Right now, she’s standing at the ironing board, pressing one of my shirts to my exact specifications. She’s wearing the uniform she picked out from the online catalog I created, filled with choices she didn’t know came directly from me. She choose a white long-sleeved tee-shirt, thin enough for me to see her perky nipples and the lace of her bra, and cut low enough for me to see her cleavage; a pair of black yoga pants that hug her curves and give me a nice view of her camel toe; Birkenstocks with patterned socks, because I overheard her telling Ethel she’d always wanted a pair so I included them in her footwear options; and a little black frilly apron with white lace trim.
Granola yoga goddess meets French maid. I’ll take it.
She’s got her earbuds in, the ones I got for her that are connected to the Bluetooth music system I had installed just for her, swaying her sweet curves to the music. She shimmies then sticks her ass out with a wiggle and I almost groan out loud. As usual, I’m watching her every goddamned move, with my cock so hard a diamond couldn’t scratch it.
She can’t see me. It’s one of the best things about this old mansion, all the secret passageways, the hidden rooms, the peep holes that look like knots in the old wood paneling. The woman who built it was batshit crazy—paranoid as fuck, and thank God for that. Every room has a way to watch whoever is in it, if you know where to look.
Which I most definitely do.
She’s so fucking beautiful. Long wavy red hair, eyes the color of Robin’s eggs, creamy cheeks kissed with freckles. When she arrived here thirty-two days ago, she was thin. Way too fucking thin. So frail and gaunt that I told Ethel to tell her a medical check-up was part of her employment requirements.
Ethel returned, her eyes dark, mouth tight, reporting to me that Emily told her she’d not seen a doctor since she was six or seven when she had pneumonia. Fucking monsters. Whoever they were that raised her, I’m going to find out.
I shook off my rage and picked the doctor myself—a female internist with the best credentials, as well as an understanding that there are people out there that don’t fit into the normal patient mold. It cost me in the five figures, but Emily got a full physical, blood work, a full body scan and I had the detailed reports sent directly to me with a consult call with the physician and no names or issues with the fucking HIPAA bullshit. Vitamin D, low. Iron, low. BMI, low.
Un-fucking-acceptable.
In the last few weeks, I’ve made sure Ethel gives her anything and everything she wants to eat. Plenty of spinach, organic grass-fed everything, plenty of sunshine, plenty of rest and the best vitamin concoctions, custom made especially for her by some guru of wellness I found in goddamn California of all places.
Nine hours of sleep, minimum.
Within a week of arriving, she came to life. Her cheeks turned pink. The deep set of her eyes lifted. She stood up straight.
From behind the walls and two-way mirrors, I’ve watched her begin to laugh and smile. To dance and sing. Now her BMI is up, ticking nicely up into normal; her blood levels are perfect. I’ve had her re-checked twice. Again, under the guise of health standards for employment or some bullshit I made up and spouted off to Ethel.
She’s told Ethel a bit about her background, but not much. Sheltered, she said. Homeschooled, she said. But the way she said it, it sounded to me like it was a simple way to say ten thousand awful words.
I bought a phone for her, loaded it up with parental controls and surveillance software so I can keep an eye on what she’s doing, and had Ethel give it to her as a gift. Again, to be used for employment purposes only, but she could add things as she wished. All she does, really, is listen to music. Every day I watch her playlists grow as she discovers new stuff and it’s synced with the sound and music system I had installed at the same time. It works on voice command and she loves giving orders to it like she’s an Army Sergeant. She named the system Esme because I had Ethel pretend she couldn’t think of a name for it.
Her musical taste seems completely random. One day it’s Bach, the next day it’s Wiz Khalifa, the next it’s Patsy Cline. Her phone is also paired with mine, so I can see every keystroke. Every click. I even have her wearing a smart watch with every fucking health tracker the company could add, so I can monitor her temperature, pulse rate, how many hours she sleeps…nearly fucking everything and still, it’s not enough.