Jewel's New Life

That first night, after Jewel knelt trembling and covered in my cum, I hauled her into the bathroom by the wrist. I shoved her under the shower spray before the water even had a chance to warm. She sucked in a sharp breath when the icy needles hit her skin. Her arms flew up to shield herself, but I caught her wrists and pinned them to the tile above her head with one hand. With the other, I worked the soap across her chest. The cum had already started to dry in sticky streaks across her breasts and stomach. I scrubbed harder than I needed to, watching the suds turn white again as they slid down her thighs. She stood there shaking, goosebumps racing over every inch of pale skin. When I dropped the washcloth and replaced it with my mouth on her neck, she let out this broken little sound that went straight to my cock.

I lifted her right there against the wall, hooking her knees over my hips. I slid into her with one slow, deliberate thrust. The heat of her after the cold water was unreal—tight and slick and clenching around me like she was trying to fight even when her body wouldn’t let her. I fucked her steady and deep, water pounding against my back. Steam fogged the glass until I couldn’t see anything but the blur of her face and the way her lips parted on every **** gasp.

When I growled against her ear, “You on birth control?” she nodded frantically, water streaming off her lashes. She whispered that the IUD was good for five more years. That was all I needed. I slammed in hard enough to lift her heels off the floor and came with her name on my lips, pulsing deep inside her while she clung to my shoulders.

After that, the weekend disappeared in a haze of skin and sweat and the constant slap of bodies coming together.

On Saturday, I kept her on the couch for hours. I’d sit back with the game on mute and pull her onto my lap facing away, hands gripping her hips while I watched her ass bounce with every roll of her body. She’d try to brace her hands on my knees for balance, but I’d yank them behind her back and hold them there until her thighs shook. Later that afternoon, I bent her over the kitchen counter and took her from behind, my hands roaming freely as I came across her back in long streaks that dripped down her skin.

Sunday we migrated to the bedroom. Sheets kicked to the floor, mattress creaking so loud I was half-sure the neighbors would complain. I took her on her knees with her face pressed into the pillows. I took her on her back with her ankles over my shoulders. I took her slow and lazy in the gray morning light filtering through the blinds, then hard and fast once the sun was high enough to paint gold stripes across her back. Every time I finished inside her I stayed buried deep, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her. When I pulled out, I’d watch my cum leak down her thighs just to push it back into her with my fingers.

Her clothes didn’t survive the frenzy. The joggers split clean down the side seam when I ripped them off her Sunday afternoon. The hoodie ended up in tatters after I used the sleeves to tie her wrists to the headboard while I savaged her breasts, biting and sucking and slobbering, until she sobbed.

Since I owned no women's clothing and the bruise on her cheek still showed too darkly to let her leave the apartment, getting her replacements was impossible. Moreover, when I asked what she typically wore at home, she listed plain undergarments, loose jeans, and oversized hoodies that didn't excite me at all, so I ordered a new wardrobe online that evening, selecting items that suited my tastes far better.

Monday morning arrived too soon, pulling me back to my job as a department store manager with its rigid schedule from eight-thirty to five-thirty, which meant leaving Jewel alone in the apartment for the first time since she had arrived. The place looked wrecked after the weekend, with takeout containers scattered across the coffee table, empty bottles on the floor, and tangled sheets piled near the bedroom door, so before I left, I laid out her responsibilities to make sure she was earning her keep.

She would handle all the cleaning from now on, scrubbing every surface until the counters gleamed, washing the dishes, doing the laundry, mopping the floor, and vacuuming the carpet.

For meals, I wanted breakfast ready by the time I woke up and dinner ready by the time I got home. She would cook me whatever I wanted: ribeyes swimming in garlic butter, loaded baked potatoes, brownies from scratch. For herself, however, I gave her a strict diet consisting of plain egg whites, grilled chicken without seasoning, steamed spinach and broccoli, and unadorned sweet potatoes to keep her on track with losing weight.

If she finished those tasks early, she would fill the remaining time with exercise, following bodyweight routines I pulled up on my phone because the bruise on her cheek still hadn’t faded enough to risk the gym. Squats until her legs gave out, push-ups until her arms shook, planks that left her dripping sweat onto the living-room floor.

As the week progressed, I built on the rules I had already set for her behavior, layering in new commands to shape how she carried herself around me and eliminate any lingering signs of resistance. She had been complying with my demands, but sullenly, in a way that made it clear she wasn't happy; her shoulders slumped, her eyes avoiding mine, fists clenching and unclenching. By Tuesday, I had put an end to that, telling her stand with good posture, back straight and chin lifted just enough to meet my eyes unless I said otherwise, and to move with grace and energy instead of dragging her feet.

By Wednesday, her tears had started to wear on me during our evenings, those quiet drops that slipped out when I pushed her a little too far, so I decided it was time to put a stop to them altogether. That night, as I settled on the couch after dinner and pulled her onto my lap, my hands roaming roughly over her breasts, pinching and twisting until she winced and her eyes began to well up, I leaned in close and murmured the new rule right against her ear: no more crying, ever, and if the urge hit her, she had to smile instead and thank me for whatever was causing it. She blinked hard, fighting back the moisture, but the command took hold right away, her lips curving into a **** smile as she whispered, "Thank you for enjoying my breasts, Master," her voice polite and even.

On Thursday, I caught glimpses of that old fire of anger and resentment in her eyes as I made her lick my cum off the floor. Even as she said, "Thank you for the treat Master," she looked like she wanted to kill me, so I told her she could no longer let any anger or discomfort show if it was aimed at me or anything I did. The only emotions she was allowed to look at me with were warmth and adoration, the only attitude she could express towards my actions were gratitude and encouragement.

By Friday, I could no longer tell she hated me, her every movement and expression now polished into the image of a perfect, loving servant who obeyed without a trace of **** showing through. There was only one thing left that kept her from being perfect. That morning, as she set my breakfast on the table with a warm gaze fixed on me, I added the final touch before leaving for work: from now on, she had to act eager to please at all times, fawning over me and doing everything in her power to make my life easier and more enjoyable out of her own initiative. When I walked through the door that evening, she surprise me at the door. She was on her knees of her own volition, naked as always, posing sexily.

"What would you like first master?" she asked with a seductive smile. "Dinner, a bath, or me?"

In only a week, I had perfected her behavior-wise. Physically, it would take longer before she got to the bikini-babe level I wanted her to be at, but even there, progress was noticeable.

She stepped onto the bathroom scale at my insistence each sunrise, and the numbers showed she had lost eight and a half pounds, a rapid drop that left the soft roll of her stomach looking flatter when she stood up straight and her thighs spreading a little less wide whenever she knelt before me. Her arms appeared sleeker too, the extra weight melting away to reveal hints of muscle underneath, and I found myself more drawn to her with each passing day, her hotter body and now-eager participation making our evenings together even more satisfying than it had been before.

By the time the packages arrived on Sunday afternoon, I was in the best mood I had been in years. The apartment smelled of lemon polish and the steak I had texted Jewel to prepare, the floors gleamed under the late sunlight, and Jewel herself moved through the space with a flirtatious grace that made my pulse quicken every time I caught sight of her. When the delivery driver knocked, I signed for the three boxes with a grin I couldn’t wipe off my face.

I carried the boxes inside and set them on the coffee table, turning to her with a wide smile. “These are for you, whore. You’ve been such a good girl this week that I decided to get you a couple new outfits as a reward."

Her face lit up with genuine-looking delight, and she clasped her hands in front of her chest. “Oh, Master, thank you! I’ve been trying so hard to please you.” She bounced on her toes a little, the movement making her breasts sway. "I can't wait to see what you got me."

I sliced open the first box. Now that her bruise had completely faded, she could start going to the gym, so the first box held her workout outfits: neon sports bras, high-waisted leggings in black and green, and cropped tops that would show off her progress as her mid-section slimmed further. I set the box aside for later. It wasn't what I was looking for.

The second box was smaller, packed with colorful tubes and palettes that I pulled out one by one, laying them across the coffee table while Jewel leaned in closer, her eyes widening as she took in the array of cosmetics and accessories. I picked up a pair of cosmetic contact lenses first, holding them up to the light so she could see the vibrant pink hue shimmering inside the packaging. “You’re called Jewel for a reason,” I said, turning the contacts so they caught the light. “Your muddy eyes don’t suit you. From now on, you’ll wear these. And," I pushed two bottles of hair dye towards her, "the blonde will keep your hair color nice and vibrant, and I got you pink for the tips. It'll match your eyes."

“Oh, Master, that’s perfect! Rubellite is so pretty—like a ruby but softer. And pink tips? That sounds like so much fun! I’ll look like a real jewel for you. Thank you, thank you!”

I grinned and set the lenses down. "That's nothing. I've saved the best for last."

I grabbed the final box and cut the tape slowly, drawing out the moment, then pulled out the two outfits contained within and laid them side by side on the couch. On the left, a French maid uniform: glossy black satin with white ruffled trim, a plunging neckline, and a skirt so short it barely skimmed the tops of the sheer black stockings folded beneath it. On the right, the a **** outfit based on Leia from Star Wars; a fantasy I had jerked off to many times in high school. Gold bikini plates connected by delicate chains, a red loincloth that parted with every step, and a matching collar. “So, Jewel—which do you think suits you better? Maid or ****?”

She tilted her head, considering, then smiled wide and bright. “I’d be happy as either, Master. Or both, if you ever want to switch things up. A maid to keep your home perfect by day, a **** to worship you by night—whatever makes you happiest.”

I laughed under my breath. “Tempting offer. But I want to see them on you first. Go change. Start with the maid. And surprise me.”

She scooped up the maid outfit, the makeup, and the hair dyes, then disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the sink running, the soft clink of bottles, the low hum of the hairdryer. Ten minutes later the door opened and she stepped out, transformed.

Her hair fell in loose waves, the roots now a bright, clean gold that faded into soft pink tip. The rubellite lenses turned her eyes into vivid gemstones, framed by sharp eyeliner. Crimson lipstick made her mouth look plush and inviting. The maid dress hugged her newly slimmed waist, the ruffles spilling over the swell of her breasts and drawing the eye straight to the deep neckline. The skirt flared out over crisp petticoats, so short that every movement threatened to reveal what was underneath. She had slipped into the stockings and garter belt, the tiny bows at the tops sitting high on her thighs, and the lace headpiece perched jauntily atop her head.

“’Ello, Maître,” she purred in a breathy, exaggerated French accent, the words rolling off her tongue like warm honey as she gave a slow, deliberate twirl that lifted the ruffled hem of the maid dress just high enough to flash the smooth curve of her ass. She paused with her back to me, pink-tipped hair cascading over one shoulder, then bent forward over the coffee table with practiced grace, elbows resting on the polished wood and back arched sharply so the satin skirt rode up completely, exposing everything. No panties, just the inviting line of her spine leading down to the slick heat already glistening between her thighs. She glanced back at me through those vivid rubellite lenses, lips parted in a teasing smile, and wiggled her hips with a soft, needy whimper. “Ze table needs polishing, non? Or perhaps Maître would like to lift zis leetle skirt and fuck ’is naughty maid right ’ere?”

I crossed the room in two strides, my hands already gripping the bunched satin at her waist, shoving it higher as I pressed my clothed erection against her from behind. She pushed back eagerly, grinding against me with a breathy moan that sent heat roaring through my veins. I freed myself quickly, the sound of my zipper loud in the quiet apartment, and then I was inside her—one long, smooth thrust that buried me to the hilt in her familiar, welcoming, warmth. The table creaked beneath us. She kept up the accent between gasps, her voice rising in pitch with each stroke—“Oui, Maître, just like zat… ’arder, please, don’t stop!”—until the words blurred into ****, pleading whimpers.

I gripped her hips hard enough to leave marks, driving into her with a rhythm that shook the table and made the ruffles of her skirt flutter wildly. She braced her forearms on the wood, pushing back to meet every thrust, her body trembling with the effort to take me deeper. “Harder, Master,” she begged, the accent slipping just enough to reveal the raw need underneath, “please, I need it harder—fuck me until I can’t stand!” Her voice cracked on the last word as I obliged, slamming into her with punishing ****, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. She cried out, head dropping forward, hair spilling across the table as her walls clenched around me in rhythmic pulses.

I reached forward, fisting a hand in her hair and pulling her head back so I could see her face—her eyes were glazed with ecstasy, lips parted as she moaned, the crimson lipstick making them look plush and impossibly kissable. The sight hit me like a jolt: in all the times I had used her mouth, forcing her to swallow or wearing my cum across her chin and cheeks, I had never once kissed her. The thought of tasting myself had always turned my stomach, so I had kept my distance, but now she was clean, fresh from the shower and dolled up like this, and those painted lips looked too inviting to ignore.

I twisted her upper body toward me without breaking our rhythm, my other hand sliding from her hip to cup her jaw, and crushed my mouth against hers. She opened instantly, a soft, eager sound vibrating against my tongue as I kissed her hard and deep, tasting the faint sweetness of the lipstick. Our tongues tangled, messy and urgent. She kissed back with the same fervor she brought to everything else—hungry, adoring, like she couldn’t get enough—her lips moving against mine in perfect sync with the roll of her hips.

The dual sensation—her pussy gripping me from below, her mouth devouring mine from above—sent me spiraling. I kissed her harder, swallowing her moans, my grip tightening in her hair as I slammed into her with everything I had. She broke the kiss just long enough to gasp against my lips, “Please, Master, don’t stop—come inside me, fill me up!” before diving back in, her tongue stroking mine in ****, pleading circles.

The pressure coiled tight and hot in my spine, and with one final, brutal thrust, I buried myself deep and came with a guttural groan, pulsing inside her in long, heavy waves. She shuddered violently beneath me, her walls fluttering around my cock as if trying to milk every drop, her mouth still fused to mine in a sloppy, breathless kiss that only broke when we both ran out of air. When I finally stilled, she pulled back just enough to meet my gaze over her shoulder, that perfect, adoring smile curving her swollen lips despite the flush of exertion on her cheeks. “Thank you, Maître,” she whispered breathlessly, voice sweet and lilting even as her body trembled with aftershocks, “for filling your naughty maid so perfectly.”

I eased out slowly, watching my release drip down her thighs in thick rivulets, and she glanced down at the mess coating my still-hard cock with wide, playful eyes. “Oh non!” she exclaimed in that exaggerated accent, pressing a hand to her chest in mock horror. “Look at ze filthy mess on Maître’s magnifique cock! Zis looks like a job for a maid… or perhaps a ****?” She giggled then spun away from the table and scampered toward the bathroom on quick, eager feet, the short skirt flaring with every step. The door clicked shut behind her, and I heard the rustle of fabric, the soft clink of metal chains, and the quick shuffle of her changing.

The bathroom door creaked open again, and Jewel emerged on hands and knees, the gold bikini plates of the **** outfit catching every shard of lamplight like molten metal. The red loincloth panels swayed with each deliberate crawl, parting to reveal the slick shine still dripping down her inner thighs—my cum, her arousal, the evidence of the her ruin.

Pink-tipped hair brushed the floor in glossy waves, and when she reached my feet she sat back on her heels with palms pressed flat on the tops of her thighs, fingers pointed forward in perfect submission, eyes lifted to mine in unblinking worship.

She didn’t speak. A low, reverent hum vibrated in her throat as she leaned forward, nuzzling her cheek against my cock like a cherished pet greeting its owner. “Your **** exists to serve, Master,” she whispered, voice velvet and smoke, before her lips brushed the sensitive underside in a feather-light kiss. Then her mouth opened—hot, wet, eager—and she took me in one slow, deliberate glide, tongue swirling around the head to lap up every trace of our combined release with the devotion of a sacred ritual. She sucked with deep, rhythmic pulls, cheeks hollowing, the soft clink of chains punctuating every bob of her head as she worked me back to full hardness, her gaze never leaving mine.

Without warning, she dove forward, taking me to the back of her throat with a soft, practiced gag that only made her swallow reflexively, throat working around me with an ease that reflected how many times- and how brutally- I had fucked her mouth over this past week. Her tongue swirled relentlessly, tracing every vein and ridge. Saliva slicked her chin, dripped onto the gold plates between her breasts, and still she worked—faster now, deeper, her eyes rolling back slightly as she pushed herself to the edge of unconsciousness for my pleasure.

I pulled her off just before she crossed it, letting her gasp in deep, ragged breaths, eyes dropping submissively to my feet as if she’d failed me. “Please, Master,” she whispered immediately, voice raw, “command your ****—let me repay you for your kindness in matching with me.” Her tongue darted out to lick her swollen lips, and she leaned forward again, pressing open-mouthed kisses along my shaft, leaving faint crimson prints. “I was nothing before you,” she murmured between kisses, “Just a silly girl with delusions. Now I’m yours—your prized possession, your pet. Thank you for teaching me my place.”

I tangled my fingers in her hair, guiding her back down, and she took me eagerly, humming in pleasure with every thrust. “Master’s cock is my world,” she gasped when I let her surface, strings of spit connecting her lips to my length, “so thick, so perfect—your **** could worship it forever.” She plunged back down with renewed fervor, sucking hard and fast, tongue flicking relentlessly against the underside, her chained body trembling with the effort to please.

The pressure built fast, and I spilled down her throat with a guttural groan. She swallowed greedily, not spilling a single drop, milking me with soft, rhythmic pulses until I was spent. Only then did she pull back slowly, giving the head one last tender kiss, her tongue darting out to catch the final bead of cum. “Thank you for the treat, Master,” she whispered, voice sweet and breathless, lips glistening as she smiled up at me. "So what did you think?"

My mind worked slowly. "What did I think?"

"About whether you wanted me as a **** or maid." Her hand crept forward again—slowly, reverently—to wrap around my softening cock, stroking gently to coax out the last lazy drops, thumb brushing the tip with feather-light circles. "Or both." She smiled suggestively. "I would be happy with anything you want Master."