Moar (An intentional misspelling of the word "more", Moar is a person's name in this story) shifted her weight from foot to foot uncomfortably, hands folded behind her back as she thought what to answer. Her gaze focused on the floor tiling.
Her short black skirt, underneath the white apron, showed too much leg in her opinion and, during the day, she would constantly pull it down.
"I want you and the Count to be proud of me..." she finally answered, her cheeks flushing.
Lady Cora bent slightly toward the Count, whispering in his ear:
"It's the lust of submission that makes her speak this way."
The maid heard her clearly enough and blinked at that, wondering if, after all, it could be true.
She continued:
"I don't know why but I feel that I'm not achieving this, as much as I try."
The Count was listening intently, sitting on the couch with his legs crossed and propping his chin on his fist. His wife is sitting on the armrest, her elbow draped on the back of the couch behind the Count. Both of them are looking unblinkingly, at the girl standing in front of them.
In a far corner of the room, there was a small pile of glass shards that must have once been a precious Murano vase.
He breathed deep, then stood up quirking a brow, pacing.
"Perhaps this is because you just don't want to achieve it," he underlined the word "want".
Moar looked puzzled, following him with the eyes.
Meanwhile, Lady Cora was staring at her inquiring silent, while playing lazily with one of her curls around one finger. Her elegant aplomb had always been inspiring to the young maid, but she knew she'd never be able to reproduce it herself. You can't buy class, you either have it, or you don't.
"Yes, think about it," said the Count stopping in front of her. "We are already satisfied with your work as a maid, but you choose not to trust us on this and listen to your doubts, instead. This way you can have an excuse to beg for forgiveness, and you already know that there's only one way we can settle that."
Moar squirmed returning her eyes to the floor, pondering. Her heart is accelerating as she was forced to face her inner struggle from a totally different angle. Could it be that she was just lusting for that stinging whip? She hated that and yet, how relieved she always felt as soon as the punishment was over.
The Count shook his head hiding his amusement.
"When I'm inflicting pain, usually, it's for my pleasure while feeding that of the one who receives it. So you are not seeking punishment but reward."
Cora chipped in:
"I can see it. It's growing inside you."
Moar clenched her fists behind her back. It could be, yes; it could. Whenever she got into trouble, punishment satisfied her more deeply than with the mere knowledge that all was right, again, between her and the Count. And as she was becoming aware of this, she started reliving scenes from the past under a different light. Like when she'd lost those important documents, now she could clearly see herself unconsciously hiding them in a drawer while her mind justified that under the pretense of keeping them "safe."
She raised her eyes one more time, chewing nervously on her lower lip, eyes welling with guilty tears.
"My lord, have I swindled you, then? And did the same to myself!"
The Count turned to watch Lady Cora, who was smirking knowingly. She, in turn, stood up and approached Moar, who shrunk squinting, then wrapped her arms around her protectively.
"Then you are just like me; we're sharing this."
Being like the Countess? At the same level? And yet she understood that Lady Cora was a low creature and, despite her social status, could understand her intimately. They would share a bond, now, like sisters giving strength to each other to endure what was to come.
Moar rested her head on Cora's shoulder, daring to return her embrace, her hands on the woman's hips.
The Count was standing silently aside, scanning her every reaction, when Cora started caressing her back up and down slowly, with the open hand while she breathed sensually in her ear. Moar felt her blood surge in her groin, and she tried to retreat scared by her reaction, eyeing the Countess and trying to read her thoughts. The woman resisted and just kept her in her arms, smiling warmly at her.
"Would you like to become the Count's slave, instead of just being his maid?"
A shiver ran down Moar's spine. Did she want this? It was all so sudden and yet something seemed to push her from the inside, another Moar living in the darkest corner of her heart where she seldom had dared to watch before. Did she want this? Back and forth went her resolve, all the while comforted by the warm hug of Cora.
"For God's sake, yes!" She finally burst out, turning purple. "Oh, the mere thought..." she squirmed against the Countess becoming aware of her presence. "But what an awful slave I'd be, I'd be drooling all the time for this honor!"
"Then show me your submission," ordered the Count.
"How?" asked Moar with zeal.
"You find the way, express yourself."
Moar, instinctively, fell on her knees at the feet of the Count. The Countess watched her, wide-eyed, covering her mouth with a hand as if in shock.
"Hmmm, interesting. Are there other ways you could show me your submission?"
"I can..." Moar hesitated, swallowing, her heart bursting with happiness and shame at the same time, "I can go low if you want me."
He nodded and asked:
"Would it fit your current feelings?"
The head of Moar was floating in a pleasant dizziness.
"What do you mean, my lord?"
"Would it make you feel better, getting lower?"
She nodded, and he motioned her to proceed.
Moar lowered her head on his shoes, pressing her lips into the leather. Instantly she was sure of herself, for the first time, and pressed harder her mouth. This man was allowing her finally to do what she had craved for her whole life. Her lips parted sticking out the tip of her tongue and slowly traced their contour, then she took courage and pressed her tongue flat on one of them, giving a long lick, her hands enclosing it in a light grip while she lost herself in that dirty kiss. Oh, so low, how she belonged there! Her heart was beating fast with devotion, and she wanted to show him how much she cared.
After what seemed an hour, while had truly been just a couple of minutes, Moar heard him call her name, and she looked up. He seemed towering over her.
"I'm at your orders now, my Lord."
"Yes, you are now," he nodded pleased, his hands in his pockets. "Now you don't need to be punished for degrading yourself. You simply can be what you are, a humble slave."
"Yes! I'm a humble slave!" she almost screamed, moved by his words.
"Thank you, my Lord, for freeing me!"
And it was true, she felt it. Giving herself for enslavement was her ultimate act of freedom.
The smooth hand of Cora laid on the small of her back, and she closed her eyes, basking in that gentle touch.
"But I dislike the whip, I fear it even..." she murmured.
"Submission doesn't necessarily mean getting lashed all day long," said the Countess while trailing her fingertips down her backside, and then cupping one of her ass cheeks for a squeeze, instantly setting her sex on fire.
"C... Countess?" she bucked her hips against her waiting palm. Was she allowed to feel arousal in front of her owners? What did this mean? A sudden sharp pain seared through the skin of her ass when the Countess slapped her.
"Nor does it mean to be treated well. A submissive is what it is: a person. With needs."
And Moar could feel the need grow inside her, she tightened her grip around the Count's shoe, lowering her head once more to kiss it passionately. As none stopped her, she let herself abandon to her rising lust, sighing contently, rubbing her cheek on the leather like a kitty asking for cuddles, bumping her forehead against his calf in search for attention. She didn't mind the shoes being dirty or clean since all she wanted was beyond that and she would do anything to reach it.
The palm of the Countess slid down reaching the hem of her skirt, and then her fingers tickled the inside of her thighs causing the girl to moan startled. Her flesh seemed to burn with a fever, and she was licking her owner's shoes while his wife was fondling her intimate parts, closing into the center of her heat. Would anyone recognize in her the usually polite and composed maid she used to come across? She doubted it; she felt very different, all new. Never before had she thought about the Counts in a sexual way, but now, it all seemed remarkably natural.
The hand between her thighs probed under the embroidered fabric of her panties and touched her outer labia with the fingertips, slowly grazing the nails up and down.
Her mouth dropped open; it was the simplest touch and yet it felt amazing. Her submission was enhancing every feeling tenfold at least. It was all she could do to prevent herself from screaming as her arousal mounted, oozing out from her slit and soaking her panties. Did that mean she was a slave? More a sex slave, maybe. The pleasure she was receiving in submitting to her owners was clearly a major part of what she was having from that sensual caress.
She laid her cheek on the shoes, moist with her saliva, pushing up her hips and spreading her legs to grant access to her sex. The hand slid further ahead, turned and cupped it in the palm, and she felt herself melt into it. The noble Countess was touching her genitals; this was blowing her mind.
She started rocking her hips against that gentle hand, her full breasts mashed on the floor and a dreaming smile on her lips, as she was leaving behind, her shame to be seen in such a way. The fact that it was a female hand did not bother her in the least, it was a touch ever so slight, and it was turning her on by the second. Never, in all the time she'd spent in the Count's service, had she felt as close to them.
She was so relaxed that when the Count pulled the shoe from under her cheek, she hit the floor hard and whimpered. That same shoe, then, stomped on the nape preventing her to move from the position she had assumed.
"Look at what you did, Moar," the voice of the Count seemed bitterly cold.
She would have complied, but that foot pressed her down with strength. She must have disappointed him. Was it an excuse to vent his sadistic need on her?
"Slobbering all over the shoes of your savior," sighed Cora behind her, "tsk tsk, how unbecoming."
She heard a shuffle behind her as the Countess rose, slipping her hand out of her panties, then the clicking of her heels toward the wall. Her heart skipped a beat; she was fetching the whip!
"No, please my Lord!" She whined on the floor starting to tremble. "I will clea..."
"Oh, stop this already," grumbled the Count while the heels clicked back to them.
It was going to happen. At last she had managed to anger the Count, and she felt a chill run down her spine. All of a sudden, her skirt got yanked up revealing her ass, and she yelped, closing her eyes tight, bracing for the sting.
Instead, she felt the braided leather caress her skin, rimming her panties, then slipping underneath, teasing the crack of her ass. It was a nice feeling, yet she knew how painful that touch could quickly turn.
"Lord..." she whispered tentatively.
"What is it? Don't you like this?"
She felt the hands of the Countess frame her behind, caressing her exposed skin with the thumbs while the whip explored her panties deeper and deeper. She purred: "It's a nice feeling, Lord."
"Yet it's the same whip that scared you, earlier."
Then she felt the tail of the whip slip out of the panties and, with a whistle, land on her ass.
"AAAARGH!" she yelled, wiggling her ass at the excruciating pain.
What was strange was that she was not alone in her pain. The Countess had screamed too. The Count had struck both Cora's face and Moar's ass in one hit.
She'd not been granted the time to think about this, as another whistle accompanied a new lash. She yelled again, trying to ball away from the whip but the foot on her nape was holding her painfully still, and the hands of the Countess kept her ass in position.
The whip started lashing down on her skin in a steady rhythm, and she tried to reach behind with her hands to protect herself, only to get her fingers lashed as well. She started sobbing helplessly.
"My Lord, please. Please!" But she couldn't utter a clear plea, as she was about to ask for him to stop but, in truth, she would not dare to because it would probably annoy him.
On the floor, under her cheek, was quickly forming a pool of salty tears. She put her hurt hands on the cool tiles, trying to brace herself and escape his shoe, but he was too strong for her. She clenched her fists punching weakly at his leg, but he kept going unrelenting, every snap jolting her violently.
Then the lashes had stopped, leaving her on shaking legs, trying not to buckle. Suddenly she felt something moist and soft on her skin. It was the Countess' tongue; she was licking the swollen welts soothingly. Her skin was red hot, and an unbearable torment was pulsing underneath. Yes, she recognized that feeling coursing through her body, intense and finally satisfying her shameful urge. It filled her, making her feel alive, and the tongue of the Countess allowed her to focus on every spot where she licked.
The Count's hand reached down taking purchase of her hair while he stepped off her nape and pulled her up with strength, forcing her on all fours. The white bonnet fell on the floor.
She looked up with beseeching eyes, big teardrops rolling freely down her cheeks to her chin before falling on the floor between her hands. Why crying, she wondered, when I feel so good. Am I just playing my part, pretending I'm hurt?
"Is this all you can do? Wetting everything you touch? With spit, with tears, with sweat..."
The Countess trailed a finger on her slit and placed it under the girl's nose, making her sniff it as she pointed out: "With her humor too."
Moar realized that her arousal had very much not subsided during the whipping. All her rear and her genitals were, for different reasons, aflame. She felt Cora's finger push through the panties, at the entrance of her hole and started panting heavily while her eyelids closed. Her whole body was tingling with pleasure, and she felt herself quickly losing control when, with a hungry growl, she pushed lustfully back at the probing finger. The huge hand of the Count reached behind her squeezing her sore ass cheeks roughly, making her gasp.
"She relishes pain, my dear," she heard the woman say as if from a distance, torn between pain and pleasure. A rivulet of dense liquid trailed down along her thigh. She was, oh, so ready.
"It's... the caress..." again she tried to justify herself, but she knew it was not only that. It was the explosive mixture of the two sensations and, even more odd; the strongest one was the squeeze on her ass.
The Count's hand rubbed on her panties, then pulled them making them dig in the slit between her labia and the crack of her ass, the silky fabric pressing on her clitoris.
"God!" she blurted in a husky voice, and then started humping that viselike grip feeling the heat spread throughout her body and mounting. Her heart was racing in her chest.
She could feel the eyes of both her owners on her as lust took control.
"This feels... so good!" she managed to blabber before the Count let her panties go, and she fell on the floor spreading her legs wide to press her sex on the tiles. Her head thrashed wildly against the Count's grip. Her whole body ached now for sexual relief; it's making her act like a slut in heat.
A new whistle accompanied the sharp sting of the whip while she rubbed her lower body on the floor, and she squealed with each new lash. She felt the Count pull her by the hair, and she crawled, like a worm, her soaked panties leaving a shining trail of female humour behind her. Nothing could stop her from seeking that much-needed climax, her body moving on its own in rapture.
"Are you enjoying this?" the Count asked grunting.
Moar opened her eyes to see the Countess kneeling with her head pressed on his crotch, the zip of the trousers had been pulled down, and his turgid shaft was sliding in and out of her mouth.
"Oh, my!" she almost choked and stared at the Countess making love to her owner while he kept slashing her ass. Her head was spinning at the amount of horny-ness she felt seizing her.
The Countess' lips were wrapped tightly around his member, as apparently, it slammed into the back of her throat with each thrust making her gag. One hand was fondling his hairy balls while she ran the other on his flat abs, under his shirt. How Moar would have liked to touch them too but she could not dare, it was not in her right to do it.
Meanwhile, every lash was pushing the girl toward the edge of what she felt would be the most powerful orgasm of her life. She reached behind with her hands, pulling down her panties and kicking them away while her moaning increased in intensity.
"Count... Countess..." she called, lewdly slamming her clitoris on the cool tiles, shuddering.
The Countess raised a hand to the cheek of Moar, without even watching at her, focused on the Count's hard-on. Her mouth was making slurping sounds as she sucked on it and it was all Moar could bear, showering kisses in the Countess' palm, caught in a frenzy she'd never experienced before. She wanted to feel and to be felt. She could imagine the scene she was living as if a fourth spectator and it was so wild: the Count was riding his wife's mouth while pulling on the mane of his maid and flogging her toward her happy ending. She let her mind linger on that image, voyeur of her performance.
Her flesh quivered under the powerful blows and then her legs stiffened as the orgasm hit her washing down her body in waves, leaving her breathless. At the same time, she heard the Count snort as he started shooting his load down the Countess' throat. Through blurred sight, she watched her pull back, her hands on his hips, letting his member out to spray the rest of his semen all over her face. It splashed on her nose and her lips, from where it trickled down on her full bosom. Then she took it in her mouth again, bobbing her head fast until he pushed her away panting.
Moar, slowly coming down off cloud nine, stared at his still throbbing erection, the shiny head pointing up proudly. She batted her eyelashes innocently and averted her eyes from that sight, calming down, her legs slowly stopping from flailing her climax away.
The whole room was quiet now, save for their heavy breathing. The Count watched at the two females at his feet, their chests heaving exhausted, watching back up at him. He let go of Moar's hair, and she curled on the floor at his feet, resting her head on the Countess' lap. Some drops of sperm fell from the tip of Cora's nose on the girl's cheek, and she scooped them up with a fingertip, smearing then her lips with it. The woman seemed not to mind as she tasted the salty liquid.
That had been simply incredible, she had just been to heaven and back, and she could feel her love for her owners turn to adoration. She could easily picture herself groveling at their feet from here to eternity. How could she ever repay such a liberating experience?
"Stand, the both of you," ordered the Count, tucking away his now limp member and zipping his trousers up.
Cora stood up with some effort, as her arousal had not been satisfied. Moar propped herself up on the elbows, then stood straightening her skirt down trying to retain some composure. She eyed her panties a few feet away, a translucent trail connecting them to her feet.
As she moved, the fabric of her skirt chafed against her sore skin making her jump and freeze in place, holding her breath. Damn if that hurt! But then she shuffled again, on purpose, adjusting to the sweet pain. She decided it was tolerable if she moved slowly but what did she just do? What had happened? Was she still the same as before?
"You've made a mess," said the Count to Moar, pointing with a hand to the wet floor. He did not seem displeased after all.
She combed a sweaty bang behind her ear then said under her breath: "I will clean, my Lord..." Then she cleared her throat and repeated louder: "I will clean, my Lord."
He waved a hand dismissively, turning his attention to his wife who was shifting nervously from the girl's side.
"Are you alright?"
He raised a hand passing a finger over a deep bruise on her cheek, where the whip had caught her.
"If you are satisfied, my dear, then nothing could please me more," she answered simply.
He nodded approvingly and handed her the whip for her to put it away, which she did swiftly before trotting back to stand in front of him. They stood silently in front of each other, silently ignoring the maid. Cora's face was all stained with his cum.
Moar bowed her head at them before taking her leave, understanding they wanted to be left alone.
As she was walking away, she reached with a hand behind her, softly massaging her ass flinching at every sting. She'd never been whipped that hard before, her skin was surely torn and bleeding in some places. She'd not be able to sit for days, barely able to touch her ass. And what if the Counts had guests for the evening?
She stopped in the middle of the aisle, as images of the Countess sucking off the Count, flashed before her eyes. The Countess was so gorgeous; it amazed her that the handsome Count could accept to divert his attention from her shapely figure to notice that of his humble maid. How pretty she felt realizing that and, no, she decided she would do her best to avoid standing between the lovely couple. She would attend to the daily chores as usual, and if ever the Count would allow her to serve him sexually again, she'd submit without expecting anything more than he'd want to give her.
From the other room, she heard the Countess' voice yelp. Seemingly the fun was not over yet, there. She took one of the vases from a shelf grimacing and let it crash on the floor, waiting.
Against her resolve, Moar knew she was starting a behavior that would make her intrude the lives of her owners in ways she's not supposed to do, but she couldn't help it, her lust for submission being too much for her to keep under control. She looked down at the broken vase with regret but not moving a muscle to pick them up. Some people, she reasoned, really never have enough. The Count had better teach her a good lesson. She could already hear the footsteps coming in her direction, wincing as her sores reminded her how dangerous the Count could be when angered.
