It had seemed like a good idea then. Just a few months over the summer, for a years rent and tuition. You’d slept around before, so, what’s the difference really. Why not get a little something out of it.
After all, you’d seen the pictures of the house, seen the list of duties. It wasn’t too much. Groceries would be delivered weekly.
Still, when the contract came in the post, as the ink dried in front of you, as you slipped it into the box to be returned… a little prickle of anxiety began to build. As the days crawled past it began to take root, building into butterflies. You checked the mail every day as instructed, and a little wash of warm relief spread over you every time it the box was empty.
You started to wonder if it was all a joke, a prank maybe? After all, who would rent a woman like this? You told yourself that every morning as you opened the mailbox, until you believed it. Until you were certain. Until you saw it.
Your heart leapt into your mouth. Inside the envelope a letter, and another, smaller package. The letter was made of thick, yellow paper, and handwritten. It addressed you by name.
“As we have agreed, you will commence your period of bondage this evening. Half your payment will arrive today, half at the end of your tenure. Your duties are simple, cook, clean, obey. Your application stipulated your limits, these will be adhered to strictly, you have received a safe word in case of emergency. However beyond these, you are expected to comply without reservation.
You will travel to the address enclosed by taxi. You may wear what you wish, new clothing will be provided. Do not bring a phone. Inside the envelope is a symbol of our agreement. You will wear it from this moment forth. Arrive for 6pm.”
You tore open the second envelope, even as it rattled in your hand. A black, narrow but broad collar with a brass buckle lay inside. At its centre, a small, tinkling bell.
You stated at it for a second, unsure. You knew it was wrong. You almost surprised yourself as you slipped it around your throat. Catching sight of yourself in the mirror as you called the taxi, you felt a little spike of adrenaline. Maybe a twinge of something else.
The house was exactly as you expected. There were many rooms, but few seemed to be in use. Your instructions were comprehensive. You were to cook, clean, and wash. Then retire to your attic room, where you would remain until the next morning. The anxiety had grown to a fever pitch as you paced around the rooms, looking for another person. Soon you realised that the house was empty. The instructions that lay on your bed explained more.
You would be in your room while others were present. Your bedroom would not open until the house was empty, and would close when the Master returned.
The first night was quiet. You began to relax. The tasks were simple, and a welcome break from the complexities of your real life. Soon you began to enjoy the tinkling of your little bell as you went about the house, setting things right, putting things as they should be. Everything it it’s place. You wondered if you were doing the same thing to yourself.
At night, in your room you couldn’t help but listen, through the walls, through the floor. You tried to focus on the books you had brought, but every so often the muffled voice of another made it to you. Was it a guest? Was it the Master?
The simple dresses and underwear laid outside your room began to change as the days went on. They got a little shorter… a little tighter. Then the lingerie appeared. You began to remember what you had agreed to… and the anxiety began to return… or was it excitement?
Before changing the Master’s sheets in the mornings you had begun to look through his things, then had taken to lying in his bed. The fresh smell of his body. You wondered incessantly what he was like. Some days he left notes on top of your folded clothes. They began as further instructions, but occasionally praise. The first time you were told what a good girl you were being, something awakened in you. Laying in his bed that morning with your dress thrown on the floor, face buried in his pillow you couldn’t help it, slipping your fingers inside the dark, lace panties he had provided, rubbing yourself until you climaxed.
You began to write back, at first thanking him for the opportunity you had been given, and the praise you had received. He said he was pleased with you, and that you were being such a good girl. Initially you were hesitant, but soon began to gush in the notes. How you were so happy to please him. How you were grateful for the tasks. But that you needed more. That your body hungered for more. For the ultimate act of submission.
For a day there was no reply. You worried, afraid you had pushed the envelope too far.
Then it came. You were to attend dinner that night.
Updateme