Miss MissaX Desperate Maid Gets Blackmailed

I’m cleaning the home of the Doyles. Mr. Doyle has been extremely generous and granted more days of work for me. The Mrs. doesn’t approve, she’s never tipped me, and many other instances lead me to believe that she dislikes me overall. She sneers at me as she leaves the home. The kind Mr. Doyle comes in the room and I jump at the opportunity to profusely thank him for the opportunity to work extra hours. I need it, not to delve too personal, I briefly mention the fact that I run my home on my own now. Mr. Doyle smiles warmly at me, and tells me that the bedroom is not to be cleaned today. “Yes, sir.” He leaves and I continue to clean. The bedroom is not to be cleaned? Why am I not allowed to enter the bedroom? I “always” clean the bedroom. When I am certain he is not in the home, I enter the bedroom and see a heart shaped box on the bed. It must be his wife’s, she has a habit of buying expensive things and laying them around in the home as if they are disposable. I open the lid to see the most exquisite necklace, bracelet, and earrings set. I’ve seen this featured in Haute Couture Magazine, and I know the price tag. I also know that the lady of the house is an absent minded woman, she would never know if I took it. I have never stolen before but just this once shouldn’t hurt? I justify the theft by reminding myself of my great misfortunes in life, and the lady’s rudeness to me. She orders me around without even looking me in the eye, as if my poorness is contagious. I smirk to myself, feel the opportunity for revenge, reach for the sparkling jewels, and place it in my pocket. I hear footsteps right outside the door. My heart jumps and I hide in the closet. I hear the familiar, heavy footsteps of Mr. Doyle and pray that he doesn’t find me. He opens the door to see me cowering in the corner. I jump up and muster a pathetic lie for entering the room even though he specifically instructed me not to. He wants to know where the gift is that he bought for his wife. I lie, once again. He sees right through me. He reaches into my pocket and sees the jewels. I beg his forgiveness, with tears in my eyes, I plead for my job, and most of all I beg him not to tell his wife. His facial expression is contemplative as he watches me squirm. He then speaks and I am surprised at his response, “take down your hair.” “My hair?” I take it down obediently. I begin to ask him why he wants my hair down when he instructs me to take off my apron. I obey him although I am confused. I quickly learn through more requests that he is interested in seeing me in my lingerie. I am a conservative, respectful woman, and I have never did anything to be ashamed of until today. I realize he is trying to punish me. I consider he may allow me to keep my job if I obey. I try to cover as much of my body as I can with my arms, my hands, when he finally has me remove my last article of clothing. He humiliates me further by insisting I grab his wife’s baby oil. He me to rub it generously over my ass, and tells me to bend over his knee. “This has went on far enough, sir.” He reminds me that he could go to the police. The jewelery costs so much it would be considered Grand Theft. I gasp. I bend over his knee and he whaps my ass cheek. My body writhes in pain. He whaps me again, and again, until my ass in cherry red. The oil makes the sting of his hand worse, and still he pours more. He pours the oil right on my crack, it falls into my asshole, down my pussy, my clit. He begins to rub me gently, at first. I bite my lip, I want to scream at him, to call him a pervert. The rubbing also feels good. I don’t want him to know it feels good. My boss is a strong man, a handsome and powerful man, and I have often fantasized about being with him. If he knows that he is causing me pleasure, it would humiliate me. I struggle to keep my dignity as he works his fingers into my pussy, my ass, and I fail to keep my composure. I begin to moan and I hate myself for it. He allows me some wiggle room now so I can buck my hips up and down on his fingers. Still, I try to behave as if I am doing it on accident. Mr Doyle tells me to stand up. I feel relieved, “It’s over, I can get dressed now.

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