Ada Employed · Part 3 (3/3)
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et security camera.
Byron was in the kitchen using the blender when we came downstairs. He keeps us waiting for a minute so I help Charlie drink some water, and have a big drink myself. Before too long he enters, sipping at some kind of shake or smoothie that leaves a white mustache on his lip he keeps licking off. Byron is a head shorter than Charlie, a few inches shorter than me, but he's way bigger than either of us, bulky and muscular and without much excess fat. He's clad only in a pair of tight shorts, showing off his broad chest, which he shaved for a party a couple weeks ago, the stubble dark. He's in his late forties, and grey flecks his thick hair and manicured beard. He spends hours a day working out, and he's in charge of making sure Charlie and I stay in good shape without gaining "unsightly bulk."
"Ready to get started, girls?" He doesn't wait for a response, ushering us over to the bare floor and leading us through the extensive routine of stretches he taught us. He does some with us, but he's mostly busy being super hands-on when it comes to correcting small flaws in our posture or technique. Especially Charlie's, since at least I have the advantage of watching myself in the mirror.
As usual, Byron has a hard-on by the time we move on to the barre exercises mandated by Miss, obvious through his shorts. He's allowed to use Charlie's mouth, or my hands, without any special approval from Miss. In practice, though, he has some notions about semen retention that preclude his making use of that job perk more than once a week or so.
Byron leads us through several sit-ups and push-ups while he finishes his shake, then a bunch of squats, jumping jacks, and other calisthenics. Then he cuffs Charlie's wrists to the elliptical as I quickly change from my leotard into a slightly more socially acceptable outfit: a sports bra thick enough to conceal my nipple rings and tiny athletic shorts, both in white with stripes in yellow, red, and black down the sides; black ankle socks with yellow and red trim; white running shoes. Byron pulls on a pair of basketball shorts over the tight ones and gets his own shoes on.
The elliptical beeps to indicate Charlie needs to start running; if she doesn't follow the routine it sets she knows she'll get a harsh punishment. I take a last drink of water and then Byron and I head out the sturdy back door. He locks it behind us and we jog out the alley and into the street.
The sun is just beginning to color the sky. It's barely after six, and there's a chill in the air. Byron sets the pace, a fast jog, and I'm quick to warm up.
Not many people are out and about this time of the morning, but of course in a city of this size there are plenty of exceptions. My scant clothing and, let's be honest, my striking beauty garner plenty of stares from people walking their dogs or commuting, drunken revelers who've been up all night, fellow joggers, and despite the rich neighborhood, a few homeless folks as well. It rarely goes further than hungry leers and the occasional whistle, or a honk from a passing car. Byron is intimidating enough that the only people who ever mess with him are incredibly drunk.
We make it to the greenway entrance half a mile from the townhouse, and pick up the pace as we run along the river. It's the same one the office building we were at yesterday is on, walled off from the surrounding streets with a thick wall of trees and shrubbery. The dog-walkers and morning joggers all flock here and we nod in passing at each of them. I admire the birds and river grasses in the golden light of early morning as much as I can at this pace.
We make it a ways down the path before crossing a footbridge and heading back along the opposite bank. We exit on that side and take a sidewalk along a roadway bridge to get back to our own side. The half mile back to the townhouse we take at a light jog. The whole three mile route takes us less than thirty minutes.
When we return to the tiny backyard I'm gasping in the cold morning air, but Byron is fine. He may be older than me but he sleeps and eats better than I do, and he spends lots of time exercising to boot. He always sets a pace that pushes me hard, running behind me and paying attention to my breathing and movement. If I don't keep up, he pinches or slaps me, or just tells Miss to punish me later.
We get inside and I slip my shoes back into the shelf by the door, changing back into my leotard as Byron unshackles Charlie from the machine. We're allowed a five minute breather. Then I run through a pole dance routine Miss has told me to learn before a party this weekend, and then a couple more dances I already know, on pole and floor both. Meanwhile, Byron has Charlie do some exercises for moving better on all fours. Finally he runs us both through a few more calisthenics for a warm-down, then ushers us into the dungeon and locks the door from the outside.
Miss wakes up at eight, and it's after seven by the time we get to the shower. I take my leotard off and then strip Charlie down completely, hood and chastity and all. Her green eyes squint at me and she casts a glance at the two cameras mounted in the corners of the room. She knows she'll get in real trouble if she acts up or tries to get off right now. She can't get out the door, either.
Even though Charlie could wash herself now that her mittens are off, Miss doesn't trust her not to try and cum discreetly in the process. So once again I'm the one scrubbing her down. The change of pace is that she washes me for our morning shower. She takes out her frustration with little pinches and pokes now and then, but she knows she risks retaliation if she goes too far with it.
Once we're clean and have rubbed each other down with various oils and lotions, a skincare routine Miss requires of us, Charlie and I work together to braid her hair. Then I replace her hood, chastity, mittens and slippers. I press the doorbell by the room's door, which should get Byron to unlock it in the next five minutes, then dress in my maid outfit.
While Charlie goes up to wake Miss with her morning blowjob, I get everything prepared for a simple breakfast. Miss is still upstairs when I'm finished, so I leave off actually cooking it and go up to the bedroom myself.
It seems Miss wasn't content with a simple blowjob this morning, perhaps because she didn't fuck me very thoroughly last night. Now she's got Charlie on the bed in a kind of ridiculous position, face down, mittens leashed to the headboard and the anchor points at the back of her slippers tethered to the curtain rails. Her legs are spread wide and while her chest rests on the bed, her belly and legs are suspended above it. Miss is fucking her slow from behind; she glances at me when I enter but doesn't acknowledge me otherwise.
I take the laundry hamper down to the basement, sort out the dry clean and hand wash stuff, and dump the rest in the washer. Added to what was in there already it's full enough to start. I take the hamper back up and then give the bathroom a quick scrub. When I come back out into the bedroom, Miss has taken Charlie down and is cuddling the poor thing as she scrolls her phone.
She beckons me over. I take off my shoes and apron before sliding into the bed with the two of them, so I'm just wearing the top and bustier that leave my boobs and crotch uncovered, stockings, the frilled hood and the dildo gag.
Miss looks up from her phone and smiles at me. "Good morning, sweet thing. Sleep well?" She pulls the gag out of my mouth, but doesn’t actually wait for an answer before kissing me. As much as I often flinch from her touch, I also crave it, and with her seeming to be in a good mood, now's a safer time to indulge than most. Not that I have much say in it, of course, but I do lean into her touch, kissing back. Soon she's on top of me, tongue in my mouth, knee between my legs and digging it into me.
She gets me so worked up, kissing me all over my face and neck and then coming back to my mouth, teasing my piercings with her fingers, that I start grinding against her bare leg. She lets me do it until I'm getting close to cumming. Then she pulls away, hands off, and grins.
"Go get breakfast ready, I'll be down in five," she commands. I let out a ragged breath, my hands kneading my thighs for a moment. She just hands me the gag to replace in my mouth. I put my apron and shoes on and return to the kitchen, where I regretfully finish up with the eggs, potatoes, and grapefruit instead of jerking off.
Charlie and I get our own meal for breakfast. As the diet and nutrition expert of the household, Byron periodically concocts a huge pot of stew, portions it out and freezes it. It's not especially appetizing, a mix of disparate vegetables, chicken breast, cod, and nutritional yeast, undersalted and unspiced. I'm always starved for whatever carbs or sweets I can get at dinner.
After she finishes eating, Miss heads back upstairs for a shower and then to her study, where she might get some work done or simply browse the internet or play a computer game. For my part, I take Charlie to the dungeon to change her into her own maid uniform.
First her mittens and slippers come off, and then I put her in a black full-body nylon bodysuit, thin and see-through like pantihose and covering everything below her neck. Over that, a white leather corset goes around her waist. I attach the straps that dangle from that to the thick white PVC thigh-high boots or stockings I pull up her legs. Boots in that they have soles with a two-inch heel; stockings in that everything above the sole is skin-tight and not as stiff as any boot I've ever seen, supported by the leather straps rather than any internal structure. They also have integrated ankle cuffs, linked with less than two feet of chain.
Covering her shoulders and collarbone, but nothing below that, I add a garment like the top of a shirt. It consists mostly of a pair of short puffy sleeves and a starched white collar. The rest is in black cotton except for the white trim at the bottom of the sleeves, which buttons to a pair of gloves that cover the rest of her arms in thick PVC to match her stockings.
She gets an apron the same as mine, like the front half of a swimsuit stretched over her body by thin cords tied at the back. Lastly, I replace her green hood with a white one. It has a frill across the head like mine, but it covers her full face. It's got an integrated dildo gag with a hole through it to allow breathing through it, as well as two stubby tubes that fit up the nostrils. It also integrates a plastic visor over the eyes, allowing her some sight but only through its horizontal slats.
Before leaving the dungeon, I use small padlocks to secure the collars on both our hoods to a six-foot length of chain. A couple more padlocks keep her ankle cuffs too tight to remove. Charlie's situation is different from mine since Miss doesn't have blackmail on her. She's not allowed outside at all, and we keep the doors locked and the windows barred – not conspicuous in this city, even in a nice neighborhood – but Miss's policy is that she should always be restrained or supervised enough not to be able to try the door in the first place. Do I feel bad about my part in keeping her prisoner? Of course, but we'll both get harshly punished if I let her try to escape and she fails; if she gets away there's a very real chance Miss could have her found and killed, and of course my own fate would be sealed if Miss was investigated by the authorities. I try not to think about it.
For the next couple hours we sweep and mop floors, vacuum rugs, make beds, scrub the kitchen and bathroom fixtures, do dishes, and fold laundry. I take the lead, of course, since my vision isn't impaired and because I have a better idea of what's needed. I can't speak because of my own gag, but Charlie knows to follow my lead. When she doesn't, due to recalcitrance or confusion, it's on me to correct her with a light slap or two.
At one point, she's trying to dust under Byron's bed and throws down her admittedly silly feather duster in frustration. When I try to correct her she blocks me and tries to bowl me over. I wrestle with her for a few moments and get the better of her by grabbing her hair and elbowing her in the boob. I yank the leash and get her across my lap as I fall into a chair. I pin one arm behind her back, forcing her to use the other to hold herself up or else slide off face first into the floor. I pin the leg closer to me between my own to keep her from kicking me, the shackle keeping her other leg from a wide range of motion.
Breathing heavily from the fight, I sort of come to my senses. Holding Charlie like this, it's a technique Miss regularly uses on me. I didn't really think when I was pulling her into it. What am I doing? I know it's not right or fair of me to take my anger out on her, she's just as frustrated as I am. I've probably made my point already, even; her struggles have stopped and she's just panting. I can feel her breathing, her nylon bodysuit rasping against my leg. If I let her go she'll probably return to helping me with the dusting.
On the other hand; when's anyone acted right or fair to me? The sudden strength and depth of emotions I usually avoid feeling hit hard.
My free hand finds Charlie's ass, situated perfectly over my opposite knee and thigh. I stroke her cheeks, separated by the strap of her apron, through the black nylon, admiring her curves. Her chastity is unyielding against my leg; my own bulge may be softer against hers but it's harder than it ever is when provoked by Miss.
I've hit her before, but only when necessary to keep her in line or when directly ordered to. Now, deliberately, I raise my hand and bring it down squarely on one cheek. She yelps and her renewed struggle only provokes me further. I slap her again and then again, harder. There's a sense in me of relief, or release maybe. I pause for a minute, holding the whining Charlie firm and letting the feeling run through me where I've been so numb.
"What are you waiting for? Keep going." My blood runs cold at the voice from the door.
"M-Miss, I was only…" I meet her eyes where she stands to my right, barefoot and in a dressing gown. "Keep going?"
She inclines her head, otherwise still. She won't tell me twice. Did she see the fight on one of the cameras and come downstairs?
I square my shoulders, trying to recapture at least in part what I felt before. Then I spank Charlie again – once, twice, four times and more with measured strokes, trying to cover the area of her ass equally. I can't see the marks beneath the bodysuit but I know it'll be reddening by now. I finish off with four full-strength swats that have her yowling.
A belated sense of shame catches me when I stop and look to Miss for approval. She stops idly fondling herself with one hand and nods. "Good, Ada. Very good job. I just came down to tell you I've made some last-minute lunch plans. Byron will be dropping me off while you two go for groceries, so we'll be leaving soon. Finish up in here, put Charlie away and get ready." She doesn't wait for a response before leaving me to help Charlie down to the floor.
"You heard her," I say, brusque, "last room for today. Let's not keep her waiting." We finish tidying up Byron's room with Charlie on her best behavior. I don't know if that's because Miss acting oddly has her as disturbed as it does me, or if it's me she's scared of. Would that be so bad? It might make dealing with her easier.
We go back downstairs and I change Charlie out of her maid outfit. She won't meet my eyes while I put on her usual green hood and take away her sight again. I add the heavy leather hood and straitjacket before locking her in the cell.
I strip off my own uniform and take a moment to consider. I typically have some discretion in choosing an outfit for the weekly grocery trip. The main restriction is it has to be revealing, humiliating, or just plain slutty, which describes most or all of my clothes anyway. "Boobs out, belly out, bulge out – pick two and try for the third as well," as Miss puts it. Easiest with something skintight, or nearly so.
I settle on a romper and pick out lingerie to match. I consider going without a bra, but instead I go with a plunge bra that produces ample cleavage and leaves the center of my chest bare but for a thin band of lace at the lower sternum, the cups barely covering my piercings. It's smooth and rose pink with white lace trim: the matching panties are a string bikini cut.
The romper I've chosen is in a cotton fabric with a jersey-like stretch, cream white with vertical stripes of sunset pink and orange. I step into the shorts, which are only a couple inches long in the inner thigh. The upper part is closely fitted, with short sleeves and a collar. It buttons down to the waist with large white buttons, and I only do up two, leaving plenty of cleavage on display. Boobs out, check. It's mostly skin tight below the waist, and while the imprint of my dick is small and unobtrusive you could catch it if you were looking for it. Bulge out, check. My belly isn't bare but you can see its contours just fine. I'm counting it.
I add a silver choker and redo my twin ponytails. I eschew makeup, to save time and since Miss doesn't require it for these outings. Then I slip on a pair of sandals with inch-high wedge heels. The soles and heels are of a cork-like material while the strap is white fabric. I grab an empty handbag, small and pink and furry, and hurry upstairs.
I grab my grocery list from the kitchen and get to the entry hall. Byron is already there, but at least I haven't kept Miss waiting. I sit on the bench built into one wall, while Byron in his pinstripe slacks and short sleeves leans against the jamb of the front door. He nods at me and continues to scroll on his phone. Not having one myself, I use a pen to make a few last additions to my list and stick it in my purse.
I'm responsible for the week's meal plan and getting everything we need for it during the Thursday grocery run. Sometimes I miscalculate and we get a few things delivered, but if it happens too often Miss gets cross with me, so I make every effort to keep on top of things. Miss usually doesn't make work appointments on Thursdays, so it's often just me and Byron.
Miss comes downstairs and I stand up. She checks me out and nods, approving my outfit. She hands me the small wallet I take on these shopping trips, containing one credit card, my photo ID, and a card with a few phone numbers on it which I can call if I get lost somehow and can borrow a phone.
I shiver a little as we step out. It's a warm enough day, but there's an early spring wind to contend with. Still, after the long winter I'm glad for the sun on my skin, even if the thought of being seen in this outfit has me flushed.
The outfit comes off once we're behind the car's mirrored windows, at Miss's demand. "I have another accessory for you to wear," she whispers in my ear. Then she lays me over her lap and takes a small cane to the backs of my thighs. Not a punishment, she claims, just some marks to admire below the hem of my shorts. I can only hope the redness won't attract too much attention, and that any more interesting colors won't appear until later.
I get my clothes back on as we pull up to the restaurant. Her friend, Helen, greets her with a big smile and me with a groping that's surprisingly thorough for all that it only takes a minute and that we're in a public place. Helen thinks I'm adorable and is always finding opportunities to put her hands on me. She pouts, exaggerated, when Miss tells her I'm not staying for the meal.
I get in the passenger seat, wincing at the sting of my backside, and Byron and I are off. Our first stop is a big box store where I get many of the nonperishables on my list. Byron drops me at the entrance and leaves me to it. I can tell a fair few people there are eyeballing me as I dump rice and paper towels into my cart. A man in his late fifties is bold enough to hit on me, but at least he keeps a respectful distance. I've had guys like that corner me or put their hands on me in the middle of the crowded store. I really don't like having to make a scene.
Checking out, I tuck the receipt in my bag and try to ignore the brazen leers of the armed security at the exit. Byron is waiting for me outside. He leads me to the car and helps me load up the trunk. Then we're off to our other stop, a more boutique supermarket. I connect everything remaining on my list, ignoring the dirty looks of the bougie women shopping there. There's a cooler in the trunk of the SUV where Byron and I stick all the cold stuff.
We pick Miss up from the restaurant and Helen waves to me as we leave. "See you tomorrow night, sweetie!" she calls to me.
"Tomorrow night, Miss?" I ask once we're driving away.
"She invited us to a party at Adelaide. A bit last minute, but I didn't have plans other than going out to one club or another."
I give her a blowjob on the way home. Once the groceries are put away and Charlie is let out, Miss takes me upstairs to keep her company while she reads and plays a video game. I lie next to her on the couch, naked and dozing on and off. Miss appreciates me with a hand now and then but mostly isn't mean about it. It's always nice when I get a chance to catch up a little on the sleep I miss in my short, tormented nights.
Ada Employed · Part 3 (3/3)
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