They Made Me The House Maid
All characters in this story are 18+
This story is completely fictional.
All acts in this story are fully consensual.
I woke up giggling.
I don’t even know why.
Maybe it was the way my throat still ached. Or how my lips still felt slick. Maybe it was because I could still taste him. Jace. Brother Jace. His cum.
Jesus. I sucked off the hottest guy on campus. In my bed. And not just sucked him off...I swallowed every drop. Like some obedient little pledge. Like I’d been starving for it.
And maybe I had.
I turned over. My pillow was damp from sweat and spit. My jaw was sore. My neck ached. My ass was sore, too, even though he never fucked me. I was just that sensitive. That used.
And I liked it.
No...fuck that. I loved it.
Then I saw it.
Another note.
Folded neatly on my desk chair, weighted down by… clothes?
My chest fluttered. I sat up, my sheets clinging to my sticky skin. My thighs felt slick. The air smelled like boy and sex and frat house. I padded over barefoot, already semi-hard again. I unfolded the note, heart racing.
“Wear only this for Task #2. Downstairs. Living room. Now. – Brother Jace.”
My mouth went dry.
“What clothes” turned out to be a tiny red skirt.
That’s it. No shirt. No underwear. Just this soft, slinky thing that looked more like a ribbon than anything that belonged on a body. It had a tag still on it...size XS.
I held it up. Laughed nervously. Gulped.
Then slipped it on.
It barely covered anything. My cock bounced freely underneath. My cheeks hung out the back. If I bent over, it was game over.
Which, obviously, was the point.
When I cracked open my bedroom door and stepped into the hallway, the scent hit me like a wave. Beer. Sweat. Weed. Musk. Boys. The house was a wreck. Cups tipped over. Pizza boxes everywhere. A jockstrap on the banister. Someone’s sock stuck to the wall like it was glued there.
It looked dirtier in the daylight.
And then I saw the little whiteboard on the kitchen door. Scrawled in thick Sharpie:
“House Maid – Troy.”
Shit.
I was the housemaid. In this slutty little skirt with no underwear. No shirt. No shame.
I walked into the living room and found a pair of yellow rubber gloves, a spray bottle, and a checklist duct-taped to the coffee table.
“Clean the floors.
Wipe the counters.
Do the dishes.
Don’t complain.
Look cute.
Ass out.
Mouth shut.
Use your tongue if needed.”
No signature. But the handwriting looked like Brett’s...big, arrogant loops.
I took a deep breath and got to work.
On all fours, knees pressed to the hardwood, I started picking up Solo cups. Crumpled napkins. Chicken bones. A bong mouthpiece that smelled like someone had pissed in it. I tossed everything into a black trash bag, my cock swinging under the skirt every time I crawled forward.
At one point, I caught my reflection in the TV screen.
Hair messy. No shirt. Skin flushed. That tiny red skirt riding so high my whole ass peeked out. I looked like some dumb little housemaid from a frat house porn video. One of those filthy, submissive twinks who smiled while getting humiliated.
Except I wasn’t smiling.
I was biting my lip.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
Lucas.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said, walking past me in gym shorts and no shirt, glistening with sweat. His abs looked chiseled out of marble. His cock bounced behind the fabric like it was trying to escape.
“You missed a spot,” he smirked.
He stopped. Turned. Then stepped behind me.
I didn’t move.
He pressed his bulge against the back of my head.
I froze.
The fabric was damp with sweat. The heat of it. The size of it. He rubbed it across my scalp slowly like I was just another surface to wipe down.
I flinched.
He chuckled.
“Relax, pledge. Just breaking you in.”
He walked off, casually grabbing a protein shake from the fridge like he hadn’t just face-fucked my hairline.
Ten minutes later, I was scrubbing the hallway floor, still on all fours, ass in the air, when another pair of feet stopped in front of me.
Joshua.
Gray sweatpants. No underwear. The outline of his cock was clear as day. Thick. Heavy. Hard.
He didn’t say a word. Just pulled it out.
It slapped my cheek once.
Then again.
Lazy. Purposeful. Like I was just part of his morning routine.
I didn’t dare move. My face burned. My dick throbbed.
Then he poured something into his hand. From a glass.
Orange juice?
He let it drip down the shaft of his cock. It gleamed in the sunlight. “Clean it,” he muttered, almost bored.
I didn’t hesitate. I leaned forward, tongue out, and dragged it up the side of his cock.
Tangy. Cold.
His hand came to the back of my head. Gentle. But firm.
I wrapped my lips around the head, just long enough to taste the juice. Just long enough for him to groan.
Then he tucked himself away.
“Better clean the floor too, pledge,” he said, ruffling my hair like I was a pet. “Wouldn’t want it to get sticky.”
I was already sticky. My thighs were soaked. My knees hurt. My mouth buzzed with taste. My whole body tingled.
And I kept going.
Later, bent under the coffee table trying to reach a crumb-filled corner, Brett walked by eating yogurt. He paused. Licked the spoon.
“Fuck, that skirt looks slutty on you,” he said. “Bet you’re leaking down your thigh already.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He crouched beside me, reached under the table, and pulled my skirt up.
I gasped.
His finger dragged down my crack slowly, then paused. I whimpered.
He dipped his spoon, licked it, then flicked a glob of yogurt onto my ass.
Cold. Sticky.
“Oops. Clean that too,” he whispered, his breath hot on my skin.
Then he slapped my cheek once and stood.
“Fuckin’ love this game,” he muttered as he walked off, still licking the spoon.
At one point, someone I didn’t even recognize walked through the house with headphones on. Hoodie. Cargo shorts. Didn’t say a word. Just looked me up and down like I was furniture and kept walking.
By late afternoon, the house sparkled.
I didn’t.
I was kneeling again, thighs trembling, wiping under the bar stools when I saw a pair of white sneakers.
Chase.
The President.
I froze.
Didn’t even look up.
He crouched beside me. Smelled like cologne and power.
“Looks like you’re fitting in nicely,” he said, voice low and smooth.
I swallowed.
“Jace said you took his cock like a champ last night.”
I didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
“Tomorrow,” he said, leaning in close. His breath grazed my neck. “Tomorrow we test your limits.”
My breath caught.
He stood. Took one last look at me...on my knees, covered in sweat and juice and shame.
He smiled.
“Don’t touch yourself tonight. That’s an order.”
Then he walked off.
Leaving me hard. Leaking. Humiliated.
And more desperate than ever.
Note to Readers:
If you have been liking the story so far, consider supporting on my Patreon for early access to future parts, bonus scenes, extended version and much more.
You will find early access to Part 5 - 7 which is already posted on there.
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