The Maid's Secret

Only been a week since we moved into this boring house. Three floors. That's it. Just three. What was he thinking? A man like Douglas could've easily gotten us something bigger, something with presence. But no -- he's always cutting corners now that we're "planning for the future." Pathetic.

I can't live like this. It's too quiet, too narrow, too... plain. A woman like me needs space. I told him this place wasn't enough. I said it directly, and do you know what he did? He nodded, like a guilty schoolboy, then kissed my forehead like I'd just blessed him. The man's a fool, but he loves me. And that's what matters.

We've been married six years. I married him for money -- he knew that. I never pretended otherwise. He thinks it's romantic how "honest" I am. The truth is, someone like me has to be earned. Bought. Maintained. I don't do charity. He's lucky I still wear his ring.

And he still hasn't hired a housekeeper. A whole week and I'm expected to clean and watch the kid? He's the one who wanted a child. Now he hides behind his precious 'meetings' while I wipe up juice and fold laundry. It's disgusting. I could've worked too, if I wanted. But my skin isn't made for labor. That's what small people are for.

My phone buzzed. I stepped out onto the porch, glass of wine in hand, the sun brushing against my bare shoulders.

"I found someone," I told Sarah, stretching my legs out on the lounger. "Took me all of ten minutes online. God, the desperation. I swear they beg to be underpaid."

Her voice cackled on the other end. "What kind of peasant are you letting into your palace?"

"No idea yet," I said, swirling my wine lazily. "They're showing up today. If they smell like cat piss or wear sneakers, I'll toss them out."

Sarah laughed again. I sipped.

"You know," I added, smirking, "he's still pretending he's 'so sorry' we don't have help yet. Says it's been hard to find someone 'trustworthy.' As if I'm not here doing everything myself. What the hell does he even do at work?"

"You're a saint," Sarah said.

"I'm a prisoner."

We both laughed. I glanced at the driveway.

"Shit, he's back. Time to go play perfect wife. Wish me luck."

"Good luck, darling."

"Bye, bitch."

I hung up, set the wine down, and walked inside. The living room was annoyingly bright. I yanked the throw blanket off the couch -- of course it slipped to the floor -- and started fixing the cushions. The second I bent down, I froze. Tires on the gravel.

I peeked through the window. Douglas. Black car, navy suit, dumb smile. I exhaled through my nose and went back to straightening the sofa like I'd been at it for hours.

The door clicked. Keys dropped in the bowl. Footsteps.

"There's my sunshine," he said, walking in like he owned the place.

I turned slowly, pushing hair from my cheek, and smiled like I'd just come back from war.

"Sweetheart," I sighed. "Your little ray of light is exhausted. It's been non-stop today. The whole house."

His face melted into that concerned look I hated. "You shouldn't push yourself, babe. Come sit."

He stepped closer. I leaned into him, pressing my chest lightly against his arm and kissing just under his jaw.

"I just wanted everything to be nice when you got home."

He chuckled, brushing his hand down my back -- gently, too gently. No grip, no weight.

"I had a huge meeting today," he said. "Went better than I thought. We're looking at a multi-million dollar contract."

"Oh?" I pulled back and widened my eyes, lips parting slightly. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Could change everything."

I smiled big, the practiced kind. "That's amazing."

I straddled his lap before he could stop me, letting my hair fall over one shoulder. "My man bringing home the millions," I whispered.

He kissed me, soft and careful, then pulled back. Always pulling back. It made my stomach twist.

"I'm starving," he said. "Let me eat first, then maybe we--"

I slid off his lap and sat on the couch instead, crossing my legs slowly.

"Of course. You should eat," I said with a perfect smile. "Let me order something."

"I was kinda hoping for home-cooked," he said sheepishly.

"Oh baby, I would have, but... cleaning this whole place," I said, stretching my arms like I'd scrubbed walls all day. "I just didn't have time."

He nodded like a dog. "No problem. I'll just grab something."

"No, I'll order it. You relax," I said, already pulling out my phone.

He kissed the top of my head. "You're the best. I don't deserve you."

I smiled. "No. You don't."

As he turned toward the kitchen, I called after him. "Oh -- I invited a few people over for interviews today. For the housekeeper."

He lit up. "Really? That's great! You deserve the help. Finally."

I walked over and hugged him from behind, laying my hands on his chest. "Thank you," I whispered into his ear.

As he walked into the kitchen, I watched his back. My smile vanished.

I ordered food. He ate. His phone rang -- big surprise -- and up the stairs he went, trailing fake apologies.

I sat alone on the couch, eyes drifting to the blank TV screen. Then to the wall clock. Then to the door.

Almost time.

I stood up, slid into a pale beige cashmere wrap, adjusted the neckline to show just enough. White sandals, gold anklet, loose hair. I looked like someone who didn't clean her own bathrooms.

Wine glass in hand, I stepped back out onto the porch.

Right on cue, the first car pulled up. Some shaggy man stepped out, khakis and a wrinkled shirt. I didn't wait for him to speak.

"No."

He blinked. "I... sorry?"

"No. I said no. You're not a good fit."

"I just drove an hour. Can you at least--"

"I don't care," I said flatly. "Goodbye."

He muttered something as he walked back down. I didn't care.

Second one was worse -- smelled like vanilla lotion and sweat, talked like she ran a daycare. No. Next.

Third one had potential until she asked about vacation time.

"Excuse me?" I said. "You haven't even folded a towel yet."

She left.

I sipped more wine, my lips curling with boredom.

Then I saw her.

A cab pulled up, slow. She stepped out like she was floating. Mid-twenties, maybe younger. Slim. Hair tied back neatly, black flats, pale pink blouse buttoned all the way up, dark skirt below the knee. Quiet, calm, soft eyes.

I squinted.

She looked like a fucking daffodil.

"Hi," she said with a small, practiced smile. "Are you Mrs. Halberd?"

I didn't answer right away. I looked her up and down. Young. Polite. Absolutely manageable.

"Yes," I said, then opened the door and let her inside.

Let's see what this one can do.

She stepped inside like she didn't want to disturb the air. Quiet shoes on polished wood. Her hands were folded in front of her, posture straight, but not military--just... correct. Her eyes scanned the entry hall, the staircase, the high ceiling. Not in awe. Not like the others. Just a little too observant.

I watched her. No makeup beyond maybe lip balm. No perfume. Skin smooth, neck bare, that blouse ironed within an inch of its life. I'd expected timid, or maybe desperate. This one looked like she'd already unpacked the job in her head and was arranging it to her liking.

I walked slowly past her toward the sitting room and let her follow. I didn't offer her a seat.

"So," I said, dropping onto the couch and letting my skirt ride up just slightly. "What's your name again?"

"Clara," she said, standing with her hands still gently clasped. "Clara Field."

I tilted my head. "You're... how old?"

"Twenty-two."

God. She looked younger. Pale arms, clean nails. Shoes like a librarian. I half expected her to curtsy.

"Experience?"

"Yes, ma'am. I worked for a family in Ashridge for nearly a year. They moved abroad. Before that, I assisted an elderly woman full-time. Housekeeping, errands, light meal prep. I've also done short-term childcare for a few families in town."

I uncrossed and re-crossed my legs. "You sound like a brochure."

She smiled faintly. "I try to be thorough."

Her voice was soft but not airy. Like she'd practiced silence and knew how to place each word when she did speak. I didn't like how calm she was. I liked it even less that I couldn't tell whether it was natural or rehearsed.

"And the child," I said, waving vaguely upward. "Leo. Five years old. You'll be expected to supervise him most of the day when I'm busy. He's... energetic. Not the most disciplined."

"I'm good with kids," she said. "And I can be firm when needed."

I raised an eyebrow. "Firm?"

She didn't blink. "Respectfully firm."

Cute.

I leaned over and grabbed one of Douglas's precious mint truffles from the crystal dish. Peeled the foil slowly, popped the chocolate in my mouth, and then -- deliberately -- dropped the empty wrapper onto the hardwood floor.

Clara's eyes flicked to it. Just once. No reaction.

I chewed slowly, savoring the sugar.

"You can start now, if you like," I said sweetly, licking chocolate off my bottom lip. "I'm sure you can find something to straighten or wipe."

She nodded. "Of course."

I stood and adjusted the neckline of my blouse. "Guest bathroom's a mess. I'd check there first."

Then I turned and headed for the stairs, hips loose, glass still in hand.

At the top step, I glanced back over my shoulder.

She was still standing where I'd left her. Calm. Still. Not blinking.

And smiling. Not big. Not fake. Just... a quiet little curve of the mouth.

I didn't like it.

I went upstairs anyway.

It's been about a week. Maybe ten days. I've stopped counting.

She's still here. Still quiet. Still obedient. A perfect little gray mouse. Clara.

She doesn't ask questions. Doesn't linger. Doesn't sit unless told. It's like she was born to serve -- and grateful for the privilege. She wipes, folds, washes, fetches. All without complaint.

I've tested her. Of course I have.

The first time was with the garbage. I walked out with nothing in my hands -- just my phone and my iced latte. She was behind me with two full trash bags. I let the door swing back. It hit her wrist.

She whispered, "Sorry, ma'am."

I didn't even look back.

Another day, I dropped an open box of cereal on the floor, let it spill everywhere, and walked away. Thirty seconds later I heard the broom.

Didn't thank her.

Once I saw her refilling the pantry and closed the door while she was still inside. Slammed it. Heard the little gasp, the rustle. I waited. No reaction. Ten minutes later, she was vacuuming the stairs.

It's honestly beautiful.

She knows her place. The silence of real submission.

Douglas, of course, hasn't noticed a thing. He probably thinks she's a goddamn angel. Meanwhile I'm holding this entire house together like some underpaid executive.

He left this morning for a three-day work trip to Singapore. A week ago he was "so sorry" for not spending enough time with me. Now he's halfway across the world with his assistant and a private suite.

Leo cried a little when he left. I didn't.

He hugged me at the door like I was some fragile little wife waiting for a war to end. I smiled, kissed his cheek, said something sweet. Then closed the door and locked it without watching him drive off.

Peace.

I poured a drink -- red, sharp -- and stepped onto the porch. My robe was loose, my legs bare, the sun was warm on my collarbone.

I dialed Sarah.

She picked up with her usual brilliance.

"Well well well. Look who finally escaped."

"I told you he'd leave eventually," I said, smirking.

"Mine's still home. Working remotely. Like a dumb golden retriever."

"You should've let him cheat once. It gives them confidence."

"Please. Mine can't even hold an erection without crying."

I cackled. "He still does that?"

"Last night. Full sobbing. Said I made him feel 'safe.'"

I had to sit down. "Oh my God."

"I told him I'd never felt more turned on. Then I turned over and started scrolling TikTok."

"You're a monster."

"So are you."

We sipped together. Silence.

"Victor's coming tonight," I said, like it was nothing.

Sarah gasped. "Shut. Up."

"It's been weeks."

"Tell me you're shaving for this."

"I booked a wax yesterday."

"Queen."

"I deserve a real orgasm."

Sarah laughed. "That means I'm gonna have to carry the group chat tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Because your mouth's gonna be too sore to talk."

I snorted. "Stop."

"No, really. He's gonna fuck the sound out of you."

"Sarah."

"Moaning in different languages."

"Shut the hell up!"

We both laughed until I had to cover my mouth with my hand.

Then something shifted.

A sound. Not outside. Behind me.

I paused. Tilted my head.

The hallway was silent. The air had that weird stillness.

My voice dropped to a murmur. "Clara's probably upstairs with the kid."

"Don't whisper," Sarah teased. "She doesn't speak English anyway."

"She speaks it fine."

"Whatever. Anyway, I hope Victor blows your back out."

I laughed again. "You're disgusting."

"Tell me if he does the choking thing again."

"Sarah--"

"I bet you love that shit."

"Okay, I'm hanging up now."

"You better send pics."

"Bye, bitch."

I ended the call, still grinning.

The house was quiet again. Just the ticking of the kitchen clock and the low hum of the fridge.

Then -- crying. Upstairs.

Leo.

And soft steps. Not mine.

I stayed still, listening.

Clara was already up there. I could hear her voice, calm and rhythmic, soothing him. Like a damn mother.

I stood, walked toward the hallway, barefoot on hardwood.

Passed the front door.

Paused.

Opened it quickly.

Nobody there.

Just air, and the flowerpot by the railing.

Still.

I shut it and told myself to stop being paranoid.

Victor would be here tonight.

And I had better things to think about.

Evening fell slow and warm. The lights downstairs were dim, the air smelled like lemon cleaner and candle wax. I changed into a black lace set under a sheer robe and padded barefoot through the house, loose and ready. Music played somewhere in the background, low and jazzy. I poured wine.

Then -- a knock.

Right on time.

Clara was already near the door. Always on cue.

She opened it just as I entered the hallway.

Victor stood there, all swagger and grin, like he owned the fucking sky. Black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands in his pockets like he was posing for a magazine shoot.

Clara hesitated, hand still on the door.

I didn't let it linger.

"What are you doing hovering at the door?" I snapped.

Her posture stiffened. "I... I heard knocking, ma'am."

I gave her the look. "You don't open doors unless I tell you to."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Jesus. You want a belt next time?"

She dipped her head. "No, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am."

Victor chuckled behind me.

"Still ruling with an iron heel, I see."

"Someone has to," I said, not looking at him.

Clara stepped aside. I turned back, eyes sharp. "This is my husband's colleague. From the firm. If Douglas asks, you saw no one. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," she said softly.

"Good. Now go make us something. Finger food. No meat. And don't burn it."

She nodded and disappeared toward the kitchen.

Victor followed me up the stairs, fingers brushing the small of my back.

"Bitchy suits you," he said.

"I don't need your approval."

He grinned. "I'm just here for the view."

We were halfway to the bedroom when he smacked my ass. I didn't react. Just opened the door and let him in.

Fifteen minutes later I was back downstairs, makeup refreshed, hair fluffed, eyes sharp.

Clara was at the counter, slicing cucumber like she was in a cooking show.

I leaned on the doorway, watching her silently for a moment.

Then, calmly, "Be a good girl and bring a tray upstairs. Knock gently, leave it at the door, and go. No need to linger. Clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," she said, still cutting.

"Perfect."

I turned and vanished.

Upstairs, Victor was already shirtless. I dropped my robe. He grinned.

"Damn."

"You say that every time."

"And I always mean it."

We didn't bother with the bed at first. I was on the wall before he even kissed me. His hands slid up my thighs, mouth hard and hot, tongue pushing into my skin like it had a mission.

He bit my breast through the lace, then pulled the bra down and sucked hard. I moaned -- real. This wasn't sweet, this wasn't married. This was hunger.

And then he dropped to his knees.

His mouth was already between my legs before I had time to process. He licked like he'd been denied for weeks. I leaned back against the doorframe, head tilted, half-laughing, half-choking on breath.

I didn't hear the knock.

Because there wasn't one.

The tray sat on the floor just outside the bedroom.

And Clara -- quiet, barefoot Clara -- was standing still.

Watching.

The door had been left open just a crack.

She didn't breathe loud. Didn't move.

She just slid her phone from her apron pocket and hit record.

The screen glowed in her hand. She zoomed slightly, steadied.

Inside, Victor flipped me onto the bed, pulled my panties off, and slid into me with a growl.

I grabbed the sheets, moaned like a whore, back arching, hair in my face.

He took me hard. Rhythmic, fast, brutal. The headboard tapped the wall.

Then he stopped, pulled out, and stood over me.

I smirked, rolled onto my knees, and sucked him in.

Deep.

Deliberate.

He moaned.

Then came.

All over my tits.

Clara filmed every second.

Then she smiled.

It was so small, so light -- but there it was.

She quietly stopped the recording, closed the door with two fingers, and waited. Not long. Ten seconds.

Then she knocked.

Gentle.

Two times.

Just like I told her.

No answer. No response needed.

She walked back down to the kitchen.

Set the tray on the counter.

Rinsed the knife.

Wiped the cutting board.

Washed her hands.

Upstairs, the door opened again. Victor walked out, shirt half-buttoned, hair messy, grinning like a teenager.

Then -- the front door closed behind him.

I came down a few minutes later in a satin robe, apple in hand.

I took one bite. Then another. Smiled.

Clara was wiping the sink.

I stood across from her and let the silence stretch.

"If my husband asks," I said slowly, "no one came by. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," she said without turning.

I tossed a $100 bill onto the table.

Then set the bitten apple directly on top of it.

She looked at neither.

I turned and left.

But I felt her eyes on my back.

And I knew she was smiling.

I woke up smiling, back arched against silk sheets that still smelled like perfume and freedom. The other side of the bed was empty, the pillow cool. Douglas was gone. Off to Asia for his "critical meetings" -- which just meant three full days of silence, space, and absolutely no one asking me what I was doing. Bliss. The whole house was mine again. I stretched long, one leg out, the sun warming my skin through the white curtains. No child crying. No footsteps. Just peace. For a few seconds, I could pretend the entire world revolved around me again.

Then I remembered I was hungry.

"Clara!" I shouted, not bothering to open my eyes. "Bring me breakfast in bed! And this time don't dawdle!"

No answer, of course. She didn't talk much. I stayed under the covers, basking in my own importance, until I heard soft steps coming up the stairs. I didn't move. Just fixed my hair, adjusted the neckline of my nightshirt, and waited.

Then the door opened.

And I nearly choked.

She entered silently, holding the tray like always -- but her uniform was different. Very different. Black, fitted sheer blouse that revealed just a hint of her bra underneath. High-waisted pencil skirt, jet black and tailored tight, clinging to her hips and thighs. Stockings with lace tops just barely visible when she walked. And black heels -- real ones -- that clicked softly against the hardwood as she moved. Her hair was tied back in a perfect bun, face bare of makeup, eyes calm and unreadable.

She looked like a dominatrix that wandered into a church.

I sat up slowly, biting down on a wicked grin. "What the hell are you wearing?"

She placed the tray on the side table and stepped back without answering.

"You look like a whore," I said, smiling like it was a compliment. "A quiet little whore who thinks she's being classy. Halloween's not until October, darling."

Still no reaction. Just that blank little smile.

I waved her off. "Get out. I don't want to eat with you watching me."

As she turned, my phone buzzed. Sarah. Perfect timing.

I answered on speaker. "Morning, bitch."

"Morning, you lucky slut," she replied, voice thick with fake envy. "So... was he worth it?"

I leaned back, peeled a grape, and grinned. "Victor? I mean, I can't feel my thighs, so I'm guessing yes."

Sarah cackled. "God, I hate you. He do the thing with your hair?"

"Pulled it. Bit me. Choked me. Might've broken a rib. He's a machine."

"Sounds like my dream ex."

We both laughed. As I talked, I glanced at the door -- and there she was. Clara. Standing just outside the frame, back to the wall, her body relaxed but upright. Her head was tilted slightly back, eyes half-closed, as if staring up at the ceiling in thought. Her arms were folded neatly in front of her, and her mouth wore the softest little smile. That same fucking smile.

She was listening.

She was always listening.

But I didn't stop.

"I swear," I said, "Douglas would die if he ever heard the noises I made last night. Poor baby thinks one pump and a kiss on the shoulder counts as sex."

"Oh God," Sarah moaned. "Same here. My idiot husband came in his pants just watching me change yesterday. I swear to God."

"I told you," I said, laughing, "they're better when they're useless. Less time wasted on faking moans."

We both burst into cackles. Clara still didn't move. Her body was like a doll's -- quiet, still, and unnatural. Then, just as I narrowed my eyes, she turned and walked away. Click, click, click -- the sound of her heels descending the stairs with robotic grace.

I sighed. "Anyway," I muttered, "I've got to get out of bed eventually."

An hour passed. I wandered downstairs in a loose robe, damp hair hanging over my shoulders, skin still warm from a steam shower. Clara was wiping down the counter in the kitchen.

"Go get the tray," I said. "And clean the bathroom. And prep me a bath. I want bubbles. I want silence. And I want chocolate strawberries."

"Yes, ma'am," she said without turning.

I dropped onto the couch and flipped on my recorded shows. The British antiques one I loved. Where rich women screamed at each other over teacups. Clara had already queued it for me -- of course she had. I sipped my second mimosa and half-watched, half-scrolled, until Clara passed by again. She didn't speak, didn't pause, just moved like mist. And then she stopped by the media center, clicked through some settings, and paused the screen.

"Just fixing a freeze," she said flatly.

"Whatever," I muttered.

I soaked for twenty minutes. When I came out, wrapped in a towel, I flopped onto the couch again and yelled, "Clara! Bring me my goddamn truffles!"

No answer. I grabbed the remote, hit play.

And froze.

It wasn't antiques.

It was me.

Bent over my bed, legs spread. Victor behind me, hair wet with sweat, gripping my hips like handles. My voice. My moans. My face.

My eyes.

I screamed.

"CLARA! GET IN HERE RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"

She appeared in the doorway, calm as ever, drying her hands on a towel.

I pointed at the screen, heart hammering in my chest. "WHAT. IS. THIS."

Her voice didn't even rise. "A woman disrespecting her husband. Caught in 4K."

I lunged toward the TV, fumbling with the remote, my towel nearly slipping off. "Delete, delete--" I hit every button like it would erase my sins. The screen flickered black. Gone. Gone. Gone. I turned to Clara, panting, eyes wide with fury. "Do you think this is a joke?" I hissed. "You psychotic little bitch--"

She raised one hand, calm as ever. "That was only a copy."

My mouth opened, closed. The room spun. "You're trying to blackmail me? That's what this is?"

"I'm protecting Mr. Halberd," she said quietly. "He's a good man. He was kind to me. And you... weren't."

My jaw clenched so hard it ached. I stepped forward, finger pointed. "You think you can ruin me? You think I won't burn your life down?"

She stared. "You won't do anything. Unless you want your husband to see how you thanked his colleague."

I was trembling. "Fine," I hissed. "You want money? Is that it? I get it. You're poor. I respect the hustle. I really do. I'd do the same in your shoes. You want ten grand? I'll give you ten grand. Right now."

She said nothing.

"I'll get it," I snapped, rushing to my purse. I yanked it open, hands shaking. Wallet--thin. Just over five hundred dollars. "Shit," I breathed. I threw the wallet at her feet. "Just--wait! I'll find the rest, okay?!"

She watched me silently.

I tore through drawers, kicked open cabinets, flung envelopes aside. Coins, receipts, nothing. Upstairs, down again. My hair stuck to my neck. My towel barely stayed on. Finally--three thousand. Crumpled bills in a jewelry box, old birthday cards. I ran to her, dropped the pile into her hands. "There. Take it. I'll get more, I swear."

She didn't move. "I don't want your money."

I froze. "Then what the fuck do you want?!"

Her voice was soft, almost sad. "I feel sorry for your husband."

I screamed, lunging--until her hand flashed out and slapped me clean across the face.

The room echoed.

My cheek burned. My mouth opened in a silent gasp. I stumbled, one hand clutching the wall. She didn't flinch.

"I'm going to fix you," she said. "Someone has to."

I stood frozen. My entire body rang. That girl--my housemaid--had just struck me. And I hadn't hit back. Couldn't.

She looked around. "What a mess," she said flatly.

Of course it was. I'd torn the whole place apart.

She walked to the couch, sat down, crossed her legs, and picked up the remote. The screen flicked on--me, on my knees, sucking Victor like a starved thing. She paused it again. Still frame. My lips parted, eyes closed, naked. Disgusting.

Clara turned to me. "You have one hour to clean this house. Sparkling. That video's still playing in my hand. One click, and your husband gets it."

I swallowed hard, chest heaving. "You can't--"

"Start," she said coldly. "You're already fifteen minutes late. That spanking took time."

I blinked. "What--"

She stood, calmly walked over, and took me by the ear.

I gasped. "You wouldn't dare--"

But she would. She did.

She dragged me to the couch like a misbehaving child, sat down again, and yanked me across her lap. My towel fell open. My bare ass, hot and exposed, faced upward. I kicked. I cursed. Her grip was iron.

The first slap rang out. Then another. Each one harder than the last. My skin stung. My eyes welled. I was rich. I was elegant. And I was being spanked--by a twenty-two-year-old servant. Naked. Humiliated.

"No counting needed," she said dryly. "But thank me after every slap."

Slap. "T-thank you."

Slap. "Thank you, Clara."

Slap. "Thank you--"

I couldn't breathe. My cheeks burned. My ass was fire.

When she was done, she shoved me to the floor like trash. I lay there, gasping, red, humiliated.

She crossed her legs again. "Stand up."

I did. My face was twisted with rage, tears hot in my eyes.

She stood, walked over, and calmly tucked my hair behind both ears. "You'll clean now."

I said nothing.

She tilted her head. "Well?"

"... Thank you for the spanking," I whispered.

Her smile returned. "Good girl."

I turned to leave, still naked, still dizzy.

But she stopped me. "Like that?"

I froze. "What?"

She walked over to the TV again. Hit play.

Me. Bent. Moaning. Getting railed.

She hit pause.

"That's not how a respectable woman looks," she said.

I turned to her slowly.

"Strip. Everything. And wear this."

From her bag, she pulled a ridiculous velvet choker. A black bowtie. She stepped behind me and tied it carefully around my neck.

"There," she said sweetly. "Now you're ready."

I stood there, naked, collar tight against my throat, cheeks burning.

"You may begin."

I turned, shaking, and walked toward the broom.

Her voice followed me. "Remember, Vanessa--forty-five minutes left."

And the faintest sound behind me: the video playing again.

My moans echoed down the hallway.

Clara smiled.

Vanessa was on her knees, scrubbing the last stretch of hardwood near the stairs, naked but for the ridiculous black bowtie tight around her throat. Her arms ached, her knees were raw, and the faint sting of leftover welts across her ass reminded her of every slap Clara had given. The floor finally passed her own angry standards. She sat back, panting a little, stray strands of hair clinging to her cheeks.

From the couch, Clara had been watching her the entire time. One leg crossed over the other. Her small phone still played the same fucking video -- Vanessa pinned under Victor, moaning, gasping, begging -- and now it was looped for the third time. The sight of her own bouncing ass onscreen made Vanessa wince.

Then came the sound.

Ring ring. The ringtone on the hall table.

Vanessa froze.

Clara slowly lifted one finger, curling it. "Bring it," she said simply.

Vanessa stood up, legs trembling slightly, and padded across the room to retrieve the phone. She walked over to Clara, who still hadn't moved. Clara took the phone, glanced at the screen, then looked up and met Vanessa's eyes.

"It's your little friend. Sarah."

Vanessa opened her mouth, but Clara held the phone just out of reach.

"I'll handle it."

She swiped to answer, still watching Vanessa. Then, in a calm, clear voice: "Vanessa can't come to the phone right now. She's a little... tied up. Call back in a few days." Then, without waiting, she ended the call and slid the phone beneath the cushion beside her thigh.

Vanessa flinched. "That was--"

"You'll survive," Clara said flatly.

"I finished cleaning," Vanessa muttered, wiping sweat from her temple with the back of her wrist.

Clara looked unimpressed. "Say it properly."

Vanessa exhaled sharply, cheeks flushed. "I've finished cleaning, mistress."

Clara smiled thinly. "Much better."

But Vanessa, lips barely moving, added under her breath, "Little fucking brat."

Clara's expression didn't change. She stood up slowly.

Vanessa blinked. "What--"

Clara turned without a word and walked out of the room. A beat passed. Then the soft sound of water running.

When she came back, she held a bar of white soap and a hand towel.

Vanessa stiffened. "No. No, you're not--"

Clara's voice was steady. "Girls with filthy mouths need proper discipline."

"I'm a grown woman!"

Clara's eyes narrowed. "Then act like one. Or I'll show your husband the video right now."

Vanessa went still.

"Open your mouth," Clara said.

"No--"

Clara raised the phone she'd tucked into her apron earlier and shook it lightly.

Vanessa shut her eyes. Jaw trembling.

Then she opened her mouth.

Clara stepped close, grabbed her by the chin, and held her face still. She dipped the soap in the towel, then pressed the bar against Vanessa's tongue. Slowly. Firmly. She scrubbed with short, mechanical motions -- not harsh, but steady. Lather foamed along the corners of Vanessa's lips. Her eyes watered.

"Stick your tongue out."

Vanessa obeyed, gagging slightly. Clara wiped around the edges and kept going.

"You'll learn," Clara whispered. "You'll learn to speak like a lady."

When she finally stopped, she stepped back and pointed to the couch. "Face down. Knees on the floor. Ass up. And don't drop the soap."

Vanessa hesitated.

"Or should I get my phone again?"

That was enough.

Vanessa walked to the couch, bent over it, and rested her elbows on the cushions. Her ass was fully exposed, cheeks already slightly red. She clenched the soap in her teeth, humiliated beyond words.

Clara walked upstairs.

Vanessa whimpered through the bar. She hated this girl. She hated her so much she could scream.

Then she heard the footsteps coming back down. The creak of leather in Clara's hand.

The belt.

Vanessa shook her head, muffled sounds escaping her.

"No, no--"

Too late.

The first crack of leather against skin echoed through the room.

Vanessa howled.

The soap tumbled from her mouth.

Clara picked it up, pressed it back against her lips.

"You drop it again," she said calmly, "I'll push it somewhere else."

More blows followed. Clean, vicious arcs. Vanessa jerked and kicked, but each time Clara pinned her down and delivered another stripe. Her screams turned to sobs. Her body trembled. Her mascara ran. By the eighth blow, she was no longer resisting.

When it was done, Clara sat back on the couch and pulled the broken woman into her lap like a child. Vanessa was still naked, red-raw, her arms clinging to Clara's waist as she cried.

"There," Clara murmured. "You're okay now."

Vanessa shook her head, barely able to breathe.

"You're my little girl now," Clara whispered. "And good girls learn their lessons."

Vanessa didn't speak. She just nodded against Clara's shoulder.

Clara kissed her temple and guided her upstairs like a mother guiding a sleepy child.

Vanessa didn't resist.

In the bedroom, Clara pulled back the sheets. Vanessa lay face-down, legs slightly spread, arms limp. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips swollen from crying. Her ass was blazing red.

Clara smoothed her hair, tucking it behind one ear.

"You're going to respect him. You're going to thank him. You're going to stop acting like a cold, cruel trophy."

Vanessa nodded weakly into the pillow.

Clara kissed her head again and left.

Vanessa lay there, breathing slowly, trying to understand what was happening to her.

But the silence didn't last.

Clara returned minutes later, holding a tiny jar.

Vanessa's stomach twisted.

Clara sat beside her. Her voice was sugar.

"We need to... seal the lesson."

Vanessa blinked. "What--"

"On your knees. Hands on your cheeks. Spread."

Vanessa shook her head, mortified. "No--"

"You want to risk it?"

A long pause.

Vanessa turned away, got on her knees on the mattress, and shakily reached behind to spread herself.

Face in the pillow, she didn't see Clara pull out a firm, tapered chunk of raw ginger.

But she felt it.

"AH--!"

The burn was immediate. Deep. Crawling.

Vanessa's legs buckled. She collapsed to her side, moaning in short bursts.

Clara watched calmly.

She left again, and returned with... something in her hands.

Vanessa's heart dropped.

A diaper.

"No--no. I'm not--"

Clara placed one finger on her lips.

"Shhh. It's just for tonight."

She slid the thick cotton between Vanessa's thighs and taped it in place, snug and clean.

"You're my baby now," Clara said softly.

Vanessa sobbed, helpless, shivering.

Clara pulled the covers up and kissed her forehead.

Then she opened the drawer beside the bed and pulled out Leo's bedtime book. She began to read aloud.

Vanessa cried herself to sleep.

Alone in her own house.

Naked, red, and burning -- with only the sound of Clara's gentle voice in the dark.

the crackle of air

(Written and edited by AlexisVriting)