The Heir's Servant

Trigger Warning: This story deals with dark themes including sexual assault and past abuse. Please read mindfully.

I thought I was coming up to Arthur’s suite for something related to mundane servant work. It turned out it was servant work, all right, but not the kind I had ever prepared for.

“You know your place, I see,” he rasped, a greasy, thinning curl sticking to his glistening, sweat-slicked forehead.

Of course I knew my place. I was nothing—a ghost in the margins of the estate. A maid left to vacuum up the crumbs after their midnight banquets, strip the stained, heavy sheets from beds they barely slept in, and quietly look away while they chewed up vulnerable women and spat them out in tears. I guess I’m next, the thought hit me like a physical blow. A freezing wave of dread rushed through my veins, setting off internal warning alarms and blind panic in my brain. Think. Move. Say something.

“Yes, sir, I know my place,” I stammered, my voice hollow. “I’m expected back down in the scullery, if you’ll just—”

“Now, now, don’t rush, sweet girl. Sit,” he murmured, cutting me off with a sickeningly sweet smile that didn’t reach his dead eyes.

A cold bead of sweat tracked down my spine, and my skin prickled with a sudden, violent crawl of revulsion, as if a nest of insects had just broken loose beneath my collar.

“S–Sir—”

“Stop talking and sit the fuck down,” he barked.

The sudden roar cracked through the quiet room like a gunshot. I flinched violently, my heart slamming a frantic, deafening rhythm against my ribs. My legs folded beneath me, and I scrambled backward into the cushions of a high-backed armchair. The fabric beneath my thighs felt slick, worn, and suffocatingly hot, radiating the stale, trapped scent of decades of hidden filth. I was pinned.

Suddenly, Arthur recomposed himself, straightening his slumped shoulders and pulling himself upright with an eerie, practiced facade of aristocratic dignity.

“I’ve watched you grow up over the years,” he stated, his voice sliding back into a smooth, oily drawl. “Your family has worked for mine for generations, and I might add, your services have been nothing short of excellent.”

He peered down the bridge of his reading glasses at me, his eyes bloodshot, bulging, and slick with intent, doing a slow, predatory sweep over the features of my entire body. A freezing shiver raced through my veins, and a sickening, heavy pit plummeted deep into my stomach.

“Th–Thank you, sir. I enjoy working here,” I forced out, my voice trembling.

But not here. Not near you, I thought, a wave of bile rising in my throat. His dark reputation preceded him every single step of the way as he began to inch closer to me, ever so slowly.

He halted directly in front of me, his pungent odor—a suffocating mix of stale scotch, heavy musk, and unwashed sweat—wafting aggressively into my nostrils. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, desperately holding back a cringing face.

“Now, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be completely honest with me,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.

“Yes, sir,” I whispered. I forced myself to look up, meeting his eyes for a fraction of a second before my gaze shattered away, tracking the floorboards in frantic avoidance, refusing to look at his face.

He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking his hips forward and backward in a slow, rhythmic motion that closed the remaining inches between us. With every forward lurch, I pushed myself harder and deeper into the upholstery of the armchair, my spine arching as I tried to vanish into the cushions, trying to get impossibly further away from him.

“Don’t look away,” he snapped, the menace dripping from his voice turning my blood to ice.

I flinched instantly, my chin jerking upward as my gaze snapped back toward his face. I forced myself to lock onto his bloodshot eyes, swallowing hard to keep from showing the absolute disgust churning in my throat.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a brief, theatrical moment as if to recompose himself before rekindling our eye contact. His heavy chin doubled against his collar as he peered down at me.

“Did you go through my things while I was out?” he asked, motioning vaguely toward his cluttered, paper-strewn desk.

I dared a glance over toward it—just momentarily breaking eye contact—before snapping my gaze back to his. A single hot tear formed at the corner of my eye, which I fiercely refused to let fall.

“No, sir,” I whispered, my voice quivering.

He scoffed in disbelief. “Then why, Valerie? Explain this to me, please. Why would someone tell me that you did?” His voice was terrifyingly, unnervingly composed.

Had someone told him that? I wondered frantically, my mind spinning. Or was he manufacturing this out of thin air, fabricating a lie just to trap me here?

“Your family has been a tremendous help over the centuries, yes, Valerie,” he continued, his eyes darkening as he leaned in closer, his hot, stale breath searing my skin. “But everyone can be replaced, dear.”

He rose again, straightening his slumped back before turning on his heel and heading toward his desk, his heavy hand grazing casually over the disheveled papers.

My blood ran cold at the unspoken threat. They were upper-class billionaire tycoons; they could easily kill any single one of us without batting an eyelash and dispose of our bodies before anyone could even start asking questions.

“Sir, I didn’t—”

His hand slammed down hard on the mahogany table with a resounding crack, making my entire body jolt violently.

“What will I do, Valerie, if I don’t find my things? They are very expensive, as you well know,” he growled, his eyes turning pitch-black as they drilled straight into mine. “You will pay me for them.”

“But, sir—” I pleaded in raw terror. “I don’t have anything.”

“There are other ways, and you will pay me indeed,” he said, striding back across the room with terrifying speed.

“No, please—” I gasped, grunting as he grabbed my arm in a brutal, bruising vice. With a vicious yank, he ripped me straight out of the chair, throwing me unceremoniously to the floor.

“You will pay me!” he screamed, hot spittle flying from his mouth. “Strip.”

My heart hammered against my ribs with catastrophic dread as my entire world crashed down around me. I had done absolutely nothing wrong. I was the most dutiful servant they had, working myself to the bone daily, serving their family hand and foot, and never complaining for a single second.

Finally, a hot tear slid slowly down my cheek as I looked up from the floor, begging him one last time. “Please, I didn’t do it, sir.”

“Shut the fuck up, you’re just pissing me off!” He raised his fist, his knuckles white, ready to strike—before catching himself at the last second, his arm trembling as he lowered it. “Now,” he demanded, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper, “before I lose my shit, girl.”

He was far bigger than I was; there was no way I would ever stand a chance fighting him off. I only had one option left.

“Please,” I whispered, making one last, desperate attempt.

Suddenly, his hand flew out, gripping my long hair in a fist so tight it ripped several strands out by the roots instantly. I yelped in sharp pain as he hauled me upward, leaning his face down mere inches from mine and effortlessly lifting my body clear off the floor by my hair alone.

“Ah,” I winced, crying out as I instinctively grabbed onto his thick forearm, my fingers clawing at his skin in a frantic, futile effort to ease the splitting, white-hot agony in my scalp.

“I said do it, fucking now,” he growled angrily right into my face.

“Okay,” I cried, “I will,” I agreed, utterly disgusted with myself.

I had only ever been naked in front of my mother. The agonizing thought of the second person to ever see my breasts being this greasy, hairy, dreadful ogre of a man made my heart sink into an abyss. I had always dreamt of my first moment being special, slow, tender, and loving—a stark, heartbreaking contrast to the nightmare unfolding right now.

The moment he let go of my hair, I dropped back down as he stood proudly before me. The billionaire who could make any woman do whatever he wanted, whether they agreed or not. Flashes of the many women running from his suite in the past tore through my memory: some clutching bloody noses, some with bruises blooming dark and sick across their skin. One image, burned forever into my brain, was of a girl sobbing as she fled for her life, holding her hanging eyeball in her hands.

That wouldn’t be me. I would just give him what he wanted. I feared pain above all else; I just prayed he would stop at mere observation.

Trembling, I slowly, shamefully lifted the hem of my shirt, exposing my bra.

“Off,” he demanded, his eyes glued with vile hunger directly to my chest.

This had to be the absolute worst moment of my life. I let out a choked sob as I gripped the fabric, pulling it up and over my head before tossing it discarded onto the floor beside me. I bowed my head in total, crushing defeat as he scanned my exposed skin for a long, agonizing beat, reveling in the utter destruction of my spirit.

He leaned down, briefly cupping each breast in turn with a heavy, humiliating squeeze. The slick, invasive sensation made my stomach violently churn, and I instinctively jerked backward in revulsion.

“Take it off,” he commanded calmly, standing back upright.

His hand drifted to the front of his trousers, rubbing aggressively over his hardening member, its grotesque, straining shape sickeningly evident beneath the dark fabric. Another hot tear spilled over my lashes as a ragged sob broke from my lips. I didn’t even do anything, I reminded myself in silent agony, reluctantly reaching behind my back to fumble with my clasp. I let the garment fall away in front of me, stripped bare to his gaze.

He let out a deep, satisfied grumble, pulling his pants taut against his rigid shaft and stepping closer until his hips hovered inches from my face. I recoiled, sinking lower to the floor in a futile attempt to distance myself from him.

“You like that?” he sneered. “Look at my fucking cock.”

His voice boomed like a physical blow as his hand shot out, clamping around my chin in a rough, bruising grip that violently yanked my face forward. I stared unwillingly, every pore of my skin weeping sheer disdain and hatred for him.

“You like it, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes,” he proclaimed proudly, lost in his own vile delusion.

Suddenly, the heavy mahogany door swung open with a violent crash, slamming against the reinforced drywall with a deafening, splintering thud.

“Uncle!” Vance screamed, his voice raw with pure, unadulterated fury. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing to her?!”

My face flushed a blistering, blinding beet red as his eyes snapped across the room and met mine. Of course he saw me. Me, in such a degraded, utterly shameful position—stripped bare, kneeling on the hardwood floor in front of his uncle. A tight, suffocating knot twisted violently in my stomach as his handsome face fractured, his expression contorting in sudden, visceral despair at the sight of me.

With a shaky gasp, I frantically crossed my arms, trying to shield my exposed breasts from his gaze. My chin dropped in total defeat, staring hopelessly at the floorboards as Vance started tearing across the room toward us.

Effortlessly, with terrifying speed and controlled fury, Vance tore the heavy blazer from his chest, swiftly draping it over my frozen, trembling shoulders to shroud me from view.

“Go to my room immediately,” he ordered, his voice dropping into a low, gentle rumble right against my ear.

I didn’t wait another fraction of a second. Scrambling to my feet, I fled, running straight down the long, carpeted hallway toward his quarters. Just before rounding the corner, I glanced back through the open doorway. Vance had already reached his uncle, landing a devastating, bone-crunching blow straight to Arthur’s nose. Blood spewed instantly in a crimson arc.

“You fucking pig!” Vance roared, his voice echoing off the mansion walls.