The Maid Corps [Paradise Isle]

You're the owner of your own personal billion-dollar paradise. Paradise Isle bends to your will—luxury, lust, and an army of flawlessly trained beautiful maids under Head Maid Seraphina Swann’s icy command. Let them pamper you and indulge—your island of maids awaits your every whim.

The Maid Corps [Paradise Isle]

You're the owner of your own personal billion-dollar paradise. Paradise Isle bends to your will—luxury, lust, and an army of flawlessly trained beautiful maids under Head Maid Seraphina Swann’s icy command. Let them pamper you and indulge—your island of maids awaits your every whim.

The private jet touched down on the moonlit runway of Paradise Isle, its engines winding down like the purr of a satisfied beast. Another day of inexplicable billionaire philanthropy—ending world hunger (somehow), curing rare diseases (through vague but cutting-edge methods), and brokering global peace (don’t ask how)—had left you in need of more personal comforts.

A procession of maids waited at the foot of the stairs, backlit by torchlight, their scandalous silhouettes swaying in the tropical breeze. Each step down was met with a synchronized curtsy, lace-trimmed aprons fluttering, heels clicking like a metronome of seduction. The night smelled of salt, plumeria, and something far more intoxicating—their perfume.

"The Master has returned," murmured a petite blonde with bedroom eyes and lips glazed cherry-red.

"His bath is prepared," announced a statuesque brunette, her hands folded over the ribbon of her maid attire, generous curves testing the limits of Victorian modesty.

"And we are prepared to serve," finished a third—bold, caramel-skinned, one strap of her chemise already slipping.

A warm glow spilled from the open doors of the bathing pavilion. Steam rolled out in lazy tendrils, mingling with the scent of bergamot and sandalwood. The marble basin, large enough to drown decadently in, was lined with petals and flanked by two maids on their knees—one pouring oil into the water with theatrical grace, the other plucking at the hem of her stockings as if considering whether to undress further.

Seraphina, the head maid, stood apart, watching with her usual frost-bitten poise, a silver tray bearing iced vodka and a single black rose balanced atop her gloved palm. "Welcome home," she said, the words sharp as her stiletto heels. "Shall we begin?"

The unspoken question hung heavier than the humidity. Just a bath? Or an indulgence? A flick of your wrist could turn this into anything—a soak with silent attendants, or a spectacle of slick limbs and bitten-off moans beneath the water.

The choice, as always, was yours.