MY VIRGIN MAID

"Fuck, Bryce!" the red-haired girl screamed, her voice echoing across the open balcony as another wave of pleasure surged through her. Her back arched, nipples brushing the cool velvet of the snooker table, toes curling as her fifth orgasm tore through her like a storm.

She was one of the loud ones. Bryce didn't care for noise, but she had been flexible - eager - and tonight, he needed someone who didn't ask questions.

She'd come running, like they all did, when his voice hit their phones. His whores always did. It wasn't love. It wasn't even lust. It was habit. Power. Routine.

He didn't come with her.

Not yet.

He slid out, gripped the edge of the table, and stared out into the dark sky beyond the balcony. The city blinked far in the distance, uncaring. The moonlight cast shadows across his bare chest, catching the faint marks of fingernails that had dug into his back.

The girl moaned again, already trying to crawl back to him.

Bryce ignored her.

He didn't need more orgasms. He needed silence. Control.

But control was exactly what he'd been losing, night after night, week after week. Ever since the letter had arrived from the convent. The one offering him something new - something different.

Something untouched.

His jaw clenched.

"Get out," he said.

The girl blinked. "What-?"

"I said get dressed and leave."

She scoffed, offended. "Are you serious?"

He gave her one cold look. She scrambled.

By the time she was dressed and muttering her way out the door, Bryce was already pouring himself a glass of whiskey. He didn't even glance at her. He didn't need to. She was nothing.

Not compared to what was arriving tomorrow.

---

She was nineteen.

The letter had been official - stamped, signed, sealed in guilt and grace. Her name was Christina Lane, and she was being sent to his estate as part of the convent's "external placement program." An act of gratitude, they called it, for his generous donations over the years. In reality, it was a transaction. One that intrigued him far more than it should have.

A virgin. A girl who had never spoken to a man without a prayer book in her hand. A girl who would blush at bare ankles, flinch at curse words, and bow her head when addressed.

She would be his maid now.

Bryce wasn't a religious man. But he had his own rituals. And breaking this one would be slow. Calculated.

Pleasurable.

He glanced at the letter again, still lying on his desk. "We trust Mr. Callahan will find her service respectful, quiet, and obedient."

He smiled.

We'll see.

---

The next morning, Christina stood in front of the mansion gates, her hands trembling slightly as the driver opened the rear door.

The estate was larger than she imagined. Bigger than the church she grew up in. It stretched like a dream she wasn't supposed to have - tall, proud, unforgiving.

She stepped out into