Bangmaid (Lana Del Rey)

[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

Summary: Lana Del Rey becomes a free-use “bangmaid” for two disgusting, domineering men. Her duties: cooking, cleaning, and cocks. Not included: equality, dignity, or humanity.

Author’s note: all characters are over 18 and offer implied or active consent to their situations.

- Juliette de Lorsange



Bangmaid (Lana del Rey)

Tags: mdom, bdsm, degradation, humiliation, orgasm denial, olfactophilia, bromidrophilia, disgust, bbw, big tits, big ass



lana del rey is a reverse cinderella…

Lana Del Rey was the reverse of calm.

She saw red as the image crossed her feed. She read it once. Read it again. Her fingers snake-coiled into her palms, twisting hands to fists.

How dare you…

Irritation redlined into rage. Her pulse slammed destructively against her temples.

How dare you…!

She bashed out some choice words in reply, closed her laptop so hard that the lid went SNAP like a mousetrap, and stood, seething, until…

“H-HOW DARE YOU!” the words tore free. Ragged; jagged, they seemed like they’d been clawed to shreds before reaching her mouth. She took a deep breath, tried to find her center, and couldn’t. Her center was gone, replaced by a shrieking white-hot ball of anger.

Look at me. Shouting at the internet like an idiot.

Why so much anger? Who cared what some ILXOR burnout thought?

Surely it hadn’t hit a nerve.

She did an angry pace-through around her Hollywood Hills mansion. Thoughts pinwheeled around her mind like deck chairs blown in a gale.

No. They’re wrong. They don’t know jack shit about me. I’m not a child of privilege!

She glanced around at the luxury and opulence surrounding her. Angular midcentury modern architecture, decorated with gold-chased black lacquer, curtained in sheets of voile. Fine-threaded Amalfi lounges, custom-carpentered so that they hugged and flowed with the curved walls like serpents. Accents shined like gun metal. Above her steaming head was a glittering two-hundred piece chandeliers, snatching light in glimmering handfuls from the effulgence streaming through her skylight.

The palace of a female Caligula. Obscene excess everywhere, poured out like thickly clotted cream. Piles of money, boiled and plated, both too much and never enough.

But I worked for this stuff! It wasn’t handed to me! I know the struggle! I was poor! I lived in a trailer park for, like, eighteen months!

…then her eyes settled on a framed photo of her father.

The father who’d made tens of millions in the dotcom boom, who’d paid for a free ride for his daughter to Kent State, who’d…

“Shut up.” She closed her eyes, seeking out the hidden saboteur in her head. Why are you taking the side of an internet troll? What’s going on?

She couldn’t stop arguing with the voice in her head, the voice that was her head, mostly for the reason that she didn’t seem able to win.

I don’t fantasize about weakness and powerlessness. I don’t.

Lana’s fingernails tore savage half-moons into her palms.

Being helpless. Dominated. Used. I don’t think about that at all. And I certainly don’t dream of it, five or six times a week.

Her stride gained force, as her thoughts lost conviction. She went outside, buzzed herself through the gate, drew sunglasses over her eyes.

She stepped into the streets, angling the sunglasses, blocking out the world, going deep inside her head, lips mutter-mutter-muttering like a schizophrenic’s, thoughts lost and spiraling into the gaps and chasms and coils of her psyche, losing track of where she was…

She didn’t see the car driving toward her.

Not until its horn screamed across her thoughts like a blade of ice.

Her head spun. The Ford Ranger filled her vision, roaring across the crosswalk. Its blinding headlights seemed to sweep her up like a bug in a dustpan, rushing forward, transfixing her with white staring death, and in the last moment, the windshield resembled a pair of sunglasses, like the ones guarding her own face. Killed by her own mirrored reflection. Imagine that.

No! Please!

Impact. Sunglasses smashed together.

It was hers that broke.

* * *

A heavy tenebrous cloud roils across her vision. Dark like a plague-bruise, it suffocates sight…

Out of darkness, a man speaks.

“So you wish to serve as maid…”

His voice is a rich and thick cut of steak. Amusement drips from it like blood.

Amusement and doubt.

“…I wonder if you know what you’re signing up for. I wonder if you understand, even slightly, what I ask of my maids.”

Out of darkness, images swim.

She sees herself.

Sees herself, down on her knees, bowing submissively to an elderly man on a couch.

He is about seventy, and is dressed in an turquoise evening robe. He is hawkishly handsome, a lion in winter, with aquiline cheekbones. His manner and bearing speaks of power. Droit du seigneur. A hand born to hold a scepter, a signet ring, a whip, a peasant girl’s breast. A hand born to hold anything he wills it to. Anything.

And she is kneeling to this modern-day king, not out of love, not even out of duty, but for the blind and atavistic reason the moon orbits the world.

Because it’s The Way.

Because he is The Master.

She seems to exist both inside her kneeling body and outside it. She observes herself, yet also is herself. Life experienced in third and first person tense all at the same time. She feels splinters of wood digging into her knees…knees that are not attached to her body. She watches a drop of sweat etch a line down the skin of the back of her neck…while also feeling the moist track it lays upon her skin.

Her consciousness is hacked apart, split between two places.

“I will do whatever you ask, master,” the kneeling woman says.

“Start by telling me your name,” The Master murmurs, smoking a white meerschaum pipe.

Lana del Rey… she thinks.

“Lizzy Grant,” the genuflecting woman on the floor answers.

The Master draws on the pipe. His lips puff out, shooting a smoke ring into the air. Her eyes track its slow drift across the room. His own eyes are resting on the top of her lucently glistening hair.

“If you work for me, you will have no name.”

“So be it,” she presses her head against the wooden floorboards. “I have no name.”

“You will care for my son and my grandson,” he murmurs, sharp eyes dissecting her. “You will cook and clean, shop and sew, and do other tasks for them as requested.”

His hand strokes her hair. She shudders.

“I should warn you, they are very needy boys. They will make stringent demands upon your mind, and your body.”

“I will fulfill their demands,” her lips curl. A bit of defiance there. A touch of pride. She’s already failing to be a good maid, but she hates it when men doubt her. “To the letter. I can do it. I will do it..”

“Hmm…” the meerschaum pipe is slipped back into his lips. “Stand…”

Slowly, like a corpse floating through water, she rises. Stands, proud and unbowed.

“…Good. Now take off your clothes.” His eyes seem to tunnel onto her body like drills.

Horrified, she watches herself strip.

No…no…! What are you doing? What am I doing?

But her thoughts dash themselves to pieces against a psychic barrier of some kind. None of them parse, none of them matter, none of them manifest in the real world, where a woman who looks like her is doing something she would never do in a million years.

Buttons unclasp, fabric shears away, sheets of ivory flesh are unwrapped like camera film to light, piece by piece. Her blouse goes flop on the floor. Her charcoal-gray pencil-skirt catches on the big shelf of her ass as she works it off, wriggling like an eel. Her underwear keeps clinging to the heavy meat of her thighs.

She’s such a big girl.

Shamefully big.

But as she stands, naked and afraid before his vicious auctioneer’s stare, she has to let shame go. He will either take her or leave her. And she wants to be Taken.

The Master gives a thin nod, and finally, smiles. “You are perfect.”

She smiles back. Indeed. Perfect.

Buxom, curvy, big-breasted, she is a phenomenon. Her lower body is a Hiroshima-sized explosion of lewd, obscene female flesh. She has the gigantic ass and huge thighs of a Viking shieldmaiden. Bred for duty, for submission. Born to have babies pounded into the gap between her legs, and to raise them.

He leans forward, taking the pipe from his lips.

The meerschaum stem flicks out, striking her skin like a painter’s brush devirginizing white canvas.

The first time it hits her, she flinches. The second time, she does not.

He nods, satisfied that she is trainable—in this regard, at least.

“You are no longer Lizzie Grant. You answer to The Maid. Do you understand?”

Cool air and arousal sharpens her nipples to pencil-points. “Yes, master.”

He motions for her to turn around, exposing her fat fleshy arse for inspection.

Hmming to himself, he pulls apart her huge asscheeks, and gazes deeply into the darkly moist chasms of her pussy and asshole. Then he lets her thick buttcheeks close over her secrets like massive curtains.

He strikes her thick ass twice. Not with the meerschaum pipe. With the narrow-bladed spade of his hand.

WHAP! TWHAP!

Brutal. So hard and hot. She gasps sharply. Pain detonates through nerve endings like frozen shrapnel. But she doesn’t flinch.

“You are excellent,” he says cruelly, palming her heavy, quivering body. “Stocky. Strong. Built to handle the needs of two virile young men. I will offer you the position of household maid immediately…if you accept?”

Color flushes into the porcelain flesh, swirling around the shocked-white dents left by his blows. The hand still seems to linger there, glowing like a cattle brand.

Say no. Say no.

“I accept.” She smiles.

No, she beams, she beams. Her face transforms like a frozen pond fluxing with the crash of spring. Opening, widening, broadening. Daylight exists in her face. Heat and warmth.

“Thank you, Master.” Her eyes are stupid-eager—a pig that yearns for the knife. “When do I start?”

“Tomorrow.”

No!!!

* * *



The Maid arrives at the mansion.

Her first day has begun.

There is an ornate doorplate over the bell. It has a symbol of several interlocking crescent moons, and an engraved word: BOG. She does not recognize the symbol; cannot parse the word.

She rings the doorbell, hears the noise get sucked into chthonic depths inside.

Nobody opens the door, but The Master has given her keys.

When she steps through into a dark, foul-smelling interior—more like a cave than a house—she calls out.

“Hello!” Bright and chirpy, eager to make a good first impression. “Is anybody at home? It’s me! The Maid!”

This place is disgusting. Her nostrils flare at the smell. She doesn’t know what BOG means, but it’s certainly an apt enough descriptor. Empty takeout trays and pizza boxes are scattered everywhere. Some of them sprout fuzzy mountains of green and yellow mold. Flies circle in sleepy overfed clouds. There’s trash covering every square foot of carpet. Plastic and cardboard go crunch around her ankles as she walks.

The mansion has good bones. Floor-to-ceiling glazing. Expensive, that. Under the filth is a living situation that cost good money once and might cost good money again…but not until someone cleans it.

Someone is me. She thinks, wrinkling her nose at the stench. I am someone.

* * *

She hears a TV playing somewhere. Evanescent blue light flutters reflected on dozens of polished wood surfaces. She follows the light into the fetid depths of the house, and finds the men of the house in the living room.

The Son, and The Boy.

They must have heard her calling. Why didn’t they answer?

The Son leans cockily against the wall; arms crossed, watching her. Looks to be in his mid-thirties. If The Master resembles wealthy landed gentry, here’s the wastrel heir hellbent on squandering the family fortune.

His face seems permanently sneer-frozen under a shock of James Dean hair. He has the twitchiness of a criminal, a drug addict. He’s scrawny, tall, and long of frame, with a despicable stripe of handsomeness that her heart responds to—his black locks would look quite dashing, like his father’s gray ones, if not for the alcohol-debauched face below.

The Boy slumps on a stained couch, drooling before a howling TV screen.

He is about eighteen, and appears mentally subnormal. His lumpy shaven head sits like a large, ugly potato over slumped shoulders and a Skibidi Toilet T-Shirt. His lips are fat and overripe and sensual, like blood-bloated leeches. He does not look her way. He just sits crosslegged on the couch, a videogame controller in his hand. Blunt brutish Neanderthal fingers pump and stab and wrestle joysticks and buttons. The screen blooms and coruscates with explosions, tits, and gore. As a level loads, she sees the title of the videogame he’s playing.

WHORE MANGLER 3

She coughs for attention, and addresses them both.

“I’m the Maid,” she smiles, wishing to make a good impression.

The Son offers her half-a-smile and half-a-leer.

The Boy, absorbed in the sick videogame, offers her nothing.

“I’m here to take care of your household needs! If there’s anything you need, please feel free to…er…I’m sorry, but can I at least have your names?”

The Son gives her an up-and-down look. The Boy still doesn’t look anywhere but forward.

She gulps, feeling an icelike rush of terror purr along her veins. If only they’d say something! Anything!

“Right!” she says, clapping her hands. “I’ll start work, then! I just have to change into my uniform. Which is upstairs, I believe…? Is that right? Um…nevermind. I’ll keep looking until I find it.”

She leaves the room, almost tripping over her feet.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you both! Have a nice day!”

She hears a whisper.

It’s quiet. Back turned, she cannot identify the speaker, or even be sure that someone has spoken. It might be a fly buzzing from a pile of trash.

But it sounds a like “Fat-assed bitch.”

* * *

She finds her quarters upstairs, up a dragon-motif’d stairase. All of the bedrooms are here. Hers is down the end of a hall.

Her room is packed with supplies. So packed that there is no room for personal possessions. She believes this is intentional.

First, she must change into her work clothes.

The Master has generously provided her with three identical maid outfits. They are stereotypical French maid getups. Horny. Porny. Fetishy.

Black bodice, with a white pinafore apron. The skirt has a full, bell-like sweep. The hemline stops at her upper leg, exposing her obscenely thick thighs, which spill and muffin-top ridiculously out of the thigh-high stockings. The garter straps cut deeply into her flesh, pulling them into teardrop configurations of meat. She gasps at how tight everything is. She’s being strangled!

She struggles her overfed body into the dress, feeling absurd. She experimentally bends at the waist, and gasps again, feeling her massive fat ass stretching the fabric out outward. Threatening to burst seams in the back with the sheer amount of buttflesh she’s carrying.

Then there’s the low-scooped neckline that her big jugs are almost spilling out of, and a white ruffled collar with a black ribbon. Short sleeves are puffed and frilled.

The dress is so obscene—so audacious, so ludicrously oversexualized—that it’s like a parody of pornographic parodies. The outfit seems to cling to her like paint, curving and cupping her abundant figure, distorting in gleaming curves around fat and musculature. It might as well be a black latex sheath. Her second skin, as real as the first one.

The tightness…it feels like chains.

It feels like restraint. Control. Every time she moves, the fabric moves with her, darkly pulling at her hot and flushed skin. It will not let her go. Every twitch, breath, and fart happens at its grudging sufferance.

The dress is the hands of her Master…far away, yet still holding her tight.

She wants to cry. Her ass is spilling out of the dress. It’s too tight!

It’s not too tight for you. You’re too tight for it. She grimaces, and guiltily stuffs her oversized butt back into place, and resolves to lose weight.

Then she puts up her luscious brunette hair in a French twist, fixes her makeup, swings her white maid cap into place, and begins to clean.

* * *

Housework.

In every room, she triages the debris into three piles. Good, not good, and plague-bag and incinerate ASAP. Once the floor is exposed, she vacuums, dusts, and sweeps. She flings open every window, every door. There is never enough air.

As expected, the slutty maid outfit restricts her movements.

The dress is too small for her. The apron pinafore feels indecently tight around her chest. The black dress cuts into her ass, oppressingly sculpting her rump like bread dough in a vice.

Her panties are soon wedged tightly inside her damp tight asscrack. It grinds over her pussy lips, worked into her labia minora by the frantic scissoring of her legs. The tightness begins to arouse her. Her clit starts throbbing. Beating like a little heart. Oh God, why am I so horny?

Dashing back and forth with heavy bags of trash, she grows hot. Her skin drips sweat. Gasping and panting like a bitch. Damp stains radiate from the armpits and asscrack of her maid outfit. Her top keeps rucking up, exposing flushed pink skin. She touches her face, and her fingers come away sticky, weeping slutty makeup.

She pulls down her ass, fans her pink overheated cheeks with a magazine, then grunts as she tugs the frilled dress back up. She glances around to see if any of the men saw what she just did. She can’t see The Son or The Boy, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t in the house. They pretended to not be at home when she arrived, after all.

Her blood feels like it’s running in fevered, sickened loops. Coursing inside like a river of oil, of puke. This is beneath her, far beneath her, and yet it fits.

She loves serving.

She loves serving.

She loves serving so fucking much.

Not one person at the Master’s house has spoken to her, or even treated her like a fellow human.

But she has never felt more human than she does now.

This is where I belong, she thinks, snipping away worn threads trailing from a velveteen throw pillow. Here, and nowhere else.

In fact, was there ever anything else? Already, she feels like she has spent a lifetime here.

No more wondering, no more uncertainty, no more not knowing who I am. There is a messy room in the past. There is a clean room in the future. In between, there is me, The Maid. The present moment, captured.

How very Zen.

Shoving a chaise lounge back into position, she stands up too fast, and winces as her panty-line cuts across her nethers. Her clit rages desperately within her pubis, fat and hot and throbbing.

This can’t go on.

She’s desperate.

She quietly sneaks away to the bathroom, pulls up her pinafore and dress, pulls down her garters and panties, and masturbates.

* * *

The carpet is stained. Vacuuming cleans it without making it look clean. She will need steam pressure to lift the stains out.

Grimacing and straining, she hauls the big steam cleaner around corners, dragging it backward with her hips pulled low and wagging from side to side.

Suddenly, a hand cups her left ass cheek from behind.

She squeals out a reflexive I’m sorry! and jerks around.

It’s The Son. He looks at her, with that hideous smile of his. Her eyelids flutter with fear, her heart sledgehammering. Has she made a mistake? Offended him? Earned a punishment? Every thought slams down atop her at once.

“I didn’t see you,” he murmurs. Unconvincing. “I was looking the other way, and you backed up onto my palm. A mistake.”

She blinks up at his cruel eyes—The hand SQUEEZED! You bastard!—and nods submissively. A mistake.

He purses lips. “Well, for me it was a mistake. Maybe you wanted it to happen, Maid.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but isn’t sure of what she wants to say.

Eyes low, not answering, she squirms miserably in silence, confined by the maid outfit. Flushed. Upset. Aroused. Like a can of soft drink shaken to a fizz. Everything’s making her go crazy-crazy. Her excited pulse warps and skips around tightness and constriction.

The Son’s eyes probe and rove, finally settling across her tit-overflowing front like big, heavy cockroaches.

Please let me go! she thinks, clit aroused and cunt dripping and legs shivering and oooohhh…. I have so much work to do!

Her pussy spasms, throbbing with lust. Mountains of clothes in the laundry, rotting food shotgunning spores of mold all through the pantry, dirty dishes overfilling the sink. Juice leaks down her thigh.

Finally, he slides a hand across her cheek. She squirms, a pathetic melted-feeling thing.

“Get back to work,” his smile has a piratelike depravity. “But this is your last chance.”

“My last chance…?”

“If it happens again, it’s not a mistake, Maid…”

He leans in, drenching her face in whiskey-soaked breath.

“…It’s an invitation.”

* * *

She slaves and toils, disappearing like a scared mouse into the thousandfold cracks and crevices of her work. She’s hardly aware of what she’s doing. Her head churns in a wild spin until dinnertime.

And then remembers: she’s The Maid.

She is dinnertime.

There is pre-diced sirloin steak in the fridge. She peels back the Saran wrap. Sniff—It still seems to be in date. She slices carrots, mushrooms, onions, eggplant with near finger-amputating speed. A casserole: who knows who gave her the recipe. Her past life is growing faint: fog seems to swirl across the rear view mirror of the past. Soon her name will be forgotten. Maybe it already is—she doesn’t check.

Boiling steam lathes condensation over the walls. Chemical reactions obvulate into one another. All of life becomes fire and pots, boilers and boiled, reactants and catalysts. She sucks the smell of the casserole into herself, wondering if she’s just a different, hotter casserole, to be cooked and eaten.

The Son and The Boy are sitting at the table, waiting to be fed.

They are waiting, yet do not look hungry.

She smiles and carries the casserole before them. They don’t react. She curtsies, spoons stew onto their plates, and goes to the kitchen to get a head-start on the cleaning.

Her back is turned, but she feels them watching as she scrubs and scours.

“What do you think, son?” The Son says. She hears a fork go clink.

The Boy grunts something.

“A keeper, or not?” The Son says.

I assume they’re talking about the food.

She scrubs a stained plate. Her heavy peach-shaped ass wobbles ponderously behind her.

“A bit on the fatty side…” The Son observes.

I hope they’re talking about the food.

“…she’ll do, though. I like a bitch with a bit of meat. They can take a pounding.”

I wish they were talking about the food.

The Son raps the table with his fork. Rat-tat-tat.

“Stand in front of us, Maid.”

She returns to the dining table, and stands in front of them. Her face is flushed and horny.

“Turn around, and raise your arms above your head.”

She turns, and raises her arms above her shoulder girdle. She feels her big boobs tremble and slosh within the pinafore.

“You call those sidewinder tits,” the Son sneers. “You can still see ’em around the sides of her back. Fat-jugged slut. Imagine your cock between those.”

The Boy giggles loutishly, stupidly.

“Imagine those tits flying when you hit it from behind. And the backshots. Look at how big her dump truck is.”

“This maid rules.” The Boy gurgles. This is the first time she has heard him say anything. His voice is eerily high-pitched, as if he never went through puberty. “I wanna make a baby inside her.”

“Sure. Mine will need a kid to play with.”

The Maid gasps, and runs out of sight, face on fire, skin acid-stinging with shame and horror. Their laughter seems to chase her from the room.

When she retires to the maid’s quarters at night—her first night, not as Lana Del Rey, not even as Elizabeth Grant, but as a thing with no name at all—she expects nightmares to come. Expects to slide into a long, slow acid bath of trauma and horror, reliving the past and fearing the future.

But she sleeps the best sleep of her life.

* * *



She wakes. Another day.

The vacuuming and steam-cleaning continues. The roar of the machines is endless and eternal. By midday, her arm burns with the relentless back and forth motion.

The lower rooms are finally done, and so are the hallways—as she rests, sucking air into overheated lungs, she takes satisfaction in the perfectly straight lines engraved onto the shag carpet. Lines straight and parallel, and very unlike those of her body.

Next, she will tackle the upper floor.

Hauling the vacuum and steam cleaner up the staircase, she stands in front of the Boy’s room, and knocks. There is no answer.

STAY OUT! a tacked piece of paper warns above a skull and crossbones.

Gulping, she cracks open the door, and peers inside.

…and gags.

The stench of boysperm is like a fist pounding her in the face. It’s thick, rank, and unendurable. The disgusting boy has clearly learned to masturbate, and has murdered more children than Pol Pot in this room.

Stepping inside, she sees evidence of relentless self-abuse. A trashcan overflows with soaked yellow tissues. Hundreds more are strewn across the floor, thick as dead leaves in September. The carpet is striped and splattered with dried cum ropes, where the brat couldn’t be bothered with tissues and emptied his balls directly onto the carpet.

There’s a desktop computer. His desk and keyboard glisten stickily with foul-smelling fluids. Fungus seems to grow on the keys. She checks his desktop, and sees games.

• WHORE KILLER 3
  BITCH RAPER 4
  MISOGYNY HERO: RELOADED EDITION
  THOT PATROLLER: FORCED IMPREGNATION DLC

She shudders. Backs away, as if from a claymore grenade.

Steeling herself, she gathers every used tissue and crusty sock, and stuffs them into an economy-sized trashbag. Then she vacuums from corner to corner, pulling back the musk-stinking bed from the wall to do so.

She hears the Boy moving around downstairs. She recognizes his slack, lifeless zombielike walk, and tenses. Is he coming up? But she hears no leaden footfalls on the stairs.

He doesn’t seem to go to school. What does he do all day? She strips his defiled linen from his bed, stomach heaving at the way the stained bedsheets crunch stiffly under her hands. He does this, I guess. Her stomach roils, fluxing in a slow loop-the-loop. How could he masturbate so much? How did all of this sperm come from one teenager's balls?

She believes herself finished, then she remembers to check the walk-in closet.

She pulls back the door. As expected, it’s a house of horrors. But along with a mountain of crusty socks and towels and tissues, she finds women’s clothing.

Bras. Panties. Underwear of all description. All of them absolutely drenched in semen, of course.

A recognizable black hemline jags out, catching her eye.

They look like hers.

The Boy has jerked out a load into the crotch. She lifts up the moist, wadded panties, and fresh cum gushes down her arm, like the stroke of a cold finger. She squeals. Shaking her arm free of jizz, trying not to vomit, she wonders…are these her panties? Ones from her room? It’s just on the other side of the hall. Oh God, has he been in my room?

They seem remarkably similar to the too-small pair cutting off circulation to her crotch. She runs into her bedroom. She packed three of everything. She only finds two panties.

For a second, she spirals into horror—then she remembers that she’s wearing the third pair.

Ha. Paranoid. The panties are the same as hers, but they aren’t hers.

But then she checks again.

One of the pairs of panties are a different brand. The stitching on the hems is wrong and different. As if someone stole a pair of panties from her room, and tried to disguise it by substituting a different pair…

She thinks no more of this.

It’s like thinking about the dirt under her fingernails: horrible and pointless. Why torture yourself?

* * *

Next, she tackles The Son’s room.

Signs of excessive masturbation are the least disturbing thing she finds here.

Drug paraphernalia is strewn across his filthy burned-and-ashy bedsheets. Things she recognizes from the oft-storied Lana Del Rey Trailer Park Saga.

Burned and broken stems. A makeshift pipe fashioned from a punctured water bottle. Snapped matches and dented lighters. A scattering of spoons, residue-coated and fire-blackened, like bones chewed and spat out by a gynophaegic god.

Worst of all, she finds The Son himself, sprawled out naked on the bed.

His mouth hangs open, emitting snores like thunder. The walls seem to shudder and flux with them. She watches his uvula tremble in the red-walled cave of his mouth.

A stain of drool flows out on the pillow. His chest is hairy. His penis dangles against his thigh…and oh God… It’s long.

She can’t stop staring at the enormous summer sausage-sized cock—flaccid, it seems to spread onto his lower thigh—touches a hand to her chest, feels a stabbing kathump-kathump.

She had no idea pricks could be so huge…

I can clean without waking him, The Maid thinks. If I’m quiet.

But as she starts picking up the coke spoons, his eyes snap open. They are full of moonlight. Madness. Darkness.

There is no time to run or even think as his hand fold around her wrist.

“What are you doing here?”

Stammering, bleating, she tries to explain that she’s here to clean. She has a reason to be here!

But his stare—wild, depraved, somehow not at all drug-dull—smashes out all thought from her head like a slap. Her mouth becomes a terrified arch, her lips blubbering useless words. “I…uh…clean…if…but…”

“You were trying to get into my stash,” his thumb pushes her chin back hard. “You were trying to steal from me, weren’t you? I can tell my dad that, and he’ll fire you.”

No! No! She doesn’t know if the thought is aimed at the accusation, the suggestion, or the entire situation. His hand on her is so strong, so dominating, so powerful.

“I—I—I only mean to…”

“TELL ME YOU WERE HERE TO STEAL!”

She lowers her head. “I was here to steal.”

“You admit you’re a criminal. Good.”

He smiles.

“That makes two of us, Maid.”

A drop of sweat goes plop on the carpet from her face. Yes, she was here to steal. She believes it. His lie is stronger than the truth. She is his. To use, to break. Pottery, on the edge of being smashed…and she’s dripping with excitement as she straddles that line.

The eyes in his stubble-ragged face set things on fire inside her. Lust stings out, sings out, rips out of her gut in white hot gusts of excitement and liquid arousal that pulse straight through her needy cunt.

Please hurt me. Not much. But please hurt me, just a little.

He scratches his stubble, and picks up a switchblade knife.

“I was in prison upstate. When a fresher landed on the block, we had a little fun ritual for them in the shower.”

Her eyes ride the knife. Her anguished reflection puddles balefully upon the blade.

“You need to prove yourself,” he raises the knife before her terrified face. “Prove that you’re one of us. Do you understand?”

Fear and certainty. They’re like iron bands around her neck, choking her.

He’s going to cut his initials into her flesh.

“Kiss the knife,” he says, extending the flat of the blade before her terrified face.

She leans forward, and kisses it. Cold. Cold like death. She licks her lips—they now taste bitterly of metal.

Then her gaze falls, and sees that his cock is swaying out from his lap like an insect’s antenna, twitching and jerking. It’s fully erect. A massive flagpole of meat, jutting out in hungry search of cunt.

The Son laughs. His hand grasps the back of her neck—grasps it hard—and she squeaks.

“Not what I meant, you STUPID. FUCKING. BITCH.”

He pulls her down toward his crotch. The raging penis almost stabs out her eye as it flies close by her face.

“Kiss my other knife.”

Positioned nearly at the tip of his penis, her mouth collapses open in a shocked oval. It’s disgustingly, sickeningly vast, seeming to fill her vision like an exploding universe-swallowing blood-blister. The cock of God. Her eyes flicker over the gigantic vein-scrawled column of cockflesh, trying to count the inches.

OnetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineohmygodOHMYGOD…

His vast shlong twitches. A bead of pre-cum rolls down its enormously thick length, flowing down to a scrotum that seems as big and full as a speedbag.

She imagines his nine cunt-wrecking inches pumping and flexing inside her fuck-channel, lewdly filling her, so hot and weighty and hard, breaking her mind on the torture rack of too many orgasms to number, and nearly faints….

His hand slips around to the front of her throat, and grips. Cutting off her air. “Kiss it”

No! I won’t! I have dignity! I have self-respect! I…

She lunges eagerly for his prick.

…he slaps her—WHAP!—shoving her back on her heels with a brutal laugh.

“I was joking. You thought I actually wanted your pig mouth on my dick? Hahaha! Learn to take a joke, cunt. Learn to be a joke.”

Denied, cuntblocked, she can’t stand it. Can’t stand it. CAN’T STAND IT.

Head swimming with desire, she whines and mewls. “Please…”

“Call me sir.”

“Please, sir…!”

“Please what? Use your words. Stupid whore.”

Unable to speak, she starts masturbating in front of him.

So sick and wrong, pathetic little piggy, rubbing her clit in front of this man. Gasping as she pumps and pummels her sopping slit. Her fingers franticly shlick herself, filling the sticky and humid air with sad squelches.

“If you want it so badly…” he murmurs. “I suppose I’ll have to do something.”

He moves on her.

* * *



She closes her eyes with shame, but feels his body moving around hers as impressions of heat and wind. He snatches the wrist she’s cunt-fucking herself silly with. The hand is wrenched stickily from her crotch.

One hand stays on her throat. The other pulls down her panties and garters, exposing her puffy pubis. It glistens in the light. “Oooh!” she squeaks, as her lips gape open on their own like an eye opening. Cold air coils inside, fucking her.

And then The Son’s tanned-leather hand fills the quivering space between her legs.

“Yes! Yes!” she moans, as he drives his finger and thumb back and forth across her with pounding fierce rhythm. “YES, YES, YES! PLEAAASSSE!”

“And what do we call me, miss?” His hand slows down cruelly, and she wails miserably.

“PLEAAAASSEEEE, SIR!” she whines, humping his hand, trying to get off. “PLEASE, SIR! LET ME CUM!”

“Horny fucking bitch.”

As his hand summons a volcanic wash of pleasure at her dripping, foaming snatch, The Maid’s breath rocketed in and out, faster and faster, her head thrown back, maid cap askew, long hair falling out of her uptwist and flashing like raving shadows across her white shoulders…

He fingerblasts her straight down into a huge, stomach-plummeting climax.

Kaboom.

She orgasms harder than hard, cums more violently than she ever has in her life. Her pussy blasts and surges, blasts and surges. Her lips curl back in rapturous pleasure, and then even that’s not enough for the thunderous ecstasy decorticating her flesh like chain lightning.

She screams.

A thick male hand slams down over her face, capturing her scream against its palm. Making it his property, the way the rest of her is.

Gripped tightly in his arms, she writhes and bucks. Her urethra pulses out heavy lashes of squirt. They splatter over her, over him, over the room. Spraying musky juices with hard indecent spasms.

“MMMMFFFFFFFFFFFFF!!!”

She writhes inside his hands like a slippery eel, creaming and cumming, bellowing litanies of pleasure into the hand of The Master’s son. Universes birth themselves and universes die at the whirling shattering core of her orgasming piggy brain.

Slut in heat, slut in heat, slut in heat.

Then she runs down, and sags in his hand like laundry. Pant. Pant.

“Oh, you bad girl…” he slaps her face. “Look at what you’ve done. LOOK! AT! WHAT! YOU’VE! DONE!”

And then she sees that her female ejaculate has hosed across his entire room, has puddled and pooled in the crevices of his bedsheet.

Mortification smashes a wrecking ball-shaped hole through her mind. “I’m sorry!”

His fist strikes her. Whap! Whap! “Nasty goddamn bitch. Can’t stop piddling everywhere.”

“I’M SORRY!” she squeals, tears in her eyes. “I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY! IMSORRYIMSORRYIMSORRY!”

“Shut the fuck up. Disgusting slut.”

Whap! Whap!

Head reeling from the slaps, she barely feels him grasps her ass. She shudders and whines. Her throat constricts with a volcanic flux of sheer sensation.

He violently throws her head-first onto the bed. She faceplants into a sticky puddle of her own cum.

SQUELCH

“Ahhh!” he rips down her squirt-ruined dress. It’s around her ankles now, exposing her ass to the cold air.

And he climbs on top of her. He lays his bare cock against her naked flesh, pressing his erection to the monstrous curve of her derriere.

“You don’t touch me,” he snarls hot in her ear, dick throbbing against her butt. “I touch you, but don’t ever touch me. You insolent, fat assed bitch!”

Laying across her, he humps her left ass cheek. Brutishly, thuggishly, his nine-plus inches ramming into her pudgy sweat-soaked bottom. So hard. So cruel. So vile.

Sllrrrp. Skllrch. Sqlllk

So deserved.

I failed. I was supposed to clean his room. I made it messier. I deserve this.

His cock makes wet slithery sounds as it grinds a channel into her pink flesh. Fucking her in a way that gives her no pleasure. None whatsoever. It’s take take take, from the bank balance of her body and soul and into his.

Because she fucked up her duties.

Sllrrrp. Skllrch. Sqlllk

“Uhhh!!!!” The Son’s body heaves, bucking his hips into the curve of her ass. His erection stabs into her insolent fat bitch buttcheek. Then he spurts.

SPLOOORRRGG!

Whimpering, The Maid feels the fat duct at the center of his colossal penis swell with the cum surging down its length. Then huge bomb blasts of porridge-thick spunk start pouring out, splattering over her ass.

SPLORCH!!! SPLORRGG! SPLIRRRCH!!

His load chugs out of his balls, then he grunts, and lifts his sated body off her. She feels the spasming rubbery hose of his shaft trace wet sperm calligraphy down her ass and down her thick inner thigh, then it’s gone with the rest of him. His cock makes a loud slap as it hits his thigh.

The Son throws her off the bed.

“Get out of my fucking room, slut.”

He pulls on filthy jeans and leaves her standing there, with his sperm still dripping off her maid’s dress.

She’s panting and overwhelmed and lustsick. Can’t even fucking remember what she came in here to do.

Doesn’t matter. Sperm-stink and cock-lust have rewired her brain, turned her into a slavering, dripping cunt. She wants more. And more and more and more. Whatever her job’s nominal description, this is the job. And she’s going to be employee of the everfucking month.

She shudders.

As she tries to leave on wobbling, post-orgasmic legs, she glances out the door.

She sees The Boy, watching her from the hall. His eyes sit in shadow. Stupid and witless. Scarcely more intelligent than a frog. He has none of his father’s manipulative nature. His cock is the smartest thing about him.

He licks his lips, and his hand vanishes into his pants. He leers as he openly jerks off to her abused, defiled body.

And over the masturbating boy’s shoulder, she sees something else resolve out of gloom.

It’s the family crest.

She sees the same interwoven, interfucking triangles that had been above the front door keyplate, and hears truth echoing down into her depths.

She is The Maid, owned—lock but no key—by the house of Bog.

THE END…

…BUT NOT THE END.

* * *


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