The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Lisa Lewis stood on the Paris platform and looked at her watch. She wasn’t sure if she had managed the time changes accurately, but she could tell by the weak light filtering through the high windows that a cloud covered dawn had arrived. She put down her backpack (large, red, the kind with an aluminum frame, so she wouldn’t have to carry anything else) and sat on it. She reset her long red hair in a ponytail and pulled off her Bowling Green sweatshirt. The air was warming. Her watch read 8:24. Miranda, the girl with whom the exchange program had set her up as a roommate, was either late or not coming.

Lisa didn’t mind. She had spoken with this Miranda twice on the phone, and neither experience was particularly pleasant. Two months ago, when Lisa first called the number on the agency profile sheet, Lisa had to explain and re-explain her purpose to a bevy of what sounded like butlers and assistants suspicious of her identity, purpose, and requests. By the time Miranda finally picked up the phone (about twenty minutes after Lisa dialed the number), Lisa had to maintain her calm by biting her hair and taking deep breaths. No one back in Toledo treated her like this. Both conversations were quick, with Miranda juggling what seemed like multiple calls and interruptions (Lisa thought, at one point, she heard Miranda tell someone to “just start with the leather”, whatever that meant) before loose plans were formulated. For all Lisa cared, she could crash at a hostel rather than share a cheap apartment with a girl who couldn’t bother to ask what she was like or where she was from. Lisa had led her basketball team in high school and served on the student government as a University student. Her professors praised (and sometimes criticized) her tough, strident questioning.

She ran on the treadmill every evening after classes.

Lisa Lewis was the type of girl to whom her friends, when breaking up with a cheating boyfriend, turned for a reasonable voice. She had dated sparingly at Bowling Green but had promised herself and her parents that no guy in the world would interfere with her studies.

“Lisa? Lisa Lewis?” a voice asked.

She looked up. Before her stood a waiflike French woman, almost a girl, in a maid’s uniform.

“Um…yes?” Lisa responded.

“Meez Kiara requests zour presence in zee limozine,” she smiled.

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” Lisa replied.

“Pleeze come with me. Meez Kiara can explain,” the girl said. Her accent was thick and difficult to comprehend.

“So you’re looking for Lisa Lewis? From Ohio? You…work…for Miranda Kiara?”

“Zat is correct. Please come.” She turned and walked off, then, as if remembering something, spun on her heels, picked up Lisa’s backpack, and walked up the stairs.

Lisa tumbled after her into a thin morning drizzle. A sleek black limo, motor running, stood at the curb. The woman in the maid’s outfit (strange, Lisa thought, to be wearing that in public) held the door open as Lisa peered into the compartment.

“Be a dear and get in, Lisa. This weather is dreadful. Yes, it’s me. Miranda Kiara.”

“Miranda Kiara, from the exchange program?” Lisa said.

Lisa heard an audible sigh, a tinkle of glasses, and a slight giggle. “Yes, that one, of the many Miranda Kiaras cruising Paris for roommates at the moment. I’m the one from the exchange program.”

The maid slammed the trunk down. Her backpack was in the car. Lisa crawled into the open backseat.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were going to come in a car. I thought we were taking the metro to the apartment.”

Lisa’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. There, in front of her, sat a girl who looked maybe a year or two younger than her twenty-two. All Lisa knew of her prospective roommate, all the agency could tell her, was that she was a religious history major from Duke, went to high school outside New York City, and needed to visit France for research. She had expected a tight bookworm, something with a bun and glasses. In front of her sat a fashionista with long blonde hair (obviously not her natural color), a razor thin form, and an outfit that probably cost more than Lisa’s entire wardrobe. She was smoking a cigarette, drinking wine, and looking at Lisa with obvious curiosity.

“You look just as good as your pictures,” Miranda said.

“You saw a picture of me? I don’t remember giving one to the service.” Lisa replied. “I must have missed your picture. My apology. Nice car.”

Miranda took another drag from her cigarette. “Do you think you could hand me the bottle of wine to your left?”

Lisa shrugged, pulled the bottle from the built-in holder and held it out to her new roommate. Miranda raised her glass and indicated she wanted Lisa to pour it for her.

“You want me to pour it?” Lisa asked.

“Please,” Miranda smiled.

Lisa poured a little into her glass. She noticed Miranda’s eyes shining bright.

“I love your hair,” Miranda said.

“Um…thanks. So…what brings you to Paris? Where’d you get the car?”

“My father got it for me. He’s…good that way. I’m here to conduct research. Duke makes us do the most horrible papers. My father attended Duke, so he wants me to graduate from the institution as well. I started out in public relations, then business, then religious studies. I heard it was the easiest program on campus, and my family has a…history in it.”

“Yeah, I’m a religious studies major too. I want to be an interpreter or diplomat, maybe, after grad school. Wait a second…did you say your last name was Kiara? As in the Kiara library at Duke?”

Miranda smiled. “I find the librarians more helpful when your father buys the university a new library building. Helps on the application as well.”

The car stopped before a three flat on a narrow cobblestone street. The maid, who apparently sat in front during the trip, held an umbrella over Miranda’s head as the pair were ushered up the stairs.

“Wendy will show you your room. I have a few things to do.” Miranda said, as she disappeared before a set of double doors.

“Follow me, please,” the maid said, carrying Lisa’s backpack, as she walked up a curving staircase to the building’s second floor. “Zis is my room. And zis is yours.” She opened a door onto a small, bright room with heavy, ancient furniture.

“Um, thanks. Where did Miranda go?” she asked.

“Miz Miranda is very busy with her research. Az you will be, I’m sure.”

The maid closed the door. Lisa lay back on her bed.

“Nothing like this in Ohio,” she said to herself, and started to unpack.

The first two weeks passed in a blur. Lisa rose early, ran, ate a quick breakfast, and reached the research center by nine. She sent e-mails to her friends back in Toledo (“what are French guys like?” was their most common question), sat in on seminars on the fine points of French religious history (particularly gory through certain periods, the details of which her professors seemed to relish), and spent the afternoon working on her thesis in a small cubicle in the Institute basement. At night she walked through her small neighborhood and sometimes went out with the small group of American classmates she had met in her seminars. A cute guy from Seattle, Seth, took her sightseeing on a rainy Saturday. She found her fellow students referring to “Seth and Lisa” as a couple, and she certainly wasn’t going to fight that perception. He was cute. Let them think she and Seth were together.

Lisa saw Miranda only twice at seminar, both times escorted by an older man in a business suit who one her new friends identified as the Dean of the Institute. Miranda sometimes joined her at breakfast (prepared and served by Wendy, despite Lisa’s attempts to help cook) but otherwise seemed to keep to herself.

Lisa couldn’t get past the idea that Miranda was watching her while they ate, and her stilted attempts at creating conversation were met by what, to Lisa, seemed to be amusement.

After a late movie with Seth (he hadn’t tried to kiss her, but she wouldn’t have minded, as long as he didn’t get too serious), Lisa quietly opened the apartment door and entered the dark, quiet kitchen. She boiled water, careful to take the kettle off the range before the whistle blew, and drank a cup of tea.

On the table was a neat stack of photocopied academic articles. Lisa, never able to eat and drink alone without reading, casually paged through the stack.

The first four articles, neatly stapled, concerned a graveyard that Lisa thought she had passed while out jogging. The graves appeared ancient, much older than any she had seen in Ohio, and the statuary were simultaneously creepy and beautiful. Granite angels, rough, their faces unreadable, were covered in mold and lichen. A few crypts featured lifesize statues of what appeared to be rich men from another era. The centerpiece of the cemetery seemed to be a statue of a woman wearing a long, flowing robe, reaching out to someone in front of her. She looked serene. Her mouth was half-open, smiling, and she held what looked like a broken flute in her hands.

“Her name was Bethany.”

Lisa jumped out her chair and looked behind her. Miranda, in a silk robe, stood in the doorway.

“Oh my God, you scared me. I’m sorry. I was just looking through the articles. They’re interesting.”

“No need to apologize, dear. You can make it up to me by fetching me a cup of tea.”

Lisa rose, still rattled, and poured an extra cup as Miranda sat at the small kitchen table.

Miranda gathered the papers and placed them on her lap, out of Lisa’s view.

“So is that your research?” Lisa asked.

“You could say that.”

“So you’re, like, looking at cemeteries? We’ve talked about that cemetery in seminar. I run by it in the morning. We never talked about the big statue in the middle, though. I never thought to ask. We mostly talked about the guys in the north end crypts.”

Miranda laughed. “Men tend to talk about men, Lisa, at least as far as history is concerned. Once a woman is dead a man can’t fuck her. But that cemetery is all about Bethany. Those men? They were her lackeys.”

“How do you know? I mean, I don’t mean to be rude, but I never see you in seminar.”

“I get private lessons.” Miranda sipped her tea. “I see you and Seth have become close.”

Lisa blushed. “Well, we haven’t…we just hang out. We’re not like, together, or anything.”

“Good. I’d hate for him to get in the way of your studies.” Miranda stood, leaving her cup on the table. “When you go jogging tomorrow, don’t be afraid to approach Bethany’s statue. You might learn something about your precious religious history.” She turned and walked out the door.

Lisa placed both cups in the sink, shrugged her shoulders, and went to bed.

Autumn had arrived in Paris. Lisa ran, splashing through puddles, cutting between parked cars, until she reached the park path that snaked through the cemetery. She stopped, breathing hard, her hands on her hips, in front of the statue. The inscription was faded and embossed in what appeared to be some sort of Celtic or Welsh text. She walked around the statue, looking for more clues as to its origin, when she noticed a silver glint peeking out from beneath the statue’s base. On her knees Lisa brushed wet, brown leaves off of the stone and found a small silver bracelet. Black runes, faded with age, covered the solid circle. It seemed large, much too large for her wrist, but, as she experimented with its size by sliding the bracelet past her fingers, the bracelet shrank to fit her form.

The morning cut to nothingness. Blackness illuminated only by the bright gray statue in front of her. Bethany blinked. The statue nodded, strode off its marble base, and reached down to raise Lisa from the ground. She held Lisa in her gaze and started to speak in a language Lisa didn’t recognize before leaning forward and kissing her on the lips.

Lisa felt the cool water run across her shoulders. She instinctively peeled off her clothes and stood, unashamed, before the Goddess. Every cell in her body buzzed with a warmth that transcended the downpour. Bethany tilted her head, speaking again, and Lisa understood Bethany wanted her back on her knees. She slid to the ground, kissing each stone foot in turn, transforming rock to flesh. Bethany seemed calm, bemused, as Lisa kissed her breasts and moved her mouth up to each shoulder. Lisa had never taken the time to kiss a man like this, to let her lips touch every inch of his body. No man was worth it. Bethany was worth it. This Goddess was worth it. She wanted to enfold her, to envelope her legs with hers, to combine her red hair with Bethany’s, to match their tongues. She wanted to sleep in this vision’s arms. No man could ever do this for her. No man understood her like this. No man ever made her feel this safe. This wanted. This tranquil. This full of bliss.

Bethany stretched as she guided, carefully, Lisa’s kisses between her legs. She seemed almost bored, expectant, privileged, as Lisa wrapped an arm around each thigh and let her tongue find the pleasure of the Goddess. Bethany shuddered, caressing Lisa’s hair, moments later. She slid down onto her knees to wrap her arms around the girl, whispered another sentence in an ancient language, and kissed each of Lisa’s eyelids.

A peal of thunder roused Lisa from her reverie. The rain had picked up, the wind whipping through the graveyard, a steel gate flapping against a fence. The bracelet was gone, replaced by a clean black tattoo, runes, across Lisa’s wrists. By the time she reached the street, her senses had returned, but she had to be careful to avoid attempts at rubbing the symbols from her wrist while navigating the rainy street lest she collide with a car unable to see beyond its windshield wipers. She stumbled through the door and made for the kitchen, pushing past Wendy into Miranda’s quarters.

Miranda, wearing the same robe from the night before, looked up from an article. She was seated in an opulent leather chair.

“Been out running, darling?” she asked.

“What the fuck is this? What the fuck happened to my wrist?” Lisa asked. “Did you drug me or something?”

“The Kiara family does not traffic in drugs. We prefer more dignified methods of maintaining our status.” Miranda put down the article and stood up.

“I see you visited Bethany this morning. I thought I felt her. Thank you, Goddess,” Miranda said, and tilted her head towards a small statue on the mantle. The small fire, burning in the hearth, flamed at her words.

“I found a bracelet…I put it on…I don’t know…I don’t know what happened.” Miranda touched Lisa’s lips with the tip of her finger.

“Shhh, darling,” she whispered, “You work for me now.

You don’t want to upset the mistress of the house, do you?”

Lisa stood, in her sports bra and tights, her hair back in a ponytail, and tried moving. Her body, which thirty minutes ago ran strong and healthy over narrow cobblestone streets, failed her. She found she could only move her eyes, and trailed Miranda, as much as she could, as the girl circled slowly.

“You are much too lean. I don’t know why you insist on spending so much time at the gym.” She trailed her finger off of Lisa’s lips, across her neck, and through her hair. “I don’t see why a maid needn’t have curves. I like women with curves, although I would never stand them on myself.”

Lisa gathered her strength and opened her mouth. She tried to lean forward, to fall forward, even, anything to dispel the feeling that she would never move again, stay rooted to this spot forever.

“A…maid?” she whispered.

“Oh yes, darling. A pretty little maid in a pretty little outfit. We are in France, are we not? The home of French maids? Consider this your internship. You will learn, my sweet darling, that you have a place, and your place is tidying up the rooms, refreshing my tea, and laundering my clothes when I return from the gym. And what you’re going to do for me in the shower…”

Miranda did not appear to be in a hurry. She walked to the bookcase and found a small leather book, locked together with a strap. The book’s cover was brown, pockmarked, and faded beyond readability. Miranda seemed to whisper a few words at the book and the clasp audibly slid open.

“You see, this part of France is known for an obscure form of paganism. That statue you jogged past? The stone form that seemed to move? Yes, I know what you saw, where you were, and I imagine you thought yourself hallucinating when you experienced the effect. Yes. You met Bethany. A Celtic priestess, worshipped before the inquisition by a small band of witches and warlocks. I’ve seen woodcuts. She had glorious, long, red hair. Just like yours.” Miranda leaned over Lisa’s shoulders and took a long, slow breath. “I’ve been reading up on her. She seemed to have this…power…over the men and women that followed her. Great wizards would find themselves bowed before her, breaking their wands in half, burning up their robes, wandering naked with wild looks in their eyes, playing the drums as they followed Bethany from village to village. She went underground, eventually, with the rise of Christianity. But I doubt she ever left. Do you really think I came all the way to France to meet French boys and drink beer? No, darling. I came for Bethany’s power.”

Miranda reached under the couch and pulled out what looked, from where Lisa was standing, to be a pornographic magazine. The cover featured a woman in a French Maid outfit with a surprised look on her face, her mouth a perfect “O”, and her palm on her cheek. She wore spotless, shiny leather heels. Lace garters trailed up to a black silk skirt that ventured between the top of her knee and her waist. A simple white apron covered her skirt. A black lace bra peeked out from behind a matching blouse. A silver tiara rested on her head.

“Do you like it, Lisa? What’s French for Lisa? Elise? I like it. My little French girl, Elise. Maybe twenty years old. Elise so wants to come to America and meet American girls and do American things. I can help her. I can get her a green card so Elise can come work in my big American house. I have a guest room where Elise can sleep.”

Miranda leaned forward and slid her tongue between Lisa’s lips. She worked her hands through Lisa’s hair, stroking it, until Lisa’s mouth opened a little wider. After a few moments, Miranda threw her head back and smiled.

“Did you feel yourself open up, dear?” she said. “Let me tell you a little more about Bethany. Would you believe that beautiful, powerful Bethany was once in a convent? Yes, her parents were scared of her stare, her power, and they sent her away.” Miranda slid away from Lisa and opened the book again. “Those nuns never had a chance. They were the first to dance behind Bethany as she rode from town to town, spreading her love and adding to her harem.” She looked down at a page. “D a yn gwasanaethu bachgennes.”

Lisa felt a wave of contentment pass through her. She closed her eyes and gasped. She immediately took the magazine from Miranda’s hand and sat in the leather chair. The first few pages of the magazine featured the maid and what appeared to be a woman of high society in heated discussion over the cleaning of a shower. Soon the maid was between the woman’s legs, her outfit in disarray, and, as the story continued, she was completely subjugated by her better.

“Do you like the magazine, Lisa?” Miranda asked, as she rubbed Lisa’s shoulders.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, honey. I don’t believe I heard you correctly. Do you like the magazine, Elise?”

“Oui.”

“Good girl.”

An inkling of panic emerged in the back of Lisa’s mind. “No…Iz…It iz not…I mean…I’m not…” She tore up to her room before Miranda could reply.

The curved, twisted representations on her wrists seemed to writhe like snakes in heat. Lisa closed her eyes for thirty seconds then opened them to find the runes still present. The room spun, and she thought she saw a lithe figure, red hair trailing behind her, peeking over her shoulder in the mirror before she fell into a deep sleep.

“You cold or something?”

Lisa read the note and passed it into her backpack. She was wearing a long sleeved red sweater. When she woke, before dawn, she was both chilled from the night air and bent on concealing her new (as she planned on explaining if anyone saw it) “tattoo”.

The professor droned on about the nuances of the reformation. Her mind wandered. Did the reformers have clean kitchens? This morning she had carefully wiped the counter cleaned and placed last night’s dishes in the dishwasher before she realized what she was doing. An oddly satisfying feeling, a sense of completeness, accompanied the act of clearing the counter and turning the dishwasher dial. When she opened the front door to leave for seminar she surprised a taxi driver waiting on the stairs.

“Are you Wendy?” he asked in crisp English.

“No. She’s probably still sleeping. Why?” I’m a little early, but someone called a cab to take her to the airport.”

Lisa looked up the staircase. She could hear stirring, the sounds of packing, suitcase clasps closing, someone sweeping clothes from a rack.

“She should be down in a second.” Lisa, considering this morning’s events, let her mind wander further (her research had little to do with the reformation, she reasoned) towards Wendy. If Wendy wasn’t around, who was going to serve dinner? I wonder what we’re having? Perhaps the red china would be good for tonight…if the chef is making fish, a red wine…candlelight…Miranda would love it…

Seth snapped her fingers near her ear. “You back in America, Lisa?” he asked.

Pardon moi?” she replied.

“What?” he laughed. “Since when do you try to speak French?”

She giggled weakly. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just, like, kidding. Um, what’s up?”

He pointed at the empty chairs around her. “Well, I was thinking you might want to leave the classroom, seeing as the lecture ended four minutes ago.”

“Yeah, well, um, I guess I was just thinking, you know, of my research.”

“You need a break, Lisa. You’ve been totally out of it all day.” He reached out and touched her hand, only for a moment. “You want to catch a movie tonight?”

A wave of apathy passed through Lisa’s nose, moved through her neck, and landed at the edges of her toes. “Oh, thanks, but no. I promised…I promised I would make Miranda dinner.”

“I thought a chef made her dinner.”

“Yeah, well, but, she lost her maid, and, um, I thought I’d help out.”

“So, she can’t eat dinner, even with chefs, without any help?”

“It’s just that she’s been so nice to me. She lets me stay at this awesome apartment for next to nothing. You know how it is.”

Seth leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Sure, I understand. Maybe you could make me dinner at my apartment after I let you stay there.” He smiled, stood up, and left the classroom. Lisa gave him a thirty-second head start then, careful to take the stairs on the far end of the building, started walking home. Yes, she would help out at dinner because Miranda had been so generous. That was it. It had nothing to do with the cemetery, it had nothing to do with Bethany, and it had nothing to do with the tattoo on her wrist. Still, the tattoo was cool. If Miranda liked it.

Miranda. She was gorgeous, wasn’t she? Lisa thought of her beautiful legs moving regally up the staircase. So much…class. Lisa had never seen anything like it. Wherever she was from, her family had raised her well. She worked out every day, and it showed. I could help her clean up afterwards. Lisa laughed in the street. I didn’t think I was going to go through the lesbian phase, but, man, Miranda was cute. And the way she kissed…wow.

Lisa froze in the street. She looked down at her wrist. The runes appeared to have multiplied to the point where they seemed to be the intertwined links of an elaborate chain.

Lisa returned from an afternoon run to find Miranda sitting on the front steps.

“Did you pick up anything for dinner, darling?” Miranda asked.

“No. I thought…maybe the chefs…”

The chefs cook. The maid shops. Not complicated, Elise.”

“Sorry. I mean, I’m sorry. Is there…iz there..a list?”

Miranda stood and ran her fingers gently through Lisa’s hair. “I’d like you to stop jogging. You look great…the way you are…”

Miranda moved her fingers through Lisa’s hair, slowly, carefully, until Lisa’s eyes closed against the afternoon sun. She felt one finger move down to her abs and twirl a circle on her skin. Within moments six years of crunches and sit-ups were eliminated and she had gained, she guessed, three dress sizes. Another finger moved to her thighs and completed the alteration. Her tights were now ridiculously too small and her breasts strained against her bra. She was not fat, but the meat on her bones had thickened. A moment of resentment, of frustration, as all her hard work in the gym fluttered by until a soothing envelope of ease replaced it.

“You can open your eyes now, sweetie. I’ll send one of the boys to market. I’m sure the chefs could use your help in the kitchen. Be a dear and shower first.

Your outfit is in your closet. I think you’ll find it to your liking.”

“Thank you, Miranda…M’am…I will be…I will be…right down.”

Lisa walked up the stairs in a soft, fluffy daze. She slid out of her panties and let them fall to the floor. The shower was warm and inviting. She shampooed her hair, let it sit for a minute, and leaned back against the steamed tile.

America, it will be pretty.

She blinked. Of course it’s pretty. I live in America.

It will be so exciting to meet American girls.

Seth is from America. He likes me.

Ma’dam Miranda is so sweet to me. It is so nice of her to invite me to work for her.

Miranda is some snotty girl from the Hamptons.

She slid down to the floor, sitting in the shower, and thought of the outfit in the magazine. Black silk. Lace stockings. And the tiara. The tiara.

She carefully stepped out of the shower and dried her hair, leaving it down, soft curls, styled. A black lace bra and black lace panties lay on the bed. She slipped them on and looked in the mirror. Another shower of pure satisfaction seemed to fall from the ceiling.

“You are cute, no?” she asked, in heavily accented English.

The lace stockings were next, then the skirt and apron.

“The American girls will adore you.” She giggled.

The silk blouse and tiara were next. She gazed at the mirror for a long minute, until the church bells rang her from her reverie.

“Mon Cherie! My dear! Zee market will be closing soon. I hopez the boy…” Lisa stepped into her heels and carefully navigated the steps to the first floor. She adjusted her tiara in the hallway mirror, smoothed out her skirt, and walked into the kitchen.

“Just in time, dear. Some tea, please?” Miranda asked. She was sitting at an old wooden table in the sunny breakfast nook. Lisa filled Miranda’s cup.

“Elise, your room has become cluttered. Be a dear and go upstairs and dispose of all the papers you’ve collected. You won’t need those anymore. And your computer? I need the passwords. You’re to send no more messages without my approval. Pretty French maids have no need for e-mail.”

Lisa opened her mouth to protest. Two years of research were gathered in her portfolios in her room. Her computer was her lifeline to her family.

What family? Her family dropped her off in Paris after an idle youth in a small village to the north.

No. I’m from Ohio. I want to be a diplomat.

You want to make sure the table settings are perfect.

I want to raise a family, have kids.

You want to keep Miranda warm at night in her beautiful bed. You will make it in the morning after you serve her through the small hours.

“Thinking deep, darling?” Miranda asked.

“No, non, Miz Miranda. I am…you zee…” she laughed. “Would zou like some more tea?”

“How do I look?”

“Ma’dam, You look…how do yooz say theze words in America…zoo look…beautific.”

Miranda laughed. “No, no, Elise. You’re getting better, but you’re not quite there. Beautiful. Brush my hair, please.”

Elise moved behind her mistress and began to run the brush through Miranda’s long blonde hair. She loved brushing her employer’s hair. Tonight it would need to look especially good.

Elise admired the silver designer dress hanging from the door. Miranda would absolutely shimmer. As for herself, she spent the last of the allowance Miranda provided on faded jeans, a size larger than before, that she could wear in America. Her work uniform was tight now, too, and she had already decided to spend her next allowance on another a size up. Her hair was cut near her shoulders and her face appeared more round. She spent most of her free time studying her English by reading books aimed at American children (her favorite was “Green Eggs and Ham”, about which she told Miranda “This Cat in zee hat…zee is zo funny, iz zee not?”) and paging through books on New York City. Miranda had told her they would be moving to a place called the Hamptons. Elise was especially hopeful about the Hamptons because, in this magical place, many families had what her mistress called “domestic help”. Elise hoped that some of the domestic help would gather away from the families that employed them (nothing against Miranda, of course, who was an absolute angel to help her travel to America, then allow Elise to pay her back every month out of her allowance) and perhaps explore the city. Miranda had produced a passport for Elise and explained that, for their current purposes, Elise was to pretend she was an American citizen returning from vacation. They would work out the details later.

Miranda let her soft robe fall from her shoulders as her maid brushed her hair. “That feels great, Elise,” she said. “Would you mind rubbing my shoulders?”

“Of course not, Ma’dam,” Elise replied.

She put down the brush and began to knead her fingers into her mistress’s skin, slowly, hard, the way Miranda had explained, a few weeks earlier, that she liked it. After a few minutes, Elise stood back and took off her tiara.

“Good girl,” Miranda said, without looking back. “It’s time.”

Elise reached back and unhooked her blouse, sliding it off her arms, and placed it carefully on the dresser. She removed her heels and folded her lace stockings on the blouse before shimmying out of the apron and skirt. When she was finished she stood in front of Miranda for inspection.

“You look great, darling,” Miranda said. She touched Elise’s thigh, and as she did, Elise seemed to gain weight, moment by moment, like a tire inflating. Her curves pressed against her uniform and her face filled out.

“Thank zoo, Ma’dam,” Elise replied, as she leaned down to kiss Miranda’s hand. She continued to her knees and opened her mistress’s silk robe. Miranda’s taut body, fresh from a workout, glistened in the fading light. The maid gently parted her legs and kissed Miranda’s thigh.

“Yes. Nice. Don’t rush it.” Miranda cooed.

Elise worked her tongue across both thighs, then up to Miranda’s fit abdomen muscles. She tilted her head and kissed each soft breast. She straddled her employer and pushed the robe to the ground, kissing her neck, then her lips.

“Zoo is happy with my body, then, Mistress of the house?” Elise asked.

“You have no idea, darling. The American girls are going to love you. But remember, first and foremost, you work for me.” Miranda licked the sweat from Elise’s neck and led her to bed. They wrapped, like serpents, rumpling the silk sheets, staining each other with sweat. Birds flitted through the open stone windows. Miranda pushed Elise into the mattress and forced her fingers inside her slave. Elise arched her back and moaned, softly, the room darkening, candles flickering on the mantle.

“Zoo…zoo are so good to me, Miss Miranda.” Elise whispered.

“Yes, I am, aren’t I, darling? As long as you cook, clean, and help me entertain back in America, you’ll be fine. You have such a fine body, darling. A few more pounds and you’ll be perfect.”

“Do you zink…zoo…my your fingers are zo…ah…zo you…think…that…I will like America?” Elise gasped.

“You can come now.” Miranda replied.

Elise shuddered and exploded, writhing, gripping the sheets, moaning, trying to be silent, as a maid would never want to embarrass her employer by making noise the neighbors might hear. She gasped, biting her lips until they bled, until she coasted to a stop. She kissed Miranda, long and slow, and then laid her head on her mistress’s lap. Miranda stroked her hair as if she were a child.

“You are going to love America, Elise. It truly is beautiful. The dinner parties at which you will help serve drinks. The lovely auctions at which you will clean up. You’re going to love it all. You’ll have a small room next to mine. You’ll need to help me plan the wedding.”

Elise stood and walked to the window, closing the shudders. She could see her own sweat reflected in the darkening bedroom mirror. Yes, Miranda’s wedding.

Miranda’s fiancé, an American boy named Seth, was, as Elise tried to say, “Zo, zo beautiful, like zee Greek Gods in Zee Louvre.” Although she did not really like boys, Elise hoped Seth’s family had domestic help. Perhaps Seth had a maid she could meet in America. Miranda had said she didn’t mind her maids having other girlfriends. She was so generous.

Elise showered with her mistress, washing off her own kisses, and helped Miranda dress for the Scholarship Ball. It was a shame that the student who was supposed to be honored at this event had so cruelly left the country. She had heard Miranda talking on the phone about the girl. Apparently she had left a note about a trip to Russia or something. No one ever heard from her again. Her family, in a place called O-Hi-O (a word that caused Elise to giggle when she said it, despite the tragic circumstances) was distraught at this Lisa’s disappearance. They had come to Paris to search for her, but there was nothing to be done.

Elise clasped the jewelry around Miranda’s neck and answered the door when Seth arrived. She smirked when he brushed past her to Miranda’s arms. He didn’t seem to notice Elise at all. Why should he? Elise was the domestic help, and despite her distant dreams of perhaps, someday, nannying Seth and Miranda’s child, she could never aspire to anything but perhaps a kind word from a man of such good family.

Seth ushered Miranda to the door. A limo waited in the street.

“Wait up for me,” Miranda whispered, as Elise closed the door.

“Oui. Of course,” Elise whispered in reply. She smiled, turned on her heels, adjusted her tiara, and walked through the swinging doors to tidy up the kitchen.