Hi, my name is Dominica, I’ll be 16 in two weeks, and I’d like to use this to tell you my story… or rather, how it all began.
First, let me describe my appearance a bit: I’m skinny, quite short, with black hair (and a B-cup chest, since that’s probably what interests you the most 😛).
It was just under a year ago—I’d just turned 15 three days earlier—and since I wasn’t lucky enough to be born to wealthy parents, I started actively looking for a part-time job.
But for girls my age, there really wasn’t much available. Most ads described promo gigs or waitressing, and nearly all were for pretty girls 18+. My looks wouldn’t have been a problem—I’m confident I’m quite pretty—but my age was.
So I kept searching, even though whenever I stumbled upon an ad without strict age limits, I’d either get rejected immediately (‘we’ve already hired someone’) or just ignored.
After about two weeks of this, I found an online ad where a married couple was looking for a maid. The job description included cleaning, cooking, and ‘other auxiliary tasks,’ and it explicitly said age didn’t matter.
That appealed to me—I’m decent at cooking, not afraid of cleaning, and I didn’t overthink the ‘other tasks.’ But the best part was the pay: almost €5 per hour. I couldn’t believe it compared to other offers maxing out at €3.50, even for the best gigs.
I wrote to them immediately, and when I got an email two hours later saying I was hired and should come the next morning, I nearly died of happiness.
It didn’t even strike me as odd that I had to send five different photos of myself or that the work hours weren’t specified.
So the next day, I skipped school (it was Friday) and hurried to a village near my town where my future employers lived.
I arrived at the address with my heart pounding, hoping I wasn’t being pranked, and rang the bell. A man around 50 (I think—I’m bad with ages) opened the door and immediately asked if I was the new girl. Relieved, I said yes.
He smiled, invited me in, offered coffee, and said we’d discuss the rules. I liked it more and more.
He laid out the conditions: I’d address him as ‘Sir’ (and his wife as ‘Madam,’ if I ever saw her), behave politely, obey every word he said without needing repeats, and—most importantly—do anything ordered by him, his wife, or their guests without hesitation.
Of course, I agreed to everything instantly; honestly, I wasn’t even listening closely. Then he asked trivial things like my age, whether I lived with my parents, and if I had siblings (I have a younger sister).
Then came the best part: he pulled €300 from his pocket and handed it to me, saying it was for the whole weekend… if I stayed. I was ecstatic.
I immediately called my mom, lying that I was going to a friend’s cabin with her parents, making up stories until she finally let me go.
I grabbed the €300, thrilled, and waited to hear my tasks. He told me to clean the entire house (it wasn’t huge—maybe 6-7 rooms) before he returned and, if I had time, make a light dinner.
No problem—he was gone for 8 hours, so I even had time to watch TV (I enjoyed their plasma screen, something we’d never afford at home).
He came back around 8 PM, just as I was preparing sandwiches for dinner, hoping they’d suffice.
He arrived with two other men—colleagues, I assumed—told me to hang their coats, and sent me away. I didn’t mind; it still seemed unbelievably easy for amazing pay.
After half an hour, they called me to the kitchen, where they sat with an open wine bottle, discussing work.
There, he praised my cleaning (I swelled with pride) but said I was dressed wrong for a weekend stay and handed me a uniform—like what maids wear in old American movies (and porn, though I didn’t realize that then).
Fine, no argument—I took it and went to change nearby, but he stopped me, saying to do it in front of them.
I froze, stunned, just staring. He said I could return the money and leave if I didn’t like it. That was all I needed to hear—no way was I giving that money back.
So I stripped to my underwear in front of them, enduring their stares and the most humiliating moment of my life.
I hurried into the outfit to hide as much as possible, only to realize the top had two gaping holes where my breasts were, and the skirt hid little unless I kept my legs closed.
I felt even worse when he said he’d let it slide this time but from now on, I’d wear nothing underneath. I’d never felt more degraded.
Then he clipped a collar around my neck, but by then, I was starting to grasp what this ‘job’ really was—and I wasn’t liking it. Thankfully, he sent me away, saying they needed to discuss something. I left, relieved.
They stayed another hour while I sat in the living room, fighting tears.
When they called me back, I brought the men their coats, but not before one groped my ass and another slapped me so hard I finally broke down.
After they left, my ‘Sir’ leashed me and dragged me back to the living room, announcing he’d reconsidered his leniency since I couldn’t behave and was ‘whining like a 5-year-old.’
He ordered me to strip completely. Of course, I refused, standing there crying until he landed three brutal slaps and warned it’d hurt worse if I disobeyed.
Within 15 seconds, I stood naked as he inspected and groped me like a pervert.
He asked if I was a virgin—I was, but not for long.
That night ended with him forcing everything he could find into me: a cucumber, an empty wine bottle, a fake penis thicker than both my wrists combined, and probably longer.
I woke up naked the next morning, collared and tied to the railing in the entryway. It took me five minutes to remember where I was and why.
I was desperately thirsty and in pain. It felt like forever before someone appeared—a man I hadn’t seen before.
He asked if I was thirsty and offered a drink. I thanked him on my knees (standing wasn’t an option, tied so low and tight).
I must’ve looked like the most pathetic creature alive… but I didn’t expect him to pull out his penis and snap, ‘Open your damn mouth.’
So I did, assuming I’d have to suck him, except he started pissing—and I gagged. He beat me and left.
Half an hour later, he returned to ask if I’d ‘learned my lesson.’ I said yes—what choice did I have?
He tried again, and I forced myself to swallow, though poorly. By the end, I was drenched in my own vomit, naked under the stairs.
And that was nothing compared to when Sir came back.