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A Nightmare in Silk and Lace 2 (One) Dean wasn't happy about this, but on the other hand going along with the plan meant he now had the key to his penis restraint. After a couple of days locked up, he longed for some sexual relief. Truth be told, certain aspects of his situation were actually quite erotic, though he could never admit as much to Gemma or anyone else. The stockings in particular were very sensual, and it was impossible not to be turned on by his own appearance when he happened to catch sight of himself in a mirror. Tonight, once he was alone in his new room he'd unlock the restraint, free himself, and masturbate himself while rubbing his stocking clad legs together. His trapped penis was already trying desperately to grow as he made his way towards the lift. The staff quarters were in the basement, but when he tried his new swipe card on the elevator door, nothing happened except that the door light blinked red. Confused, Dean tried to swipe the card a second and then a third time, each time finding the door light blinking red again. Seeing a hotel maid walking down the corridor, Dean called out to her. "Excuse me, my card isn't working. I can't get the elevator door to open." As Dean spoke, the maid looked up at him and dipped into a curtsey. She was dressed in the old fashioned manner of a short black dress, white apron and a white lace cap. The uniform was perhaps a bit too tight on her, and the neckline was cut surprisingly low, exposing the ample curve of her breasts. Didn't she realise how sexual it made her look? Dean found himself wanting her. Trapped inside the plastic sheath, his penis struggled and protested at its unfair confinement. "Can I see your card, Miss?" The girl's voice sounded foreign, and very deferential. She looked Asian as Dean handed her the card. Close by the elevator there was a small computer terminal. The maid swiped the card on the terminal and pressed an 'okay' button after touching the screen. For a moment her expression seemed confused. Then she gazed back at Dean and smiled. "I thought you were a guest!" she said, her previously subservient demeanour having suddenly vanished. "I am," replied Dean as he gazed longingly at her stocking clad legs. "You shouldn't lie to me, maid." She gave Dean a disapproving look. "And you know very well that hotel girls aren't permitted to use the elevators." She pointed towards the distant stair well. So that was it, thought Dean. Of course - he had a staff card so that he had access to the staff rooms. And the staff didn't use the elevators that were reserved for guests. Of course he was a guest - the stupid maid didn't realise that. Obviously the pass card still had the name of the girl who was supposed to be working here. The inability to use the elevators was inconvenient, but hardly terminal. The important thing was to find his new room quickly, close and lock the door and then use the belt key that Gemma had placed in his handbag. Nothing else was important right now except getting some long delayed sexual relief. Dean was aware of a black stare from the maid - her ID badge read 'Lucy' - as he walked slowly down the hall way. She obviously thought he was being rude, but frankly he didn't care what she thought. He was a guest after all, and she was just staff. Navigating the stairwell was tricky in three inch heels. Dean gripped the hand rail as he descended one step at a time. By the time he reached the basement level, he was beginning to get the hang of dealing with staircases. A short corridor stretched out before him that led to a glass panelled door that in turn led to a reception room. There was another card reader beside the door. This time when he swiped his ID card, the door reacted positively with a green light. This of course was a door that a guest card wouldn't have opened. The reception room inside was carpeted and boasted a service desk, and a low coffee table with two chairs. A couple of potted plants filled the far corners. Several women's magazines lay neatly arranged on the coffee table. "Badge." The voice was female and rather sharp in tone. Dean turned and came face to face with a dark haired woman dressed in a dark grey suit. She wore glasses and had her hair tied above her head. Dean handed over his card as ordered. "My name is Miss Tyson," remarked the sombre looking woman as she swiped it through a desk terminal. "And you are Ariana Demisovski. You're late. According to my records you should have arrived three days ago." That was obviously the name the card was registered to, so Dean nodded. He hoped he didn't have to fill out any forms for the room. Right now he simply wanted to crash out on his new bed and remove the frustrating chastity device. >From where he stood Dean could see the terminal screen and he was amused to notice that the picture of Ariana Demisovski had bleached platinum blonde hair similar to his own. While not identical, his current feminised state was similar enough to the photo for him to pass without questions. According to the personal details she was from a town in Albania. "Handbag," remarked Miss Tyson. "What?" Dean looked confused. "Handbag." Miss Tyson held out her hand. Still confused, Dean handed it to her. To his surprise she placed it on a shelf under the counter of the reception desk. "What are you doing?" The key to his penis restraint was in that bag. "Staff bags have to be checked for contraband items. When the bag has been checked it will be returned to you." "But..." Dean felt his penis strain against the cruel chastity device. "No buts. We have rules in this hotel, Ariana. Now, come." Miss Tyson snapped her fingers sharply and steered Dean by his elbow away from the front desk. Despite his protests, he found himself pushed through the next door and into a long corridor with a series of doors running down either side. A sign on one of the walls read 'Dormitories.' "You are in room nine." Miss Tyson swiped a card reader on the appropriate door and waited as it opened. Inside was a small room dominated by a bunk bed. Nearby was a vanity unit with a mirror, across the surface of which was scattered a variety of cosmetics and hair bushes. There was also a single wardrobe and a small chest of drawers. Mounted in one corner was a security camera that had a clear view of the whole room. As Dean entered the room he found it was already occupied by two girls. One was Abyssinian, while the other was Asian looking. They both wore identical pink chiffon baby doll nighties and high heeled open-toe high heeled slippers made from luxurious satin, with an adorable marabou pompom on the side. "Emily," Miss Tyson acknowledged the black girl, "and Lucy," she nodded at the Asian girl. "This is Ariana." Both girls looked suspiciously at Dean, as if his presence was some sort of inconvenience. "She'll be rooming with you. Now I know there are only two beds, so two of you are going to have to share." "Don't I have my own room?" asked Dean. "Of course not. We don't have the facilities for such frivolous luxuries. The more rooms we allocate to staff means less rooms for paying guests." But I AM a guest, thought Dean to himself. This was frankly unacceptable. Gemma would simply have to sort something else out. If there weren't any guest rooms left in this hotel, then she would have to book him into another hotel somewhere. He simply wasn't prepared to put up with... "Now strip to your underwear, Ariana. Off duty maids wear the regulation nighties and slippers." Miss Tyson opened the wardrobe and found an identical pink baby doll nightdress and matching pompom slippers. While the wardrobe door was open Dean saw that it was full of maid's uniforms, but nothing else. "I'm not going to..." Dean suddenly cried out as Miss Tyson slapped the inside of his thighs with a flexible switch that she unclipped from her belt. "Quickly now," she remarked as she brandished the short whip. "Off with the blouse, skirt and shoes. Chop-chop." She gave Dean a second swipe that brought tears to his eyes. Emily and Lucy sat on the edge of the lowest bunk and giggled to one another, amused to see the 'new girl' go through the same routine that they had once endured. Dean didn't want to be struck again by this mad harridan. He undressed as quickly as he could, shedding his tight secretarial skirt and blouse, and slipping the crippling three inch heels from his feet. Losing the shoes of course wasn't too much of an ordeal. As Miss Tyson swished the crop for good effect, Dean pulled the chiffon night gown over his body and slipped his stocking clad feet into the pompom slippers. "Now that wasn't so difficult, was it?" said Miss Tyson as she scooped up the discarded skirt, blouse and shoes. "Sit down on the edge of the bunk beside Lucy and extend your left ankle." Dean did so, still shocked and distraught by the sudden turn of events. Miss Tyson took his ankle in her left hand and, with her right, she produced a steel anklet that she locked around it with a sharp click. "All maids in the hotel wear these GPS trackers, so we know where you are at all times. When you're on duty they will also register whether or not you're moving. While of course you are permitted a certain amount of standing around, doing so too often, or for too long will alert the switchboard that you may be slacking. We take a dim view of lazy maids." Maids? But I'm not a maid, thought Dean to himself. I'm just using a maid's ID card to gain access to a room. "Lights go out at nine in the evening, at which time you should all be tucked up in bed. Wake up call is at four thirty." "Four thirty!" squealed Dean. "Miss Tyson, I think there's been a mistake. I'm not supposed to be..." "Quiet!" Miss Tyson raised the switch and Dean promptly closed his mouth in fear. Instead he shrank back on the bed beside the two maids, Lucy and Emily, both of whom scowled at him. Until now they had been two girls sharing a room. Now this new clumsy maid was going to take up some of their living space. And worse still, she'd be expecting to share one of the beds. "Now you have just over half an hour to get acquainted with your new room mates. Once you hear the bell ringing, you will be expected to make whatever final preparations you need for bed. When the second bell rings, you should be in bed." Miss Tyson glanced at the security camera mounted in the corner of the room. "And we'll know if you're not." With a final swish of her crop, Miss Tyson left the room and closed the door behind her. "Stupid new maid," hissed Emily as soon as the supervisor was gone. "You'd better not annoy Miss Tyson. She can make our lives miserable." "Yes." Lucy poked Dean in the ribs. "And if one girl earns a punishment, the punishment applies to other girls she shares a room with as well." "Stupid maid!" Emily suddenly grabbed hold of Dean's left wrist, while Lucy did the same with Dean's right wrist. Together the two girls were easily strong enough to overpower him and pull him down onto his front on the lower bunk. "What are you doing! Let me go!" squealed Dean in his breathless high pitched voice as his face was pressed down against the bed. The tightness of the corset made him gasp as the girls quickly drew off his stockings and, with one of them, tied his wrists together and then secured them to the bottom end of the bed. Working quickly, they then used the second stocking to tie his ankles together and secure his feet to the other end of the bed. "Please! Let me go!" cried Dean. "Uh-uh," said Emily as she wagged a cautionary finger. "Not until you understand your place here. Lucy sat down on Dean's back, pinning him helplessly as she raised the chiffon hem of his baby doll nightie. She seemed very happy. "I'm not the lowest ranking maid any more," said Lucy as she placed the palm of her hand over Dean's pantied bottom. "Emily was here first and when I arrived she made it clear who was in charge in this room. Now that you're the new girl, I'm making it clear that you are below me in the order of things. Isn't that right, Emily?" Emily nodded and brushed the long blonde hair out of Dean's eyes with her fingers. "You're all crazy!" cried Dean. "I'm not a maid! There's been a stupid mistake! I only wanted a room." Both girls laughed and Lucy clapped her hands in delight. "Oh we do have a special Princess here tonight. Not a maid... whatever next!" Then she began to spank Dean hard across his exposed bottom, and across the inside of his thighs. Pretty soon after the first dozen slaps, he began to blubber and then cry, twisting in his bonds. But Lucy didn't let up, She continued to rain blows down on the poor wretch until at last he couldn't take any more. "I'm a maid! I'm a maid! Please stop!" Lucy paused from delivering a further blow. "Are you sure, Princess?" "Yes, yes, I'm a maid! But please don't hit me any more!" "Emily is first maid in this room, so what dos that make you?" "Third maid!" cried Dean. "I'm third maid." "Good." Lucy seemed satisfied. "So here are the rules. When you enter the room, if one of us is here, you curtsey to us. The same applies if you're in the room and one of us enters." She began to count off the rules on her left hand. "Secondly, you don't eat until one of us two gives you permission. Thirdly, when not working in the hotel, you address both of us as Ma'am. Fourth, if one of us tells you to do something, you do it. Understand?" "Yes, yes," moaned Dean in between tears. (Two) "I can't wear that..." Dean stood staring at the contents of the shared wardrobe as the other girls set about helping one another dress. Already the second morning bell had rung signifying that maids only had ten more minutes before they were expected to turn out for early morning duty. "Why not?" Emily was suddenly standing directly in front of Dean, her small hands clenched into annoyed fists as they rested on her hips. "Do you still think you're better than the rest of us, princess..." she used the term mockingly. "Do you need us to spank you again?" "No!" Dean cringed. This place was a madhouse. First the horrible Miss Tyson, and now these two maids - everyone in the hotel seemed to think they had the right to chastise him. "But I don't know anything about being a maid." "Of course you don't," sniffed an angry Lucy. "It's your first day. No one knows anything on their first day." "I just need to make one phone call... just one phone call to a hotel room, and all this can be sorted out..." pleaded Dean. "Oh? And I suppose you have a phone do you?" asked Emily as she tapped her foot. "No... but if I could just make one call..." Dean suddenly felt his bottom slapped hard. He jumped as Lucy handed him the fluffy starched petticoat. "Put it on," she hissed. "Now!" He did so, quickly and obediently, under the joint glare and strict supervision of the girls. The petticoat was a mass of frills and crinoline as it flared out high up his thighs. "The dress next." The dress was plain black, made from some satin material. It was short, lacy and very frilly, cut low to show off a girl's cleavage. Dean struggled with this garment as it was tight and figure hugging, even with the corset he wore. As he struggled to pull it on, Lucy sighed and reached for his corset lacing. "You need to reduce your waist by another inch, maid." "No. Please, it won't go any tighter, it won't. It really won't." "Of course it will." She loosened the laces and for a moment Dean felt a blissful sense of relief as the constant pressure around his midriff relaxed. But it was only a moment's relief as Lucy then pulled hard, bracing herself against Dean, pulling harder still than Gemma had ever done. Once again Dean's waist constricted sharply, but this time a whole inch tighter than before. Quickly now the girls secured the laces into a tight knot and stepped back to admire their handiwork. If Dean had found it difficult to take deep breaths before, he now found it nigh on impossible. But the black dress could now be pulled down past his waist and smoothed over his petticoats. "There, see." Together, the girls helped Dean straighten his seamed black stockings. "Miss Tyson is very strict about stocking seams." While Lucy made a few adjustments, Emily produced a pair of four inch glossy heels that she slid onto Dean's feet one at a time. They buckled over his foot and clicked smartly in place. Meanwhile Lucy now set a frilly cap on Dean's head and tied a lace collar around his neck. The final touch was a lace edged apron in white cotton. The apron laces were tied neatly into a bow at the back just as the final morning bell rang throughout the dormitories. Dean felt the girls turn him about until he was facing the tall mirror above the dresser. What he saw was a maid, flanked by two other maids. There was nothing now in his reflection that he could recognise as being Dean Prentice. It seemed that his apron was secured just in time as barely had the morning bell ceased ringing that the door to the room sprang open and in walked the monstrous Miss Tyson, switch already in hand. All three girls, Dean included, shrank back as she appeared. Lucy and Emily both dropped down into neat curtsies and Dean, once he received a nudge from Emily, did the same, copying their stance. "You're all dressed. Good." Miss Tyson produced a name badge that she pinned above Dean's right breast. The badge was pink and read 'Ariana'. Next to the name was a single star, denoting her rank. Dean noticed that Lucy's badge had two stars and Emily had three. "Stocking seams straight?" She peered at Dean's stocking clad legs which were now perfect. If anything she seemed disappointed that she didn't have cause to criticise Dean. "Hmm, well yes, they are it seems..." Dean's stomach was empty. The events last night had meant he had missed out on dinner. Presumably breakfast would be served before the maids went off to work for the day. Dean of course had no intention of working. Once he was out of this mad house he would locate Gemma and get her to sort this mess out. He was only supposed to be occupying a room, not actually stepping in and taking on the role of a hotel maid. "Stocking tops!" Miss Tyson suddenly slapped Dean's thighs with her crop. He jumped and gazed down to where she was pointing. The hem line of the petticoats had risen slightly, revealing the dark trim of the stocking tops which, at the best of times, were barely an inch from being exposed. "Only sluts go around showing off their stocking tops, Ariana. Are you a slut?" "No, Miss Tyson!" Dean pulled swiftly at the hem of his brief skirt. There, the stocking tops were barely covered again by ruffles of petticoat lace. Dean spent the long morning under the strict supervision of Miss Tyson. She hardly took her eye off him for longer than a couple of minutes as she paced him about the third floor, cleaning one hotel room after another. At first Dean proved to be useless at making the beds neatly. The art of laying fresh clean linen sheets was lost on a man who slept under a duvet. When Miss Tyson had summoned maids Lucy and Emily to give a demonstration, Dean could see that the two girls were less than amused at having to take time out from their own gruelling workload to teach something that a stupid Albanian maid should already know. By midday he had finished his rounds and Miss Tyson led him downstairs into the lobby where he was permitted to use the staff canteen for a light lunch. The maid menu offered a choice of two crisp salads with or without all the beetroot you could eat. His feet by now were killing him. His aching calves protested against the cruel four-inch heels and his back felt so stiff from continually bending over (during which Dean had found it impossible to control his flouncy petticoats that rose up to expose his panties) that he almost missed the sight of Gemma crossing the lobby on her way back from the ground floor restaurant. She was walking beside the tall, broad shouldered and powerful looking figure of Mr Grimm; an expensive leather folder clutched professionally in one of her hands, and a mobile phone in the other. Gemma was laughing at some joke Mr Grimm had just made as they walked towards the lift doors. As Dean watched, Gemma briefly checked her reflection in a wall length mirror and adjusted a few strands of her gorgeous blonde hair. "Lunch was wonderful, Mr Grimm. Oh, but the wild boar tenderloin with potatoes dauphin was the finest I've ever tasted and you really spoiled me with that shaved truffle dessert. I do declare I'm going to have to spend an hour in the hotel gym tonight if I don't want to pile on the pounds!" Gemma patted an incredibly flat stomach that would be the envy of any super model. Her eyes sparkled as she added, "and the wine! I can't believe they charged $475 for the 1982 Burgundy, but oh my, I've never drunk anything quite like it. Now I know what they serve in heaven." The gorgeous and upwardly mobile secretarial girl closed her eyes, crossed herself politely and mouthed a silent prayer as she mentioned heaven. "Hmmff. Well, you're... um, you're worth it, Gem... uh, Miss Layton. I mean... hard work and all that... I think you deserve it." The ordinarily brusque, plain speaking, impatient and ruthless Mr Grimm looked very self conscious around Gemma as he fiddled with the cuffs of his long shirt sleeves and stared at his shoes. He coughed once to clear his throat. "Didn't mean anything else by it of course. Just... you're welcome... pleased to treat you." For some reason he was fumbling his words around the girl. "No point in eating cheap food. Life's too short and all that. Yes, pleased to treat you, Miss Layton." Dean could be mistaken, but for a moment he thought he saw an expression of deep and painful longing on Mr Grimm's face as he gazed down at the beautiful secretary. But no, he was obviously mistaken. Mr Grimm had a reputation for being a ruthless and determined alpha male who ground his enemies under his metaphorical shoes. "I'm not sure I should have had that second small glass though," added Gemma as Dean watched. "I do believe I'm feeling a little tipsy, Mr Grimm. I'm really not used to drinking so much." She put her hand to her mouth as she produced the most delightful little feminine giggle and then reached out to briefly touch Mr Grimm's sleeve, apparently to steady herself. Gemma was dressed formally in a knee length black dress that was evidently designer and exquisitely tailored to display to perfection the impossibly perfect figure that nature had blessed her with. The dress was somehow modest and stunning at the same time. A price tag of $10,000 was more than likely. Around her throat she wore some pearls, and on her left wrist was a beautifully understated, but incredibly expensive gold bracelet. On her feet were a pair of Versace low heeled shoes - easily $1,000 if not more. Dean had never seen Gemma looking so ravishing before. Her corporate salary of $25,735 pa and a $700 bonus at Christmas had always ruled out such extravagances. Now all of a sudden she was clothed in haute couture and jewellery that wouldn't be out of place on display in the very finest shops in Saudi Arabia. "Um..." Mr Grimm cleared his throat again. "I've been meaning to say... I don't mind if you call me Charles if you like. Instead of Mr Grimm. If you prefer..." "Charles." Gemma tried the name out. "It's a lovely name. Charles..." The syllables rolled from her tongue, sounding like music from a heavenly choir. "Well, thank you." The ruthless cutthroat businessman who had closed a hundred high level deals in his time plucked up courage to add, "perhaps I could call you Gemma instead of Miss Layton..." "Gemma?" She laughed politely and thought about this for a moment. "Well, oh, I don't know..." now she wrinkled her cute little nose as she tapped her iPhone against her lower lip, deep in thought. "Well... the thing is... I do really like you calling me Miss Layton, Charles..." "Of course, of course." Mr Grimm - a man who had bedded a hundred high class call girls in his time and forced them to satisfy all manner of carnal requirements while he whipped their naked buttocks - nodded quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Taking liberties. Shouldn't have done that. Awfully sorry. Please forgive me." Gemma raised an eyebrow, tilted her head slightly, and tapped her right foot as if waiting for him to finish the sentence. "I mean, Miss Layton. Please forgive any discourtesy, Miss Layton." "Oh, Charles. We won't even mention it again." She reached up and adjusted the knot of his tie around his neck, giving it a gentle tug. "Will we, you silly billy." Mr Grimm stepped to one side to make a personal phone call. Suddenly Dean saw an opportunity to get close to his secretary and alert her to the terrible indignities he had suffered. She'd be able to clear everything up in an instant. All he had to do was... "Where do you think you're going, MAID," said Miss Tyson as she grabbed Dean's elbow. He had only taken two steps towards Gemma's swiftly departing figure when his supervisor pulled him up short. "You're not off duty until seven o' clock tonight. You can't just go scampering off whenever you feel like it." "But..." "But, but, but... you sound like a goat!" She smacked the back of his legs with the palm of her hand. Dean saw Gemma turn around the corner and disappear from sight. He had to talk to her! He had to get her to sort things out! (Three) The receptionist regarded Dean with a superior air. She after all was an office girl, while Dean was merely a menial hotel maid. As far as the pecking order went, and the girls who worked in the hotel treasured whatever paltry status the pecking order might allow them, the maid standing there was a lower rank. "What?" She snapped as her fingers fluttered over the keyboard. Really, maids should know better than to bother the front desk with questions. Didn't they know they should speak to their supervisor first? Her badge read 'Debbie - here to help', but that only applied to guests and supervisors as far as she was concerned. "I don't want to work here any more! Who do I need to speak to, to collect my wages for the past two days?" asked Dean. The money wouldn't be much, but it would be enough to buy a pair of jeans and a t-shirt to replace the uniform that was his only choice of clothing. Then, looking reasonably inconspicuous he could leave this madhouse and hitch hike if necessary back home. "Oh, don't you?" Debbie sighed. "Badge!" She held out her perfectly manicured hand until Dean produced his swipe card. With a growing look of disdain she passed it through the computer access point and checked the maid's details. It was as she had suspected - an East European girl employed on a six month contract. Like all such staff there was the standard set up fee for travel to the USA and sundry expenses such as uniform and administration. "Well, according to your personnel file you still owe us $873.37." "What?" Dean leaned over the counter to take a look at the screen, standing on tiptoe in his shiny heels as the girl tilted the monitor. His petticoats billowed up around his upper thighs as he strained to peer over the tall desk. "What I just said. Until you work off your set up costs you're obliged to continue working here. And in any event, your working visa requires you to be employed. If you can't demonstrate that you have an alternative job offer, we're obliged to notify immigration. That means a man will collect you and take you to the airport to fly back to Albania." "But I'm not from Albania!" The girl sighed. Maids were always so troublesome. "Yes you are. It says so here." She tapped the screen. "Computers are never wrong. You're not an American national. No job means no visa. You'll be deported." This was insane. The girl was actually threatening to have the hotel security bundle him onto a plane bound for Albania if he refused to work here any more. "I won't put up with this!" Dean stamped his foot petulantly. "I want to speak to a manager." "I can call your supervisor? According to the computer that's Miss Tyson?" Suggested the girl, one hand reaching for the internal desk phone. "No!" Dean's voice sounded scared. "No?" enquired Debbie with a wry smile, her hand still hovering over the phone. "No, not my supervisor..." "You asked to speak to a manager. That's who you need to speak to. I can get her here in the next five minutes..." "No, I've changed my mind." Dean shuddered at the thought of what Miss Tyson would have to say to him. "So you don't want to speak to a manager?" "No..." "So you're not stamping your foot and demanding to leave?" Debbie gave Dean a very stern stare. "No..." "So you're going back to work now, aren't you?" "Yes..." "Yes what?" "Yes... Miss..." Several more hours passed. Dean's calves now ached like they had never ached before. He stood in four inch heels, tears welling in his eyes as he was forced to wash by hand and carefully iron the scanty underwear, frilly petticoats and uniforms belonging to maids Emily and Lucy. They had after all insisted in no uncertain terms, that after a long day cleaning and serving in the hotel, Dean was to devote his free time to dealing with their laundry. This allowed Emily and Lucy to settle down and unwind after their own hard day of toil. The girls shared a three seater sofa and sat there in their frilly baby doll nighties - their ankles locked in steel GPS tracker bands like Dean's - giggling and chatting as they flicked through glossy magazines full of clothes and make up. Dean had also been forced to change once again into the silk baby doll nightie. The hem teased the very tops of his thighs as he fidgeted at the ironing board, his long peroxide blonde hair dangling down and brushing his lips as he moved his head. They were such bullies! Working as a team, Lucy and Emily easily overpowered him, which they did if Dean showed any sign of disobedience. It was almost as if, after a long day of being subservient to hotel guests and Miss Tyson, the girls took out all their frustration on him. Dean Prentice had never been physically helpless before, and now that he was, he found it very scary. It really didn't help that the Asian girl, Lucy, seemed to know some weird sort of kung-fu. The last time Dean had 'kicked up a fuss' as Emily put it, Lucy had immobilized Dean by pressing down on some pressure points. Within seconds Dean found himself lying on his belly, his right arm twisted behind his back, with both girls sitting on him. Emily had taken advantage of the situation and had set about tickling him with horrible skill until he had howled and begged her to stop. And oh, how he longed to get out of the penis restraint. His need to come was overwhelming now. The uniforms they made him wear were impossible to ignore. All that silk and lace and petticoats that flounced around his waist. And every time he caught sight of his bimbo like figure and perfectly made up features in a mirror, he longed to press his hand between his legs and bring himself to orgasm. Many times he had tried, even with the restraint in place, and always without success. He had to find Gemma. He had to speak to her in private. When she finally realised what had happened to him she would put a stop to it all. He had to find her. (Four) He caught sight of her again just before midday. "Gemma!" Dean hurried clumsy on the pair of heels, desperate to talk to his secretary before Miss Tyson returned. If she caught him talking to Gemma instead of working... he didn't like to consider the seriousness of the consequences. But this was his only chance to get out of here. At first Gemma didn't turn around when Dean called her name. "Miss Layton," he called out, and was relieved to see her turn around. At first she didn't seem to recognise him. What she saw was a typically attired hotel maid in the short dress, apron, lace cap and heavy make up. Apart from some minor differences in hair styles and colour, they all looked the same to her. "Yes? What is it? I'm rather busy?" Gemma looked very professional now. She had treated herself to a very expensive trouser suit from the boutique. It was elegantly cut and very smart and cost $13,000, not that she had spent a penny in the process of course. It was also dignified in the way a secretary's short skirt and blouse could never be. People would take Gemma seriously now. She had the air of an executive in an important company. The last few days had been very productive. Despite Gemma's sex, she had earned Mr Grimm's grudging approval for her sound business sense and professional approach to making good decisions at a board level. There had been serious hints that under the new corporate regime she would enjoy an influential position. Furthermore, Mr Grimm was talking about a further role within Amalgamated Amalgamations. "Please, it's me! Dean." "I'm sorry? Who?" Gemma didn't seem to recognise the name. "Deanna Prentice." He reverted to the name she had given him when they had switched roles a couple of days ago. "Your secretary!" He stamped his foot in a petulant manner. What was wrong with Gemma today? "Oh, Mr Prentice!" Now she was surprised. "I was wondering what happened to you. You haven't called, or stopped to say hello, and... is that a maid's uniform you're wearing?" She stared at him in total bewilderment. Why on earth was he dressed up as a maid? "Yes, yes, it is. But I didn't have any choice. They made me wear this! They think I'm Albanian and..." Gemma peered closely at Dean's name tag. "You're called Ariana?" "They think I'm Ariana, an Albanian girl with a work permit and..." "Mr Prentice, really." She touched the hem of his skirt and lifted it an inch or two to expose the flouncy petticoat and the pretty stocking tops. "You never told me you wanted to be a maid." She frowned. This sort of thing wasn't something real men should do. Could Mr Prentice be one of those men the girl in the cross dressing shop had warned her about? She thought back to some of the things she had been told but frankly at the time hadn't believed might apply to Mr Prentice. "You're not listening to me," pleaded Dean in fright. "I sleep in a room with two other maids - they're both foreign workers too, and they're really cruel to me, and they make us get up at five in the morning, and we work all day, and Miss Tyson, she threatens to send me back to Albania if..." "You're Albanian?" Gemma looked very confused. "You never mentioned to me that you were Albanian. How did they find this out about you?" "They didn't find out anything! I'm not a..." "MAID!" Miss Tyson's voice made Dean jump. A cold shock ran through his body as he heard the unmistakable sound of her hard, flat, steel toe capped shoes clicking down the polished floor. Before he knew what was happening, she was standing there, a snarl on her face as she regarded him. Then, with a far more polite expression, she turned her attention to Gemma. "I'm sorry Miss, but did this Maid initiate conversation with you?" Miss Tyson was showing polite respect to Gemma on account of the fact that she was a guest of the hotel. Gemma in turn seemed surprised by the question. "Yes she did." "I see." Miss Tyson turned now to stare coldly at Dean. It was a stare that seemed to promise harsh reprimands later on in private. The maids have been told not to bother guests while they're working." "Really?" Gemma regarded Dean now with a measure of curiosity. "Is that right..." She scrutinised the name badge pinned above Dean's right breast again, "Ariana?" "Well, yes, but..." "Silence, maid!" Miss Tyson suddenly slapped Dean across the back of his stocking-clad legs, eliciting a sharp, but breathless yelp from him. "You don't talk unless we ask you a question. One more word out of you and you really are going back to Albania." "Is she Albanian?" asked Gemma. Dean had never mentioned that to her in all the years she worked in his office. She couldn't help but feel disappointed. After all, if a manager can't confide such things to his secretary, what sort of working relationship do they truly have? "Yes Miss. We have a lot of girls from places like Africa and Albania and the Far East who apply for work here. They're eager to work in the West and we don't need to pay as much as we would for American or European girls. And if they don't work out we can simply send them back home. They're so keen to stay in the country that they strive to work hard and retain their jobs. But this one..." She glared again at Dean who shrunk back from her gaze. "She may be on a plane back to Albania before she knows it. All it will take is one more outburst in front of you." Gemma tutted as she glanced back at Dean. "You've been breaking hotel rules?" "A guest has just asked you a question!" snapped the fearsome Miss Tyson. "Yes Miss," replied Dean. "Curtsey!" ordered Miss Tyson. Dean gripped the hem of his skirt in humiliation and dipped into a formal curtsey with one dainty heeled shoe in front of the other as he replied once again "Yes Miss, I broke the rules for hotel maids. I'm not supposed to talk to guests unless they talk to me first." Gemma shook her head. She was very disappointed that Mr Prentice couldn't follow simple rules like that. Frankly it made her look bad. What would people think if they knew Mr Prentice was her employer? "Don't you have any work to do?" "Yes Miss, I do." Dean desperately wanted to plead with Gemma. She didn't seem to understand the seriousness of his situation. But how could he say anything more with Miss Tyson standing there? "Well, perhaps you should get on with it then." Gemma thought this was the best solution to the matter. She couldn't understand why Mr Prentice seemed intent on playing around as a maid while he stayed here, and to be honest she found it all a bit embarrassing to watch, but if that's what he wanted, who was she to stop him? Obviously he was getting into trouble talking to her, so it seemed the sensible thing to send him away back to work, so Miss Tyson wouldn't grow angry with him. "But..." "No buts!" snapped Miss Tyson. "You can make the beds and tidy the rooms on the third floor. Quick now." She switched the back of his legs again, forcing Dean away from Gemma. "Quick! Quick! Quick!" she swished the short switch in the air, prompting Dean to take quick mincing steps back down the corridor towards the stairwell. Tears ran down his cheeks as he saw a puzzled Gemma turn and walk away. (Five) Dean had been surprised to learn the next day that he had been excused from cleaning the rooms and making the beds and would instead serve guests in the 'Versailles' restaurant. "Not my choice," said Miss Tyson with a frown. "Personally speaking I think you're still far too clumsy. Sometimes I think you've never worn high heels before! But a couple of our usual girls are ill with flu, so you'll have to make do. In a way Dean was quite pleased to change duties. For one, waiting at tables couldn't possibly be as gruelling as cleaning room after endless room, and secondly, there could be opportunities to sneak away and find Gemma. His last encounter had started off on the wrong foot, and just when he was about to make the situation clear to his dumb secretary, Miss Tyson had intervened. But this was a new day and therefore a new opportunity. Dean had only been serving tables for half an hour when Miss Tyson directed him to bring wine and glasses to table number five. Treading carefully in his high heels, ever mindful of the scandalous manner in which his petticoats tended to ride up his thighs, Dean made his way towards the window table, only to stumble to a terrified halt. For seated there were not only Gemma Layton and Mr Grimm, but Dean's wife, Charlotte Prentice. His hands dipped slightly just for a moment, and before he could control himself, the bottle of wine and three cut crystal glasses slid off the tray. In horrible slow motion the objects surrendered to gravity and exploded on the tiled restaurant floor. One by one the three heads turned to face him. Slack jawed, and trembling in his stockings and tight heels, Dean came face to face with his wife. The facts of the matter were these. Charlotte Prentice, aged 23, was born Charlotte Mitford, pampered only daughter of the wealthy Ashcroft Mitford who had the honour of being the most successful Ostrich farmer in Southern California. It was said that the sprawling Mitford Ostrich farms supplied approximately 83.78377% of America's premier Ostrich burgers. Educated at elite schools, Charlotte wanted for nothing until the tragic day when her father, after accepting badly timed advice from his wealthy golfing partners, decided to invest the family fortune in Pork Belly Futures a day before the infamous Pork Belly Futures crash of 17th October 2003. Now penniless, the Mitfords were forced to downsize to a trailer park. Plucked from her privileged school at the age of 16 and expelled in front of all the lesser girls that she had spent a fruitful and enjoyable five years ridiculing for imaginary defects in their looks, hair, accents, father's comparatively lesser wealth and anything else she could think of, poor Charlotte was forced to leave school and work in a local Ostrich burger fast food diner - Ostriches4U - to supplement the meagre family income after her father contracted a rare psychological disorder that prevented him from doing anything classed as work. A lesser girl would have taken to hard liquor, and in fact this is what young Charlotte Mitford did indeed do but, determined to pull herself out of poverty, she also made the most of her natural assets and entered a series of beauty contests until she earned a place in the coveted annual Miss California contest, sponsored by Beaver! magazine. She came fourth, a position that is no mean achievement in itself, but one that would come to haunt beautiful Charlotte soon after. Nevertheless the fourth place brought her to the attention of the stylish and very eligible young bachelor, Dean Prentice, the resident heir to the powerful Prentice Industries group of companies. A whirlwind romance led to a swift marriage, and within months Charlotte Mitford was Mrs Dean Prentice. Only one thing stood in the way of her access to vast wealth and that was Dean's successful mother, Eloise Cynthia Ravenscroft Prentice. The facts of the matter were these. Eloise Cynthia Ravenscroft Prentice had built her vast umbrella of companies from the ground upwards, through a series of brilliant business decisions that drove her competitors out of the market. Awarded Business Woman of the Year in 1978, 1985, 1993, 1995, 1997, 2001 and, due to a misprint, 2015, by Forbes Magazine, her success hid a dark and tragic secret. The stress of life in the fast lane had left her with a delicate heart condition that threatened to end her life at any time. Her kind elderly German doctor, Heinrich Mengel, had warned her that her body could no longer cope with the rigours of sexual excitement. Even viewing a steamy sex scene on TV could get her pulse racing dangerously. Learning of this, Charlotte secretly filmed the dirtiest and kinkiest sex session she could possibly conceive of with her husband, and substituted the DVD for an episode of Eloise's favourite TV show, American Pop Idol. On viewing her son and daughter-in-law cavorting together in flagrante delicto, Eloise's weak heart gave in and she promptly died. Now with access to her husband's inherited wealth, Charlotte settled down to enjoy a lifestyle that was by rights always hers. But bitter memories of coming fourth in Miss California 2008 would continue to cloud her mind to the point where she dedicated her spare time to tracking down the third place, second place and first place contestant winners via disreputable but experienced private detectives and paying them large sums of money to continually ruin the women's lives to the best of their professional abilities. This gave her a small sense of satisfaction over and above sleeping with the well endowed Puerto Rican gardener who tended the Prentice lawns in her husband's absence. For Charlotte Prentice too had an awful secret. The facts of the matter were these. Charlotte suffered from a rare and difficult sexual condition called Nympholibris which meant that she could only orgasm while reading paperbacks. Unfortunately, while Dean was prepared to try all manner of kinky sexual positions, he wasn't likely to enjoy dry humping his wife while she read a chick- lit book over his shoulder. And so Charlotte turned to Raoul the gardener, with his poor grasp of English, as a substitute to her husband to ensure sexual relief, for Big Raoul was a man capable of thrusting inside her long enough that she might finish a complete chapter and thereby come like an express train with its brakes cut. That she was being unfaithful to her loving husband on a regular basis mattered little, since Charlotte suspected he too was having an affair - with his slut of a secretary. The facts of the matter were these. Charlotte Prentice was permanently suspicious of any beautiful woman she met, as a result of coming fourth instead of first in Beaver! magazine's annual Miss California contest. It was obvious upon meeting the incredibly beautiful Gemma Layton that Dean was fucking her at every chance he had. Gemma's clean living image didn't fool Charlotte in the slightest. The more she imagined Dean bending his secretary down over his office desk and thrusting deep inside her, the more she would book Raoul to tend to her hedge. Through this, one thing is very clear. Charlotte Prentice despises Gemma Layton. And Gemma Layton isn't very fond of Charlotte Prentice either. Beautiful Women are like that. Now read on. Dean stared in horror at the sight of his beautiful wife, Charlotte. as she unexpectedly joined Gemma and Mr Grimm for dinner. She had a soft west coast tan and perfectly cut dark brown hair that framed her shoulders like an upside down candle flame. But what was she doing here? Dean blushed bright red. His legs were trembling as she slowly looked round. "What a clumsy maid," said Charlotte with the familiar curl of her upper lip that she reserved for the sight of incompetent menials bumbling about their duties. Dean stood there, mortified, in his petticoats and tightly fastened uniform, praying to a God that he didn't believe in that he would prove to be unrecognisable to his wife. "Is there a problem?" At the sound of the crash, Miss Tyson was over by the table in an instant. "Clumsy maid," said Charlotte with a sniff of derision. "Can't even hold a tray of drinks properly. Deserves to be spanked, if you ask me." She turned her attention to Mr Grimm and offered him a warm smile. "Delighted to meet you, Mr Grimm." "Hmmpf." He rose in his tight pin stripe suit, muscles bulging beneath the tailored material, and kissed Charlotte's outstretched hand. "And little Gemma..." Charlotte smiled, but the smile was frosted at the edges with ice. "Oh, but don't you look nice tonight..." She strained to keep the smile in place while she mentally calculated what Gemma's designer dress and matching jewellery must have cost. Obviously gifts from her no good cheating husband. So that was what he spent their money on when she wasn't around to object. The unfaithful little bastard. And the little slut of a secretary dared to wear her gifts in public in front of Mrs Dean Prentice! Charlotte was livid. Dean's state of panic began to subside as it became clear that Charlotte did not recognise him, and why would she? From head to toe Dean looked every inch the slutty maid. He bobbed up and down automatically in a demure curtsy as Miss Tyson loomed over him. "Clumsy maid!" she hissed. Dean shrunk back. "Someone's prissy little bottom is going to be very sore in a couple of minutes time!" "Please, Miss Tyson, don't spank me!" cried Dean. Charlotte glanced round, looking very intrigued. "You're really going to spank her?" Her eyes lit up. "Yes Miss." The dreaded Tyson switched on her charm in front of a rich guest. "It's hotel policy with the maids." As always Miss Tyson wore a belt around her dress, clipped to which was a long wooden crop. There was a sharp click as she removed it from the belt hook. "I'm so sorry! Please don't beat me!" Dean's shock at unexpectedly meeting his wife was made much worse by the fact that he was about to be spanked in front of her. "Stop blubbering, girl, or it'll be much worse for you," hissed Miss Tyson into Dean's ear. She quickly bent him over a spare chair and pulled his skirt and petticoats up and tucked them neatly under his apron strings. Charlotte had turned her chair round to get a good view. Now Miss Tyson raised the crop as Dean waited in trepidation for the first blow to fall. Seconds ticked by, but nothing happened. His hands gripped the sides of the chair and sweat broke out on his forehead. But still nothing happened. And then - CRACK! He jumped where he lay and squealed in pain. CRACK! Another blow rained down, followed by another, and another. Dean squirmed, howling with each vicious crack of the switch until finally, after seven sharp blows, the punishment ceased. Charlotte was breathing heavily from the sight of the unexpected public beating. She hadn't been this excited since she had read chapter four of 'White Bikini Panties' by chick-lit author Kelly James-Enger with the book resting on Raoul's naked back. That was a really good chapter, she recalled, though she couldn't remember anything that actually happened in it. Chapter five on the other hand had been very dull, because Raoul complained he was worn out by then. That was always the problem with men. As Miss Tyson pulled the maid upright and angrily pulled down the petticoat and skirts, with a savage admonishment of, "sort yourself out, you little tramp," Charlotte became aware that she felt something she hadn't felt in a long time - the desire to find a book when Raoul wasn't present. For she had tried many times to masturbate while reading, but the reading only seemed to work while someone was physically penetrating her. Reading while playing with herself always but always failed to bring on an orgasm. But just now... the beating... the slutty maid being forced over the chair - her petticoats being hoisted up, and then the sharp hard spanking with the switch. Well, Charlotte felt very hot all of a sudden. If she had a book to hand... and some privacy... Charlotte rubbed her thighs together in frustration under the table cloth. Yes, she was actually wet. She nibbled at her lower lip. "Excuse me? Excuse me?" she called out to Miss Tyson as the supervisor finished adjusting the maid's skirts. "Yes Miss?" The supervisor looked round. "Do you really think seven was enough?" Charlotte casually let her left hand slip under the table. She was wearing a tailored black silk jump suit which made actual access to her sex difficult, but nevertheless she began to rub herself discretely through the fabric. Yes - there was sensation there - just like when Raoul played with her and she was on to page two or three of whichever chapter she was reading. But with the beating finished, the lovely warm feeling was rapidly fading. She had to get it back. She had to! "Well, seven is our usual number for first offences." "Oh." Charlotte looked upset. "I thought... maybe ten would be a better number?" Dean turned round and glared at his wife. What the hell was she playing at? He rubbed his sore bottom and winced. Another three would be very painful. "Well..." Miss Tyson thought about this for a moment. "Seven is more a guideline rather than a firm rule." She rubbed her chin, oblivious to the little whimper of despair that emanated from the mouth of the maid. "Managers do have a certain amount of discretion in such matters." Charlotte nodded eagerly, her hand still hidden under the table. "Of course you do. That's how it should be." "Bend over, maid!" barked Miss Tyson as she rounded again on a startled Dean. The sharp crop swished its way up into the air again. "One of her stocking seams isn't straight," pointed out Charlotte with noticeable enthusiasm. "That must be worth another two." She considered this. "At least." CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Dean was howling again and the sound was music to Charlotte's ears. Yes! Yes! She could feel something. At last! Her left hand moved quickly, rubbing the silk against her sex. Yes! She probably still needed a book of course, but this meant she could do without Raoul. To be honest men were really inconvenient. They became very heavy after a while, lying on top of you, and it was difficult to rest a book on their shoulders and read, because the angle was never right and they almost always fidgeted while they thrust in and out, in and out. And then they would always insist on asking you 'how it was' and 'did you come' and 'did they do it right' and so on. Tedious. Charlotte was getting a familiar tingle now, of the kind she associated with reaching pages four to five of an average chick-lit chapter. She bit down softly on her lower lip, fixed her eyes on the glorious riding crop as it swished down for blow number eleven and tried to encourage the sticky-fingered moment. The maid yelped again and Charlotte squirmed in her seat with delight. It was like a Mozart symphony covered in chocolate. CRACK! A twelfth blow and Charlotte knew this was working. The crotch of her silk jumpsuit was damp now to her fingers. Perhaps if she was able to thrust her fingers deep inside herself... but the silk was in the way... would it be like Raoul's big cock? She squeezed her thighs tightly together against her hand. Don't stop! Give the maid another blow! But Miss Tyson suddenly stopped. "Twelve," she said with some satisfaction as Dean lay sprawled over the chair seat, crying again. Charlotte squinted her eyes in frustration. She needed more! Furiously she continued stroking herself through the silk material, but without the maid being beaten, the lovely sensual feeling was quickly fading, to be replaced by that familiar dull numbness she got when a man fucked her and she didn't have a trendy supermarket paperback to hand. She felt like crying in despair. So close... so very close. What was worse... not being able to orgasm or getting close to orgasm and then seeing it fade back out of reach? Charlotte squirmed in her seat, unsure of the answer. "So..." with the interlude out of the way, and as the maid was being made to clean up her mess around the table, Mr Grimm addressed Charlotte. "I asked Miss Layton to invite you here because I wanted to meet the Prentice in charge of Prentice Industries. Miss Layton has been doing a splendid job of smoothing the takeover, but obviously I wanted to met the name behind the brand." Charlotte raised a curious eyebrow. "Well, my husband..." "Is away skiing," said Gemma quickly. "Remember, Mrs Prentice? Stuck in the Alps due to an avalanche." She smiled sweetly. "We hoped you could cover for him. Time is of the essence after all in completing the deal." Dean listened in carefully while he cleared away the last of the broken glass and mopped the floor with some rags. Of course, Gemma would need a Prentice to sign the paperwork, and since he couldn't show his face... He understood now why his wife was here. Clever girl. Of course he was still going to fire her as soon as he was back in trousers. This was all her fault. He could never forgive her for the utter humiliation he had experienced to date. "I don't normally get involved in the business side of things," said Charlotte as she eyed the whip crop on Miss Tyson's belt with frustration. As she watched, the manager drifted away to supervise another table setting. "Miss Layton can handle the details," explained Mr Grimm. "Ultimately all we require is your signature at the end of the negotiations. In the meantime you get to enjoy a comfortable few days in a top quality hotel with all modern conveniences, and of course the very finest food.." "Whatever," said Charlotte, her mind solely occupied with the thought of soft, pink maid bottoms being exposed and whipped soundly. It had been a revelation to her, the joys of watching a punishment being inflicted, and one she intended to explore again. She gazed around the lavish restaurant and counted the number of bottoms. So many bottoms just begging to be whipped. Yes, let Gemma work hard and sort out the details. And then once the deal was done, Charlotte would enjoy seeing her go back to her wobbly secretarial chair where she belonged. In fact, Charlotte would see about getting her moved to the typing pool on some pretext. Dean was so obviously fucking Gemma, and Charlotte had no intention of putting up with it any more. "How is the wine, Mrs Prentice?" asked Gemma politely. "It's all right I suppose," she stared disdainfully at her rival for her husband's affections as she drank another mouthful of the $475 a bottle white Burgundy while she consulted the menu and read from the description. "I think we shall all order the shaved strips of Kobe beef 'from cows that are fed only beer and massaged by hand by Thai lady boys to ensure a tenderness and marbling beyond compare' for starters followed by lobster marinated in cognac, venison medallions and Devon crab and white truffle and a half tomato filled with Beluga caviar and dressed with gold leaf. And since it's a special occasion, a whole Scottish lobster, killed by traditional methods involving drowning it in a barrel of Glenlivet whisky, also coated with gold - the lobster that is, not the barrel of whisky - complete with four abalone and four shelled and hollowed quails' eggs filled with even more caviar to round out the dishes." She clicked her fingers for the maid and handed the menu to Dean as he appeared at the table. "Did you get all that, you stupid maid?" "Yes Miss," said Dean as he bobbed into another curtsy. He desperately tried to remember the variety of dishes. His bottom throbbed painfully, masking even the sensual feeling of his stocking clad thighs brushing together. "You have quite an appetite," said Mr Grimm as he stared curiously at Charlotte's slim figure. "Oh, I just pick at my food, but I like plenty of choice." Charlotte sighed again with the unbearable lightness of being rich. "And some chips to go with the order," she added as Dean turned to leave with a swish of his starched petticoats. (Six) "Maid service," said Dean through the closed door of suite 515 as he knocked hesitantly, the silver trolley laden with a tasty breakfast at his side. It was eight in the morning, but already Dean had been working hard for two hours and had been awake for an hour before that. It was his fourth day of drudgery in the hotel as a maid, and he was beginning to see no end to it. The heels by now were making the calves of his legs ache to the point where he found himself shifting weight from first one foot and then the other. "Come in," answered the familiar voice of Gemma Layton. Dean found her lying in the King size bed, rubbing sleep from her eyes, hair all tousled and wild as she sat up against the padded headboard. To Dean's surprise a young and very buff looking man lay curled up in bed beside her. He looked familiar. Dean had seen him at work earlier in the day - he was the handsome lift attendant who pressed buttons when the hotel guests moved between floors. Dean had seen many of the well healed female guests eying up the young man in his tightly buttoned red uniform and cap throughout the day. As the handsome lad rolled over on to his side to reveal a buff, well toned body, Dean only took a few seconds to decide he really didn't like him. "Deanna is that you?" said Gemma in surprise. What are you doing here? This is my hotel suite!" "Yes Miss." Dean dipped into a modest curtsey as Miss Tyson had taught him. He didn't want to, but already the tanned man with the washboard stomach had slid up out into a sitting position against the headboard and was gazing up at the hotel maid that had disturbed his sleep. Dean had hoped to take the opportunity of personally delivering breakfast, to speak to Gemma privately, alone, and get her to sort things out on his behalf, but here she was with some trophy man in her suite. Dean couldn't help feeling indignant. While he was enduring a nightmarish and humiliating existence, Gemma was enjoying all the pampered luxuries of hotel life and lots of sex. And anyway, what did she see in that toy boy? "I've brought your breakfast, Miss." "Oh, well that's splendid. Did you hear that John? Breakfast." Gemma clapped her hands with pleasure. Breakfast in bed. Could it get any better? The young man stirred and sat up with the bed linen entangled around his legs and waist. "What time is it?" "Eight o'clock, sleepy head," said Gemma as she playfully messed his hair with her right hand. "Looks like I tired you out last night!" Gemma looked very sexy, sprawled half in and half out of the sheets, dressed in a beautiful silk and lace nightie that could best be described as modestly flirtatious, that caused Dean's penis to stir and protest in its tight plastic restraint. He briefly caught a glimpse of a beautiful long leg, smooth and perfectly sculpted, unexpectedly exposed where the night slip had ridden up on Gemma's body. It was so unfair! Being dressed like this was already enough to keep him feeling aroused, but now that Gemma was displaying her ample charms, clad in wispy sleepwear... it was so very frustrating. As Dean watched, 'John' reached a hand out towards one of Gemma's firm breasts. She gave him a very cross look and quickly slapped his hand out of the way. "Behave yourself!" she said in a determined voice. "No touching unless I tell you to. I warned you about that sort of thing last night." She wagged a finger by way of warning. "I'm not that kind of girl." "Please Miss," said Dean as he squirmed in his panties. "Can I speak to you in private?" "In private?" Gemma looked surprised. "What ever are you talking about? Serve the breakfast, maid." She tapped the bedside table. "Anything you want to say you can say in front of John." "But Miss..." Dean was frantic. He had to get out of this penis sheath and get back into proper male clothes. He couldn't face the prospect of staying dressed and primped as a maid any longer. "Didn't you hear her?" John sat up and stared at Dean. "Serve the breakfast! I thought this hotel prided itself on good service." You can shut up, thought Dean as he walked carefully across the carpeted floor, wheeling the trolley before him. The man looked like an arrogant prick, but Dean thought better of antagonising him while he was wearing a hotel maid's uniform. The last thing he wanted was for the dreaded Miss Tyson to be summoned to hear a complaint. "I'm sorry, Sir." Sir! This was unbelievable, having to defer to the man. "Would you care for coffee?" Dean could feel the lace edging of his petticoats swishing around the very tops of his stockings. He had to be so careful when walking so as not to reveal them by mistake. And unless he was very much mistaken, John's eyes were glued to his legs, his gaze following Dean around the room. No... Dean realized he wasn't mistaken. The buff lift attendant was checking out his legs in their sheer uniform stockings. The man winked at Dean as he rose and lifted himself out of bed. "You girls can chat together if you like. I'm going to take a shower before I eat." He yawned and stretched as he made his way towards the en-suite facilities. Only when John disappeared and locked the door from the other side did Gemma also climb out of bed. She shrugged on a silk negligee over her modestly revealing teddy. This gave Dean the opportunity while