My Indentured Servant by Jean Roberta

My Indentured Servant

by Jean Roberta

My eyeballs were so hot with rage that I saw the two women through a red blur. "I need my fucking money today, Tara!" I yelled. "You said you'd have it." I was angrier at myself than at her. My own gullibility felt as unbearable as scratchy woollen underwear.

"Chill out, man," muttered the small girl with the river of long black hair and classic native features. From certain angles, she looked like a Eurasian hooker in an old movie on late-night TV. At this moment, her young curves held no appeal for me. "You'll get it," she promised. Shit.

I knew that I should never have let Tara borrow my sound equipment for a party without paying me up front as I usually demanded. I shouldn't have bent my own rules just because I had met Tara through her white sister Lorraine, a locally-famous spokeswoman for "gay rights." They were only sisters by adoption, anyway.

While Tara had the look of a wily femme, Lorraine was the clean-cut professional version, even in jeans. Her short chestnut hair dramatized her delicate face and willowy body. As usual, she seemed to feel responsible for everything that happened around her. "Mick," she pleaded, "I can --."

I was glad she didn't call me the name my parents gave me (Michelle), but I interrupted her anyway. "This isn't your problem," I told her. "Tara promised to rent my equipment, not borrow it. I have her signature on a piece of paper. I can take her to small claims court." Lorraine seemed to vibrate with the anguish of a righteous woman in an unfair world. I pitied her foolishness.

"I'll pay you next Friday," offered Tara.

"I'm not leaving here without my money," I warned them both.

"I could work it off," blurted Lorraine the peacemaker. Tara and I both stared at her.

"I can do your cooking and cleaning for a week and - anything else you want done." She smiled into my eyes with an unmistakable sexual invitation.

"You'll what?" I asked, trying to grasp her offer, or her plan. I had never seen signs that Lorraine was attracted to me, but this would not be the first time that a woman had to bend over in front of me to get my attention. I was usually so preoccupied with my own business that I didn't notice anyone on the sidelines.

"My fucking agreement was with Tara," I pointed out. I immediately regretted my choice of words, but not their harshness.

"Don't you think a week's worth of domestic service would pay for the use of your sound system?" Lorraine demanded. "Working off debts that way is an old tradition, you know. Some of the earliest white settlers who came to the colonies in the 1600s were sponsored over as indentured servants for the families who paid their passage. It usually took them seven years to work it off."

I didn't see how this history lesson could be relevant to the situation at hand. At the same time, I couldn't help picturing Lorraine as a colonial maid in a tightly-laced bodice and long flowing skirt. Lorraine sweeping floors with a twig broom, stirring a pot hanging over a fire, serving ale to the master of the house, who could pull her onto his lap and slide his hand under her low neckline to fondle her tits. Lorraine blushing with shame and pleasure. Lorraine lying across the lap of a mistress with the same predatory instincts as her husband, a mistress who would raise her slutty maid's petticoats to expose her white ass for a spanking which would give her lower cheeks a healthy blush. Lorraine with no choice but to please her employers in all things for seven long years.

This antique method of paying for the use of my c.d. player was out of the question, of course. "Lorraine," I reasoned, trying to sound gentle, "when will you let Tara take the consequences when she screws up? You can't always rescue her."

"Mick," she retorted in the same lecturing tone, "you say you want to be paid back. You know Tara doesn't have it. Do you want to accept my offer or take her to court and run the risk of not getting anything anyway?"

"Hey!" yelled Tara. We both ignored her.

"Okay," I snapped, "all right. You are one fucked-up family, but whatever. I gotta get paid. I have an oven that hasn't been cleaned in five years and some greasy windows and a veranda full of spider webs. I damn well need a maid. If you come with me, Lorraine, I'll show you what you have to do."

I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out the door more roughly than I intended. I wanted to avoid seeing the smirk on Tara's face, but I glimpse it before I could look away.

Seeing Lorraine in the passenger's seat of my car threatened to raise my temperature again. She looked like a submissive wife although I felt she had offered me a raw deal.

"Mick," she tackled me, "you don't really know Tara."

I snorted. "I want to keep it that way. Where I come from, people pay their debts." I couldn't help seeing a creamy sliver of breast between the buttons of Lorraine's shirt. Having to keep my hands on the wheel was annoying.

"Don't go there," she warned me. She seemed determined to steer the conversation into one of her favourite historical channels. "Do you know what's been done to the native people here? Do you have any idea what it was like for Tara to grow up in a white family? Our parents had really good intentions, that's the joke. It's what the road to hell is paved with."

If I was headed for hell, I wanted it to be for my bad intentions towards her Politically Correct tits. I wanted to hear her screaming in pleasure for a change.

"Tara's birth-mother was a teenager on the street," Lorraine informed me. "She'll never know who her father was. She had a hard time in high school. She didn't fit in with the other native kids, and white guys thought she was easy."

An image of Tara's tight jeans flashed into my mind along with a snappy comment. I restrained myself. "Yes, Lorraine," I sighed. "I've heard that song before, and I'm sure it's true. The Adopt Indian-Metis program was probably the worst idea since the treaties were set up to last forever, and the churches sent their most embarrassing child-molesters to save the baby savages from their own culture for the love of Christ. It's a long, disgusting record of oppression. I know that. Be that as it may, I have an expensive sound system that I paid for myself and I usually rent it out for payment in advance. You want something from me, I get something from you. It's a crude capitalist system, but it's as fair as any other system I know, regardless of whose grandmother was screwed by which missionary. If we add hereditary guilt to the bill, we'll never figure out who owes what. We have to deal with each other person-to-person, starting with a clean slate."

There, I thought: my sermon for the day. A voice in my head was jeering at my own unclean slate. Either I had trusted Tara because I felt racist pity for her, or because I really wanted to get into Lorraine's pants. Two dubious motives.

I almost jumped when Lorraine placed a warm little hand on my thigh. "I want something from you, Mick," she purred, "and I'm willing to pay for it."

I laughed aloud as I eased an arm around her shoulders, recklessly steering with one hand. "Sneaky thing," I told her. "You said you wanted to work off Tara's debt. Now you'll owe me twice as much. I'll hold you to it."

We arrived at my house. Parked in front, in full view of any neighbours who might be watching, I pulled her into my arms and gave her a long hot kiss. My tongue found its way between her teeth like a snake exploring a cozy cave. "Mmm," she moaned, snuggling closer.

She clung to me until I gently pushed her away and opened the door. I didn't want her to see how shaken I was by her heat, her want, her surrender or her magnetic pull. Her energy didn't feel like the weakness of a bleeding heart, and it demanded an answering strength. I had an impulse to call her a sick slut, and this thought shamed me more than anything else I had done so far. I wondered if she liked raunchy names.

I looked back at Lorraine. She slid gracefully out of my car with a little shake of the hips and a smile that was hard to read. I wondered who was going to screw whom else.

I tried to imagine myself through Lorraine's eyes: taller (5'8), athletic build on the heavy side, hazel eyes, strong features, thick light-brown hair kept short to discourage its tendency to curl. Jeans and cotton shirt, well-pressed. (She would learn how fussy I was about my clothes.) Comfortable old running-shoes (with footwear, it's the feel that counts).

I wanted to brag to my new maid that women usually came on to me rather than vice versa, but I wasn't sure how that would sound to her. Did it mean I was attractive or passive?

I unlocked my front door as though I thought it would try to fight me. Lorraine stood behind me. "Wait," I told her impulsively, then picked her up, hoisted her over my shoulder, and carried her squealing into the veranda. I tried to control my breathing as I set her down. "You see this mess," I pointed out to prevent her from speaking. "Your work is cut out for you, baby."

Her eyes swept over boxes, camping gear, sports equipment, cans of rusty nails, old amps and speakers, and assorted tacky souvenirs from relatives who had brought them back from exotic places. Lorraine looked especially amused when she saw the jiggling plastic hula girl that could be seen from the street. "Do you want me to start with this?" she asked.

"No," I grinned. "There's something else I want you to polish." I brought her into my front room, picked her up again, and lay her down on my sofa. I was proud that she felt lighter this time, possibly because I was learning how to hold her weight, which was just enough.

I lay on Lorraine, pressing my crotch into hers, and unbuttoned her shirt. Underneath, she was wearing a black lacy bra. "Nice lingerie, baby," I sneered. The clasp was so complicated that she had to undo it herself like the willing slut she was. Her breasts were small but firm, and I gathered them in both my hands. Her exposed pink skin had an unusual pearly glow, making her look like some kind of corrupted Christmas angel.

Her hips were pushing into mine in a subtle but regular rhythm. "Do you want your pants off, Lorraine?" I teased her, unzipping them. She wiggled and pulled, taking her black satin panties down with them.

It gave me a certain immature thrill to see the woman who could explain "gay rights" (human rights for all) to a TV camera without a pause or a stammer lying breathlessly naked beneath me. She seemed to have no self-control, which meant that I had to have enough for both of us.

I backed off, the better to admire my prize. She shimmered like a nymph from an enchanted forest left stranded in my messy life. She looked so out of place that I felt as if she could disappear at any moment.

I stroked her face, watching myself; I was tempted to slap her into a change of mood. I squeezed and rolled and pulled at her nipples, watching them lengthen and redden. She closed her eyes, moaned and spread her legs.

I felt restless and evil. The acid of my previous rage was still lingering in my veins. I wanted her, but I couldn't trust her. Something about her generous offer of herself smelled fishy to me -- not that I minded the smell. "Is this how you think it's gonna be, Lorraine?" I asked her. "You on your back for a week?"

She tried not to show pain in her eyes, but it was there. I felt proud and guilty. "It was your idea," she reminded me.

"Was it?" I challenged her. "You offered to work off a debt." I trailed two fingers casually down her girlish ribs, over her belly and into her curly brown bush. Her breathing felt uneven and unsure. My fingertips were damp. "Wet," I remarked. I brought my fingers to my mouth and sucked, watching her watching me. This was better.

"Get up, horny bitch," I ordered, pulling her by the hand. "Doggy-style on the sofa, and don't move until I come back." She shifted awkwardly until she had planted her hands and knees as steadily as possible on the cushions. "Good girl," I encouraged her with a light slap on her beautifully-curved ass. Despite myself, I was still breathing hard as I left the room without a backward glance.

I returned with treasures: my fur-lined leather cuffs and my marble dildo. It is thick and pale with blue veins like the real thing, but more appealing and reliable. Its weight makes it hard to use as a strap-on, but I love holding it.

I used the cuffs to bind Lorraine's wrists to keep her in place. She gasped and wiggled slightly, as though shivering. "This is what you have to polish," I gloated, showing it to her. "Sir Elgin Marble. The stone needs to be washed in pussy-juice at least once a day." I knelt behind her and slid a finger into her heat. She was so wet and open that she didn't need any more coaxing.

Slowly but firmly, I pushed my rock-hard dick into her tight, deep cunt until it filled her completely. She groaned, cautiously pushing back. "Take it in, baby," I advised her in a low voice meant to caress her eardrums. "I know you're an art-lover." I pushed and pulled, gradually working up a good fucking rhythm which could melt what was left of her resistance. I pressed myself against her hot butt as I found her clit with my other hand.

She was louder and more frantic than I had expected, as though the smooth, rational mask she showed to the public had cracked open to let the boiling lava of raw need pour out of all her openings. She scared me a little. I scared myself too. Something had been uncorked in both of us, and I didn't know any more whose fault this was.

Once uncorked, my woman didn't take long to spill over. At least I felt she was mine while she squealed and shook. She even moaned "Oh, Mick" in a voice I knew would stay with me no matter what else might happen between us.

She was dewy with sweat as I gently and reluctantly pulled my sculpture from its new home. Sir Elgin looked well-polished, and I laid him aside until next time.

I resisted the impulse to kiss Lorraine all over or rush to get my camera so I could keep a portrait of her in her current position. Her ass looked so impudent and tempting that I wanted to do something to it, but my own need was too distracting. I released her wrists before I released my own wet crotch by shedding my pants faster than it takes to tell it. "I want your mouth, honey," I hinted. "I've tested healthy," I bragged. I spread myself out on my sofa, showing her a clear target.

Lorraine looked innocently into my eyes, then knelt between my thighs to give me pleasure. Her tongue on my wetness felt hard and pointed until she eased down to give me broader strokes. She seemed practiced and confident almost to the point of being too pushy for an indentured servant. She teased my clit with fingers, tongue and teeth, skilfully looking for ways to get me hooked on her touch.

Lorraine knew when I was there. She cleverly pushed me over the edge by plunging two long fingers into me while she sucked my clit without mercy. I made more noise than I intended. Her expression was sly.

By now, we seemed more-or-less even: I had had her and she had had me. I was having trouble keeping score, and I felt much too satisfied too soon. However, my messy house hadn't been touched. Her reaction to that would be the true test.

I held Lorraine as close to me as my shadow for a long time, breathing in our combined pungence. Nothing smells like a woman post-fuck except two women in the same state.

When I felt we had rested enough, I shifted her up. "Go get me a beer from the fridge, slut," I ordered. "You can pour yourself some lemonade, but you're not allowed to drink booze on the job." Without a flinch, she walked to the kitchen as I watched the graceful sway of her ass.

Lorraine returned with a bottle and a glass. "Shall I pour, ma'am?" she asked without sarcasm. "Or sir?" She seemed determined to outdo my expectations.

I considered the options, trying to keep a straight face. "Sir," I told her. "And I don't need a glass." I took the cold bottle from her, then ran it slowly down her skin from her collarbone to her quivering belly. She yipped like a surprised puppy, and the sound tickled my still-sensitive clit.

"I should give you a cold shower to keep you alert, and let you drip dry," I told her, "but I'll let you put your clothes on to clean the veranda." I felt merciful. "Most of the junk can go to the basement in the boxes I keep down there, but not the paint supplies because they can't be near the furnace. The veranda floor has to be mopped and the windows have to be washed." She didn't look overwhelmed yet. I smiled to myself; she hadn't met the family of spiders that lived in a hole in the wall.

I pulled on my panties, jeans and socks, keeping up a stream of instructions. "I have to go run some errands, and I expect the veranda to look decent when I come back. I want to give my customers a good impression." She didn't need to know that few of the people who hire me as a d.j. have seen my house because I don't invite them. Before Lorraine, in fact, I rarely entertained guests except on a drunken impulse.

I carried my beer out to the car and drank it up while sitting in the driver's seat in view of the street. This made me feel pathetic. I then drove to Café Mocha three blocks away, found a table in a corner and ordered a coffee. This made me feel like a misunderstood artist bumming around Europe, drinking absinthe and brooding over my life.

I pictured Lorraine cleaning my house in my absence, and wondered which psychiatric label applied to her best. She was obviously sick, and probably incurable. Luscious but unhealthy. I refused to diagnose my own psychological state.

I wondered how naïve I had to be to assume that Lorraine was sorting out my junk instead of running up the street to the bus stop so that she could be out of sight before I returned. She probably assumed that her debt was already paid, not that she ever really owed me anything. Her sense of guilt over being the queer white heir to her parents' business and their own sense of social responsibility really had nothing to do with me.

That thought made me yearn for something stronger than caffeine or even absinthe - maybe heroin. What a strange word, I thought, for such a dangerous drug. Like someone who seemed like a heroine to the Politically Correct crowd and a fallen angel to an unsuspecting butch. I really hoped I wasn't falling in love.

I forced myself to stay away for three hours, and I resisted the urge to shop for flowers, chocolates and fancy underwear. I reminded myself of how stupid I would feel bringing those things to an empty house.

I walked up my front steps in time to the drumbeats in my head. My house seemed to wink at me as the setting sun lit up the clear windows surrounding the veranda. Anyone could see inside, but the only thing to be seen was a comfortable green armchair from the 1950s that had somehow come up from the basement. It no longer looked like a piece of junk. It looked like retro chic. Its back and arms even wore my grandmother's old string doilies which had been stuffed in a box somewhere for years. Chills ran down my spine.

Lorraine was busily mopping the floor of my front hallway when I walked in. "Do you like --?" she stuttered, but I grabbed her and interrupted her with a kiss. I wanted to make her knees go weak, and I was pleased when she sagged in my arms.

I didn't smell booze on my maid's breath. After inhaling the scent of her honest labour, I relaxed my hold. "Good job, woman," I praised her.

Lorraine blushed charmingly. "It's just my own idea. I think you need to get a rag rug and a potted plant for the veranda, but if that's not the look you want, you can tell me."

I couldn't control my grin; any look other than Post-Nuclear Junkyard suited me fine. "Baby," I sighed, possessively cupping one of her perky breasts. "I'll have to reward you." I kissed her again like a devoted suitor.

Lorraine looked troubled. "Um, Mick," she confessed, "there's something you should know."

"Now it comes out," I snickered, teasing her nipples with my thumbs to make them stand up. "Did you sweep something under the sofa, bad girl?"

She squirmed and puffed as though trying to exhale her guilt. "You left me here alone for a long time, Sir, and I sifted through your stuff. Do you mind?"

This was almost too funny. "You're pushing it," I warned, doing the same to her tits. "What did you find out, snoopy bitch? How much I earn? Did you find Emily's love letters?" Emily was another girlfriend from the Twilight Zone who had written me enough to fill a book after she had moved away five years before.

"Yes." Lorraine's face was amazingly red.

I wondered if she was jealous, and the thought tickled me. "You can throw them out," I offered. "I don't know why I kept them this long." Lorraine now looked easy to read. "You have more to tell me, don't you?" I prompted. "Confess, little sinner." This conversation was becoming entertaining. It seemed like a safe bet that she hadn't had time to play with herself, and I secretly hoped that she preferred to wait for me anyway. There had to be something else.

"Tara's fairly responsible for her age, Mick. She intended to pay you on time." Lorraine's voice was barely audible. "We both work for our parents, in their restaurants. Well, Tara does waitressing full-time and I fill in to help with management. She asked for an advance when she was planning her party, and I said yes, then I stalled. Dad wouldn't have minded if I'd just paid her that day, but I said I had to talk to the bookkeeper. I gave her the runaround."

My hands were already tingling, and I slid one down to her firm, bratty, tempting butt. It was covered by denim, but that obstacle could be removed. "So you made her look bad to piss me off?" I grilled her. "Or you planned this whole indentured-servant thing ahead of time?"

"Not exactly," she explained. She was trembling slightly, in fear or anticipation or both. "I wanted an excuse to see you again. I thought I could get you to come back later for your money, or meet me somewhere. When that didn't work, I thought of a better plan."

I burst out laughing. Lorraine felt ripe, if that makes sense: a bad girl with an itchy conscience who had just exposed herself. "You need a good spanking, don't you?" I grinned.

"Yes, Sir, " she muttered, glancing shyly at my hands and then away.

"You'll get it," I promised. "Take everything off and come out to the veranda."

She looked frozen for a second, then she did as she was told. The armchair wasn't really the best seat for the purpose, but I sat on the edge and pulled her over my lap so that her ass was in a comfortable striking distance. Dusk had fallen, but I was sure we were visible from the street. Her crotch felt moist.

Whap! The sound of my palm hitting her skin was so satisfying that I thought a less responsible person could become dangerously addicted to it. I paused, then gave her another one. I had planned to give her half a dozen, but now I thought a few more would help relieve her conscience, making us both feel better.

I had just settled into a good rhythm when a sharp gasp like a smothered scream let me know that Lorraine had had enough. I held her in place for another few heartbeats, listening to her breathing. "Good girl," I comforted her. "You've paid your debts. You don't owe anything more."

I helped her up and guided her back to the front room. Lorraine still seemed to be in her own space. "You okay, honey?" I asked.

"Oh yes," she answered, giving me a dazed smile.

"I'll take you out for dinner," I offered, "but first I have to check out your snatch. Make sure you didn't hide anything in there while you were snooping. Bend over the arm of the sofa." I wanted her sore cheeks to get enough air.

I loved the sight in front of me, and I didn't have to tell her to spread her legs. This time I used my fingers, and she wet the upholstery. The sound and smell of her surrender made up for any stains that might be left. Anyway, I like my furniture to have character, like my women.

Lorraine spent the rest of the week with me, even though she knew she was free to leave. She said she wanted to finish what she'd started. We agreed that sometimes she needs to be spanked with something besides my good right hand, the better to focus her mind. We bought a paddle together, and it now hangs by its strap in the special place where we keep such things. Lorraine has offered to use it on me to "raise my consciousness" about the general state of the world. I haven't agreed yet, but she always gives me something to think about.

By the time my uppity maid had finished rearranging everything in my house and adding her own little touches, I had to invite her to move in to maintain the new look. She can't cook worth a damn, which probably shouldn't have surprised me, but we're working on that. We've even invited guests in for dinner. Lorraine has been here for six months already, and I just don't think I could go back to the way things were before.

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email Jean Roberta

Jean Roberta is a woman of a certain age who teaches English at a Canadian prairie university and embarrasses her friends, relatives and students with her erotic writing and opinionated editorials. Her erotic stories have been widely published in anthologies such as "Wicked Words 3" (Black Lace, UK), the "Best Lesbian Erotica" series (Cleis Press, USA) and "Shameless" (Seal Press, USA) as well as websites and print journals. Her lesbian novel, "Prairie Gothic" is available from Amatory Ink (www.amatory-ink.co.uk).