the fastest maid in the world

As Brianna sobbed with pleasure in his lap and Alfreda—the housekeeper with the statuesque physique—slowly lowered the zipper of her dress with agonizing calm, a red-and-gold blur shot through the study door like a lightning bolt.

The impact was so sudden that the displacement of air nearly knocked the crystal vases off the table. Standing in the center of the Persian rug was Barry—or rather, *Bari*. She was the embodiment of contrasts: the nervous agility of a sprinter combined with the mesmerizing curves of a supermodel. Her long, shapely legs ended in red boots that vibrated at a nearly imperceptible frequency. The maid’s uniform she wore—modified by Wayne Industries to withstand the friction of super-speed—clung to her skin; the sheer fabric barely contained the swell of her breasts as she breathed heavily.

"The library has been cleaned, Master Michael!" she exclaimed, speaking at a frenetic pace, though her gaze remained fixed on him. "And the conservatory windows have been polished three times in the last five seconds."

"The problem with racing against time is that, eventually, you end up tripping over something you shouldn't have moved."

Bari didn't remember the exact moment the timeline began to unravel, but she vividly recalled every version of herself she had left behind. Before becoming the domesticated extension of Michael’s will, she had been chaos incarnate.

There was that one time she simply shifted the position of a flowerpot in her mother’s living room—a millimeter to the left. The result? A sudden gust of wind that slammed a door shut, blocking a stranger’s entry; this triggered a domino effect that ensured Henry Allen never met Nora. Bari blinked, and suddenly she was Cinnamon: a mixed-race stripper with mesmerizing eyes, dancing in a neon-lit New York club where her only role was to be watched as she spun around a pole, mirroring the movements of the mother who never got to know her.

There was the version where she decided to be the villain. The "Fast and Wicked" version. She had planned the perfect kidnapping of the Wayne heir, imagining that with his fortune and her speed, they would rule the world as partners in crime. In her mind, she pictured herself seducing him with that dangerous smile, feeling his muscles against hers... but invariably, her nemesis would appear out of nowhere, ambushing her just when she was "indisposed" in Michael's arms, tying her up and laughing at her defeat.

Bari had done this hundreds of times. She had leaped across eras, changed identities, and tried on various versions of herself—from the flamboyant *gyaru* hooker to the psychedelic madness of a time-traveling Alice in Wonderland. But all paths, all paradoxes, and all versions of her soul converged on a single gravitational point: Michael.

With Bari’s arrival, Brianna decides to let you have some fun while she goes to deal with some criminals—but not without first shooting you a seductive wink.

Now, in the mansion's bedroom, reality was solid. There were no more leaps, only the delicious friction of skin against skin.

Michael held her with a possessiveness that vibrated in sync with Bari’s very cells. He wasn't just the owner of the house; he was the axis around which her time now revolved. As he possessed her, Bari felt every thrust as if it were a cosmic event. For someone who perceived the world in nanoseconds, the pleasure was amplified to an unbearable scale. To her, a single kiss from Michael lasted an entire afternoon of caresses; a groan from him echoed in her ears like a symphony stretching on for hours.

She was arched back, still wearing her red boots, kicking at the air in spasms of pure ecstasy. Alfreda, the housekeeper, moved with calculated slowness; her ample breasts pressed against Bari’s back as she whispered obscenities into the speedster’s ear.

"Look how she trembles, Master," Alfreda murmured, her voice heavy with visceral desire. "Her speed is useless when you decide that time must stand still."

Bari let out a cry that seemed to shatter the silence of the mansion. She no longer wanted to save her mother, fix the timeline, or be the queen of crime. She simply wanted to be Michael’s instrument of pleasure, feeling—for the first time in a thousand lifetimes—completely feminine and hopelessly subjugated.

As the orgasm washed over her—a peak that, to her, lasted ten minutes of delicious agony and flashes of white—Bari felt Michael’s hand on her neck, claiming her not merely as a servant, but as his temporal property.

"Tomorrow," Michael whispered, as Bari’s body finally relaxed, vibrating at a low frequency against the silk sheets, "we shall see who else we can bring into our 'family'."

(Author's note: Once again, I have to thank Lawless for this chapter.)