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A Pervert, A Sadist & A Submissive!

Kelly Addams


Layout Copyright © 2018 by PMO Publishing. Originally published in 2016 by PMO Publishing. Edited and republished in 2018. Ebook design by PMO Publishing. Cover art by PMO Publishing. Contact:

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the authors permission.

Please Note: This short story is based on The Maid, a taboo content story first published in 2016.

Chapter 1 – Beginnings

Where do we begin? To go back to her birth would be ridiculous, so let us just say this:

Kiama was born to a poor family in a small village on the edge of the Taita Hills in Kenya, she was born into a hard life, always needing, rarely getting. A life to be escaped only in dreams. And dream she did.

As she grew she learned the business of living... how to live the life of a rural African woman, because in her culture childhood was short, womanhood would be achieved by the age of twelve, thirteen at the most. By the age of fourteen a girl would be married and have at least one child of her own... And so would begin a cycle of loss and reproduction, as many children lost to the uncertainties of African life as survived. Difficult to comprehend in the 21st Century, but for many, that particular scenario was all they had ever known.

But young Kiama dared to dream, she dared to break the cycle. She could picture a different life.

She had reached the age of eleven years when she first met her future husband, or the old man who had negotiated a small bride price (to reserve her). She was a girl of low standing, destined to be a third wife which meant that in the family unit she rated little better than livestock, to labour and produce sons, that would be her role in life... and for her, life would probably have been short.

But a spark burned within the young girl, a desire and destiny, she knew deep in her heart that life could offer more than forced marriage and drudgery, so a month before her twelfth birthday... she ran.


One of the advantages of poverty is that when food is in short supply the fact is barely noticed, a tight stomach doesn't miss regular meals when they are no-longer available, and so she suffered little more than usual as she hitched and hiked toward the coast. Part of the way she rode in the back of a truck laden with bananas, until the driver spotted her. She could have continued on to the coast with him, but the price he had demanded she refused to pay. He mistook her for something else, and as his suggestion became a demand she feared that he would take his fee without negotiation. Again she ran disappearing into a jumble of rusted corrugated sheets and termite riddled timbers. The slums swallowed her and covered her tracks. Blindly she ran until she felt that her lungs would burst. He had given up the chase within the first few paces, but she ran from more than the lecherous driver, she ran from a world that although wide and potentially wonderful was proving to be a little more fraught than she had imagined.

Fearing for her virtue Kiama followed the network of dirt roads that shadowed the main strip of asphalt that ran from Nairobi down to the port of Mombasa. Often she would shelter from the burning midday sun under the giant pipeline that carried fuel from the coastal refinery to distribution centres inland. By following the pipe she could avoid the road and its depraved drivers, she understood from school that it led where she wanted to go. Kiama had a receptive mind and had soaked knowledge like a sponge during the few years that she had been permitted schooling. The men of her region liked a woman who could read a little, a woman capable of counting, always sure to return from the market with the correct change... but that is as far as education was allowed. Because it also spelled trouble, education led to free thinking and rebellion against the natural order of things. It gave girls an attitude, the illusion of equality... and these delusions were dangerous, they threatened stability. She had been dragged away from her classroom at the age of ten in order to prepare for her inevitable future, a classroom without walls that consisted of a blackboard set under the shade of a spreading Kigelia tree and nothing more. Her school had possessed few books but Kiama had studied every one from cover to cover, and one of those books had planted a seed. She had traced a path with her finger from her village, a place too small and insignificant to feature on any map, across to the southernmost edge of the massive Tsavo National Park, and from there, roughly south along the national pipeline that ran parallel to the highway, with both terminating at Mombasa Island. The Indian Ocean was as far as she had dreamed, what she would do when she arrived, (if she ever arrived,) she had not considered. She was a practical girl... one step at a time, and when the first step always seemed impossible... surely it was folly to think about the second or the third!

After many days of travel she arrived at the coast, dirty, tired and hungry. As is often said, Charity begins at home, and Kiama was far from her home, so she found little assistance and few smiles as she wandered the slums and markets, wary eyes followed the dishevelled waif, distrustful eyes. Driven by desperate hunger Kiama reached rock bottom and snatched a loaf from an open stall, sprinting for her very life she ducked and dived until she felt safe, the portly stall-holder no match for her youthful agility. She had passed through the shacks of Bombolulu and reached a strip of wild ground, a boundary between the beach and the buildings, a place of scrub and shrub, coconut palms and wild growing sisal. In a stand of tall and desiccated grass she fell upon the loaf and sipped slightly salty rain water from a split and abandoned plastic tub she found close by.

Against all the odds she had arrived, step one had been completed. She would survive, she could beg for coins just as she had seen other urchins with running noses and outstretched hands flocking around the pale skinned tourists, or if desperation knocked she could steal again, although as she ran she felt a small part of her soul shrivel and die.

Jesus will forgive me she assured herself uncertainly, it was another day as she tore apart the chapattis that had burned her fingers snatching them from a smoking hotplate.

For months she managed, she became adept at begging, she knew that she was filthy but she was also bright enough to realise she could use it to her advantage. The foreign women were the best targets, she would attach a grubby hand tightly to pastel pink or cream shorts and hold up the free hand while her deep brown eyes implored. Usually the husband, being too polite to beat her, would use money as a means of escape, a few shillings in her open hand was always enough to send her away. Both parties won, they were free of the unpleasant reminder that the poor in Africa far outnumber the comfortable, and Kiama could survive at least past one more meal.

Chapter 2 -Opportunity

Gradually, as the months and years passed Kiama drifted north. She saw her eighteenth birthday pass on the beach close to Bamburi. That was where her luck changed, and it had all started in a most peculiar way as an act of perversion had set her inadvertently on a far more profitable path.

It had begun as she walked from the derelict ruin where she was sheltering for a few nights. She had learned to sleep anywhere with one eye open, always wary of the addicts and thugs that owned the night. Kiama knew never to stay in the same place for too long, two or three nights at most before moving on. Sometimes she returned, sometimes she left forever... but she understood that routine led to ambush, and ambush would lead to rape or death. Carrying a small holdall that contained her entire life she stepped onto the bushy verge of the track as she heard a vehicle approach. She gave the driver a small smile as he pulled closer, simply a friendly gesture on her part, he returned her smile and to her surprise slowed his car and lowered the window.

The words that he spoke sounded strange in her ear as though they came from somewhere deep inside, his accent was heavy... guttural. Feeling slightly alarmed she shook her head and turned to escape through the thick bushes that lined the sides of the track.

“You speak English?” she finally understood his words and turned back. His smile was still wide and she began to relax again.

“Yes.” she nodded and drew a little closer as he beckoned.

“Pretty girl,” she chuckled, “How old are you?”

Kiama hunted for the word before replying with a small smile.

The white man nodded as though she had answered a question correctly and reached into a compartment in the dashboard. In his hand he held a leather wallet and Kiama's eyes widened at the sight of so much cash. “I can give you some of this,” he began, “But you must earn it.”

“How?” she asked quickly.

The man grinned and pulled a fifty shilling note from the wad, Kiama watched him fold it tightly, it wasn't much money, but a fifty in the hand guaranteed another small meal. What's he doing? She asked herself as he slipped free of the seatbelt and waved her closer.

“Watch,” he instructed as she stood close to the open window. “This fifty is yours, all you have to do is get it.” And before she could respond his hand and the note dived inside the crotch of his trousers, a moment later the hand returned... empty.

“Just reach in and get the money,” he smiled and nodded, “You can keep what you find in there.”

Kiama felt her heart begin beating faster and shook her head, what he was suggesting was immoral and impossible.

“Don't be shy,” he crooned in his thick accent, “That is only a fifty... get it and I will replace it with one hundred, then two hundred, then five hundred, then one thousand shillings... all that you have to do is reach in and find it.”

Kiama shook her head again but her mind raced as she tried to calculate.

“That is one thousand eight hundred and fifty shillings for doing nothing more than putting your hand in my trousers and finding it! Tell me, where else would you get such easy money?”

“It is a bad thing to do!” Kiama replied, “And who says you will give me the rest if I get this fifty?”

The man chuckled and pulled a small wad of the money from his wallet, slowly he counted. “There is two thousand,” he waved the small bundle, “And if you are a good girl and get these, I will add another two thousand.”

Doubts filled her mind, but her fingers itched at the promise of more money than she had ever seen before. One thousand was enough to feed her for a week, four was beyond her comprehension.

What have I got to lose she asked herself as her hand travelled nervously toward the window, nothing, but so much to gain.

“Good girl,” the man nodded as she reached inside the car, “There is nothing to fear, just reach inside and find your money.”

Kiama would have closed her eyes but something warned her to keep her wits about her as she eased her hand between the waistband and his colourful cotton shirt, delving deeper she found elastic and smooth silk. “That's it, search for it, the money is in there baby.”

I have to do what he says she accepted, her hand was in, to pull out now would be absolute defeat. Slowly she moved her hand and beneath her palm felt a soft lump.

“Yessss,” he sighed, “Now you are close to the money... but I will help you out, it is inside my underwear, you have to get inside the boxers too.”

Now I understand she told herself, he put it in his panties. “I can do this.” she whispered silently as she drew her hand back to the elasticated band and pressing against his naked flesh she slid down inside. The first thing that she noticed was the heat, and then the hair. It was very soft hair when compared to her own sprinkling, soft and long. It feels nice she admitted before chastising herself for thinking such a thing.

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