Part 11 here

  Read Part 12 here

  Read Part 13 here

  Read Part 14 here

  Read Part 15 here

  Read Part 16 here

  Read Part 17 here

  Maid’s Education

  "Again."

  Ms. Robertson stood in the center of the living room, her arms folded across her chest in a way that only accentuated the tightness of the black sweater she wore. A black leather pencil skirt hugged her thighs, and tall black high heels completed the outfit. By the standards of some of the clothes I had seen her wear, it was a relatively conservative look. But the riding crop she held in one hand left no doubt as to the true nature of the woman in front of me.

  Turning at the door to the living room, I began walking again. I held a silver tray between my hands, with several wine glasses balanced on it. Today, for the purposes of training, they were filled with water. My eyes down, I watch the water wobble and lap at the sides of the glasses with every step I took as I made my way across the living room.

  Who would've thought walking would be this hard? It seems like such a natural thing. But as in everything, Ms. Robertson had very exacting standards. We were supposed to walk in a very specific way, a kind of swaying shimmy that would make the flared skirt of the maid's uniform swing from side to side. And all of that in ludicrously high heels. I placed one foot in front of the other carefully, as though walking an invisible tightrope, making sure to roll my hips the way she wanted while still holding the glasses steady. I could feel both Ms. Robertson's and Tiffany's eyes watching me as I crossed the living room to where our mistress stood.

  "Better," Ms. Robertson said as I approached. A quick smile bloomed on my face before I could suppress it. My shame was only magnified by the idea that I was actually pleased by her praise. As though I had internalized Ms. Robertson's dominance of me so much that it actually made me happy to do what she wanted. But it was the truth. A truth Tiffany had warned me about. It was already happening.

  And all the while, there was the bright burning sensation of my undying arousal. Between my legs, my pussy was moist with desire. Being treated like this, being trained to serve as a submissive maid by Ms. Robertson and Tiffany was turning me on as much as everything they did to me. That, and the thought of why they were doing it. The thought of Ms. Robertson's parties had occupied my mind ever since I first heard about them. Now, it seemed, I was going to be made to serve at one of them. The idea was intoxicating.

  "May I offer you a drink, ma'am?" Ms. Robertson's eyes traveled up and down my body as I stopped in front of her, holding out the tray with the glasses on top of it. I tried to be as meek and humble as I knew she wanted, my voice a soft simper that I based on the way Tiffany talked.

  “No,” Ms. Robertson said curtly.” Go back to the kitchen.”

  "Yes, ma'am." I turned, feeling my tiny latex French maid's uniform swirl around my thighs as I moved. And as I began to walk back toward the door, focusing on keeping my walk as provocative as possible without spilling the drinks, I didn't notice what was coming. I didn't hear the quick hiss of Ms. Robertson's riding crop. It was only when I felt the sudden bloom of pain on the back of my thigh that I realize she had struck me. I cried out, and jumped. The tall glasses leaped on the tray and tumbled to the floor, shattering with sharp pops as they hit the floor in a puddle of spilled water.

  Ms. Robertson stepped forward. Before I could even turn around, she was on me. I felt her grip a fistful of my hair and yank my head painfully back. Her other arm coiled around my body, pulling me back against her as she hissed in my ear.

  "You stupid little slut," she growled, and fear raced through me at her words. "To serve at one of my parties, you need to be able to deal with distractions. People are going to touch you. To do things to you. You need to be able to handle that. Tiffany?" At either end of the room, I watched the other maid step forward at once. Tiffany's pretty face smiled as she approached me, walking perfectly in the way her mistress wanted, swaying provocatively as she minced along on her own high heels as naturally as if they were a part of her. While I watched, Ms. Robertson's hand moved over my body. Still holding me by the hair, her other hand reached for one of my boobs, squeezing it through the tight latex that clung to it. Involuntarily, my nipples swelled in desire, forming two hard visible bumps in the shiny black latex. As Ms. Robertson's thumb slid over my nipple, I shivered and trembled in her arms.

  Tiffany took the tray I still held and set it down on the floor. Then, her pretty blue eyes peering into mine the whole time, she reached up underneath my skirt. It didn't take much to push it out of the way, and I moaned in humiliating desire as I felt the other maid's fingers caressing the dripping lips of my pussy. Sandwiched between two beautiful women, I moaned and gasped as pleasure floated through me, overwhelming the fear I felt at having failed my mistress yet again.

  "That's what you're there for," Ms. Robertson said again in my ear. "To be used in any way my guests see fit. Maybe that means serving drinks. Maybe it means shining their shoes. Or maybe it means being groped and fucked and used. Whatever it is, whoever wants it, you're going to give it to them. Isn't that right?"

  "Yes, ma'am," I moaned. Her hand had never stopped caressing my breast through the uniform, and the built-in corset gave me no choice but to stand with my chest thrust forward for her use. Meanwhile, Tiffany's hand was busier than ever between my legs, rubbing faster and faster at my pussy. My pleasure swelled, my clit emerged, and Tiffany teased it expertly with her hand. I knew that I was on the edge of orgasm there and then, the two women handling me like a toy in a way that my body couldn't help but respond to. My own hands clenched into useless fists at my side, my legs suddenly weak with the pleasure that flowed through me. The excitement I felt was so intense it bordered on pain, and yet all I wanted was more. And as I moaned and howled in desperate delight, Tiffany slid two fingers inside me, parting the wet walls of my womanhood as she reached for my G spot. I leaned back against Ms. Robertson who still held me from behind, quaking like a leaf in her arms as Tiffany began to curl her fingers back and forth inside me. A loud scream of pleasure was torn from my throat, and my inevitable orgasm exploded within me. Hot juices of desire ran like a river down the inside of my thighs, coating Tiffany's hand as she toyed with me, and I shivered and moaned with pleasure.

  "Such a slut," Ms. Robertson said dismissively as she released her grip on my hair and my boob. She stepped back, and with that unspoken signal, Tiffany withdrew her hand from my spasming pussy. She, too, stepped away from me, leaving me standing between the two women, feeling more alone than ever as the last throb of pleasure slowly faded inside me. My knees felt like jelly, and it was all I could do to stay on my feet in my ridiculous high heels, swaying like a tree in a storm as I struggled to maintain my balance. Silver flecks danced the edges of my vision while I tried to catch my breath, hindered by the tight corset laced around my stomach. The latex of my outfit creaked with every breath I took, feeling tighter than ever as it clung to my torso. Exhausted by pleasure, all I wanted to do was sit down, to bask in the warm glow my superiors had given me. But I knew that wouldn't be allowed.

  “Clean up your mess,” Ms. Robinson curtly ordered.

  "Yes, ma'am," I gasped. Lurc
hing forward as though I'd forgotten how to make my legs work, I stumbled toward the kitchen. Tiffany watched me go, her eyes shining with the same devious mischief that I had come to fear and adore. Meanwhile, I listened to Ms. Robertson's footsteps as she made her way to the huge sofa that sat in the middle of the room. As she sat, I headed for the kitchen. I knew by now where the cleaning supplies were kept.

  Leaning on the huge island in the middle of the kitchen, I drew as deep a breath as the corset I wore would allow. Ms. Robertson was waiting, I knew, but I needed a minute to compose myself. Not that that was easy. My hands on the cool granite of the island, I remembered what had been done to me on that same island a few days earlier, and it predictably fueled the desire I still felt. As blissful as my orgasm had been, it did nothing to dampen my desire. If anything, it enhanced it. The reminder of what these women could do to me, what they could make me feel so easily, only served to emphasize their power over me.

  But there was no time for thinking about everything I already knew. I had a job to do. And as I turned, ready to go to the closet to fetch a broom and a dustpan and some paper towels, I stopped. Tiffany had followed me into the kitchen. And her eyes were shining still as she slowly walked toward me.

  "Well, you fucked that up," she said.

  "I couldn't help it," I protested, noticing my own lingering breathlessness as I spoke. "She whipped me."

  "I would think you'd be used to that by now," Tiffany said. She was standing right in front of me now, and the smell of her perfume mingled with my own. We smelled the same. We looked the same, or at least as close as the two of us would ever look. We both wore the same skimpy maid's uniform that exposed as much as it concealed. Ms. Robertson knew exactly what she wanted in a maid, and it was our job to give it to her. Still, I didn't look like Tiffany. My hair was dark and mostly straight, compared to her blonde curls. My makeup might be just as heavy as hers was, but I didn't feel that I looked as pretty as Tiffany did. I was trying to emulate her, trying to copy her submissive femininity that pleased Ms. Robertson so much. It was proving to be harder than I thought.

  “With the amount I’ve been whipping you, I mean,” Tiffany went on. “Or are you saying I haven’t been whipping you enough?”

  "No," I said, shaking my head. I didn't need to show the same total deference to Tiffany that I did to Ms. Robertson. Still, I had to tread carefully. We weren't equals. Both of the women had made that much clear to me. And I wasn't sure we ever would be. Tiffany had a power over me that came mostly from Ms. Robertson's borrowed authority. But that wasn't its sole source. For all that Tiffany seemed like the perfect submissive in her dealings with Ms. Robertson, it was abundantly clear to me by now that she possessed a sexually dominant streak of her own. I had once wondered if she was jealous of me coming into Ms. Robertson's life. But now I knew that she enjoyed it.

  "No? Let me see what she did to you." Without waiting for an answer, Tiffany gripped my arm. Again, I was surprised at her strength as she turned me around, pushing me back against the kitchen island. I felt her hand on the back of my neck, pushing me down, and I didn't resist. Bending at the waist, I bent over the kitchen island just as I had done before, when I'd crossed the line and earned punishment from Tiffany. She lifted my skirt, and I knew she could see my pussy shining with the moisture of my arousal, the damp trace of the orgasm she had given me moments before in the living room.

  "She barely even touched you," Tiffany said. I felt her hand on the heated skin where Ms. Robertson's riding crop had struck me. "If that's all it takes to make you forget your duties, you're really going to struggle at this party." I cried out as Tiffany suddenly slapped my ass, spanking me hard so that my body jumped on the kitchen island. The echo of the loud slap drifted around the kitchen.

  "I can do it," I said through gritted teeth, as pain and pleasure melted together inside me, my pussy spasming wildly as the pain of Tiffany's blow spread across my skin. My cry of pain had more than a hint of that same pleasure about it as Tiffany spanked me again, just as hard.

  "It's not easy," Tiffany warned. "She means what she says. And you're the new girl. People are going to want to touch you. To use you. And you have to let them. You have to thank them. You have to treat them the same way you treat Ms. Robertson, as though they have total authority over your body."

  "I know," I groaned, and Tiffany spanked me again. I didn't even know why I was protesting so much. Hard to believe I had any kind of pride left after everything these women had done to me. But apparently I did, because it came bubbling up when Tiffany talked this way. Of course I was nervous about what might happen at this party, and the things I would be made to do. But somehow, I resented the implication that it would be too much for me. If Tiffany could do it, I reasoned with myself, so could I. If that was what Ms. Robertson wanted, if that was what it took to continue playing these wild games that had been the most exciting thing in my life up to that point, I was ready to do it.

  "I hope you do," Tiffany said, spanking me again. And this time, there was no doubt. The cry I gave owed more to pleasure than it did to pain. Tiffany noticed. I knew that. In the weeks we had known each other, she had become an expert in the signs of my arousal. It was another tool she used to torment me, to train me, to mold me into what Ms. Robertson had molded her into. The perfect submissive slave. Even just to think about it added another thrill of desire to the emotions boiling inside me.

  "When we go back in there, after you've cleaned up the mess, I want you to show Ms. Robertson how grateful you are that she's allowing you to serve at this party," Tiffany went on, emphasizing her orders with another slap of my ass. "You should be honored. You should want nothing more than to serve her. And her guests. That's what you need to show her."

  “Okay,” I gasped, trembling and shaking once again as I bent over the kitchen island.

  "Good," Tiffany said. Finally, she stepped back. Slowly, I straightened up. My ass was burning far worse now from her blows than it had from the riding crop. I pulled my skirt back down around me, the flared latex and the petticoats beneath it barely covering a backside that I knew must be bright red. "Get to work," Tiffany ordered. And as I turned toward her, she was already leaving. I watched her cross the kitchen, her walk everything Ms. Robertson would've wanted it to be even as she moved at high speed. Heading back toward the living room where our mistress waited, she disappeared through the doorway, and I was alone again.

  Ignoring the pain in my ass, I walked over to the closet where the cleaning supplies were kept. I picked out a broom and a dustpan and some paper towels and carried them back to the living room. Ms. Robertson still sat on the sofa, her legs crossed and her skirt shining on her thighs, as poised and elegant and regal as ever as her beautiful eyes followed me across the room. Tiffany stood at one end of the sofa, her hands clasped in front of her, ready to serve. Neither of them said a word while I made my way toward the spill in the center of the room. But as I began to crouch, Tiffany's harsh voice stopped me.

  “Is that how a maid bends over?”

  "No, Tiffany. I'm sorry," I said as submissively as I could through gritted teeth. Ms. Robertson's delighted chuckle only enhanced the humiliation as I turned to face away from my audience. Tiffany had explained before that being Ms. Robertson's maid was a performance. A character I should never break in the presence of our mistress. We maids were expected to preserve an attitude sexual availability at all times. Ms. Robertson wanted us to be sluts. And so, remembering my training, I kept my legs straight and bent at the waist to set down the dustpan and begin sweeping the fragments of broken glass into it. My skirt rose up around me, exposing my dripping pussy and my bare ass, and I heard Ms. Robertson laugh out loud behind me.

  "Why is she so red? I only hit her once," Ms. Robertson said.

  “I had to give her a quick attitude adjustment in the kitchen, ma’am,” Tiffany said, her total meekness a jarring contrast with the way she ordered me around. “I hope that’s okay?”

  "Of
course it's okay, Tiffany," Ms. Robertson said indulgently. "You did well. Whatever it takes to bring this slut in line for my guests."

  My cheeks burned as I bent over the mess on the floor. I spread paper towels over the puddle and let them soak it up before sweeping them into the dustpan. It wasn't easy in my position. My thighs ached. My boobs threatened to spill out over the low-cut top of the maid's uniform as I worked. But finally, I had cleaned up the mess while the other two women watched. Still feeling our eyes on me, I picked up the dustpan and broom and carried them back into the kitchen to dispose of the broken glasses. Then, I returned to the living room. Remembering Tiffany's words and feeling her burning eyes on me, I concentrated on getting my walk just right as I approached Ms. Robertson.

  She didn't move. She simply watched, perfectly still, fully poised, as I approached her. A faint smile still shone on her face. Our mistress was unbelievably gorgeous, and there was never a time I looked at her that I wasn't again struck by her beauty as though it was the first time. I felt weak at the knees as I approached, just as I had as the two of them gave me an unexpected orgasm earlier. And when I finally stood in front of Ms. Robertson, I dropped at once to my knees on the floor in front of her.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am," I said, as humbly as I was able. At the side of the couch, Tiffany was grinning with unconcealed delight. I felt my cheeks burning almost as hotly as my ass as I debased myself. "I'll try to do better. I know it's a great honor to serve at one of your parties. Thank you for allowing me to serve."

  “Oh my,” Ms. Robertson purred. Her black hair tumbled over her shoulder as she turned her smiling face to Tiffany. “Is this your doing, Tiffany?”

  “I just pointed out to her how lucky she is to be serving you, ma’am,” Tiffany said. “How lucky we both are.”

  "Wonderful," Ms. Robertson murmured. She turned her eyes back to me, her gaze traveling once again over my body as though she had never seen it before. I felt almost as though I was shrinking in front of her, and that she was steadily growing, filling my vision and my thought to the exclusion of all else. Her black hair and the black outfit she wore seemed to draw in all light, and desire clawed at my heart as I gazed up at an absolute goddess.