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The Man Who Was Put On Earth To Serve Women Excerpt by Rachel Heath

The Man Who Was Put On Earth To Serve Women by Rachel Heath

Paperback & Ebook

Author’s Note: Hi! I’m Rachel Heath, an erotic writer who loves her work. This is the beginning of my novella, “The Man Who Was put On Earth To Serve Women.” It is my hope that some of you who read this start will want to learn what happens next — and buy “The Man Who Was Put On Earth To Serve Women.”

 

The Man Who Was Put On Earth To Serve Women shook some Ajax into a toilet and used the scrub brush vigorously. He folded a paper towel into a square then sprayed the seat and rubbed it clean. He did not work quickly for he was under no deadline but he was always mindful of doing the best possible job and leaving everything in the sparkling clean state that would please Cathy, Lydia, and Sarah. He threw that paper towel away, then paused in his work to take a couple of drinks of cold water from a Dixie cup. Looking in the mirror above the sink, he admired his own clean-shaven reflection. He was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and ruggedly handsome. He possessed a light beige complexion, short wavy hair of a medium brown color, bright blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and prominent cheekbones. He tore off another paper towel, and removed the Kleenex box and the latest issue of the Reader’s Digest from the tank before wiping it clean.

Then he gave the same careful and thorough treatment to the sink, the mirror above it, and finally the bathtub. Before he left the lavatory, he looked around to make sure he had left no spot behind that he was capable of erasing. Finally he sprayed the bathroom lightly with air freshener and went to Cathy and Lydia’s bedroom.

There he removed knick-knacks and jewelry boxes from atop the two chests, setting them down temporarily on the ladies’ bed. He dusted thechests, trying to get all the crevices between the drawers. A certain fluttery sensation of sexual arousal mingled with fear and shame rose inside him as he got to the bottom drawer of the larger, maple chest: that was where the instruments of his correction were kept. He dusted the frames around the pictures hanging up on the walls. Then he returned to the kitchen to fetch a can of wax and polished what he had just dusted until the wood glowed with a fine sheen. He put each knick-knack back in its place after carefully removing the dust from it. Like most people, The Man Who Was Put On Earth To Serve Women had a name. However, unless he was at his regular job as an actuary (luckily he was back to working under a woman boss) or at church or in some other public venue, he did not like to think of himself by his name. He preferred to think of himself as The Man Who Was Put On Earth To Serve Women or simply as “fella,” the term used for him by Cathy, Lydia, and Sarah.

Taking a break from his chores, he went to the kitchen to fix himself a sandwich. He took that into the living room with a Coke and turned on the tube.

It was quite awhile after that, while he was in his own bedroom reading a recent issue of Time, when the buzzer went off. He jumped up. It was time for inspection. He quickly combed his hair and straightened out his butler’s uniform, slipped into his shoes and headed for the living room.

Cathy and Lydia were there. As was her wont, Cathy sat up in a straight-backed chair while Lydia was stretched out on the couch, shoes beside it and head propped against a pillow. Cathy was in her early twenties and Lydia had recently turned forty. Even though they were together all the time, no one ever took them for mother and daughter because they looked nothing alike except that both were of average height. Cathy was pleasingly plump, very large-breasted, with a light olive complexion and short, jet black hair that she wore parted on the side and in an old-fashioned pageboy. On this day, she was wearing a maroon-colored business suit with a black blouse. She wore a light make-up and no jewelry. Lydia was a svelte, small-breasted blonde with alabaster skin and an oval-shaped face. She had small green eyes and a large black mole on the side of her chin. Attired in a dark blue dress and pale stockings, she had no make-up on save for a baby pink lipstick. She wore earrings of gold in teardrop shapes, a couple of thin gold-colored necklaces and rings on both hands.

“You called,” fella said with a brief bow.

“Yes, indeed,” Cathy replied. She looked around the clean and tidy room. “It looks like a pretty good job.”

“Thank you, Madam,” he replied.

Lydia rose from the couch and pulled up the cushions. “You remembered to clean under here this time,” she commented, slipping her shoes on.

“Yes, Madam,” he replied.

Cathy continued around the room and stopped at the windowsill. She looked at her fingers: covered with dirt. “Unh-oh,” she uttered. Her brown eyes narrowed as she looked at The Man Who Was Put On Earth To Serve Women. “Not so good, fella,” she commented.

“I am sorry, Madam,” he said with his head bowed.

With Cathy in the lead, Lydia behind her, and fella last, the group went into the east wing bathroom.

“It sparkles,” Lydia said with evident satisfaction.

“Thank you, Madam,” he replied.

“But . . . my glass,” Lydia said in a severe tone.

“Yes Madam?” he asked.

Lydia showed him the little black ceramic cup (Cathy, like fella, drank from Dixie cups when in the bathroom). He could see that there was a small, reddish stain in the bottom of it. He ought to have washed it or at least replaced it with a fresh one.

Again his head bowed as he said, “I am sorry, Madam.”

“You should be, fella,” Lydia remonstrated.

He was silent and his head was still bowed.

 

The Phone Call

The Phone Call by Lizbeth Dusseau

Excerpt from The Scandalous Demise of Lily Lake (c) 2006, all rights reserved

When Lily sank her hands into the loamy garden dirt, she felt the earth come up to greet her, drawing her in to its steady vibration and giving her a sense of peace she rarely felt now. Gardening was her one solace, and it might have soothed her into a peaceful evening had she not felt the need to bring along the phone—in case Patrick called from Tokyo. She’d missed two of his calls in the last week and refused to miss another one. But she unwisely forgot that there might be other callers who could disturb the calm now washing through her like a miracle tonic.

The phone did ring, jarring her bones with the clattering sound—right in the midst of planting zinnias. She trembled with uncertainty hoping to connect with a husband who had been all too distant in the last few months. She wanted, needed, to reconnect with him. But it was not Patrick’s voice on the other end, but the caller who she least wanted to hear from.

“Tonight, Ms. Lake.” His firm tone was unmistakable. Strange how that boyish voice could penetrate her with such intensity that it dampened her panties with wet desire.

She gasped miserably—perhaps he didn’t hear that. “Oh no, please, not tonight.” Her heart bled miserably and her body clenched up cold as stone.

“Tonight, seven o’clock,” he came right back in the same even tone, then the phone clicked off.

 

Two hours later, she stood at the doorway of a dimly lit living room wearing the hooded, latex cat-suit the boy had bought for her months before. A plain UPS package had arrived with all that daring sensuous black, clinging to white tissue paper stuffed inside the box. She couldn’t touch the latex without trembling, without feeling a shiver of fear overtake all her senses. She’d breathed in her fear, almost colliding with the sofa, suddenly dizzy and disoriented realizing what was meant by the gift.

Now, having poured herself into the latex once again, it settled all too comfortably against her skin. A tight hood covered her face, and the boy—she called him a boy, though he was certainly very much a man at twenty-two—was there with her, at her side, whispering in her ear, close, so very close.

“You’re one sexy broad, Ms. Lake,” he purred. There was a smirk in his voice, if not on his lips.

“It’s demeaning,” she returned.

“But you’re perfectly hidden, perfectly masked.” He traced a line down her spine. “You know these people?”

“Some.”
“I thought so, right in your own neighborhood.”

“I wish I could leave.” The catsuit was crotchless front and back, and there were cutouts for her breasts that made them stick out absurdly. The hood had four holes: one for her mouth, one for her nose, none for her ears and two for her eyes. She hated the way it made her look.

“But don’t you like taking chances? Doesn’t it turn you on?” After the hand on her ass dropped between her legs, his fingers digging deeper, wiggling like little fishes against the hot, wet flesh, he offered this: “You’re juicy.”

“I know I am,” she said.

She felt the orgasm on her already, and she was just standing in the doorway. They hadn’t even officially arrived. The people in front of her were no more than a blur, as the hood caused her vision to alter in imperceptible ways and she knew that she wasn’t seeing things right, not exactly as they were meant to be seen. The hood and the oppressively heating latex made her go deep inside herself.

The boy withdrew his hand and pushed her forward into the crowd of distorted faces. Their  misshapen bodies parted on her approach, surrounding the evening’s subject with eager appetites. Her arms were lifted high above her head and secured with chains that fit into the shiny high-tech cuffs that circled her wrists. The rivets and bolts gleamed like sterling silver.

Her body had been broken down to its pertinent body parts where the skintight latex didn’t cover her real flesh; her breasts, her ass and her bared pussy with not a single silky hair remaining, gleamed white against the black backdrop. Her ass protruded from behind like two porcelain globes, shining brilliantly, screaming invitations to the crowd, ‘Beat me! Make me hot and red and welted!’ Her upper back was exposed too, although the punishment it would take would be insignificant compared to the punishment her ass and breasts and crotch would suffer.

The chains above her clanked when she shifted her weight. Then the real hurt began as little whips and crops and canes etched a painting of woeful hurt into the unblemished skin. She yelped under her breath and began to whimper like a mad dog, twisting, jerking, frenetic and uncontrolled.

Meanwhile, the boy watched from the sidelines, thinking of Ms. Lake trying so hard to be prim when she was teaching him English eight years prior, at that stuffy Northeastern boarding school. ‘Little teacher’ they all called her because they were young and she was pretty, modest and vulnerable. Boys are cruel in their teens…but just dreamers with unformed ideas of sex. Sex took strange and perverse permutations in their minds. But now at twenty-two those adolescent daydreams were being made real. Thank God for the Internet that took away the shame in perversity, that freed the mind to ride the dark absurdities like this. Pandora’s Box was never as open as now. He thought all this while watching Ms. Lake dancing with her exposed white flesh turning flaming shades of scarlet before his eyes.

The action got a little rougher when someone screwed alligator clamps on her protruding purplish nipples. He watched as every muscle in her delirious frame clenched up taut and steely as a tuned piano string.

She feigned a scream, opening her mouth, stretching the latex that framed it, though not a sound issued forth for all the effort.

“She’s sopping,” a voice chimed in, while its owner’s hand was in her crotch, fondling her to another peak of pained pleasure.

The invading digits felt slick and cool in contrast to her hot and throbbing cunt, and even beyond her latex-covered ears, she could hear the sound of her sloshing, sucking pussy juices. The burning feeling at the opening of her vagina soon became intense, as the hand forced its way deeper, demanding she open wider. She’d heard of this before, fisting; but didn’t think that shoving it into her hole from below was the right way to do it. Not by the book, according to Hoyle, or what was safe and sane. Even so, she wriggled involuntarily on that heated hand, which like the blade of a knife cut deeply into her body in an attempt to carve out more space than her pussy had to offer anything so large.

“I can’t!” she wanted to scream, but she had no voice; all the sound was trapped inside her throat. The fist plunged in all the way, doing what at first seemed impossible with guileless ease. The anonymous invader had a small hand capable of making the impossible possible.

So tight, so goddam tight! The world around her spun like a top and she was weeping, shamed and glorified by the inner image of herself. Her need to come grew stronger with every thrust of the impaling hand. While being fisted, she was still being whipped with erratic, blistering blows, until everyone could hear her garbled hiss and see her body shudder, her back arching as her muscles strained.

The blows from the sadists’ weapons, and the thrusts of the impaler’s hand went on for several more minutes until she was wasted, flopping around like a ragdoll and moaning with discontent.

A quiet moment followed as all parties withdrew from her, as weapons were put away, and the hand inside her slurped from her dripping pussy hole and left her gaping.

The boy on the sidelines sauntered forward, putting his hand on her roughed up ass, and asked in a terse whisper right where her ears were covered by the hood, “You come?”

She wasn’t ready to talk at first. Instead, her head fell to his shoulder seeking approval – or affection.

“Say it!” came out as a rebuke and she shot up straight as an arrow.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes… well, then thank me, bitch. This is a rare treat.” He wanted to say ‘teacher’ but he promised. Not in public.

“Thank you, sir, for allowing me to come.”

“Louder!” and he cracked his hand against her ass.

“Thank you, sir, for allowing me to come!” she tried a little harder.

“Can you hear her?” he asked the crowd.

A murmur of no’s swept through the room.

“Again,” and again he cracked his hand against her bare ass.

“Thank you, sir, for allowing me to come!” This time her voice rose up clearly, and he finally backed away.

The chains that tethered her to the ceiling were unhooked and she tumbled to the floor with her flaming ass raised high.

“Around the room!” he ordered her like a dog, sending her on to lap seven dicks and one wet pussy.

She worked her way on hands and knees, closing off all conscious thought in order to fend off the barbs and the humiliation that was heaped on her. Dicks plunged into the mouth hole of the latex hood, just another body part, a receptacle for sexual use. Nothing more.

 

Ab

 

He insisted on following her inside her house, where Lily tore at the latex as soon as she was inside the front door. The lights were still off, while the hazy glow from the yard lights turned everything a grainy black and white. She tore back the hood and tugged the latex off her shoulders, down her torso, peeling the catsuit away from her sweaty skin, hating every moment of it, even as her condemning juices trickled down her thighs.

“No, Andrew! It’s not ever going to happen again. Never!” She shook out her brown hair vehemently.

His big collegiate, frat-boy grin beamed back at her from the charming boyish face.

“Sure, it will. Next time I ring your number.”
“No, Andrew, no! This is the last time.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Why, teach? When you’re enjoying it so much?”

The taste of his prick and his copious cum still soured her mouth, and she could smell on her face the remnants he left when, while they were driving home, he insisted she go down on him. She finished the blowjob just as they pulled into her driveway.

“I don’t want to enjoy that anymore. I don’t like myself anymore. I just can’t.”

“Oh, you say that now.” He stroked her hair over and over, his fingers as electric as ever, sparking little twinges of orgasm, making her pussy ache for him inside the pulsing channel. “But there’s always tomorrow and next week and the week after that.”

“I mean it, Andrew. I do.”

He saw from the glare in her eyes that she was serious, and his face turned cold, his charm vanished, and his features hardened into the chiseled beauty of a cruel and wintry landscape.

“You’ll do as you’re told, Ms. Lake,” he said, evenly, while he clenched his fist inside her hair. His voice cut, as he emphasized every syllable and his ‘s’ hissed snakelike.

“No, please…” she shook her head as she backed away from him. “I can’t. I can’t anymore. I’m so ashamed.”

“Then live with it. You fight me? I will expose your terrible secrets to the world.”

“You wouldn’t…”

“Just imagine the newspaper stories…” he strolled away, casually stuffing his hands inside his pockets, then turned back, “… how about it? English teacher, socialite, gossip columnist, the beautiful wife of Patrick Thornton-Wynn, caught screwing the Blaisedale Country Club perverts. Sounds like a story to me.”

“Andrew, you wouldn’t dare. You couldn’t—”

“Don’t try me.”

“Andrew, please, can’t this be enough?”

He raised his pretty frat-boy brows and smirked. “No, Ms. Lake, it’s not enough for me.”

“But you wouldn’t tell any one …” She cocked her head, sweetly now.

“What do you think, huh? Wouldn’t the rag sheets have the scoop to die for? I wonder how much they’d pay.” He shook his head as the pleasant vision filled his thoughts. “How could I possibly pass up the opportunity? I mean if you keep being my bitch, teach…Ms. fuckin’ Lily Lake, well, that’s something else.” Casting her one last lurid smile, he shrugged her off and sauntered toward the door, while she stood naked in her living room and watched him leave.