Given Names
Chapter 2
Owen started to speak, the words tumbling out half-formed. “Uhh actually, I was look—”
“I’m sorry to cut you off, sir,” Maid #13 interrupted, voice still calm and polite, “but Master Garrett doesn’t like dirt tracked through the house. May I request you take off your shoes and allow your feet to be cleaned before we continue this conversation in the main living room?”
Owen blinked. His mouth stayed open for a second. He didn’t know how to answer that. The maid just stood there, eyes downcast, waiting patiently like she’d asked him to hang up his coat.
He glanced at the small wooden chair she’d gestured to, a simple chair, upholstered in dark leather, positioned right against the wall near the foyer entrance. No point arguing yet. He needed to get deeper inside, needed to see more.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Sure.”
He sat. The leather was cool against the backs of his thighs through his jeans. He bent down, untied one sneaker, pulled it off, then the sock. The air felt strange on his bare foot, still warm from the flight, the cab and the walk up the drive. A faint smell of sweat lingered. He repeated it with the other shoe, setting both aside neatly.
Maid #13 watched without comment. When both feet were bare, she clapped her hands twice, sharp and precise.
A low scraping sound came from the side wall. A slightly bigger than a dog door slid open at floor level. Two women crawled out on all fours.
Owen’s jaw dropped open.
They were identical twins. Short black hair pulled into high pigtails that bounced slightly as they moved. Faces smudged with dust and smeared old makeup, they looked chinese. Both incredibly pretty in that soft, symmetrical way: full lips, high cheekbones, narrow brown eyes that looked blank until they focused on him. Decent-sized tits swaying under them as they crawled, maybe C-cups, nipples hard. Flawless porcelain skin, pale and unmarked except for the words on their chest.
Right in the center of each chest in bold black marker were words: FOOT CLEANER #1 on the left one, FOOT CLEANER #2 on the right.
They reached him and knelt up straight, knees together, hands resting on their thighs, heads tilted slightly up in perfect sync.
Owen’s stomach dropped so hard he felt nauseous.
Maid #13 spoke again, same even tone as before. “Please place your feet on their cleaning holes, sir and they’ll do the rest.”
Cleaning holes. Jesus. He knew what she meant.
He hesitated. Looked down at his own feet, still damp from the socks, toes curling against the marble from nerves. Then at the twins. They waited, expressions serene, no impatience, no disgust. Just readiness.
He lifted one foot slowly, placed the sole against FOOT CLEANER #1’s face. The skin was warm, soft. He felt horrible doing it, sweaty, gross, invasive, but she didn’t flinch. The second his heel settled against her chin, something shifted in her. Her hands came up fast, gentle but firm, cradling his foot like it was precious.
Both twins moved.
They started with the soles. Tongues flat and broad, licking slow from heel to toe in long, deliberate strokes. It tickled like hell, Owen jerked, involuntarily but their grips tightened, thumbs pressing into the arch to hold him steady. No giggling, no reaction to the taste. Just thorough, mechanical attention. They worked in mirror image: one licking left to right, the other right to left, covering every inch.
When the soles were slick with spit, they moved to the toes.
One by one, they popped each digit into their mouths. Warm, wet suction. Tongues swirling around the pads, between them. Sucking gently, then harder, pulling until the toe came free with a soft pop. Owen’s face burned. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop the twitch in his cock either, traitor that it was.
When every toe was done, both feet glistened, coated in a thick layer of their saliva.
Owen thought that would be it, gross, but over. But the twins weren’t finished.
They lowered his feet slowly, guiding them between their tits. Soft flesh pressed around his soles, warm and yielding. They rocked forward and back, rubbing his feet up and down the inner curves until most of the spit transferred to their skin, leaving his feet damp but less slick.
Then they shifted again. Each twin took one foot, rested it on her shoulder so the sole faced up toward her face. They reached back, grabbed their own pigtails, and used the braided hair like cloths, wiping in tight circles, dragging the strands along the arch, between the toes, over the heel. The hair was surprisingly soft. They worked until his feet looked clean, pink, dry, no visible dirt or sweat left.
The twins bowed low together, foreheads touching the floor, asses up in the air for a second. Then they turned, crawled back to the doggy door in perfect sync and disappeared inside. The slid shut behind them with a quiet click.
Owen sat there, bare feet on the cold marble, heart pounding so loud he could hear it in his ears.
Maid #13 stepped forward again, still in her low bow. “Your feet are now presentable, sir. If you’ll follow me to the living room, we can wait for Master Garrett’s return more comfortably.”
Owen stared at her. At the words on her forehead. At the empty spot where the twins had been stored like tools.
He stood slowly, legs shaky.
Paige was in this house.
Somewhere.
And whatever had happened to these women… it had happened to her too.
He followed the maid deeper into the mansion, barefoot, silent, trying not to think about how clean his feet felt. Or how sick that made him.
Owen followed Maid #13 through an arched doorway into the living room.
The space was huge, high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows letting in sharp afternoon light, walls lined with dark wood ing and modern art that looked like it cost more than his apartment. Shelves held strange trinkets: glass orbs with swirling colors, antique brass instruments he couldn’t name, a row of small porcelain figures that might have been innocent if the room weren’t what it was. Expensive-looking rugs underfoot, plush sectional sofas in deep gray leather, a massive stone fireplace that probably never got used in Austin heat.
But none of that held his attention for more than a second.
The women did.
Naked, every one of them. Posed around the room like living statues. Some stood rigid on low pedestals, arms raised or bent in elegant arches, backs curved, tits thrust forward, legs slightly parted. Others knelt or reclined on furniture that had clearly been arranged around them, couches, ottomans, even the arms of chairs. Serene smiles on all their faces, eyes open but unfocused, like they were staring through the walls at something only they could see. Every few seconds, in perfect unison, they shifted: a slow tilt of the head, a subtle arch of the back, fingers sliding an inch higher on a thigh or across a nipple. Fluid, deliberate changes, like breathing sculptures cycling through a programmed routine.
Owen’s mouth went dry.
The cutouts in the walls caught his eye next, rectangular frames set flush into the ing, like oversized picture frames without glass. Inside each one, hollowed-out niches held more women. Some alone, some in pairs or threes. One frame showed a blonde on all fours, ass high, face turned toward the viewer with lips parted in a silent moan, tongue extended. Another had two brunettes pressed chest-to-chest, mouths locked, hands buried between each other’s legs. A third frame displayed a redhead, his heart stuttering for half a second until he saw the hair was too straight, the skin too tanned, curled on her side in full fetish latex, corset cinched tight, eyes rolled back in exaggerated bliss. They moved too: slow, looping gestures. A hand drifting down to spread pussy lips, then back up. A head tilting to offer a neck for imaginary bites. Every few seconds the poses reset or evolved, living paintings on endless repeat.
Owen couldn’t stop staring. Stunning. Impressive in the sickest way. Whoever this Garrett was, he wasn’t just some awkward guy with a weird tape roll. He was fucking insane. And rich enough to turn a mansion into his personal gallery of broken women.
Maid #13 guided him to the largest sectional, the one facing the fireplace. Three women were already there on the floor in front of it, naked, on hands and knees, backs straight, heads bowed low. Their bodies formed a perfect low table: shoulders and asses level, tits hanging just enough to brush the rug. One had “COFFEE TABLE #4” written across her lower back in the same thick marker. Another had “COFFEE TABLE #2” on her thigh. The third had nothing visible from this angle, but Owen didn’t need to check.
“Would sir like tea or coffee?” Maid #13 asked, voice as calm as ever. “With or without milk?”
Owen’s brain lagged. He sat on the edge of the couch, the leather creaking under him. “Coffee,” he managed. “With milk. Please.”
She nodded once and walked away toward what he assumed was the kitchen, heels clicking softly on the marble.
Owen couldn’t sit still. He stood again, drawn to the nearest statue woman. She stood on a low black pedestal near the window, lit from the side so shadows carved her body. Mid-twenties maybe. Dark hair loose around her shoulders. Face twisted in raw ecstasy, mouth open wide, eyes squeezed shut, brows knit like she was right on the edge. One hand buried three fingers deep in her shaved pussy, knuckles glistening. The other yanked her own hair back hard, arching her neck and spine as if someone invisible had her bent over and was pounding into her from behind. Her whole body trembled faintly, not from effort, but from whatever loop she was trapped in.
He circled her slowly. Looked for it, the writing.
There, on her upper back, just below the right shoulder blade: EROTIC STATUE #31.
Thirty-one.
At least thirty-one of these. Maybe more hidden in other rooms. Women who used to have jobs, partners, lives, now reduced to decorative convulsions for some sadistic prick’s amusement. Unable to speak, to move on their own, to stop. Just posing, shifting, coming endlessly without release.
Owen pictured Paige like that. Her red hair spilling over her shoulders, green eyes glassy, hand between her legs, that soft ass arched… The thought made his stomach twist so hard he almost gagged.
He stepped back, breathing shallow.
Behind him, he heard soft footsteps.
“Sir,” Maid #13 said quietly. “Your coffee is here.”
Owen turned at the sound of the maid’s voice, expecting to see only #13 coming back with the tray.
Instead there were three women.
Maid #13 led the way, same black lace outfit, same braided bun, same calm downcast eyes. Behind her walked another maid, similar build, same fetish uniform hugging her curves, but everything else screamed contrast. She had Neon-green hair spiked into a sharp Mohawk, silver rings through her septum, eyebrow, lower lip. Multiple studs in her ears. Face piercings glinted under the living room lights. Yet her posture was identical: shoulders back, hands clasped behind her, eyes lowered in perfect submission. The words on her forehead read MAID #8 in the same bold marker.
The sight of an alt girl like that, tough-looking, rebellious vibe, acting so meek and obedient made Owen’s brain stutter. It didn’t fit. None of this did.
But the third woman was the real gut punch.
She walked between them, completely naked. Early thirties maybe. Blonde hair loose to her mid-back, full lips painted soft pink, large heavy breasts that swayed with each step. Soft curvy body, wide hips, plush belly, thick thighs that rubbed together slightly. No heels, no stockings, just bare feet padding on the rug. Serene smile fixed in place, eyes glassy and distant. She moved like the others: smooth, unhurried, no trace of self-consciousness.
Owen walked back to the couch on autopilot and sat down hard. The leather creaked.
“May I serve you your coffee, sir?” Maid #13 asked, voice gentle.
He nodded, throat too tight for words.
Maid #13 lifted the small white cup from the tray. She stepped close to the blonde woman, positioning the cup directly under her left breast. The nipple was already beaded, dark pink against pale skin.
Maid #8 moved without prompt. She reached up, wrapped both hands around the breast, and squeezed, firm and deliberate, like milking a cow. A thin stream of warm milk jetted out, splashing into the cup. The blonde didn’t flinch. Her smile stayed exactly the same, soft and vacant. No sound, no reaction. Just more milk flowing until the cup was half full with creamy white.
Maid #13 pulled the cup away once it was enough. She stirred once with a tiny silver spoon from the tray, a quick clink and then held it out to Owen.
His eyes were still locked on the two women beside her. The blonde stood motionless still, breast still glistening with a few stray drops. Maid #8 bent forward, mouth open and latched onto the nipple. Sucking gently, cleaning up the leftover milk with slow, thorough pulls. The blonde’s nipple hardened further under the attention, but her expression never changed.
Owen spotted it then, right above the blonde’s cleavage, centered on her sternum: MILK DISPENSER #2.
His stomach twisted again.
“Sir, is something wrong?” Maid #13 asked, tilting her head slightly. The cup hovered in front of him, steam rising.
“No… no, nothing,” he forced out. “I was just… distracted.”
He took the cup. The porcelain was warm against his palm. He could smell the coffee mixed with the faint sweet scent of fresh milk. His hand shook just enough to ripple the surface.
Maid #13 smiled, small, polite, unchanging. “I understand, sir. If your visit has made you horny, may I offer you a stress reliever? Or perhaps a guest cock warmer while you wait for Master Garrett?”
The words landed flat and casual, like she was offering him cream or sugar.
Owen stared at her. Then at Maid #8, who had straightened up now, lips shiny with milk residue. Then at the Milk Dispenser #2, standing there naked and leaking faintly from one nipple, body soft and available, waiting for the next squeeze.
He didn’t know how to respond.
The cup burned his fingers.
Somewhere in this house, Paige was one of them.
A statue. A cleaner. A dispenser. Or maybe something worse.
He sipped the coffee, hot, creamy, tasting faintly sweet and tried not to gag on the wrongness of it all.
He needed to keep them talking.
He needed to find her.
Owen took another sip of the coffee and set the cup down on the low table formed by the three bowed women. Their backs didn’t even tremble as he kept the cup down. He cleared his throat.
“Umm, the coffee is fantastic,” he said, forcing the words out. “What… what is a cock warmer?”
Maid #13’s smile brightened instantly, like he’d asked about her favourite topic. “Thank you for your kind praise, sir. Oftentimes visiting guests are fascinated by Master Garrett’s collection of toys. And they ask him to have a taste of maids like us, or use an object with another purpose. But the Master is very strict that every person in his collection has a purpose associated with the name he gave them, unless he states otherwise. To remedy this, he has designated a few ‘guest cock warmers’ to entertain guests should they need it.”
Owen stared at her. The way she said it, calm, polite, matter-of-fact, made his skin crawl worse than the actual words. No embarrassment, no hesitation. Just a routine explanation.
“Alternatively,” she continued, “you can also get yourself a stress reliever. Those are women who can be abused and used any way you see fit. Cock warmers are only good for vaginal sex. Should I go ahead and get a cock warmer for you?”
Owen’s mind spun. He needed out of this room. Away from the shifting statues, the framed living porn, the human furniture, the casual milking. He needed to search, to find Paige, to figure out how to undo whatever this tape bullshit had done. Playing along might buy him time, get him deeper into the house, away from watchful eyes, maybe even alone for a minute.
He swallowed. “Umm… I think I will have one cock warmer. Yes.”
Maid #13 nodded once, crisp and professional. She turned to Maid #8 and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. #8 returned it immediately, sharp and efficient then took the blonde by the upper arm. Milk Dispenser #2 followed without resistance, large breasts swaying, serene smile still locked in place as they walked back toward the kitchen doorway.
“Please follow me, sir,” Maid #13 said. “I’ll escort you to one of the guest bedrooms.”
Owen stood. His bare feet felt strange against the rug, clean too, thanks to the twins. He left the coffee cup behind on the table of women and followed #13 out of the living room.
She led him down a wide hallway lined with more framed niches, smaller ones this time, single women in tight bondage poses or simple kneeling positions, each with a number and role taped to their skin. He tried not to look too long. The clicking of her heels echoed off the marble, steady and unhurried.
They ed a closed door with a small brass plaque: “CLEANING ROOM—STAFF ONLY.” Another hallway branched off, dimmer, with soft moans drifting from somewhere deep. Maid #13 didn’t slow or even glance that way.
At the end of the corridor she stopped in front of an ordinary-looking door, dark wood, no plaque, just a simple brass knob. She opened it and stepped aside to let him enter first.
Owen stepped into the guest bedroom.
The room looked ordinary at first glance, king bed with white sheets turned down, nightstands with lamps already lit low, heavy curtains drawn against whatever light was left outside. No windows open, no clocks visible. Just quiet, conditioned air and the faint smell of clean linen mixed with something warmer, muskier.
But that is where the ordinary ended, because on the bed lay a naked woman.
She was positioned on her back exactly like a sex doll: legs spread wide in a perfect V, knees bent slightly, feet flat on the mattress so her hips tilted up invitingly. Arms relaxed at her sides, palms up, fingers loose. Head turned just a fraction toward the door, strawberry-blonde hair fanned out across the pillow in soft waves. Unblemished skin, smooth, pale, glowing faintly under the lamp light. Model-like body: long limbs, flat stomach, full C-cup breasts with pale pink nipples, narrow waist flaring to gently rounded hips. Neatly shaved pussy on full display, lips slightly parted, glistening.
Her face held a gorgeous, serene smile, lips curved just enough to show perfect white teeth, eyes half-lidded and glassy, fixed on some distant point above the ceiling. No tension anywhere. No impatience. Just waiting.
Maid #13 stepped in after him, closing the door quietly. She gestured toward the woman with an open palm, polite as if showing him a piece of furniture.
“Guest Cock Warmer, Sir” she said simply.
Owen’s eyes dropped automatically. There, written in thick black marker just above the shaved mound, right where pubic hair would have been: GUEST COCK WARMER.
His stomach lurched.
“Please try out the cock warmer, sir,” Maid #13 continued in that same calm, helpful tone. “If it is not up to your tastes, I’ll arrange for another.”
Owen’s mouth opened, closed. “By try you mean…”
“Yes, sir,” she answered without missing a beat. “Please put your cock inside her pussy so I can ensure quality. I assure you, you will be given privacy once quality has been established.”
Owen stood frozen. The woman on the bed didn’t move, didn’t blink, just kept smiling that gentle, empty smile. He needed the maid gone. Needed her out of the room so he could think, search the drawers, look for a way out. If he refused now, if he acted weird or hesitant, suspicion would spread fast. Garrett might get word. Doors might lock. He might never get another chance to roam the house.
Guilt hit him like a fist to the gut. Paige. This was cheating. Even if it was for the mission, even if the woman on the bed wasn’t really here anymore, even if he hated every second, it still felt like betrayal. But he had no choice. Not if he wanted to save her.
He swallowed hard. “Okay.”
His hands moved on autopilot. He unbuckled his belt, popped the button on his jeans, shoved them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, rock hard, veins standing out, head already slick with pre-cum. Despite everything, the horror, the panic, the ache in his chest, his body had reacted. He was just a man. And the sight in front of him was impossible to ignore.
He stepped out of the pooled clothes and kicked them aside. He walked to the edge of the bed. The woman’s legs stayed exactly where they were, spread, inviting, pussy lips parted and visibly wet, like she’d been prepped or conditioned to stay aroused on command.
Owen gripped the base of his cock, guided the head to her entrance. She was soaking, hot, slick, yielding the second he pressed forward. He slid in slow, inch by inch, until he bottomed out. Tight. Perfectly tight. Her inner walls fluttered once around him, a soft, involuntary clench that pulled a low moan out of his throat before he could stop it.
Pleasure shot up his spine, sharp and unwanted.
Maid #13 watched for a moment longer, head tilted slightly, then smiled, small, satisfied. “Glad you like it, sir. I’ll leave you to it. Please make yourself comfortable. If you require anything else, refreshments, cleaning, entertainment, just press the button on the nightstand. Someone will attend immediately.”
She turned, opened the door and stepped out. The latch clicked shut behind her.
Owen stayed buried inside the woman, breathing ragged. Her pussy gripped him steadily, warm and wet, no resistance, no urgency. She didn’t moan, didn’t move her hips, didn’t react at all beyond that faint, programmed clench. Just smiled up at the ceiling, body open and available.
He pulled out halfway, then pushed back in, slow and testing. Another moan escaped him. Fuck. It felt incredible. Too good. Wrong.
He froze again, cock throbbing inside her.
The room was silent except for his breathing.
He had privacy now.
He had time.
But he couldn’t think straight with his dick buried in a brainwashed stranger. Plus anyone could walk in at any time.
He needed to pull out.
He needed to search.
He needed to find Paige before this house and his own lust swallowed him too.
He stayed there another second, hips twitching once involuntarily, then forced himself to slide all the way out. His cock glistened with her wetness, still hard as steel.
He stepped back, wiped his hand across his mouth and looked around the room again.