“Looking for something, master?” the maid repeats, stepping into the study.
Her expression is an unreadable mask, beautiful and still, like a china doll. I’ve heard that can happen sometimes with Autoclosets. If the alterations of a transformation are so severe, sometimes the nerves don’t match up. They wind up looking like a botox victim. Is she… altered?
Only her eyes move, fixated on me with a predatory stare.
“What’s that you have there, master?” she asks.
I look at the paper in my hand. It is a photo of the funeral service - me and my father, and Katarina with her arm around him. And in the rear of the shot is my uncle, Reginald, a man bloated by age and drink and jealousy, staring at my father with undisguised loathing in his eyes.
Those eyes…
She has the same eyes.
“It’s nothing."
“If it’s nothing, you’ll let me dispose of it for you,” she coos, holding out her hand to take it. I stammer, unable to think of an excuse, and hand it over. She tosses it into the fireplace before turning back with that placid, obedient smile that never reaches her eyes. She is standing close. I can smell her sweet, feminine perfume and the whiff of cleaning supplies. It’s him. I know it is. Placed here under our own noses by my cousin to spy on us, while he and my father… My God, the thought is almost too abhorrent to comprehend.
“Will there be anything else I can help you with?” she whispers, stepping closer.
“N-no,” I stammer, backing against the desk.
“Are you sure?” she murmurs. Her soft breasts press against my chest. Her dainty hand slips down, tracing the outline of my dick, examining it. “Don’t you find me attractive?” she says, pouting as if offended, her eyes studying my face intently.
She… He is testing me. He’s trying to determine how much of the truth I’ve uncovered. After all, what red-blooded male could ever turn down a proposition from such a sweet, servile beauty such as himself.
I can’t let him know that I know.