Beauties and the Beast
Copyright© 2026 by TheNovleist2000
Chapter 5
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 5 - This is a long story about Mira, her cousin Cher and the pet that is kept in the basement. It explores kinks like pet play, BDSM, lesbian love, etc. The story starts off slow, but you can skip straight to Chapter 2 if you want.
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Mult Coercion NonConsensual Reluctant Lesbian Cuckold Incest Cousins BDSM DomSub Humiliation Spanking
A few months passed. Cher had started dating someone. I knew that because she’d stopped coming home to sleep almost every night. Even when she did return, it was either very late at night or early in the morning.
One night, from the living room window, I espied her coming out of a black car that had pulled up in front of the house. She was laughing hard and adjusting her skirt as she stepped onto the pavement. It was rare to see her that happy.
The man looked older than me — maybe in his late twenties — with dark hair and a somber look. He reminded me of Jacob Elordi from Euphoria; calm, serious, and not the kind of guy you’d expect Cher to play around with.
She seemed infatuated with him. Just as she was about to step inside, he called her name — and she turned back, ran down the path to his car, and gave him one last kiss through the window.
I’d witnessed scenes like that more than a few times, and, yesterday, she told me that she was finally bringing him home.
This afternoon, I fed Brucie his dinner early and kissed him on his head before locking him up in the basement. Cher came down to check on him and insisted that I covered the cage with a tarpaulin sheet.
“Did you change his water bowl?” she asked me.
I nodded.
“Good,” she muttered. “I can’t have him distracting you while you serve us.”
With that, we left Brucie in his cage and returned to the kitchen.
I wore my apron and washed my hands before starting to chop onions and carrots. I set a frying pan on medium heat, letting the water dry off before adding the oil. Jason would be coming soon for dinner, and Cher had told me to prepare something grand.
Cher, on the other hand, was just hanging around — dressed in a beige, sleeveless dress with a cinched waist. She leaned against the counter, fidgeting with the groceries I’d ordered online earlier, picking things up and putting them back without much thought.
“You should be wearing a maid uniform,” Cher said, looking up and down at me. “You are my maid afterall.”
“A uniform?” I murmured as I put the onions and diced carrots into the pan to saute them in butter.
“Well, he already knows I have a maid at home,” she replied. “ ... and he can’t know that you’re my...” Her voice trailed off for a moment, as if she was ashamed to finish the sentence. “ ... my cousin.”
She glanced away, pretending to be busy with the fridge.
“Don’t worry,” she added. She closed the fridge and turned back to me with a small, smug smile. “I’ve already ordered a few options. Something that looks proper. I’ll give them to you before he comes.”
“Okay” I said. I didn’t want to say anything else to her and kept stirring the pan. I added some oil and stirred more, the scent wafting up my nose.
Around 6 p.m., I finished cooking, and by 6:30 the table was set. Throughout the entirety of preparation, not once did she offer to help me — unless you counted the two long candles she brought out from her room and planted at the centre of the table like they made all the difference.
She didn’t even light them herself. She made me do it.
Exhausted, I left her in the kitchen and walked into my room. My uniform for the night had been laid out on the bed. It was folded neatly, placed on top of a black hanger, as if the presentation alone could make it respectable.
But it wasn’t.
The dress was short — far shorter than anything I would’ve chosen — with a fitted bodice and sleeves that ended just past the shoulder. A frilly white apron, trimmed with lace, sat on top, along with a matching headband. The fabric looked thin. The whole thing looked like a costume — something you’d wear at a themed party, not to serve dinner.
When the time for Jason’s arrival approached, Cher could be seen pacing restlessly. She had changed into a glittering champagne dress that hugged her waist and shimmered every time she moved. The sleeves were long and sheer, and the back dipped low, revealing smooth skin and a kind of effortless confidence she wore like perfume.
She checked the mirror for the fifth time, adjusting a loose strand of hair and smoothing the fabric over her hips. She rotated between glancing at the dinner table, peeking through the peephole, and checking her phone.
Finally, Jason’s car pulled up in the driveway. The shiny, black Mercedes slid in next to Cher’s sedan.
As I opened the door, Cher rushed past me and threw her arms around him. He leaned down to meet her halfway, returning the hug with a quiet ease. She was already tugging at his hand, leading him toward the kitchen — until he noticed me.
He stopped mid-step, one hand still linked with hers, and extended the other toward me. He smiled.
“The name’s Jason,” he said. “You must be...?”
He paused, waiting — but Cher didn’t.
“She’s my maid,” she cut in quickly, tightening her grip on him and pulling again.
But he didn’t budge.
“I’m Mira,” I introduced, shaking his hand.
At the table, Jason took the head of the table, and Cher settled into the seat next to him.
As I stood near them, next to an ice bucket with a champagne bottle, Cher’s back faced me.
Having been taught earlier by Cher on how to pour champagne, I pulled out the already eased cork and poured the silky liquid into their glasses. Jason thanked me — he was, after all, a gentleman — but Cher didn’t say a word.
Throughout the meal, their laughter filled the room. They nibbled, spoke, smooched every now and then as I stood at a distance, exhausted and hungry. The ice melted slowly in the bucket as I regularly refilled their cups and gave condiments Cher asked for.
When both of them stopped eating, I took away their plates and brought out the desserts. There was tiramisu, a strawberry shortcake, zucchini brownies and a slice of cherry pie on a number of plates.
“Dinner was delicious,” Jason said, looking at Cher. “Did you cook it all by yourself?”
“Of course,” Cher replied smoothly, reaching for the tiramisu. “I made everything myself.”
“You should’ve seen the kitchen earlier,” she went on, her voice dripping with false humility. “Mira tried to help, but honestly ... she just gets in the way. I had to redo almost everything she touched.”
My hands clenched at my sides. The bitch was outright lying, as she picked up one of the brownies I had plated myself moments ago. My eyes aflamed with anger as I stared at her.
Jason caught my eyes and gave me a look. His chin subtly lifted up in my direction, as if he was confirming with me whether Cher was telling the truth. And then his eyes held mine, steady and waiting.
I shook my head very subtly. Just a twitch of a muscle. And he got his answer. He smiled, putting his fork on the plate. “I am full,” he said, looking at Cher.
She also put down her fork and wiped her mouth, signalling me to come pick up the plates.
As I reached for Jason’s half-eaten brownie and Cher’s untouched slice of cherry pie, Jason stood up. Before I could take the plates away, he gently took them from my hands.
“I’ll help,” he said.
Cher scoffed, pushing her chair back. “Jason, what are you doing? That’s her job—”
He didn’t look at her.
“Go wait for me in your room.”
His voice was calm and quiet — soothing to the ears.
She froze for a second, then gave a small, forced laugh. Without another word, she picked up her glass and left the room, her heels clicking against the floor as she walked through the hallway.
Jason set the plates down on the counter, then turned to me. “Thank you, Mira,” he said. “For the meal. It was very delicious.” He then left me in the kitchen.
As soon as he disappeared into Cher’s room, I dropped the sponge and tiptoed to my room. My room was right next to Cher’s, and through the wall, I could hear them.
I moved my ear over the thinnest section of the wall, the spot near the corner where the plaster was faintly cracked.
They were fucking, I thought. I could hear Cher’s moans only to be broken through Jason’s groans. He was pounding her—perhaps on her bed or on the floor? I wasn’t quite sure, but there was no mistaking it. They were fucking.
He took his time. Twenty minutes, maybe more, before everything fell into silence again.
Then her voice — low, needy.
“Stay the night,” she whispered. “Please.”
There was a pause.
I didn’t hear what he replied to her, but moments later, the door to her room clicked open, followed by the sound of footsteps in the hallway.
I cracked my door open just a sliver and peeked through the gap. Cher stood in the entryway, watching him leave. Her arms were folded across her chest, her posture stiff.
The black Mercedes revved to life in the driveway, its headlights slicing through the dusk as it pulled away into the street.
Cher didn’t move for a long time.
She just stood there — barefoot, in her glittering dress, now shabby and creased — staring at the empty space where the car had been.
In the coming weeks, Jason visited the house more and more. He often came around during evenings, and both Cher and I would be rushing to get Brucie into the cage and get in our respective costumes. I had to wear that degrading maid uniform, while Cher wore some of the most elegant outfits she owned.
During each visit, Jason always took his time greeting me, making me feel appreciated. He often hung out with Cher in the living room, talking and kissing, as Cher made me serve tea and biscuits to him.
One time, I was coming from the kitchen, holding a platter in my hand, as I brought a wine bottle and glasses for the couple in the living room. As I entered the archway into the living room, Jason suddenly came out and accidentally knocked the platter down from my hands.
The noise made Cher come out, and when she saw that her wine bottle and expensive glasses were now in tatters, flames came out of her eyes. “You little bitch,” she yelled at me as she came closer and slapped my face. “Just because you don’t have to pay for it,” she continued, raising her hand for another blow.
Jason caught her hand, and in that moment, Cher seemed to realise she had shattered the illusion of the sweet, innocent girl she so often pretended to be around him.
“What are you doing?” he said, yanking her back.
Only when he knelt in front of me and touched my foot did I realise that it was bleeding. I must have stepped on one of the shards during the commotion and was too stunned to have felt the pain.
He ignored Cher’s outburst and held my hand all the way to the kitchen as I hopped my way to my room. As we were about to enter my room, he looked behind his back and looked at Cher. “Go and clean up the mess,” he said.
She didn’t move at first. Her jaw clenched, eyes darting between us like she couldn’t believe what had just happened.
Jason didn’t flinch. He held my hand a little tighter, his gaze steady on her. “I said clean it up,” he repeated, slower this time. “Before someone else gets hurt.”
Cher’s lips parted, but no words came out. With a sharp breath through her nose, she finally turned and disappeared down the hall.
Jason led me into the room and closed the door behind us with a quiet click.
“Sit,” he said gently, guiding me to the edge of the bed. “Let me take a look.”
At this point, I was bleeding quite a bit, and he insisted that I washed the wound with water. He scooped me up without a word and carried me into the bathroom, lowering me gently into the bathtub. There, he took the shower hose and began washing the blood from my foot, careful not to hurt me.
As he adjusted my leg, the hem of my dress rode up, and for a split second, I was sure he could see my panties. I held my breath, watching his face, but he didn’t say anything. He pressed down on the wound, and I winced. “Ow!” I cried out.
“My mum always said you have to press like that to stop the bleeding,” he murmured, not looking the least bit sorry.
Then, without warning, he lifted my foot and took the toe with the gash into his mouth, locking eyes with me as he did it. His mouth was warm, wet and—to my surprise—gave me a sense of security.
“She also taught me to do that,” he said when he pulled back, his voice low and unreadable.
A genuine laugh slipped from my lips as I covered my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Cher has been hard on you,” he said, still holding my foot near his mouth. “I apologise in her stead.”
Amazed, I looked up at him, his hair shaking slightly as he put the toe back into his mouth. His hands drifted lower as he did so, and before I could process what was happening, his body was closer to mine and his hands had wandered just over my panties.
He hovered there for a moment, his breath brushing against my skin, his fingers toying with the edge of the fabric as if waiting for permission he wouldn’t ask for.
I felt my thighs tense, not in fear, but in a quiet anticipation that made my breath catch.
He kissed my inner thighs lightly and pulled the crotch of my panties aside, revealing my pussy, into which his fingers suddenly slipped.
“Umm ... Cher ... she ... she,” I blurted out.
“What about her?” Jason replied, his eyes locked on me, his mouth curling into a teasing smile.
“She’ll get mad,” I replied.
“No, she won’t,” he said.
“What do you mean? She’ll come in soon and find out about us.”
“Us?” He smiled. “Do you mean there is a thing between us?” His fingers slipped deeper into my pussy as he asked that question.
Ecstasy took over my body, and I could no longer pay attention to the conversation. I closed my eyes and leaned back, my head on the brim of the bathtub.
“Hmm, don’t you worry,” Jason continued. “Cher could do nothing about this.”
He then pulled his fingers out of my cunt and lifted me up out of the tub before carrying me to the bed. He positioned me at the edge of the bed, pulled up the hem of my dress and pulled down my panties before spreading my pussy lips open with his fingers.
He stared at the soft pink flesh between my lips, now glistening with anticipation, before unbuttoning his pants.
One hand held my thighs apart while the other guided his cock to my entrance, pausing just long enough to make me ache for it—then he slid inside.
I moaned. He was a guest a moment ago, and now he was taking my virginity in my own room, as if I was the whore and he was the pimp.
He then put me on all fours and played with my tits as he continued to fuck me. I knew that Cher could hear my moans, but she didn’t barge into my room as I had dreaded.
The walls felt thinner with every thrust, my voice refusing to stay quiet no matter how hard I bit my lip. Part of me wanted to stop, to hide—but a darker part wanted her to listen.
He soon cummed inside me, and we both fell onto the bed from exhaustion. He snuggled with me for some time, assuring me that he would handle Cher if she tried to come after me.
When we both came out, the mess in the hallway had been cleaned up. Cher was a husk of her former self, sitting on the sofa and staring straight ahead. She looked shell-shocked.
As soon as she heard us enter, her eyes landed on me—taking in my crumpled uniform, my tousled hair, and the way my lips still parted slightly, slack with the remnants of pleasure.
She stood up. Her gaze flicked between the two of us, registering everything. She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. She just stared.
The high was gone. The heat in my body had cooled, and the pounding of my heart gave way to a gnawing unease. Now that the arousal had drained from me, common sense crept back in, and the weight of what I’d done hit me full force.
I looked at her—really looked at her—before turning to Jason, wondering if he would be the one to stop what was coming. What I might not have the strength to stop myself.
But Jason showed no sign of stress. His face held not even a trace of guilt—or if he felt any, he hid it flawlessly. He simply stepped forward and kissed Cher on the lips, even as her eyes stayed locked on mine.
To my surprise, she responded. There was no slapping, no hair-pulling, no screaming at either of us. It seemed that she had accepted it—or at least decided not to fight it.
She kissed him back, slowly, like she was still trying to convince herself it was the right thing to do. And all the while, her eyes never left mine.
Jason quickly returned to his former-self, laughing and making jokes, while Cher kept quiet throughout the rest of the evening, only forcing herself to laugh at some of his jokes.
After a few hours, Cher saw him to his car as usual, with him whispering something into her ear and her giving a hesitant nod. A smile crept across my face as I realised the couple hadn’t even made it to the bedroom this time.
In the following days, Cher and I barely spoke. I continued to act as her maid—preparing her meals, cleaning her room, and doing the usual household chores—but our interactions were reduced to almost nothing.
Whenever we happened to cross paths in the house, an awkward tension lingered between us. We’d glance at each other briefly, then quickly drop our eyes to the floor or shift our gaze to the ceiling, pretending the other wasn’t there.
Most mornings, I kept Brucie in my room while I worked. Cher had completely lost interest in him by then and had also stopped attending her classes. She barely left her room at all, except when Jason came over in the evenings. What she did there all day was anyone’s guess. But every time I went in to sweep or vacuum, I would find her curled up under the blanket on her bed, as if hiding from the world.
Cher’s old habit of humiliating me in front of Jason had turned into something else entirely—she would now grasp at the smallest excuse just to dismiss me and get me out of her sight. Gone were the long waits during dinner when she used to wear me down, sending me back and forth to fetch this and that.
She even suggested she regretted making me wear the uniform. As if it wasn’t clear that the dress scared her now — especially since Jason liked it so much. I smiled at her and said. “I don’t really mind. I am your maid afterall.”
Whenever Jason visited Cher, he visited me as well. Initially, they were brief visits—fifteen-minute quickies in my room, whenever Cher happened to lose sight of him. But in the following weeks, they grew longer as he spent more and more time with me.
I was particularly thrilled when he started sending her off to her room under the polite pretext of having her wait for him. We both knew exactly what would happen next — and yet, she still complied. Every single time.
With her confined in her room, Jason and I made love at liberty. My bedroom was the most frequented place as the bed was convenient. He would take off my uniform and make me lie on my back before getting on top of me.
He often railed me for hours, his cock pounding into me over and over with relentless rhythm, hips slamming against mine as he pinned me down by the wrists or grabbed my thighs to pull me closer, fucking me so deep and so hard that the sheets would stick to my back with sweat and I’d lose track of how many times I came, moaning his name while he used my body like it was his personal plaything.
Afterwards, we would cuddle on my bed until we felt energised again, only to go the next round—more perverted than the last, with his hands exploring filthier places, his words turning filthier still, and his thrusts growing rougher as if each time was a new way to defile me.
One evening, both of us fell asleep, and Cher had to spend the entire night in her room. The look on her face when she finally came out in the morning, just as Jason went for her, made me feel a little sad.
I saw fear in her eyes — the same kind of fear that many bourgeois women have when they suspect their wealthy spouse or their doctor husband they love is having a younger, prettier mistress on the side. It was just that I was older and less attractive than her, and that alone must have deepened her sense of hopelessness.
In the coming days, I became emboldened. I would cut short Cher’s time with Jason in the living room by loitering around them. Jason always knew what I wanted, and he would immediately send her off to the bedroom. And on the very sofa she had been sitting on moments ago, we would make love. Since the living room was quite close to Cher’s bedroom, I was sure that she could hear all the moans coming from there.
Pretty soon, I became the one who sent Cher off to bed. I would often cut her off mid-sentence very politely, saying something along these lines.
“You look very tired, Cher. Why don’t you go and rest?”
“You seem tired, Cher. Maybe you should get some rest.”
“You’ve had a long day, haven’t you? Why don’t you call it a night?”
“You should probably go get some sleep, Cher. We can handle things here.”
“I think you could use an early night, Cher.”
The best thing about these exchanges was that she had to accept those invitations, and she had to accept them politely. She didn’t dare face reality by challenging them, because refusing would be akin to admitting that she was the third wheel in her own relationship.
We had sex everywhere in the house — on the dining table, in the hallway, on the coffee table in the living room, and even once in Cher’s study. We had to be really creative with the last one.
One time, while Jason was fucking me under the dining table, Cher accidentally stumbled into the kitchen and discovered us.
The look on her face was of sheer shock. She turned around immediately, probably trying to convince herself she hadn’t just seen her boyfriend balls-deep inside her maid under her own dining table. I swear she was crying when she ran back to her room.
I was a bit of a devil that day—I waited until Jason had cummed in me and got up. My thighs were still sticky when I pulled on my dress and walked down the hallway like nothing had happened. I knocked on her door, holding a jug of water. “You wanted this?” I asked, handing the jug to her before returning to the kitchen and continuing to fuck her boyfriend.
I admit it was a cruel thing to do, but with Jason by my side, I didn’t feel small anymore. I didn’t feel like a worthless nobody scraping by in a foreign country. For once, I felt wanted. Desirable. Chosen.
As Cher often avoided me, I was at liberty to do whatever I wanted with Brucie. I made sure he no longer had to eat out of that stupid bucket in the basement. Instead, I fed him on a clean plate on the kitchen floor for breakfasts and lunches, and only for dinners he had to eat in the cage.
Don’t get me wrong — I still made him earn his food every now and then. Just like with the sausage trick, I’d drag whatever I was feeding him right across his asshole a few times before tossing it down for him. It got to the point where the skin back there even turned a little red. It was a sketchy practice, and I made sure that Cher wasn’t around when I did that.
Months passed like that, and my relationship with Jason only grew stronger. We discovered that we shared the same taste in music and books—and that we both understood what it meant to be dirt poor, as his family had only become wealthy when he was in high school.
Cher, on the other hand, was still lingering around. Jason had never broken up with her—and truthfully, I didn’t want him to. If anything, it was more fun that way. Jason was charming, handsome and everything I had ever dreamed of finding in a man, but nothing excited me more than him being Cher’s boyfriend.
Yes, Cher was still his official girlfriend despite him devoting most of his time to me, and it couldn’t be more perfect. There was something delicious about knowing that, no matter how much she tried to hold onto him, it was me he came home to. Me he wanted. Me he touched. And the fact that she had to keep pretending like everything was fine only made it better.
Letters came from her university during those months, and I kept every single one of them. At first, the letters were written out of concern, asking whether she was alive and well since she wasn’t answering their calls or replying to emails. Then came the warnings — if she didn’t show up soon, she would be barred from taking her exams. Next were the notices informing her of the dates for supplementary exams. After that came confirmation of her failing the entire year. Soon, the letters were about overdue payments. And finally, the last letter arrived — the letter of termination. Her enrollment had been cancelled. Just like that, Cher was no longer a university student.
That last letter? I made sure to deliver it to Cher. She opened the envelope I’d skillfully re-sealed, and I watched her face drop.
It wasn’t satisfaction that I felt that day. I had nothing against Cher receiving an education I myself couldn’t afford. What I felt was security — the feeling of safety that came from knowing there was one less threat to my place in this house. One less reason for her to think she was better than me.
And one more secret against her. She told me to lie to her parents whenever they asked, and I was more than happy to agree. I comforted her, soothed her, made her believe there was nothing wrong with quietly stepping away from university for a while. I filled her head with gentle little reassurances — that not everyone was made for the academic path, that life had other ways of working itself out, and that some things were simply better left unspoken. It wasn’t even hard. She wanted to believe it. And I was more than willing to help her believe exactly that.
I also cancelled the plan of third-wheeling them during their cinema date that day. I admit, it would’ve been fun — making her sit in the back under polite words while Jason and I took the front. Then, maybe, I would’ve made her wait in the car while Jason and I slipped into the bathroom for a quick fuck.
That night, when Cher returned from the cinema date, she was almost back to her usual self. She was laughing, smiling, hanging onto Jason’s arm like nothing had ever gone wrong. It was as if the letter she’d opened that morning had never existed. I let her have him for the whole night — just to convince her that she didn’t have to get her life back together. Not yet.
Months continued to pass and the unpaid tuition fees from her father kept on piling in her bank account, but Cher’s generosity towards me was as low as ever. She had automated the transfer of my salary through her bank account since a long time ago so that I would have no opportunity to ever bring up my pay. The result was that the amount of money that trickled into my account over the months hadn’t even amounted to what I needed to renew my visa next year.
When Jason learned about it, he pulled out his wallet and offered to pay for her. But it wasn’t his money I wanted. It was hers. She was the one who didn’t pay me a fair wage. So, one evening, while we were cuddling on my bed, I came up with a plan, and Jason agreed not to intervene.
I decided that Cher must start paying fees to keep Jason in her life. Of course, I couldn’t just go up to her and say that you must pay a fee to access your boyfriend. It would be weird, and I also didn’t want her to acknowledge that Jason and I were a thing and she was a mere spectator in her own relationship.
No, I couldn’t say that out loud. I didn’t want to break the illusion we were both so desperate to preserve — that she was still the girlfriend, and I was just the poor maid in the background, quietly folding sheets and minding her own business. This had to look like something else. Something soft. Something unspoken but understood.
I waited for the day Jason would visit us. I told him he should come late — maybe half an hour or so — just enough time for my little conversation with Cher to happen. As Cher squirmed on the sofa, full makeup on and dressed like a girl trying a little too hard not to look desperate, I knew she expected the day to unfold as usual.
She must have expected that I would let the two of them have their little alone time, perhaps even in her bedroom if I was feeling generous, until I decided that her fun was over and took him for myself. Then, as always, she would be given some time with Jason afterwards — just enough to console herself, to believe, for a moment, that he was still hers, that none of this was as humiliating as it truly was, and that maybe tomorrow, things might somehow go back to how they used to be.
When the moment was right, I approached her, holding a broom in my hand. I swept the floor of the living room while making sure that I got all the dust beneath her feet. “Doing housework,” I smiled as I said. “ ... takes a toll on you ... You know,” I continued, only occasionally looking at her as I kept up the sweeping.
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