Chapter 1. Cum Master
“¡Maldito viejo sucio ..fuck off motherfucker!!” Francesa spat in Spanish as she yanked the apron off her curvy little ass and tossed it on the kitchen counter.
Her boss’s wife was still screaming in the other room, calling her a slut, a whore, a snake. Francesa didn’t care. She was tired of gringos and their stupid problems. It wasn’t her fault the husband couldn’t keep his eyes off her ass and tits when she bent over to scrub the marble floors.
“Pack your things, you tramp!” the wife shouted, her face red and ugly. “My husband is drooling over you like a dog in heat—get out of my house!”
Francesa blew a kiss at her just to make her madder. “Don’t be jealous, señora. I can’t help it if your man prefers me.” Her accent was thick, her English sharp but laced with spice. She turned and sashayed out, her hips rolling in that way that had gotten her in trouble more times than she could count.
Outside, her “madame” was waiting in the car—the older woman who ran the cleaning service that had smuggled Francesa into America and given her a place to stay. The woman’s face was like stone.
“Again, Francesa?” she snapped as Francesa climbed into the passenger seat. “This is the third house in two months. Do you think I am running a charity?”
Francesa folded her arms under her tits and pouted. “Not my fault men can’t stop staring at me. I am just… caliente.” She smirked.
The madame’s lips tightened. “You’re lucky immigration hasn’t picked you up. You have no papers, no visa, nothing. Without me, you’d be back in Colombia by now.”
Francesa rolled her eyes. “Then don’t take me to rich houses with fat old men, señora. Give me something better.”
“Oh, I will,” the madame hissed, her eyes narrowing. “You want better? Fine. There is one man. He pays more than all my clients combined. But no one lasts with him. Not one maid. They all quit screaming after a day. They say he is… cold. Inhuman.”
Francesa snorted. “So what? I can handle cold. I can handle anything.”
The madame gave her a sharp look in the rearview. “You and your mouth… One day it’ll ruin you.” Then her painted lips twisted into a smirk. “But maybe it’ll save you tonight.”
Francesa frowned. “¿Qué?” Francesa almost told her to forget it. Her gut didn’t like the way the madame smiled. But then she thought about her rent, her fake papers, and how far she’d come.
“Fine,” she said. “Take me.”
The madame gave her a slow, strange smile. “We’ll see.”
“The car climbed a narrow road between choking trees. The mansion rose from the fog—stone teeth and windows glowing like watching eyes.
“Dios mío,” Francesa whispered. “It’s like Dracula lives here.” . A black wreath hung on the front gate, petals long dead. The wind didn’t move it, but she swore it shivered anyway.
The madame smirked. “Maybe he does. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The car stopped at the giant black doors. Francesa grabbed her little suitcase and strutted out, flipping her hair. The madame didn’t follow.
“Wait—you’re not coming?” Francesa frowned.
“No,” the madame said coldly. “This is between you and him now. Knock.”
Before Francesa could argue, the car rolled away, leaving her alone. The woods were silent. Too silent. She shivered and knocked.
The door creaked open slowly.
And there he was.
Her new boss.
He stood tall, broad-shouldered, with pale, flawless skin that seemed to glow in the candlelight behind him. His hair was golden, slicked back from his forehead, his lips sculpted like marble, and his eyes—green, piercing, hungry.
Francesa’s throat went dry.
He looked at her like a predator looks at prey. Then, slowly, he smiled.
“Perfect,” he said, his voice low and smooth like silk. “She will do.”
Francesa blinked, clutching her small bag to her chest. “Excuse me? I’ll do? I’m not a dog, señor.”
His eyes flicked down her body once, slow, deliberate. Heat shot through her belly.
“Yes,” he said softly. “You’ll do.”
Her stomach flipped. She didn’t know why, but her thighs pressed together.
She stepped inside, the heavy doors shutting behind her with a boom. The air was colder here, sharp against her bare arms. The mansion smelled faintly of smoke and something darker—iron, maybe.
“You’ll live here,” he said simply, turning and walking away like she wasn’t even worth a second glance. “Your quarters are upstairs. You’ll work from dawn to midnight. You’ll speak only when spoken to.”
Francesa raised a brow, hands on her hips. “Excuse me? I’m not some little robot. I talk. A lot.”
He stopped, glanced over his shoulder with the faintest smirk. “So I see.”
She followed him, letting her eyes wander over his broad back, the way his tailored black shirt clung to muscle. Her body burned. He was too hot. Too cold. Too perfect.
And he was already looking at her—she caught him. His eyes flicked to her cleavage, then her legs, then away again, too fast.
Francesa grinned wickedly. She licked her lips on purpose. “Mhm. You like what you see, señor?”
He ignored her
As they climbed the sweeping staircase, Francesa deliberately brushed against him, her hip grazing his thigh. She smirked, ready to tease him, but froze when she felt the hard press of his arousal through his slacks.
“El señor likes his new maid already?” she whispered under her breath.
Elijah stopped mid-step, his hand clamping on the railing. His voice dropped, low and dangerous.
“Don’t touch me… unless you’re ready to cum with all holes.”
Her stomach flipped hot, but her legs went weak.
She swallowed hard, forcing bravado into her voice. “So… you got a name, Cum master?”
He turned and started walking, long strides through the shadowed halls of the mansion. “Elijah.”
“Elijah,” she repeated, rolling it in her mouth, testing it. “Okay. Señor Elijah. You live here alone? No wife, no kids, no
“Silence.”
The word cracked like a whip, but it wasn’t just sound. For a moment, Francesa swore she heard a low growl beneath it, something inhuman vibrating in her ears.
Her chest tightened and her thighs tweaked.
She bristled but followed him, muttering, “Qué frío…” so cold.
He led her up sweeping stairs, past walls lined with strange old paintings, until they reached a room with a narrow bed. “You’ll stay here. You clean the house, cook when I request it. You don’t ask questions. You don’t wander at night. Do you understand?”
Francesa lifted her chin, folding her arms under her breasts. “And if I do?”
Elijah turned, his green eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. For a second, she thought she saw something move under his skin—like veins writhing. Her breath hitched, but then it was gone, and he was just a beautiful man again.
“Then,” he said calmly, “you won’t survive the night.”
Francesa’s mouth went dry. She should’ve been afraid. But instead, a pulse of heat curled between her thighs.
Dios mío… what’s wrong with me?
But when he turned away, she swore she saw it: the hunger in his eyes.
The kind that could swallow her whole.
Francesa woke up late the next morning, her new “uniform” laid neatly at the foot of the bed: a black maid dress, scandalously short, with a little white apron.
She snorted. “¿En serio? What is this—porn costume?”
Still, she slipped it on. The skirt barely covered her ass, her tits almost spilled out of the top, and the stockings hugged her thick thighs. She looked like trouble.
Downstairs, the mansion was silent. Too silent. No TV, no music, not even a ticking clock. Just heavy, ancient air.
She wandered into the kitchen, humming, and decided to make herself a little breakfast. While reaching for a glass, she “accidentally” tipped over the jug of red wine sitting on the counter.
It splashed all over the marble floor.
“¡Ay, mierda!” she gasped, crouching down quickly, her short skirt riding up as she grabbed a cloth.
Footsteps.
He appeared in the doorway. Her boss. Tall, calm, dressed in black slacks and a white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. His eyes dropped instantly to her bent-over body, her round ass sticking out, the wine spreading like blood at her knees.
Francesa smirked over her shoulder. “Oops… so clumsy.” Her accent thickened.
Elijah didn’t move at first. Then, slow as a shadow, he crossed the floor. His hand closed tight around her wrist, stopping her. The cloth slipped from her fingers.
“Stay still,” he ordered. His voice was cold silk.
She froze as he crouched beside her, his thumb brushing over her thigh where the wine had splashed, the red streak dripping like blood. He wiped it slow, his knuckles grazing the inside of her leg.
Her breath caught. His head dipped lower, lips so close to her skin she swore she felt the ghost of a kiss.
Then his words cut sharp: “Next time you spill, it’ll be your blood.”
She smirked, licking her lips on purpose. “Mhm. You like what you see, señor?”
For the first time, he moved. One step, then another, until his chest almost brushed hers. His hand lifted like he might touch her cheek—but instead, he tilted her chin up, forcing her to look straight into his eyes.
Her heart slammed. For a split second, the candlelight caught on his mouth—and she swore she saw long sharp white points where his teeth should be. Fangs.
She stumbled back, heart pounding.
Elijah only smiled, slow and cruel, leaning close enough for her to feel his cold breath on her lips.
“Tonight,” he murmured, “you’ll learn why no maid lasts here.”
The candle flickered—then went out.
