Serving the Table

Farida’s drive to Garrett’s home was filled with doubt. The steady hum of the engine was no match for the thoughts circling in her head: Was this really right? Her mother’s warnings about white men—what they wanted, how they took—echoed against fresher memories: his approval, the quiet order she had found in his presence over the last two weeks. She thought of the sessions, the way he’d guided her focus, the satisfaction she’d felt anticipating his needs. Every mile brought her closer, the pull in her chest tightening. She adjusted her hijab in the mirror, telling herself she was only going to help, to prove her worth. I’m helping the family. That’s all.

The warmth of his home enveloped her as she stepped inside, but comfort didn’t follow. Simone greeted her with a polite nod, eyes flicking over her as though assessing. Beside her stood Lexi—confident, casual, moving as if the space belonged to her. The whispered rumors about Garrett’s “adoptive daughter” pressed in, unsettling her. She **** her expression neutral, even as her stomach tightened.

Garrett entered from the dining room with an easy smile. “You’re right on time. We’re just about to sit down.”

She lingered near the hall until his voice—gentle but threaded with command—cut through her hesitation. “Why don’t you help with the meal tonight? Serve the dishes, make sure everyone has what they need.”

Her body moved before her mind caught up. In the kitchen, she took the serving trays. At first, the role stung—circling the table like staff. Simone’s eyes followed her with a curious glint, Nia made a teasing remark about how “professional” she looked, and Lexi gave her an approving smile. “You look good doing that,” Lexi added casually, making Farida’s cheeks burn. Each compliment from the women felt strangely warming, as if they were acknowledging her in a way she hadn’t expected.

On one trip to the kitchen, she caught Lexi’s voice from downstairs, faint but clear enough to make out: “…worthless…” The word hung in Farida’s mind, unsettling. Who did she mean? What did she mean? The curiosity pricked at her, but she **** herself to focus on her task.

With each trip, she anticipated needs, refilled glasses before they were empty. Garrett’s small nods became sparks, and humiliation shifted into a low hum of pride. The table was her stage; the service, a performance for him alone.

By dessert, the warmth between her thighs was undeniable. She told herself it was pride in her work. She knew it was more.

When the others drifted away—Simone to the kitchen, Lexi downstairs again—Farida lingered in the living room doorway. Garrett sat alone, one arm along the couch, gaze steady.

“You did well tonight,” he said, voice low. “You enjoyed serving, didn’t you?”

Her breath trembled. “I… yes. I think I did.”

“It’s more than helping. It’s knowing you’ve made things better by your hands alone. Knowing you’re in your place.”

Her voice softened. “Yes.”

“Then tell me—how far would you go to keep that feeling?”

She swallowed. “As far as you want me to.”

He leaned forward. “There are things I need—investor contacts, internal communications. Discreet work you can access naturally. If you do that for me, I can give you this role fully. The maid of the family. Every way you’ve imagined.”

She hesitated. “What… what do you need them for?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but his tone stayed calm. “Must a maid know such things?”

Her cheeks flushed and she lowered her gaze. “No, Master… I’m sorry.”

Garrett’s smile was slow. “Good girl.”

Her knees folded easily when he beckoned. Kneeling before him, she felt the weight of his gaze like a blessing. His hand on her cheek, tugging gently. “You want to serve me, Farida? Show me.”

Her fingers shook at his belt, the moment both terrifying and inevitable. The heat of him in her hand made her head swim.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Serve me the way you’ve been craving.”

She took him into her mouth, the taste overwhelming, her focus narrowing to the rhythm he set. Every approving sound from him fanned her arousal. He guided her pace, his voice low and certain. “Your service has value. And I reward loyalty.”

When he pulsed in her mouth, she swallowed eagerly, savoring the heat. A stray drop landed on the floor, and as he arched an eyebrow, she heard him say, “A good maid keeps things clean.” Without hesitation, she leaned down and licked it from the floor, the act sending a shiver of submission through her.

The promise fused with her need. When he pulled her up to kiss her, she was breathless, flushed, and wanting more.

“You want more?” he asked, lips brushing her ear.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered without thought. “Anything you want. Everything.”

“Then prove yourself. Bring me what I’ve asked for. Earn your place. Be the family’s maid in truth.”

Her heart pounded. She had found her purpose. “Yes, Master. Everything you want.”

She left that night with the ghost of his touch lingering, her shame replaced by the intoxicating pride of belonging—and the echo of that single, overheard word still burning in her thoughts.