Chapter 1: Breakfast Service with a Side of Suffering
The dining room was always too quiet before he arrived. Mary adjusted the position of the single rose in the crystal vase for the third time, her bare feet silent on the polished wood floor. The scent of beeswax and leather hung in the air, familiar and heavy. She smoothed her hands down the front of her black maid’s dress, the crisp cotton starched and simple, its hem brushing her mid-thigh. The uniform was a part of the order here. A part of the worship.
The sound of his boots in the hall made her spine straighten, her breath catching softly. She moved to the sideboard, her head bowed, as the door opened.
Master Rhys filled the space without effort. He was in his late thirties, built like a man who solved problems with his hands, his presence a physical weight. His eyes, a cold, piercing grey, swept over the room before landing on her. They didn’t soften.
“Morning, sir,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the floor near his feet.
He didn’t answer. He never did, first thing. He walked to the head of the massive oak table, the legs of his chair scraping back as he pulled it out. He sat. The leather of his trousers creaked.
Beneath the table, hidden from casual view, a soft, strained whimper leaked into the room.
Mary’s eyes flickered toward the sound for just a second before she turned to the sideboard. She lifted the silver dome from the platter, the steam from the eggs rising in a faint cloud. Her knees met the hard floor with a practiced grace. The wood was cool and unyielding. She shuffled forward on them, the tray balanced perfectly in her trembling hands, until she was at his side, presenting his breakfast.
He ignored the food. His hand came down, fingers tangling brutally in the cascade of her dark curls. He didn’t pull, not yet. He just held, a firm possession.
“Look at her.”
Mary’s eyes lifted, drawn to the space beneath the table.
Hannah was spread-eagled on her back, her voluptuous body pale against the dark wood floor. Thick leather cuffs bound her wrists and ankles to the spiked iron restraints bolted to the legs of Rhys’s chair. Each cuff was lined with cruel metal studs that bit into her flesh. Her fiery red hair was a riot across the floorboards, her face flushed and tear-streaked. A black rubber ball gag stretched her mouth wide, a line of spit trailing from its corner to her cheek. Her breasts, heavy and full, rose and fell with her panicked, nasal breaths.
As Mary watched, Rhys shifted his boot. The movement was slight, but the leg of his chair moved just enough to drag the studded cuff an inch across Hannah’s slender ankle. A muffled scream, wet and desperate, vibrated up through the table. Hannah’s body arched, the cords in her neck standing out.
Rhys picked up the butter knife. He began to spread marmalade on his toast, the gesture utterly mundane. The clink of the silver against the china was obscenely loud.
“She’s been restless,” he said, his voice a low, calm baritone. “Needed to be reminded of her place. Don’t you, Hannah?”
He shifted his boot again. Another whimper, this one thinner, more broken.
Mary’s throat tightened. She felt a confusing knot of pity and a sharp, unwelcome thrill at the display of absolute control. This was the order. This was the world.
His hand in her hair tightened. He used his grip to guide her face away from the spectacle below and toward his lap. The rough texture of his trousers brushed her cheek. The musk of him, clean linen and something darker, filled her nostrils.
“You’ll serve me first,” he murmured, his other hand still carefully layering orange peel onto toast. “Clean me, pet.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was her duty, her worship. She nuzzled the fly of his trousers, finding the outline of him already hard beneath the fabric. With her teeth, she tugged the button free, then the zipper. She didn’t use her hands. They remained on the tray, holding it steady. The rule was absolute.
She freed his cock with her mouth, the weight of it heavy on her tongue. He was already fully erect, the skin hot and smooth. She took him in, the salt-bitter taste of him familiar, a sacrament. She began to move, her head bobbing in the rhythm he expected, the wet, sucking sounds joining the clink of cutlery and Hannah’s ragged breathing.
Above her, Rhys took a bite of his toast. He chewed slowly. “The coffee is bitter today, Mary. You’ll correct it tomorrow.”
She tried to hum an acknowledgment around him, the vibration earning a slight tensing of his thighs. A reward.
His fingers twisted deeper into her hair, setting a harder, faster pace. She surrendered to it, letting him fuck her mouth, her jaw aching. Tears pricked at her eyes from the force. She could see, in her peripheral vision, his free hand drop below the table. He wasn’t touching Hannah. He was just tapping a finger against the leather cuff. A tiny, relentless torture.
Hannah’s muffled cries became a constant, low drone of suffering.
Mary lost herself in the rhythm, in the degrading, perfect act of service. This was what she was for. To be used. To be a part of his world. Her own arousal was a shameful secret, a damp heat between her thighs she tried to ignore.
He came suddenly, with a low grunt, his release flooding her throat. She swallowed convulsively, not missing a drop, her body shuddering with the effort. He held her there for a long moment, buried to the hilt, before finally releasing her hair.
She pulled back, gasping, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She remained on her knees, the tray still miraculously level.
Rhys tucked himself back into his trousers, zipped up. He took a sip of coffee, his face a mask of calm indifference.
“You may serve the eggs now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Her voice was hoarse. She placed the tray on the table beside his plate, then lifted the serving spoon. Her hands only trembled a little. She portioned scrambled eggs onto his china, then a slice of tomato. The normalcy of it was dizzying.
Beneath the table, Hannah let out a particularly sharp cry. Rhys sighed, as if annoyed by a buzzing fly.
“Quiet,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. He dropped his napkin. It fluttered to the floor beside Hannah’s head. “Clean that up, Mary. And check her bindings. She’s working herself into a state.”
Mary slid from her knees to her belly, crawling under the vast table into the dim, intimate space. The air here was thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and Hannah’s expensive peach-scented shampoo, now gone sour with fear.
Hannah’s green eyes locked onto Mary’s, wide and pleading. Mary reached for the napkin first, then let her fingers ghost over the cuff on Hannah’s right ankle. The skin around the metal studs was raw and inflamed, beaded with blood. She touched it gently. Hannah flinched, a fresh sob rattling in her gagged throat.
“Shhh,” Mary whispered, her voice barely audible. She didn’t dare loosen it. She just pressed a cool fingertip to the unharmed skin beside the wound, a useless gesture of comfort.
“Mary.” Rhys’s voice came from above, bored. “The morning paper is in my study. Fetch it.”
“Yes, sir.”
She backed out from under the table, avoiding Hannah’s desperate gaze. She stood, her legs prickling with returning blood, and hurried from the dining room.
The hall was cool and empty. She leaned against the closed door for a second, pressing her forehead to the rich wood, breathing deeply. Her pulse was a frantic bird in her neck. From behind the door, she heard the distinct, sharp smack of a hand meeting flesh, followed by another choked cry from Hannah.
Mary pushed off the door and walked toward the study. Her path took her past a tall, narrow window overlooking the back gardens. The sun was shining. It was a beautiful day.
In the study, the paper was neatly folded on his desk. As she lifted it, a small, brass key fell from between the pages and clattered on the blotter. It was old, unlabeled. Not for any door she knew.
She stared at it. Master Rhys did nothing by accident.
The sound of his boots echoed down the hall, coming closer. She snatched up the key and the paper, clutching them to her chest. Her heart, which had begun to slow, now slammed against her ribs once more. The key felt like a live coal in her hand. A test. A secret. A turn in the path.
He appeared in the doorway, filling it. His eyes went from her face to her clenched hand.
“The paper, Mary.”