Chapter 2 Edward

Edward’s P.O.V.

I stand in the shower and the warm water cascades down my body. As my submissive lavishes me with an amazing blowjob, my moans of pleasure fill the air. I don’t recall her name, since it doesn’t matter, because she is nothing more than a slave to me, whose job it is to obey me no matter what.

She is on her knees in front of me, her wrists bound with ankles behind her back. I take pleasure in contorting her body into uncomfortable positions.

I push her away from me once she has satisfied me. I wash myself, shut off the shower, and then I stoop to free her limbs.

She rises to her feet and rushes to the closet to retrieve my bathrobe. She comes up behind me and slips the bathrobe on me.

I like how she follows every rule I make, but I’ve had enough of her now as she’s been my slave for two weeks. I can’t tolerate seeing the same girl’s face for over a week, thus I often change my submissive.

They’re my maids, my slaves, my property, and I have the authority to do whatever I want with them. I don’t compel them; they surrender to me with pleasure. They yearn to be ruled by me or my brother, Alexander.

“I’m tired of seeing your face every day, so you’re free to go.” As she ties the knot of my robe, I shove her aside.

“I thoroughly enjoyed serving as your submissive, Master.” She bows before me, bringing a satisfactory smile to my face.

“I’m going to get ready. When I return to my room, I expect you to have vanished. Got it?” My fingers run through my long, wet hair as I instruct her, and then I head to my dressing room.

I slip into a black Armani suit and pull open the drawer. I don a watch, then use the dryer to dry my tresses before fastening them with a rubber band.

“Long hair suits me.” I stroke my beard, basking in my glory.

After getting ready, I return to my room. A maid has already entered the room with a glass of juice for me. She keeps her eyes down on the floor because nobody can make eye contact with the Wilson brothers in this mansion without their consent.

I lift the glass and sip some juice, then place it back.

There is a knock on the door.

“Come in.” As I permit, the door opens and my assistant, Paul, enters my room, having his tab in his hand to inform me of my schedule.

“Paul, cancel all the meetings for today because I’m busy.” I command, waggling my finger at him.

Today I’m busy because I have to find a new slave for myself.

I ask him to leave through my eyes as he opens his mouth to speak; he nods and walks away without uttering a word.

“Sir, breakfast is ready.” The maid also leaves after saying this.

I step out of my room and, on my way to the dining table, my gaze draws to a stunning work of art: a divine painting.

As an avid collector of stunning artwork, I take pride in displaying my collection throughout my luxurious residence. However, the acquisition of this painting seems to have slipped my mind.

“I want to meet the artist of this masterpiece.” I murmur as I become absorbed in the heavenly landscape painting.

“Rosy…” I call the mansion’s eldest maid, shouting. She must know whoever brought this painting.

A maid working there hears me and inquires, “Do you need anything, sir?”

“Do you know who brought this painting?” I direct my finger at the painting.

“A maid drew this painting.” My eyes widen after finding out this because I didn’t expect that the maid of this house would be the creator of this exquisite masterpiece.

Who is she? I want to meet her.

“Send that maid to my room right now.” I order her, and she immediately leaves after nodding.

I admire the painting. I love it, and it gives me some solace.

I skip breakfast and return to my room because meeting the artist of this painting is more important to me right now than having breakfast.

I impatiently walk across my room, waiting for her.

As I hear a soft knock on the door, I instantly look at the door and permit, “Come in.”

A girl walks into the room, nervously playing with her fingers. She is hot, and she is perfect to be my next slave.

Is she an artist?

“Did you make that painting which I saw downstairs?” I question her.

“Yes, sir.” She timidly answers.

“What’s your name?” My brows crease with scepticism.

“Mi-Mia.” She stutters, glueing her eyes to the floor.

I approach her while scrutinizing each move she makes. She has shaky hands, and I can see beads of sweat forming on her forehead.

Is she afraid?

Why?

Is she lying?

Isn’t she the artist?

I need to figure things out, and I know precisely how to do it.

If she is lying, no one can save her today, because I hate the fucking people who lie.

I go to my study room and return with a file and a pencil in a jiffy.

“Sit down.” I order her, pointing at the bed.

She takes small and timid steps towards the bed, sits on its edge, and fumbles with the hem of her maid uniform while keeping her eyes on the floor.

“Sketch me.” I handover the file and pencil to her.

She opens the file and trembles as she clutches the pencil. I walk up to my high-backed chair and take a seat, my gaze fixed on her.

She is nervously tapping her foot instead of drawing. Now I’m sure she’s lying; she’s not the artist.

How dare she lie to me?

My brows furrow in fury.

“I asked you to do something. Are you deaf?” As I thunder, clenching the arms of the chair, she flinches in fright, and the pencil from her hand drops on the floor.

“Pick up the pencil and draw.” I command in a grim tone, glaring at her.

I won’t stop until she spits out the truth from her own fucking mouth.

“I can’t sketch. I’m sorry, sir.” She stands up and apologises.

“Why can’t you sketch me if you can draw that magnificent painting?” I march up to her and ask, coming extremely close to her.

“Be-because.” Her lips quiver in fright.

“Because you lied to me. You’re not the artist.” She raises her eyes at me in shock.

“Move your eyes down.” As I yell, she immediately lowers her gaze and clenches the hem of her dress.

“I’m sorry, sir.” She apologises again and tears stream down her cheeks, but it does not affect me. She erred, and now she must pay for it.

“Bend down on the chair now.” I say in a commanding tone, pointing at the chair.

“Sor-“

“I said now.” As I growl, she winces and complies with my order right away.

An evil smile spread across my face as I stand behind her.

“Grasp the arms of the chair because I don’t want you to fall.” I order as I lift her dress to reveal her bare buttocks.

“You have such a nice ass, and they’ll look more exquisite when they adorn with marks of my spanking.” As I erotically fondle her buttocks, an evil chuckle escapes my mouth.

“Don’t you fucking know that I despise the people who lie to me?” As I give her buttocks a firm squeeze, she lets out a pleasurable moan and grips onto the arms of the chair.

Smack!

“I apologise, sir...” she screams and jerks as my hand lands on her buttocks.

Smack! Smack!

“I hate fucking liars.” I yell, striking her buttocks together and imprinting my fingers on them.

Smack!

Smack!

I’m smacking her so hard that some hair comes off my pony and lands on my eyes. I just want to make sure that she will think twice about lying to me in the future.

“I’m sorry, sir.” She begs for forgiveness all the time, whining while I give her firm spanks, venting my anger.

I pull my hair away from my eyes, and as I see my artwork on her ass, my lips curve into a mischievous grin.

“Now tell me where I can find the artist of that painting.” I grab a fistful of her hair and pull her head back, snarling, “This time, I fucking want the truth.”

“She is in the quarter five, sir.” She answers, and I leave her hair.

“Now get the fuck out of my room right now.” I command, and she immediately stands straight and sprints out of the room.

It’s time to confront the artist of that captivating artwork and punish her for lying to me. But why the fuck did she lie to me?