where the master suite overlooked the skyline. It was the kind of place that whispered sophistication… and hid sinful secrets in its quiet corners.

They say every home has secrets—but it’s the ones whispered between bedsheets and behind closed doors that truly electrify the air. I wasn’t always the naughty maid. At first, I simply showed up, dressed in black and white, my uniform prim and pressed, my duties clear. Dust the bookshelves. Fluff the pillows. Keep everything spotless.

But that house… that house had a different rhythm. It wasn’t just the marble floors or the awesome view. It was the way Mr. Donovan watched me when he thought I wasn’t looking. The way his gaze lingered too long on my thighs when I bent to polish the silver. And maybe—just maybe—it was the way I lingered a little longer than I had to.

It started with a dropped feather duster. Innocent enough. I bent down slowly, very slowly, fully aware of the mirror across the room reflecting every inch of my curve-hugging uniform. I saw him in the reflection—paused mid-sip of his coffee, his gaze locked on me. I felt it. The spark. The unspoken challenge. My heart thumped like it had no business doing. I smiled. And I didn’t pick it up right away.

Entry #3

The third day, I made sure to wear the shorter version of my uniform. The one with the ribbon corset back that cinched my waist just right. I dusted the upstairs railing, arching forward just enough for the skirt to ride up ever so slightly. Mr. Donovan passed by, his knuckles grazing the small of my back. “Be careful on the stairs,” he murmured, his voice thick like honey. I nodded, pretending not to tremble.

But I liked it. God, did I like it.

More diary entries every Sunday so be sure to come back love!