Emily strained against the ropes, gasping weakly. The rope was wrapped much more tightly around her throat than she had ever tied it. It was difficult to breath, even keeping her body straight. She had to draw air in long, slow, ragged breaths.

She wriggled and pulled futilely against the rope around her wrist for a time, then lay breathless, gasping, her chest rising and falling in slow, shaky breaths as she stared at the door.

What on earth was Isabella up to!? Why had she tied her tighter? Why hadn't she simply done the decent thing and turned and walked away without saying anything?! Surely she wasn't going to tell Emily's parents now?

Emily allowed herself the strange, dark, frightening, and yet oddly exciting fantasy that the woman was gone to fetch a man, perhaps a Latino friend of hers, maybe the gardener or some other sweating, low type of swarthy man who would be led into her room to climb atop her helpless body and use her for his pleasure.

And a quivering thought occurred to her as she contemplated that unlikely possibility. She knew she would never, could never tell anyone if that happened. She was helpless in more than a physical way.

But no, that was most unlikely. Perhaps the woman was merely trying to teach her a lesson? And surely this was punishment. Yes, that made sense. The maids were Catholics, weren't they? Didn't she see them crossing themselves sometimes, in the Catholic way? She would be too embarrassed to tell her parents, perhaps even frightened that she would be punished, even fired. So she was punishing Emily for her wickedness.

The antique clock in the corner chimed the half hour, and she lay still, panting, sweating, chest rising and falling shakily. Her thighs ached. Her groin felt tight, and throbbed. And the soft pink flesh of her pussy was being squeezed painfully by the rope.

How long, she wondered, would Isabella keep her like this? It was unlikely any of her family would come to check on her but the possibility existed they would want something, so there was a danger.

The clock chimed again, striking eight o'clock, and still she lay alone, tightly bound, her jaw aching now from the ball. She had never lain tied for quite this long, and the ball was holding her mouth wide.

Whenever she moved, the rope between her throat and groin tightened, pulling just that much harder. She arched her back slowly, experimentally, gurgling weakly as the knot ground against her clitoris, as the rope tightened around her throat to the point she could hardly breath.

She relaxed, gasping, red faced, gulping in air through her nose. The knot - hurt - when it ground across her clitoris - and yet - and yet it hurt in a delicious way.

Emily arched her back again, groaning, the groan turning into a choked gurgle as the rope tightened around her throat, as the knot ground over her clitoris.

Again and again, in long, slow, agonizing stretching motions, she ground the knot against her swollen, aching clitoris, her body growing hotter and hotter as she banked the fires of lust and excitement within herself. Her movements became less restrained. She began to arch her back more and more quickly, pulling her head back to tighten the rope further, gurgling in pleasure as the hard, hot sensations of liquid pleasure burned in her groin.

And then it hit, and she arched her back violently, eyes bulging as the rope tightened even more around her throat, choking off her breath, her voice, as her hips bucked violently, her body convulsing with the intense sensations ripping through her nervous system, flooding her mind, seething through her body in wildfire orgasmic release.

So good! So good! So good!

The orgasm seemed to wash over her like a churning ocean wave, and she gurgled wildly, a choked, muffled cry of intense passion and pleasure issuing from her gagged mouth as she forced her head back and quivered in violent release.

Over and over again her head pulled back, her body straining against the ropes, her chest thrust skyward as her bottom rolled and thrust upwards and the orgasm howled around her mind. It was the longest, most powerful orgasm she had ever had.

And when it finally faded she slumped dazedly on the bed, face red, skull throbbing, aching from the lack of oxygen, sweat coating her body as she frantically pulled in air through her flaring nostrils.

For long, long minutes she lay, still but for a faint trembling in her limbs and the unsteady rise and fall of her chest, silent save for the rattling of her breath. Tears slowly filled her eyes, tears of misery and guilt and shame, and the awareness that she was still bound helpless, unmoving, at Isabella's mercy.

There was a faint sense of outrage at that, too. For was she not a scion of the Harper family? Why should she be at the mercy of a Latino servant of absolutely no importance, power or influence? Yet pride was hardly a strength in her, so ground down had she been over the years by her family, and so her outrage was slight.

She was sweating and aching, her hair matted against the sides of her face. Her jaw ached, her legs ached, her pussy ached, and she longed to breath more deeply, and to take a shower, to get the sweat off her, to be cool, to be comfortable.

The clock chimed again.

A minute passed, then another, and there was the sound of a key in the lock. She raised her head blearily, feeling the blood rush to her face again as the door opened. Surely it was Isabella! Surely she hadn't brought anyone to witness Emily's humiliation! Or worse, to abuse her!

But it was only Isabella, and she closed the door behind her, then crossed to Emily's bed. She smiled at her again, then undid the knot beneath her throat. Her fingers went to the knot binding her wrist, and she undid that, then with a silent finger shaking, turned and left the room.

Emily twisted her hand again and again to unravel the rope, then reached across and untied her wrist from the other post. With a gasp of relief she undid the rope around her throat and then sat up, fumbling at the knot of the scarf around her head. She undid it, then gently, wincing with pain, worked the ball out of her mouth.

What a relief!

She quickly untied the ropes binding her legs apart and, with a terrible groan of wonderful relief, pulled her legs together.

She got out of bed as soon as she was able to work her limbs properly, then wrapped up the rope and put it away. She propped a chair under the doorknob, then showered in the adjoining toilet.

Showered gently. There were red marks around her legs, just above the knees, though they faded to pink fairly quickly. There were similar marks around her wrists. The mouth of her sex felt sore, raw, especially her clitoris. And she caressed it very gently with soapy fingers, wincing, yet feeling a strange, dark shiver at each touch.

The touching was an odd mixture of raw soreness, ache, and sharp, aching pleasure. It was so strangely attractive she had to prop herself in the corner of the shower stall, wedged in between the gleaming green tiles on either side, and stroke her finger back and forth across her clitoris until she came.

It was not as intense as the one she'd had in bed, but it was still quite powerful, much beyond her usual, she gasped and gurgled and arched her back in pleasure, almost falling as thrust a finger up into her pussy and stroked wildly across her clitoris with two others.

She must be some kind of a pervert, she thought shakily, the water splashing at her feet. Was there some treatment, some pill, some way to cure herself without telling anyone?

She rinsed off, then slid the thick glass door open and stepped out into the toilet. She averted her eyes from her image in the mirror and towelled off quickly, then pulled a towel around her body to dry her hair.

Clean at last, she put on her girlish pyjamas and sat on the bed, gripped by embarrassment and indecision.

What should she do about Isabella? How could she face the woman, much less talk to her!? And what if Isabella told others? Could she ask her not to? Could she somehow threaten her? Could she bribe her?

From the finger shaking she gathered that Isabella was teaching her a lesson, though it was a strange lesson for a maid to be teaching people. Still, it had taught Emily to be more wary around the maids, who, of course, had keys to the rooms.

If word got out about what had happened Isabella would surely be fired. She tried to draw some comfort from that. The woman wouldn't want to lose her job, would she? Not that her family paid her all that well, or treated her very well, but jobs were hard to come by. Weren't they?

She lay back on her bed and turned on the TV which sat on the chest at the foot of her bed.

It was a very nice plasma TV, sitting on a chest, with a wireless keyboard sitting next to it. For the TV could and did also act as a computer monitor, and was wired into her computer.

Her image looked back at her, like a mirror, but a mirror into time. She stared, aghast, at an image of herself bound to the bed, naked, writhing, writhing, arching harder and harder, eyes bulging, face red, limbs straining against the ropes, stared in stunned, open mouthed silence as the sound of her frantic gurgling cry of passion filled the room again, as they had a short time earlier.

There, sitting on top of the television was the camera, a small webcam she had wired into the computer herself. Except the camera had been pointing at her desk, where she had sat to speak to one of her few friends - Angelina - from New Mexico.

She sprang from the bed and jerked the camera around, then snatched up the keyboard. She was not a computer expert, but had, of course, grown up with one. It was child's play to find the file and delete it.

But was that the only one?

She hadn't noticed Isabella turning the webcam around or turning it on before she had left. She certainly hadn't heard her come in while she was in the shower to check to see what it had recorded. It was very possible the woman had sent the file out as email, or simply recorded it and taken a copy away.

But the first, horrifying thought she had to cope with was the realization that her masturbatory actions had been watched, had been observed, that Isabella had played back the file and watched her writhing, watched her during her climax.

Emily had thought herself incapable of being more humiliated than she had been when Isabella had first come into her room. She was wrong. Now she clasped her hands against her face and felt her skin burn with shame as her eyes filled with tears.

What was she to do!?

She would have to confront her. Somehow.

She would have to speak with her. Somehow.

She would have to find out what she wanted. Somehow.

But the mere thought of looking the woman in the eye knowing what she had watched made her almost physically ill.