He gets curious

Owen couldn’t sit still. He stood again, drawn to the nearest statue woman. She stood on a low black pedestal near the window, lit from the side so shadows carved her body. Mid-twenties maybe. Dark hair loose around her shoulders. Face twisted in raw ecstasy, mouth open wide, eyes squeezed shut, brows knit like she was right on the edge. One hand buried three fingers deep in her shaved pussy, knuckles glistening. The other yanked her own hair back hard, arching her neck and spine as if someone invisible had her bent over and was pounding into her from behind. Her whole body trembled faintly, not from effort, but from whatever loop she was trapped in.

He circled her slowly. Looked for it, the writing.

There, on her upper back, just below the right shoulder blade: EROTIC STATUE #31.

Thirty-one.

At least thirty-one of these. Maybe more hidden in other rooms. Women who used to have jobs, partners, lives, now reduced to decorative convulsions for some sadistic prick’s amusement. Unable to speak, to move on their own, to stop. Just posing, shifting, coming endlessly without release.

Owen pictured Paige like that. Her red hair spilling over her shoulders, green eyes glassy, hand between her legs, that soft ass arched… The thought made his stomach twist so hard he almost gagged.

He stepped back, breathing shallow.

Behind him, he heard soft footsteps.

“Sir,” Maid #13 said quietly. “Your coffee is here.”

Owen turned at the sound of the maid’s voice, expecting to see only #13 coming back with the tray.

Instead there were three women.

Maid #13 led the way, same black lace outfit, same braided bun, same calm downcast eyes. Behind her walked another maid, similar build, same fetish uniform hugging her curves, but everything else screamed contrast. She had Neon-green hair spiked into a sharp Mohawk, silver rings through her septum, eyebrow, lower lip. Multiple studs in her ears. Face piercings glinted under the living room lights. Yet her posture was identical: shoulders back, hands clasped behind her, eyes lowered in perfect submission. The words on her forehead read MAID #8 in the same bold marker.

The sight of an alt girl like that, tough-looking, rebellious vibe, acting so meek and obedient made Owen’s brain stutter. It didn’t fit. None of this did.

But the third woman was the real gut punch.

She walked between them, completely naked. Early thirties maybe. Blonde hair loose to her mid-back, full lips painted soft pink, large heavy breasts that swayed with each step. Soft curvy body, wide hips, plush belly, thick thighs that rubbed together slightly. No heels, no stockings, just bare feet padding on the rug. Serene smile fixed in place, eyes glassy and distant. She moved like the others: smooth, unhurried, no trace of self-consciousness.

Owen walked back to the couch on autopilot and sat down hard. The leather creaked.

“May I serve you your coffee, sir?” Maid #13 asked, voice gentle.

He nodded, throat too tight for words.

Maid #13 lifted the small white cup from the tray. She stepped close to the blonde woman, positioning the cup directly under her left breast. The nipple was already beaded, dark pink against pale skin.

Maid #8 moved without prompt. She reached up, wrapped both hands around the breast, and squeezed, firm and deliberate, like milking a cow. A thin stream of warm milk jetted out, splashing into the cup. The blonde didn’t flinch. Her smile stayed exactly the same, soft and vacant. No sound, no reaction. Just more milk flowing until the cup was half full with creamy white.

Maid #13 pulled the cup away once it was enough. She stirred once with a tiny silver spoon from the tray, a quick clink and then held it out to Owen.

His eyes were still locked on the two women beside her. The blonde stood motionless still, breast still glistening with a few stray drops. Maid #8 bent forward, mouth open and latched onto the nipple. Sucking gently, cleaning up the leftover milk with slow, thorough pulls. The blonde’s nipple hardened further under the attention, but her expression never changed.

Owen spotted it then, right above the blonde’s cleavage, centered on her sternum: MILK DISPENSER #2.

His stomach twisted again.

“Sir, is something wrong?” Maid #13 asked, tilting her head slightly. The cup hovered in front of him, steam rising.

“No… no, nothing,” he **** out. “I was just… distracted.”

He took the cup. The porcelain was warm against his palm. He could smell the coffee mixed with the faint sweet scent of fresh milk. His hand shook just enough to ripple the surface.

Maid #13 smiled, small, polite, unchanging. “I understand, sir. If your visit has made you horny, may I offer you a stress reliever? Or perhaps a guest cock warmer while you wait for Master Garrett?”