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Transaction By Lisa Lovelace THURSDAY The grandfather clock in the entrance hall struck six. I had half an hour to change into my evening uniform and prepare for my nightly meeting with Ms. N, after which I would set the table for dinner at eight. Just her tonight, no guests. I climbed the rear stairs to my quarters in the attic, shed my gray two-inch pumps and wiggled tired toes in momentary relief. I stripped off the ruffled work apron, the mob cap and the gray cotton dress of my afternoon uniform and tossed them into the hamper. I only had one clean afternoon uniform left and would have to do personal laundry tomorrow. I had to update my afternoon uniform lingerie for the evening, per Ms. N's standing instructions. I tightened the laces of my black overbust corset the extra inch needed to squeeze into the evening uniform's tighter bodice. I replaced my daytime nude stockings with sheer seamed black hose and clipped them to my corset garters. I changed from my daytime crinoline into a much shorter, fuller taffeta petticoat that would rustle with more frou-frou when I swung my hips. Reaching under the taffeta petticoat, I modestly pulled my daytime pink panties down over my corset garters and hose and replaced them with a fresh pair of black satin panties from my topmost lingerie drawer. I had to stitch five rows of ruffled white lace across the bottom of my evening panties, a little game of Ms. N's. Any adult who saw a flash of that white lace -- for example, if I bent over -- was entitled to give me a swat on the spot. I got plenty of swats, because my evening petticoat was barely long enough to cover my bottom, and Ms. N had trained me to bend over from my hips instead of lowering myself more modestly. From the rack in my closet I took one of my evening uniform dresses off its hanger. It was black satin, very short and full-skirted, with short puff sleeves and a princess neckline, all trimmed in white lace. I slipped it on over my head and down my raised arms. As always, I had to use a hook to pull up the zipper. The bodice molded itself to my 36C bosom. I tugged down the skirt and smoothed it over the petticoat, pleased by the pretty rustling sound. The skirt was an inch shorter than the petticoat, so my lace-trimmed taffeta underskirts always peeked out from under the hem. I was sure this was by design. Ms. N had a rule against exposing one's underclothing in company, for which the penalty was one swat on the spot. Since the skirt did not cover the petticoat, my evening uniform was always in violation of the rule, and she could punish me for it whenever she chose. Of course there was nothing I could do to prevent it, but it was so embarrassing, especially before company! Ms. N had so many rules that I was sure to be breaking at least one of them at any time. For example, I was careful not to dirty the exposed white hems of my petticoats. A dirtied petticoat hem normally earned its wearer up to ten spanks over the knee and a quick trip upstairs to change into a fresh petticoat, or two petticoats if Ms. N decided her maid needed a lesson in the importance of keeping one's lingerie pristine and one's skirts perfectly poufed. There had been a past in which my underwear consisted of boxer shorts, but I no longer remembered what it felt like to wear boy's clothes. Tonight I was grateful she had me wearing the full-skirted uniform with petticoats instead of my other evening uniform, the humiliatingly short, skin-tight black satin dress that exposed my stocking tops and garters and barely covered the rows of white lace on the seat of my evening panties. I found wearing that tight miniskirt -- and the swats and pinches I received every time I wore it -- so much more embarrassing than wearing an extra petticoat or two under a full skirt. I wished all my evening uniforms were just below the knee, like my afternoon uniforms, but Ms. N liked me to show off my smooth, hairless legs at night, so I did. In the mirror I touched up my bangs, brushed out my shoulder-length brunette bob, and freshened my powder, lipstick and gloss. I applied perfume to all my strategic points. My nails were still perfect, thank goodness. The clasp of my necklace had worked its way around to the front again, so I pulled it to the back and centered the delicate amethyst pendant in the cleft of my bosom. The pendant was a gift from Ms. N two years ago, to celebrate my first year on her staff. So was my bosom. From another drawer I took a lace-trimmed evening pinafore in spotless ruffled voile and my evening maid's hairpiece, a lace- trimmed bow of the same voile. And, last of all, the 3-inch black patent stiletto heels with pointed toes that made my feet hurt. I did a practice curtsey in the mirror and decided to change into 4-inch heels. I knew Ms. N loved seeing me in this fantasy French maid's costume, and after three years and countless spankings in her service, I knew better than to pass up any chance to please Ms. N. I swiveled back and forth in the mirror, watching my skirts swish around my hips. I loved the way I looked. It no longer bothered me that I looked, moved and acted like a pretty girl. I had a girl's curves and a girl's sway in my walk, thanks to my three years in corsets, three years of girly pills, and three years of Ms. N's intense training as a sissy maid. Oh, dear! The mirror showed one of my slip's ribbon straps exposed at the neckline of my dress. That would never do. Ms. N swatted when she spotted errant straps that violated her no-visible-lingerie rule. Today I wore only two sets of straps under my dress, from my corset and full slip, but when Ms. N was in a mischievous mood, she would sometimes make me add a redundant bra and camisole, just to complicate my strap management and increase the odds that one or more would show. I particularly disliked double spaghetti straps, because one strap would always misbehave, which must be why Ms. N bought me so many camisoles and bras with double spaghetti straps. I tightened my slip straps, tucked them back under the collar of my dress and hoped they would stay there. I wondered whether to make sure with a couple of tiny safety pins, and decided not to risk taking the time. I twisted left and right to check the seams of my stockings, and had to correct a naughty S-curve on my right thigh that would have earned a swat if Ms. N lifted my skirts to check. She almost certainly would, for this short daily meeting before supper always included a uniform inspection. It was Ms. N's last opportunity to discipline me for uniform violations as well as any flaws I had exhibited in my housekeeping or deportment since yesterday's meeting, and she never minded finding another reason to discipline her sissy maid. As I discovered the evening she paddled me because the rows of white lace on my black evening panties were not perfectly horizontal. She gave me an extra smack for showing off the lace in public, even though it was she who turned up my petticoats to expose it. The problem was not only that Ms. N had so many rules, but also that the rules kept changing, and a single action could break multiple rules, requiring separate punishments for each infraction. I had trouble remembering all the rules, and finally just gave up and decided the rules were whatever Ms. N said they were, and if she decided I had broken them, I knew I had been a bad girl and would have to endure the consequences. Ms. N's discipline was generally mild, one to ten bare-bottom swats with a bare hand or a paddle, enough to leave one quite pink but usually not in tears, unless of course one had been naughty enough to break more than one rule and get twenty or thirty swats or forty swats. By now I could take thirty or forty spanks before I started to cry. If only she would not make such a production of my punishments! Ms. N had created elaborate rituals that required me to curtsey, kneel, state my infraction and beg her to discipline me. When she agreed, I had to stand, thank her, curtsey again and slowly lower myself across her knees, with my head to her left, and place my hands behind my back. She would grasp both my wrists in her strong left hand and make me beg her to pull up one layer of my maid's uniform at a time -- first my skirt, then the layers of my petticoats, then my slip -- and afterwards pull down my panties an inch or two at a time until they puddled across the tops of my thighs, forming a lacy frame below my posterior that echoed the froth of my lace-trimmed skirts above it. "Please, ma'am, will you lower my panties further?" So embarrassing! Ms. N liked to prepare me for discipline slowly, making humiliating comments under her breath about how certain bad little girls had been so very naughty and needed to be punished so they would learn the importance of always being good and never disobeying her mistress's rules. When my bottom was finally bare, I had to state my offense again, apologize profusely and beg her to punish me. And then the first blow would land, and then the next, and I would have to count each, thank her and beg her for another. When she was done, I had to apologize again on my knees and tell her what I had learned from my punishment. If she thought I sounded convincing, she would she allow me to pull up my panties again. Otherwise I would have to walk very carefully for the rest of the evening to keep them from falling down around my ankles. If they did, I could not pull them up without permission, and had to walk even more carefully to avoid tripping in my heels. I once asked Ms. N if I could pull my panties up. She got angry and took them away and made me go without panties for a week, during which I had to walk extremely carefully in order not to let my boy-clitty show. I definitely did not want to receive a swat on my boy-clitty! As it happened, I did, but only once, when my boy-clitty stiffened at an inappropriate time. It almost made me beg Ms. N to let me wear a chastity device so that it couldn't happen again, but she refused. She said she did not want to use hardware to solve a problem that was really just a matter of self-control. So the temptation to play with myself was always there, and it took me two years to learn the discipline needed to resist temptation. As far as I knew, I'd broken no rules today, so for once I hoped to escape punishment. I gave myself one last check in the mirror and nervously went downstairs to attend Ms. N in her study. I knocked at the door and received permission to enter. I opened the door and walked into the room with short, swaying steps, back straight and breasts proudly displayed. I came to a stop and stood demurely, dropped Ms. N a deep curtsey, folded my hands over my apron, lowered my eyes and waited. "Your taffeta petticoats are lovely, but they're showing under your skirt, Lisa," she said. "That's an infraction. Don't you ever learn? Ask Ms. Fuchs to give you five spanks tonight." I looked down at my hem. My evening uniform was the real violation of the rules, but I couldn't say that. "I'm sorry, ma'am. If my skirt was..." "If your skirt was what? Are you complaining about your pretty uniform?" "Oh, no, ma'am, but if my skirt was longer, it would cover my petticoats, and I wouldn't break the rules." "I'm sure you'd just find another rule to break, because you like your spankings, don't you, Lisa? It's so naughty of you. The problem isn't the length of your skirt, it's how you wear it. I've seen what happens when we have gentleman callers. You wiggle your bottom, swish your petticoats, let your skirt ride up and show off your lacy little panties to our gentlemen callers, hoping they'll give you a sweet little swat on your bad little bottom. Don't deny it! I've seen you at it often enough." "No, ma'am! I don't like swats, but I don't have any choice! You punish me if I wiggle my bottom, you punish me if I don't wiggle my bottom, and this skirt is just too short. I can't win!" "Well, naughty little girls like you don't deserve to win. What they deserve is a sound spanking. Let's see -- exposed lingerie, uniform complaints, poor attitude, contradicting your mistress. Four infractions, twenty swats. I'll postpone your punishment for the moment, because I have something important to tell you. We will have a gentleman caller tomorrow." I felt a stab of fear, remembering the humiliations our last gentleman caller inflicted on a certain maid whom he accused of flirting with him. Which wasn't true! "His name is Mr. B. He is a gentleman of my acquaintance who came to me recently with a request that you can help me fulfill." I had no desire to fulfill the requests of unknown gentlemen and feared what she would say next. Ms. N had never before required me to do anything with a male. Who was this Mr. B, and what request did he want me to fulfill? Ms. N stood, walked over, placed her hand under my skirts and gently rubbed my sore bottom. "Mr. B wants to... how shall I put it? Observe a lady's maid for a day," she said. "What chores she does, how she is treated, how she is expected to dress, how she is expected to behave, what happens when she misbehaves, what thoughts she has during the day, if any. I suppose one could say he wants to understand what it's like to be you." It sounded as though this Mr. B was not a gentleman caller, but... well... a boy like me. ~ ~ ~ Five years ago, after I turned 18 and graduated from high school with straight Cs, my last foster mother took me into the back room of our trailer, called me a useless sissy fag and asked me when I planned to get a job and move out. I told her I hadn't made any plans. She scowled and said she'd heard from a friend about an opening for a personal assistant in Atlanta and thought I should apply. She gave me a grubby slip of paper with a phone number and address for a person identified only as Ms. N. I was surprised. I didn't know a soul in Atlanta and hadn't known she did, but I was ready to do almost anything to get away from her and her oafish husband, who'd caught me wearing panties once. I didn't care to repeat that experience and took care never to be alone in the trailer with him again. I called the number and told a voice that I was interested in the personal assistant position, and to my surprise got an appointment for an interview the very next day. I took a three-hour bus ride into the concrete jungle of Atlanta and found the address, a fancy office building in Midtown. The office number was 600, so I took an elevator to the sixth floor. Behind a thick glass wall and door, a receptionist sat at a desk. There was no sign or logo identifying the company. Speaking into an intercom, the receptionist asked me to identify myself. I did and said I had a 4:00 appointment. She told me Ms. N had only a 15-minute slot for me and would be late if another meeting ran long. She buzzed open the glass door and escorted me into an office, where a woman who might have been Ms. N's secretary told me to take a seat. Both women wore the same outfit: a ruffled white blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt with a rear vent, and four-inch black stiletto heels, very stylish. Seven minutes into my allotted quarter hour, an attractive tall blonde in a beautifully tailored fuchsia skirt suit and matching heels strode into the office, spoke briefly to the secretary and disappeared into an inner office. A minute later, the secretary told me to enter. Ms. N -- at least I assumed it was she -- sat behind an immaculate desk. There was no chair for me. I handed her my meager resume, but to my relief she set it aside without looking at it. I stood awkwardly in front of her desk, wondering what to do with my hands. She looked me up and down and asked my age, height and weight. I told her I was 18 years old, 5 feet 5 inches, 130 pounds. She had me take off my jacket and turn around slowly. When I was facing away from her, she told me to stop, bend over from my hips and touch my toes. She came around the desk and startled me by patting my bottom. She told me to stand up, and played with my shoulder-length hair. She asked me my shoe size. I said men's 7. She nodded, as if that was the right answer. If this was a job interview, it was the weirdest one I'd ever had. I started to ask her what the job was, but she cut me off, told me she was out of time, apologized for having to shoo me out of her office due to an urgent conference call starting in one minute, and invited me to meet with her at 7:00 at her home to finish the interview. She told me to get her address from her secretary. Her behavior baffled and disappointed me, but she was the boss, and the boss gets to do things her way. At least she hadn't said no. Not yet, anyway. I thanked her and closed her office door behind me. Her secretary reached into her desk and handed me a card with an address and phone number on it, but no name. Her blouse was just sheer enough to let me enjoy the sight of a lacy white bra and camisole beneath it. "My eyes are up here," she said. I looked up, abashed. "Don't be late, child," she said. The heavy glass door clicked shut behind me. Once outside the building, I looked up the address on my phone. I had more than enough time to walk. I killed an hour at a Starbucks before setting out for her address, which turned out to be an immaculately landscaped three-story Tudor in the Virginia Highlands area. I spent a few minutes strolling around the neighborhood, admiring the beautiful old homes and wondering how people got enough money to buy them. At 7:00 on the dot, I knocked on her door. She opened it and told me to come in. I expected she would interview me in her home office, but instead she led me into a gorgeous kitchen and offered me a glass of white wine, a Sauvignon blanc that she said was from New Zealand. I usually drank beer, but the wine was good. It had a citrus tang and wasn't too sweet. Holding the glass gave me something to do with my hands. I nervously gulped the wine too quickly and felt it go to my head. I needed to be careful. The doorbell rang. Ms. N -- I still didn't know her name -- excused herself and pulled her wallet out of her handbag. I smelled pizza. She returned a moment later with a large box from a pizzeria I didn't recognize, probably some fancy local place. She led me into the dining room, set the box on the table and, from a side cabinet, fetched two plates, knives and forks and set them at the head of the table and the place to its right. She sat at the head of the table and opened the box. "Dinner is served," she said with mock solemnity. "Bon app?tit." The pizza was skimpy -- just tomato sauce, cheese and some green leaves on a thin crust, no meat. Girly pizza. She took a slice and used her knife and fork to take a bite. I usually ate pizza with my hands like everyone else, but copied her actions, feeling a bit ooh- la-la. She took another sip of wine. "So much easier to talk here than in the office, dear," she said. "Sorry for the informal menu, but my domestic arrangements are a bit disturbed at the moment, which is why you're here." I didn't see the connection. Waited for Ms. N to explain. She didn't. Instead, she said, "Can you move your chair back a foot or so?" I did. Now what? "Can you sit up very straight?" I pulled myself up and squeezed my shoulder blades together. If this was an interview, it made no sense. Of course, I didn't even know what kind of business this was, so who was I to judge? "Straighter." I tried to lift my head higher and lengthen my neck. "Sit forward, knees together, on the edge of your chair. Back straight." I adjusted myself and sat up straight again. "Fold your hands in your lap." I folded them. "Cross your legs at the ankles." I crossed them. "Angle your feet off to one side." I did. "A little more." "Hold up your right arm. Lower. Relax your wrist. Just let it flop." "Drop the wrist. Tilt your head, but not your shoulders. To the left. To the right. Sit up straight." She looked me up and down. "I think you'll do," she said. I wondered if she was serious. Why did it matter how I sat? Did she not care what skills I had, what I could do? Ms. N described the job. It sounded like a combination of personal assistant and housekeeper, working from her home rather than the office. The hours were long, but the pay was generous and the benefits were better than any job I'd ever had. It was a live-in position, so I could stay in this beautiful house with free rent and food. That alone was such a huge weight off my mind that it made me feel almost giddy. She said I would be required to wear a uniform, which was fine by me. The battered old sports jacket and khakis I wore were pretty much all I had by way of business attire. She asked me if I wanted the job. "Yes, ma'am, I do," I said. "You're hired." She opened a desk drawer, pulled out a thick document and handed it to me. It was an employment contract. "Just a formality," she said. I skipped a hundred pages of yadda yadda yadda, initialed a few pages near the end where it said "Initial here", and signed on the bottom line. She asked me to start as soon as possible. I told her I would take the bus home tomorrow, fetch my few possessions and be back on Sunday night, ready to start on Monday. That seemed to satisfy her. She put the contract away in her desk, refilled our wine glasses, gave a toast to my success and invited me to have more pizza. I was hungry enough to eat the rest, but took only one more slice, not wanting to appear greedy. She took a slice, too, but took only a delicate bite or two. As I ate, still feeling slightly ridiculous to be using a knife and fork with pizza, she asked where I planned to spend the night. I told I wasn't sure, but needed to find somewhere less expensive than the fancy hotels on West Peachtree. She said she had a guest room upstairs that I was welcome to use. Which was great, because I didn't have enough money to stay anywhere that I was willing to stay. I thanked her profusely. She led me up a steep, narrow stairway to the top floor, where she put me up in a rather feminine guest room with lacy curtains and satin sheets. "This used to be the maid's room, so you'll have to excuse the d?cor," she said. "There are clean nightclothes in the closet if you don't have any. Good night." The room had two doors. One led into a fancy bathroom, and the other led into a roomy walk-in closet that seemed to be filled with women's clothes. I was tempted but closed the closet door without inspecting them, not wanting to disturb my hostess's things, and slept in my boxers. The next morning, I thanked my new employer again, caught the bus and headed home for the weekend. I filled a battered overnight bag with the stuff I wanted to keep, bid my foster parents an unfond farewell and caught a Sunday bus back to Atlanta. I walked from the Marta station and reached her house by eight. Ms. N greeted me politely and led me upstairs to the same room I'd slept in before. She told me it used to be the maid's room, which accounted for the girly d?cor, but that it was mine now, and that I should put my things away and then reports to her in her office downstairs. I could see the room better in daylight. It wasn't large, but it was a lot more space than I'd had in the trailer. Dormer windows offered morning sunlight and afternoon ventilation. It had cream wall-to-wall carpet and walls painted in shades of pink and cream, with matching linens and ruffled, lacy window treatments that gave it a distinctly girly feel, as might be expected in a maid's room. The furniture looked like Ikea but was in good condition. It included a double bed, a nightstand, a chest of drawers, a small desk and a chair. The top drawers of the chest were filled with what I assumed was the previous maid's clothing: panties, bras, garter belts, stockings and a variety of shapewear, some of it rather severe. The middle drawers held various slips and petticoats. Maybe Ms. N had bought it for the previous maid and kept it when the maid left? It was all lovely, but I left it untouched, not daring to risk getting caught. Perhaps it would all be cleaned out tomorrow. Meanwhile, the bottom drawers were empty and had plenty of room for my underwear, socks and t-shirts. I entered the walk-in closet, looking for a place to hang my jacket, work shirts and trousers. The closet seemed fuller than before. The racks were mostly filled with dresses, though there were a few blouses and skirts and more than a few elegant nightgowns and robes. There were two rows of shoes on the floor, mostly pumps and stilettos with 2- to 4-inch heels. A built-in armoire held handbags, scarves, aprons, jewelry and other accessories, including jewelry. I found an empty section of upper rack next to the blouses, so I hung my clothes there. They looked completely out of place surrounded by the softer, more colorful women?s wear. I didn?t see anything that looked like a man?s uniform, a butler suit or whatever, but then I wouldn?t expect them to find them in the former maid?s room. More likely, Ms. N hadn?t ordered my uniforms yet because she needed my sizes and measurements. That made sense. She would probably have to take me shopping. I hoped the outfit would be casual rather than a suit and tie, but I?d just have to wait and see. If nothing else, I could wear a different shirt and fresh boxers and socks in the morning. I put my few toiletries in the bathroom, where it was the same story: The counter was covered with bottles, tubes, jars, brushes and all the other stuff needed for a woman?s makeup and beauty regimen. I wondered if my room was only temporary, if Ms. N planned to move me into more masculine quarters at some point. Maybe my real room wasn?t ready yet. I went downstairs and went looking for Ms. N. I heard her voice behind a closed door and knocked quietly. ?Enter.? Ms. N sat behind a large, impressively tidy desk. She glanced at me and returned to a conversation on her phone. ?No, no. Tell him to start at sixty. He can go up to ninety, but no more. Understand? Good. I have to go. Talk to you later.? She set down her phone and looked at me. There was no chair in front of her desk. I stood awkwardly in the empty space. ?Welcome aboard, Lewis,? she said. ?I hope you do well here. Are you ready to go on duty?? ?I think so,? I said. ?Call me ma?am,? she said. ?Are you ready to go on duty?? ?I think so, ma?am,? I said. ?No, you?re not,? she said. ?You?re not in uniform.? ?Is there a uniform for me, ma?am?? ?Your uniforms are hanging in your closet.? ?I didn?t see any men?s uniforms,? I said. ?Just some women?s things.? ?Some women?s things...?? ?Some women?s things, ma?am.? ?Yes. Those ?things? include your uniforms,? she told me. ?Do you need help getting dressed?? I tried to look shocked. ?You mean you want me to wear a dress?? She raised her eyebrows. ?Uh... do you want me to wear a dress, ma?am?? ?Of course,? she said. ?You are working as my maid, so naturally I expect you to wear a maid?s uniform.? ?But, ma?am, I?m not a girl.? ?But you are my maid. I just hired you, and I require all my maids to wear maid?s uniforms.? ?Ma?am! I thought you hired me as your personal assistant. Not your maid.? ?Of course I did. You will assist me in all sorts of personal ways,? she said. ?You will care for me. You will care for my clothing. You will keep house for me and do all the cooking, cleaning, dishes, laundry and shopping. You will fetch and carry and run errands for me and make my life more pleasant. Your official position on my staff is as a Housemaid I. If you do your job well, you may eventually be promoted to a Housemaid II. If you learn to give your mistress more personal services, you can be promoted to a Lady?s Maid I and, if you excel at providing those services, you might even become a Lady?s Maid II, the highest-ranking maid position on my staff. Each position wears a specific series of uniforms throughout the day, and the higher your position, the nicer your uniforms are. It?s all spelled out in your contract, dear. Did you not read it?? I gulped. ?Ah... not every page, ma?am.? She sighed. ?I suppose I will have to show you, then. Come upstairs.? We climbed to my room and entered the walk-in closet. She stopped in front of a large section of the dress racks. ?These are your Housemaid I uniforms,? she said. There were three black dresses, three gray dresses, four fancier black dresses and a fancy pink dress. I reacted the way a boy is supposed to react. ?You expect me to wear those?? She raised her eyebrows. ?You expect me to wear those dresses, ma?am?? She frowned, as if puzzled. ?Naturally. I thought I made it clear to you. You are a maid, a Housemaid I to be exact, and you will wear the Housemaid I uniform while on duty. There are three uniforms a Housemaid I wears during the day.? She pulled out one of the dresses, a plain, almost ankle-length dress of sturdy black cotton, with a high neckline, long sleeves and a full skirt, all trimmed with old-fashioned white rickrack. She went to my drawers and drew out two cotton petticoats almost as long and full as the dress, with a ruffle at the hem. The petticoats tied at the waist with a sturdy drawstring. ?This is your Housemaid I morning uniform, for your heaviest and dirtiest chores of the day. Two petticoats under your dress, unless you are told to wear more. This apron goes with it.? She opened a drawer of the armoire and took out a long white cotton apron. It fell almost to the hem of the dress, had a small ruffle along its bottom edge, and was decorated with a patch pocket trimmed in black rickrack. With the apron came a ruffled mob cap, also trimmed in rickrack. I could hardly speak, breathless at the thought that my job required me to wear these clothes. I had no choice but to wear them. I could not believe my luck. I decided to abandon my false show of masculine resistance. Starting now I would do as I was told, silently and obediently, doing my best not to annoy Ms. N, who was leading me into this strange but lovely new world. ?Here is your afternoon uniform, for lighter chores.? She pulled out one of the gray cotton dresses. When I looked at it closely, I saw that the fabric was dotted with tiny floral designs in lighter gray, creating a subtle but pretty pattern. The dress had a lower neckline, half-length sleeves and a knee-length skirt, fuller than the morning uniform, all trimmed with a narrow band of lace. From a drawer she drew two crinoline petticoats, each with two layers of stiff nylon netting and a nylon layer underneath to keep the netting from scratching my legs. The hems of all the layers were trimmed in the same lace as the dress. It all reminded me of a classic housewife?s dress from the 1950s, except for the drab color. With the uniform came a rounded waist apron with a ruffled edge that fell short of the skirt?s hem, and a maid?s headpiece with a similar lace-trimmed ruffle on a white Alice band. ?You change into it the afternoon uniform before serving luncheon. You wear it to serve tea at five. At six, you change into your evening uniform.? The evening uniform was a classic French maid?s dress in black satin that stopped well short of mid-thigh, with a plunging neckline, short puffed sleeves and a very full skirt floating on a cloud of rustling white taffeta petticoats an inch or two longer than the skirt. The dress and petticoat were trimmed with a wider strip of white lace than the afternoon uniform. The skirt was so short that the corset?s garters would show under the petticoat no matter how carefully the wearer stood, and if she bent over even slightly, her sissy panties would be on display. Three of the evening uniforms were black, and one was soft pink. One of the black uniforms, instead of a full skirt, had a very short, tight miniskirt barely long enough to cover the bottom row of white lace on the panties. ?This is your evening uniform,? Ms. N said. ?The pink one is for when I have guests. You change into it at six o?clock and wear it with this apron until you go off duty.? She picked out a ruffled waist apron in semi-transparent voile, cut very full and nearly circling the waist. ?And this headpiece.? It featured an ornate bow made of the same voile as the apron. ?It also has this black satin choker and these black satin wristlets, all trimmed with white lace, and the same in pink satin, for special occasions. Maids look so lovely in this uniform!? ?Yes, ma?am,? I said. ?When you go off duty, you can change into a house dress or nightwear. These house dresses...? -- she swept her hand along a rack of dresses in bright rayon prints, with a variety of hem lengths, sleeve treatments and necklines -- ?...are similar to your afternoon uniform, but are much prettier, and you can wear them anytime off duty. At bedtime, you?ll want to change into your nightwear.? She indicated a rack I?d already noticed that bore diaphanous babydolls with matching panties, waltz-length and full-length nightgowns lavished with lace and embroidery, and even two classic peignoirs, one in black and one in virginal white, with sweeping chiffon robes tied over multi-layered chiffon gowns. ?No pajamas, I?m afraid. The rule here is no trousers or shorts of any kind for our little housemaid except for panties, and they must be very girly. Any questions?? I had a hundred questions, but most would have been impolite to ask. I needed to be polite. I tried to think of a question that wouldn?t offend my new employer. I could not afford to lose this job. ?So I?ll be changing clothes five times a day, ma?am? From nightwear into my morning uniform... into my afternoon uniform... into my evening uniform... into a house dress... into a nightgown? And then all over again the next day?? ?Yes,? she smiled. ?Isn?t it lovely? I?d think a boy like you would like doing that.? ?Have you had other male... personal assistants... who dressed like this, ma?am?? ?Yes,? she said. I waited for her to say more, but she didn?t. I decided not to ask any more questions. This was my chance to be forced to wear women?s dresses and work as a maid for Ms. N. The opportunity scared and excited me. I might never have another chance to explore this side of myself. It would be cowardly to back down now, and would leave me with lifelong regrets. Of course, if I found the female regimen too oppressive, I could always quit and find another job, though I couldn?t imagine a more stimulating position. ?What next, ma?am?? I asked. She smiled. ?First let?s get you cleaned up, and then we?ll get you dressed.? She looked at her jewel-studded watch. ?Afternoon uniform.? She took me into the bathroom and used a razor and depilatory cr?me to remove all the hair on my body. While I waited for the cr?me to work, she plucked my eyebrows. A shower washed away my body hair, leaving me looking like a 15- or 16-year-old girl. I had always dreamed of doing this, but never had the nerve. Ms. N began drawing a bath, and poured capfuls of salts and liquids into it, turning it into a mass of pink bubbles. ?But I just took a shower, ma?am,? I said. ?I?m already clean.? ?But how soft is your skin, hmm?? she said. ?Have you moisturized? Are you sweetly scented? Will you feel silky to my touch?? I didn?t want her touching me, so I got into the bath, and emerged twenty minutes later, steaming and fragrant. I grabbed one of the fluffy pink towels and dried myself off. I was ready to start getting dressed, but Ms. N stopped me. She gave me a bottle of moisturizer and told me to rub into my skin all over my body. When I was moisturized, she opened a flat jar, applied a puff of scented powder to my chest and told me to lightly dust myself all over. I did, and it felt nice. The powder smelled like my bath, floral and very feminine. ?What you just did will be your everyday beauty routine,? she said. ?Now that your body is ready to face the day, we?ll start with your corset.? ?My corset?? ?But of course. Your uniforms won?t fit otherwise. Better a body the size of the bodice than a bodice the size of the body.? While I tried to parse that, Ms. N slid a sleek, stretchy corset liner up my torso, covering me from my nonexistent cleavage down to my belly button, and then wrapped a white gartered satin corset around me. The corset had cups for my nonexistent breasts and came down to rest on my hips, which were less generous than a woman?s. The waist of the corset was high on my body, immediately below the ribs. She fastened the busks in front and tightened the laces in back until I begged for mercy. She laughed at me, saying women used to have to wear these all their lives and it was high time men knew what it was like, and then tightened it some more. I moaned. My ribs ached. I couldn?t take a deep breath, had to gasp for air and began to feel dizzy. Ms. N steadied me until I was myself again, then took one last pull at the corset laces, tied them off and tucked them away somewhere I could not reach. Helpless. I would need someone?s help to take the damn thing off. The corset made it difficult to bend over, but I managed to roll my stockings up my legs. I had not worn garters with stockings before, and she had to show me how to fasten them and adjust the tightness so that they tugged evenly on the corset. I stepped into my afternoon panties, pink and lacy, and drew them up over my garter belt, and stepped into the uniform?s 3-inch gray pumps. Next came a white full slip and two calf-length cotton petticoats. Too many clothes! I felt more than fully dressed already, and didn?t even have the dress on yet. Ms. N opened a small drawer and took out what looked like two plump pink satin pincushions. She stepped in front of me and placed one in each cup of my corset, giving me an instant if not entirely convincing bust. ?We can do better later,? she said. Next, she picked up the dress, dropped it over my outstretched arms, tugged down the skirt, pulled the bodice up around me and zipped it up. The dress molded itself to my corseted body, or vice versa. I tried to lift my arms and found that the dress would not let me raise them higher than my tits. I smoothed my dress over my petticoats and put on my afternoon apron, headpiece and shoes, little round-toe black patent kitten heels with a vamp strap. I did my best to tie the apron?s bow behind my back, but Ms. N tsked when she saw it and quickly retied and fluffed out the loops of the bow. She showed me how to check myself in the mirror for dress code violations before reporting to her for morning duty. ?Remember, it?s the long black dress in the morning, the gray dress in the afternoon, and the short black dress in the evening, or pink if I have company.? Ms. N placed a finger under my chin and lifted it, forcing me to stand straighter. ?So, Lewis, now that you are properly in uniform except for your makeup and hair and accessories, do you promise to be my perfectly behaved little maid and wear whatever I tell you to wear?? Most boys would have immediately refused, but I had to say yes. What I wanted personally didn?t matter. I had no choice. I had no one to take care of me, nowhere to stay, no job, almost no money. If I didn?t keep this job, my next move would be onto the streets, where a short, slender lad like me would survive only by becoming someone?s sissy bitch in a situation that would probably be a lot worse than this. No, if I had to submit to someone, much better to belong to an obviously wealthy woman like Ms. N than some burly ex-con or gay boy looking for fresh meat. No one would see me in skirts except Ms. N and her guests. It obviously didn?t bother her, and maybe her guests would think I was a girl. It was ridiculous to have to change clothes five times a day. But if that?s what I had to do to keep the job, that?s what I would do. ?Yes, ma?am,? I said. ?Yes, ma?am, what?? I hated having to repeat it all. ?Yes, ma?am, I promise to be your perfectly behaved little maid and wear whatever you tell me to wear.? ?And what will you wear?? she asked, rubbing it in. Not that I minded. ?My Housemaid I uniform, ma?am. Morning, afternoon, and evening. Until I earn a higher rank. Oh, and nightwear.? ?Is that all?? I had to think. ?No, ma?am. House dresses for when I?m off duty or running errands.? I didn?t like the thought of popping in and out of shops in a dress that looked like something my grandma might have worn. ?That?s right. You?ll look lovely in them. Or at least you will after we make you up and do something about your hair.? She picked up a small cylinder on her desk and opened a deep red lipstick. She grasped my chin with one hand and, with the other, quickly coated my lips. ?Better. You and I will attend to all our beauty needs tomorrow.? She smiled. ?And now for your name. I?m sure you agree that Lewis is hardly an appropriate name for such a pretty little Housemaid I. You need a girl?s name to go with your girly position and your girly uniforms. How about... Lisa? I like it. I shall call you Lisa. What is your name, Lisa?? ?Lisa, ma?am,? I said, feeling pitifully small and weak. ?And what?s your last name, Lisa?? ?I don?t know, ma?am. I didn?t even know my name was Lisa until just now. I guess my last name is whatever you say it is, ma?am.? ?Excellent answer, Lisa! You last name is Lovelace. Lisa Lovelace.? ?Yes, ma?am.? ?What is your name, little maid?? ?My name is Lisa Lovelace, ma?am.? ?And do you?? ?What?? ?Do you? Love lace?? ?Oh. Well, I?m a boy, and boys don?t love lace.? ?Oh, but Lisa! You?re wearing so much lace now under your pretty uniform. I?m sure I saw lace on your panties, corset, stockings, slip and petticoat, and there?s lace on your afternoon and evening uniforms, too. Such a lot of lace you?re wearing! Does that mean you?re not a boy?? ?No, ma?am, I?m sure I?m a boy.? ?But boys don?t wear lace, you just said so, yet here you are wearing lace everywhere! Look at your dress! Lift your skirt and look at your lingerie! It doesn?t make any sense, does it, Lisa? You know, I don?t think you?re a boy at all. I think you?re a sissy. You were born a boy, but you want to be a girl, dress like a girl, act like a girl, live like a girl. It?s obvious. You?re a sissy. A sissy maid. What are you, Lisa?? I hesitated. This was just so humiliating. ?What are you, Lisa?? Her voice sharpened. ?I?m... a sissy, ma?am.? ?What kind of sissy?? ?A sissy maid, ma?am.? ?Yes, you are. Such a sissy maid. What?s your name, sissy?? ?Lisa. Lisa Lovelace, ma?am.? ?And do you?? ?Yes, ma?am.? ?Well done, Lisa. Welcome to my service.? I barely heard her words. I stood there in my feminine underthings and maid?s uniform and liked how they felt. I enjoyed moving in them and feeling them move around me, especially the skirts. Girls? clothes were so much softer and nicer than boy?s clothes, with prettier colors and a wider variety of styles. I was embarrassed to be dressed this way, but Ms. N obviously liked seeing me in skirts, so I decided to enjoy the experience while I could. The corset hugged me fiercely but gave me a shapelier waist that helped the petticoat and dress drape more gracefully over my boyish hips. I ran my hands up and down my torso, feeling the bones of the corset molding my body into an hourglass shape. ?Tell me, Lisa, do you like being dressed like that, in your lingerie and uniform?? ?It?s just so different from boys? clothes, ma?am. My upper body is held so tightly, but below the waist, my body is so... so swirly and free, I mean the stockings hug my legs, but the skirts don?t, they stick out. I look down and I can?t see my shoes, ma?am, just the skirt of my dress, all puffed out by the petticoats.? ?That?s not what I asked. Do you like your dress, your apron, your petticoats, all your pretty things, Lisa?? I gave a deep sigh. ?Yes, ma?am. I love my pretty clothes. I don?t know how long I?ll last in the shoes, though.? She laughed. ?Wait until you?re wearing four-inch stilettos. Your legs look good now, but in taller heels they will be fabulous.? I flinched at the thought. Heels twice as tall as these? I?d never be able to walk. My feet already hurt. Why did women wear such uncomfortable shoes? To look good. She said I looked good. The compliment gave me a warm feeling inside. I wanted Ms. N to think I looked good. I wanted to look good. Even if I had to wear cruel shoes and a tight corset. Even if I had to wear a sissy maid?s lingerie and uniforms. ?Well now, we?ve got you all moved in and bathed and dressed, and I must say you are very pretty for a boy, even without makeup or proper hair. We?ll attend to those tomorrow. Today, let?s get you started on your chores. Come with me. I have a schedule posted in the pantry that you?ll need to memorize.? My duties proved to be exactly what she had described: a traditionally female role, a combination of housemaid, cook and general drudge on duty from 7am to 10pm, with Mondays off. I discovered that the contract I hadn?t bothered to read allowed her to discard all my male clothing, leaving me with no choice but to wear the lingerie that filled my chest of drawers and the maid?s uniforms and women?s sleepwear and daywear and heels in my closet. Ms. N treated me to a complete salon makeover, after which I accompanied her on her weekly beauty appointments and received no- frills versions of the more luxurious hair care, skin care, makeup, mani/pedis and other beauty treatments in which she loved to indulge. A doctor?s appointment revealed that a hormone imbalance had delayed the development of my naturally slender figure, so Ms. N sent me to a clinic for treatment. A year later, after injections, pills and surgery, my appearance had greatly improved. I had a lovely 36C bust, a 26-inch waist, 34-inch hips and a cute little bottom, especially in heels. I moved in my feminized body as if I had been born in it. My shrunken appendage no longer erected but could be decorated, played with or, most of the time, tucked safely out of view even in my tightest, shortest minis and tiniest thongs. In the two years that followed, Ms. N trained me to anticipate and carry out her wishes in a thousand ways that made her life simpler and more pleasant and my life deeply fulfilling. I blossomed in my role as Housemaid I, soon graduated to Housemaid II. I did all I could to make myself essential to Ms. N?s sanity and peace of mind, and was rewarded a year ago when she promoted me to Lady?s Maid I and -- just this week! at long last! -- to Lady?s Maid II. I loved my brand-new uniforms, which were made of finer, softer fabrics with prettier trims and decorations. I felt so feminine and fulfilled. I learned how to tend perfectly to a superior woman?s personal needs, how to lay out her lingerie and daywear in the morning, how to serve her a quick, light breakfast and send her off to work in a good mood, how to greet her with a curtsey and her favorite drink when she arrives home from work, serve her a lovely dinner and assist her in her evening toilette. I became more than just her lady?s maid. I was her housewife, her helpmeet, her frail vessel, responsible for meeting her physical needs with my tongue, just as her vibrator occasionally met mine. When it rubbed my gland inside, I came as intensely as she did, without touching myself. ~ ~ ~ And now Ms. N looked at me with a strange light in her eyes and waited for my answer. ?I understand, ma?am,? I said. ?Mr. B wishes to observe a day in the life of a lady?s maid like me.? ?He does, and tomorrow he will accompany you throughout your normal day, watching what you do and how you dress and look and behave, what your life is like, what you are allowed to do and what you are not, everything that is part of your position as a lady?s maid.? I could not say I liked the idea of a strange man following me around. ?And he?ll just... what? Look at me, ma?am?? ?Yes, dear. Mr. B will observe you and may take notes. He may ask occasional questions, but only when it won?t interfere with your work. Just let him watch you doing your daily chores. He wants to observe a maid?s life. If he does ask questions, tell him the truth, unless it would embarrass me.? ?Yes, ma?am. Do I call him Mr. B?? ?He will be wearing trousers tomorrow, so call him sir.? ?Yes, ma?am. Will he, um, think I?m female?? She smiled. ?Oh, don?t worry about that, pumpkin. I?ve told him all about you. I expect Mr. B will be a perfect gentleman toward you. If he does have questions, pretend he?s your BFF and tell him all about the lovely lace-edged life of lady?s maid Lisa. He?ll be so grateful, and so will I.? Did that mean he would watch all my uniform changes? I certainly hoped not. I didn?t want a man looking at me in my underwear, especially when I changed panties. ?Yes, ma?am.? ?Oh, and please cook and serve him a lovely breakfast and lunch tomorrow. When he is done, you may eat his leftovers.? ?Thank you, ma?am. Will you be joining us for lunch?? ?No, sissy, I?ll be out all day, leaving you alone with him, so I want you to be on your very most polite and ladylike behavior. I want you to do anything he wants you to do.? ?Anything? But, ma?am, what if he...? She held up a hand. ?I don?t need to know. Just keep him happy, and keep it to yourself.? ?Yes, ma?am. Will Mr. B be... uh, will he be working for you, ma?am? Like me?? She smiled. ?That?s none of your business, my pretty little maid.? I had a hundred more questions, but knew better than to ask them now, so I curtseyed, withdrew to the kitchen and resumed preparing dinner. I served it, washed up, changed into a house dress, watched an episode of a Jane Austen movie with Ms. N. Later I climbed the stairs to my maid?s quarters, changed into a silky nightie, did my beauty regimen and slid between my satin sheets, all the time wondering about the mysterious Mr. B and what he might want from me. I hoped he would be a perfect gentleman, but knew they were a rare breed these days. FRIDAY I set my alarm for earlier than usual, not knowing how early Mr. B would arrive, and was glad I did. Ms. N knocked on my door at a quarter to six and asked if I was decent. I had already put on my underthings and hosiery and face, everything but my morning uniform dress and accessories, so I said yes. She opened the door and breezed in, already dressed for work, immaculate in her tailored suit and heels. Behind her stood a man who seemed to fill the doorway. Could he be Mr. B? Whoever he was, I was intensely embarrassed to be exposed in my lingerie. I blushed, backed out of his sight and hurriedly pulled my morning uniform dress over my head. How humiliating, to be seen in my slip and petticoats by a man! ?Good morning, Lisa,? said Ms. N. I thrust my arms into the sleeves, yanked my dress down over my head, hastily shook it out over my petticoats and bobbed an awkward curtsey. ?Good morning, ma?am.? She sighed. ?Mr. B, this rather disheveled young lady is Lisa, my lady?s maid. She is so looking forward to your visit and wants to help in any way she can. I?ve told her that she is at your orders today, and I expect her to follow them to the letter.? ?Oh, I?m certain she shall,? Mr. B said, in a perfect Oxbridge accent. I barely heard their words. I was stunned. Mr. B looked nothing like what I expected. Ms. N had described him as a ?perfect gentleman? who would be wearing boy clothes, so I?d pictured someone sort of like me: short, slender, shy, reserved, even delicate -- the kind of boy who might interview for a job that would require him to dress as a sissy maid, change his uniform three times a day and curtsey whenever he entered or left his employer?s presence. But no. Mr. B was as masculine a man as I?d ever seen, a tall, rugged Englishman who might well have been a former officer in the SAS. The sight of him took my breath away. Six-four at least, with a muscular body that tapered from broad shoulders to a slim waist and powerful thighs. His chiseled chin and jawline, his shoulders, waist, hips, legs and mannerisms were unambiguously male. He wore an expensive-looking dark suit draped perfectly over his body, a crisp white shirt with cufflinks, and a silk tie that no doubt identified him as an old boy of one of England?s elite public schools. His shoes looked Italian. My sense of scent had grown more sensitive during my treatments, and I detected subtle notes of soap and aftershave that perfectly complemented the clean, manly aroma of his body. I lowered my eyes and tried to calm down. His commanding presence all but overwhelmed me. I truly didn?t go for boys, and had no desire to drag Mr. B into the bedroom, but something deep in me responded to him instinctively, almost as if I wanted him to drag me into his bedroom and have his way with me. I wanted to obey this man. I wanted to serve him, make my humble self worthy of him. Perhaps this was the natural reaction of a beta male, for that?s what I had to admit I was compared to him. He was an alpha male, a natural leader, a man of charisma and strength. I found myself eyeing his bulging crotch. If this man ordered me to kneel before him, I would, and what happened after that would not be my fault. Why would a man?s man like him want to observe a sissy lady?s maid like me at work? I could not imagine. Ms. N must have noticed my disquiet. ?Mr. B, would you please excuse us for a moment?? she said. ?I need a moment with Lisa.? ?Lucky you,? he said. He gave me a look that almost made my knees buckle and withdrew, closing the door behind him. Unsure what to do, I curtseyed. ?Ma?am?? ?You seem surprised to see Mr. B,? she said. I swallowed. ?I... I didn?t expect him to be quite so... so...? ?Manly? No,? she laughed. ?You thought Mr. B was like you, didn?t you, little Miss Prettypants? A transvestite dreaming of maid service in an English country house? Well, he?s not like that, not at all. He has no interest in learning how to be a girl. No, that?s your job, sweetness, and you need to show him how much you?ve learned. Mr. B is thinking of acquiring a maid of his own, and he wants to understand how a maid could serve a man like him. ?So I need you to be just the perfect little maid for him today. Curtsey to him often -- men love it. Yes, let?s see you curtsey. That?s it, bend your knees and raise your skirts until your panties show -- oops! Be sure to lift your petticoats as well as your skirts, so they don?t hide your panties... oh, and what pretty little panties they are! Try again! Very good, my dear! Oh, what a cute little thing you are! I could just eat you up. Better yet, you could just eat me. Come here.? She grabbed my hair and made me kneel in front of her crotch, where I lifted her skirt, pulled down her panties and licked and sucked her clitty until she had a nice orgasm. Mr. B had to wait a few minutes before Ms. N was ready to open the door to the room and invite him back in. ?Did you have fun?? he asked Ms. N. She ignored his extremely rude question. ?I?ll be off now,? she said. ?Lisa was a bad girl this morning, up late, only half dressed when we came to fetch her. You have my permission to discipline her for that, or for not obeying your orders, or for misbehaving in any other way. Ten spanks on her bare bottom per offense. She can show you how to punish her, she has this cute little ritual.? Mr. B looked me over. ?I?ll keep it in mind.? I gulped. Ms. N twinkled her fingers. ?You be a good girl and do what Mr. B says, Lisa.? She walked out the door. I was nervous now, not knowing what to expect, alone with this man. Was there anyone else in the house? Mr. B looked me up and down but did not speak. It was unnerving. I curtseyed to him. ?Sir?? ?What do you normally do at this time of day, Lisa?? ?Breakfast, sir.? ?Eat it, or make it?? ?Make it, sir.? ?Then get on with it.? ?Yes, sir. What would you like, sir?? He ordered a full English. We had only American ingredients, so I had to improvise and hoped he would not be angry. I served him four rare strips of thick-cut bacon, four link sausages, two fried eggs, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, buttered toast and coffee. Mr. B inspected his plate. ?Lisa, can you tell me what?s missing from this...not quite full English?? Fortunately, I had cooked for guests from the UK before. ?Um... American bacon is wrong, sir, Canadian is better, and the sausages are different, and we?ve no baked beans, and the toast should be white bread, and...? ?Very good, Lisa. What a smart girl you are! But you were late getting up this morning, and you allowed me to see you in what I must say is your very pretty underwear. Rather naughty of you, don?t you think?? He smiled, throwing me completely off balance. ?What will you eat for breakfast?? ?Whatever you leave me, sir.? He changed the subject. ?That?s your morning uniform?? ?Yes, sir.? ?Why so long? It looks bulky and heavy and hot. And the trim is ugly.? Should I tell the truth? Ms. N said to tell the truth as long as it wouldn?t embarrass her. I didn?t think this would. ?It is, sir,? I said. ?Why don?t you wear something lighter and prettier?? I didn?t dare blame Ms. N directly. ?I wear what I?m given to wear, sir,? I said. Mr. B gave me a penetrating look but didn?t pursue the subject further. He left more of his breakfast for me than I expected. I happily ate his leftovers, washed the dishes, cleaned the kitchen counters, swept the floor and took out the trash and recycling. The man following me around moved like an athlete, large and muscular but lithe, almost graceful in his movements. He watched me closely and said little as I worked. Occasionally he would make a note on his phone. It was unnerving at first, but after a while I got used to his presence. I found myself wanting to talk to him, tease him, flirt with him, anything to get a reaction out of him, but I had been trained to speak only when spoken to while in uniform, so I was not free to start a conversation. When I was done downstairs, I went upstairs to make the beds and tidy the bedrooms and clean the bathrooms and all the rest of my late morning routine. When I reached the landing, Mr. B spoke. ?Show me your room, Lisa. Is it on this floor?? ?No, sir, it?s up in the attic.? ?Lead on.? I did not want to take him to my room, but Ms. N?s instructions were clear. I led him up the stairs and into the maid?s quarters that were now mine. ?A very pretty room,? he said, ?but not as pretty as you.? ?Oh, thank you, sir,? I said, deeply humiliated. I couldn?t deny it. My room was every bit as feminine as the clothes in my closet. Everything from the paint on the walls to the coverlet on the bed was pink or white or trimmed in gold, and most of what wasn?t trimmed in gold was trimmed in white lace. I gave him a curtsey for the compliment. ?Do you have any boy clothes?? he asked. I blushed, remembering that he knew my secret. ?No, sir.? ?Any women?s trousers? Slacks? Capris? Shorts?? ?No, sir,? I said. ?Just my uniform dresses, underwear, house dresses and sleepwear.? ?House dresses?? ?Like what old-fashioned housewives wore back in the 1950s, sir. Snug bodices and waistlines, Peter Pan collars, shirtwaists, full skirts, petticoats, heels, aprons... a pretty dress to greet the breadwinner home from work... a cold martini... that sort of thing,? I said. ?Ah. Show me all that, starting with your lingerie,? Mr. B said. ?You are a boy, right? What?s it like to have to wear such girly undies?? ?You?ve never...?? I dared to ask. He laughed. ?No, my dear. Boys like you do that. So tell me what it?s like.? This was extremely embarrassing, because after three years of serving Ms. N, my lingerie is absolutely gorgeous. Most of it comes from Europe and is lavishly tucked, pleated, shirred, embroidered and decorated. Matching bra and panty sets. Specialty panties -- tap panties, thongs and such. Slips, full and half length, and camisoles. Hosiery -- mostly stockings with garter belts, but a few pairs of pantyhose and tights for cold weather, knee socks with bows and some cute lace-trimmed ankle socks for when Ms. N wanted me to look young. And shapewear: corsets, bustiers, merry widows, waist cinchers, a teddy, Spanx, even traditional girdles. ?It?s... it?s complicated, sir. I wear so many different things...? ?And all of it so pretty,? Mr. B said. ?It must be complicated to be a girl.? ?Oh, sir, it is.? As if a man would have any idea. ?It?s even more complicated when you?re a maid. It?s like being a fine lady a hundred years ago. I have to change my clothes five times a day.? ?Five times a day?? he said. ?That would certainly keep a girl busy.? ?Oh, yes, sir,? I said. ?In the morning I change out of my nightclothes into my morning uniform. After lunch I change into my afternoon uniform. Before dinner I change into my evening uniform. For each change, I usually have to change my underwear as well as my dress and accessories. Later, when I?m off duty, I can change into a house dress or a skirt and blouse, and at the end of the day I change back into my nightclothes, which you can be sure are more complicated than yours. And then during the day, I have to change my apron whenever it gets dirty, and if the hem of my petticoat gets dirty, I get spanked and I have to change my petticoat. Oh wait, I already told you that, I?m sorry, sir. Do you want to know how much laundry I do every week?? ?Not really. I?m sure it?s a lot. You get spanked?? ?Yes, sir, if I dirty my petticoat. Well, not only for that...? He grinned. ?Show me your uniform. I?ll try not to dirty your petticoat.? ?My other uniforms, sir?? ?No, the one you?re wearing. Show me and explain all the layers you have on. Don?t worry, I won?t touch you, I?ll sit over here.? Ms. N had told me to obey him, so I went from the outside inwards and showed him my bib apron, black uniform dress, mob cap, accessories and shoes, and under the dress my petticoats and full slip, and under the slip my corset, stockings and panties. He made me drop my panties to see how my sissy clit was tucked away, and was amused by the pink bow that decorated it. ?No bra, Lisa?? I explained that the corset?s cups made a brassiere unnecessary. ?But you have a drawer full of bras.? ?They?re for when I?m not wearing a corset, sir. Which isn?t very often.? He shook his head in mock dismay. I smiled and almost pitied him, poor man. He had no idea of the complexity of female attire. He probably wore the same things in the same colors every day. How easy. How b-o-r-i-n-g. ?And your other uniforms?? he asked. I took him into my closet. ?A Lady?s Maid II needs a lot of clothing, sir. Black cotton morning uniforms, gray cotton afternoon uniforms, black or pink satin evening uniforms. House dresses for when I?m off duty. A few skirts and tops, though Ms. N prefers to see me in a dress, and finally my nightwear -- chemises, waltz and full-length gowns, babydolls and peignoirs.? ?No girly pajamas?? he asked. ?No trousers of any kind, sir,? I said. ?You have extremely feminine tastes,? he said. ?All those ribbons, ruffles, lace... is that because you are a maid, or a boy, what? Most real girls wear much simpler clothing.? ?It?s what Ms. N wants me to wear,? I said. I wondered whether to go on, but she did say to tell the truth. ?I think she chooses very feminine styles to embarrass me, to make me look silly and subservient... more sissy.? ?I?ll say. So, you don?t like all the ruffles? You?re not really this girly? You?d rather wear simpler, plainer girl?s clothes? Or go back to boy?s clothes?? I sensed that I was on thin ice. I certainly didn?t want to sound like I was criticizing Ms. N to a man she called her dear friend. ?Oh, no, sir, I love all my uniforms and clothes. They are so pretty and feel so nice, and Ms. N has been so generous. I want to look the way Ms. N wants me to look.? He gave me a glance that told me I hadn?t fooled him, but at least I hadn?t said anything to get me in trouble. He watched me tidy the bedrooms, change the linens and clean the bathrooms upstairs, and then gather up all the piles of dirty laundry and take them downstairs. It was noon already, so I curtseyed to Mr. B and excused myself to go change into my afternoon uniform. ?I want to watch you,? he said. ?Oh, sir, I?d rather...? ?I won?t touch, but I am going to watch you,? he said. ?You change clothes so often that it?s an important part of your day, and I want to understand how much work it is for you.? He smiled. ?I?m afraid I missed most of your changing into your morning uniform.? I felt humiliated, but had to do as he said. ?Yes, sir,? I said, and climbed the stairs to my room. He followed and pulled my chair to the side of the room, to give me as much room as possible, which I thought was polite of him. I took off the black Mary Janes that went with the morning uniform, and then my apron, mob cap and dress. I put the apron in the hamper, but decided the dress and cap would stand another wearing and put them away. I untied the drawstrings of the petticoats, let them fall to the floor, stepped out of them, picked them up, and returned them to the chest of drawers. I pulled off my black morning panties, selected a pair of pink afternoon panties from my drawer, and slid them up over my garters. I unfastened the garters and removed my black morning stockings. I slid my seamless nude afternoon stockings up my legs, smoothed them and refastened the garters. From another drawer I fetched my afternoon underskirts: two white knee-length bouffant crinoline petticoats, each with two layers of crisp netting over a third layer of smooth nylon, all edged with delicate lace. I drew their elastic waistbands up to my corseted waistline. Over my head I lifted my gray afternoon uniform, thrust my arms into its half-sleeves and my head through its white Peter Pan collar, and pulled the dress down over my body. I smoothed its slender bodice over my corset, zipped it up and adjusted the full skirt, which fell to just below the knee, over my rustling crinolines. I put on my half-circle waist apron with tiny ruffles at the hem and tied it behind me with a neat bow. I stepped into my gray afternoon pumps with a two-inch heel, slipped my ruffled afternoon headpiece into my hair, quickly touched up my makeup, and voila! My change was complete. It probably took fifteen minutes. ?All that fuss just to put on a different dress? Why?? asked Mr. B. I didn?t know how to explain it. I couldn?t think of a reason that would make sense to him. ?It?s just what we do,? I said. ?Ms. N changes her clothes as often as I do. More often, if she goes out or goes riding. She has many more dresses than I do, dozens of dresses, because she doesn?t have to wear a uniform.? ?I like you in this dress,? he said. ?That slim little waist, and those swirling skirts, showing a little more skin. You?re improving as the day goes on.? I blushed and curtseyed. ?Thank you, Sir. What would you like for lunch?? He asked for a BLT and a beer. I asked if he wanted a bacon butty instead, and he laughed and said no, the BLT would do, and how did I know what a bacon butty is. I put a mug in the freezer to chill, fried the bacon, sliced the tomato, made the sandwich, added a small salad with a clear dressing to give him something healthier to eat, and emptied a bottle of Asheville Brewing Company beer into the chilled mug. I served Mr. B his sandwich at the breakfast table, curtseyed and retreated to my corner of the dining room, lowering my eyes and folding my hands over my apron. He sipped the beer, gobbled the BLT and ignored the salad, which became my lunch, as I?d dared hope. After tidying up after the meal, I started doing the upstairs. While I dusted, Mr. B started asking me questions. Some of them were embarrassing, but I followed Ms. N?s instructions to tell him the truth. He asked about my childhood, and looked sad when I told him I had no living relatives, just a string of foster parents, most of whom had been glad to see me go. The family before last had discovered my desires and made me wear a young girl?s party dress with my hair in pigtails when the county caseworker came to pick me up. I begged her for boy?s clothes, but she didn?t have any and there weren?t any rules about changes of clothing while being transported, so I was still wearing the dress when she dropped me off with my next set of foster parents. Not the best way to make a first impression, and things went downhill from there. He asked about my sex life. I told him I didn?t have one, which was basically true. On rare occasions Ms. N would wrap my little penis in a dirty pair of panties and bring me to the edge, but she never allowed me to climax. She forbade me to pleasure myself, and said that if she ever saw any evidence of it, she would fit me with a chastity device. I made sure she never saw any evidence. He asked me how large my penis was, which I thought was a very personal question. Why would he care? I?d never bothered to measure it, but I held my thumb and forefinger about the right distance apart. ?Stiff, or soft?? he asked. ?Stiff.? Mr. B smiled and asked if I?d ever had sex with a man. I indignantly said no. He asked why not, and I said it sounded nasty and uncomfortable. He laughed and said maybe I?d find out someday. As if! It was nicer when he asked less personal questions, like why I dusted the way I did. I explained that I always dusted from the highest surface in the room to the lowest surface, so that dust would never fall onto a surface I?d already cleaned and would eventually end up on the floor, where I could just vacuum or sweep it up. He said he?d never realized there was a science to dusting, and complimented me on my cooking and housekeeping. I felt proud of myself for once, and had a stray thought that it might be nicer to work for Mr. B than Ms. N. I vacuumed upstairs and began cleaning the bathrooms. As I bent over the sink, Mr. B slid behind me, closer than I liked. He wasn?t touching me, but I could feel his legs compressing my crinolines. His fingers straightened the bow of my lace-trimmed hostess apron. I liked the attention, but it made me uncomfortable and I wished he would stop. Not just yet, but soon, so that neither of us would be tempted to do anything wrong and get me in trouble with Ms. N. I looked up at him over my shoulder. He could probably see the fear in my eyes. ?What will you serve for dinner, Lisa?? ?I don?t know, sir. I could do pasta, or a stir fry, or just a grilled pork chop and vegetables. I?ll think about that after I finish my chores, sir,? I said. ?That doesn?t seem smart, Lisa,? Mr. B said. ?If you thought about dinner now, you might have time to defrost or otherwise prepare something that you won?t have time for if you wait too long to think about dinner. Also, you might ask your guest if there is anything he would like, or doesn?t like, for dinner. As the pretty little housemaid, it?s your job to plan dinner early in the day, so you have time to make it special.? My heart pounded under my corset. He made it sound like I?d made a mistake, a dumb blonde mistake, as I always seemed to do while in petticoats around real men. And oh, I?d been late getting dressed... My bottom twitched in anticipation. ?Am I right, Lisa?? ?Yes, sir.? I was close to tears. ?And you were wrong.? ?Yes, sir.? ?How wrong were you, Lisa?? What did he want me to say? ?I... suppose I was very wrong, sir.? He nodded. ?Very wrong indeed. And what do we do to girls who are very wrong indeed, Lisa?? There was only one possible answer. ?We... we punish them, sir.? ?Punish girls?? He sounded shocked. ?Just for making a simple mistake? Why would we do that, Lisa?? His change in attitude confounded me. ?Um... because if we don?t punish, girls won?t learn from their mistakes?? ?Hmm. Is that a question, Lisa?? I grew fearful, not knowing what he wanted me to say. ?I... I don?t know, sir, please tell me.? ?Good answer, Lisa.? He patted me on the head like a pet. How could ?I don?t know? be a good answer? I didn?t understand. I fell back on the safest phrase in a maid?s vocabulary. ?If you say so, sir.? ?Well, should I say so? Or was it a bad answer? Have you been a naughty girl? Do you need to be punished?? My voice trembled. I dreaded the thought of his powerful hand beating my tender rear. But if I said no, he might become angry and make my punishment worse. I had no way to know. I was helpless, as usual. I hated being helpless, but it came with the job. ?If you say so, sir.? ?I do say so.? He laid me across his knees and held my wrists behind my back, the same way Ms. N did. My lower lip trembled, but I didn?t cry, not before being struck. I was used to Ms. Fuchs disciplining me, but not to being laid over the lap of a burly man. ?What are you being punished for, Lisa?? he asked. ?Whatever you say, sir,? I replied in my humblest voice. ?No, no, you tell me,? he said. Oh God, I was doomed. I would miss something he considered an offense for sure, and then there would be more punishments. ?I was a bad girl, sir. I, uh, let my underwear show under my dress.? That was safe, because Ms. N had already called me out for it. ?I failed to plan dinner early enough. Uh... I didn?t get up early enough this morning. I let a man see me in my underwear.? He laughed. ?Yes, indeed you did, and a lovely view it was. Poor little maid Lisa taken by surprise, diving into her dress at the last minute.? ?Yes, sir, and, uh, will you please punish me, sir, because I was such a bad girl.? ?You want to be punished? Most girls don?t, not even bad girls, because it hurts. How do you want to be punished, Lisa?? ?Um, Ms. N usually spanks me, with her hand or with the paddle, on my bare bottom.? ?Well, then, let?s do it her way.? I lay down over his lap. ?Will you please lift my dress, sir?? He ran his hand over my bottom through my skirts, then slowly lifted my dress and pulled it up over my back. ?Will you please lift the outer layer of my outer petticoat, sir?? I had to ask him separately for each layer of my underskirts and slips. ?Will you please pull down my panties, sir?? He pulled them down partway. The rule was that spanks were delivered on a bare bottom, so I had to ask him to pull my panties down further. I had to ask four times before my bottom was properly bare. Mr. B lightly caressed my bottom. It felt nice. I didn?t want a man?s hand to feel nice, but it did. ?You have a cute ass,? he said. I wiggled it by reflex. ?If you say so, sir.? ?I do, and stop saying that. Tell me what you really think.? ?I don?t think about my bottom, sir.? He laughed. ?Don?t you?? His right hand slid between my buttocks. A finger burrowed deep into my rear entrance. It hurt. I gave a shriek of surprise and discomfort. The finger wiggled around and touched a place deep inside that gave me a jolt of pure pleasure. It pulled away and then touched the place again. I gave another little scream, this time not in pain. ?Oh! Sir!? ?Are you thinking about your cute little bottom now, Lisa?? ?Oh, my God... what did you just do? Do it again!? I begged. He stopped at once. ?To whom are you speaking?? ?Sir! You?re Sir! My Sir! Dear Sir, oh, oh, kind Sir! Please, Sir, please do that again, Sir. Please, please, pretty please!? ?What, like this?? A second finger entered me. I yelped and wriggled my bottom, trying to find that magic spot again. ?Y-yes! Ah! Ah! Oh! Oh, Sir! Sir! Ahhh!? I couldn?t believe what I was saying or doing. I was letting another man treat me like a woman, begging him to penetrate me for my pleasure. Why, oh why? I wasn?t female. I wasn?t gay. Yes, I loved wearing girls? clothing, but I had zero interest in men. Or hadn?t until now. What changed? Was it something about Mr. B? About me? I didn?t know. I was so confused. He pulled his fingers out of my bottom. I gasped. ?You haven?t earned that reward yet,? he said. ?I?m supposed to be punishing you. Let?s see -- bad girl, visible underwear, late getting up, late getting dressed, late planning dinner. Five offenses. So, that would be... fifty spanks?? I gave a squeak of fear. That was the maximum. It would make me cry like a little girl. I wanted to cry now. He raised his hand. I tensed for the blow. It didn?t land. I waited breathlessly. He kept his hand raised, but did not strike. Had he changed his mind? I let my body relax. He immediately delivered a stinging blow to my naked bottom. His hand was so much bigger than Ms. N?s that it covered both of my girly globes. It hurt! It hurt as much as Ms. N?s spanks ever did, and yet I sensed that he was holding back, that he could have hit me harder, maybe much harder. I gave a little scream, but did not cry. ?One, Sir. May I please have another?? Two. Three. Four. My posterior was on fire. I could not imagine surviving fifty of these. My lip trembled. ?Five, Sir. May I please have another?? ?No,? he said. ?Five offenses, five spanks.? He lifted me to my feet, as if I weighed nothing, and gave me another swat. ?And one to grow on. That?s all you get for now, Lisa. But I can see that you have the potential to become a very naughty girl, one who will need to be disciplined regularly and responds well to it.? I began to cry -- not in fear or pain, but in gratitude. He had just spanked me five times for no reason, but that was so much better than fifty spanks that I could have kissed him. Instead, I curtseyed to him and wiped away my tears. ?May I pull up my panties, sir?? ?No. Leave them where they are, as a reminder that you that you were a bad girl. I?ll tell you when you can pull up your panties. So, what shall I observe you doing this afternoon?? ?I was going to do the upstairs, but is there something you would like to observe me doing, sir?? He smiled. ?Yes, there is. I?d like to observe you giving me a blowjob. Now would be a good time.? ?What?? I clapped my hands to my mouth. ?But Ms. N said... surely, Sir...? ?As I recall, she told you to do as I say. Kneel.? This was too far. I had never given a man a blowjob and did not want to start now. I pulled away from him and tried to run, tottering in my heels, flapping my arms helplessly, knowing it was futile. He laughed, let me run a few more yards and caught me easily. He dragged me to the sofa, pulled me back onto his lap, lifted my skirts again and began to spank me on my bare bottom. I cried and wailed and kicked, but he controlled me easily. The spanks were not quite as hard as before, but came much more quickly. Ten spanks... twenty... thirty... I began to sniffle, and then broke down. Forty... I wept, and howled, and kicked my feet helplessly, and begged Mr. B to stop. ?Does the little crybaby way Daddy to stop?? he said. ?Yes,? I sobbed. ?Five more.? he said, and after spanking me forty-five times, he stopped. I lay limp across his knees, bawling like a baby, my bottom on fire. He waited until my tears slowed. ?I told you to kneel in front of me.? I did. Anything to keep his hand off my bottom. ?Take it out.? I looked up at him, met his eyes. I forced myself to lift my hands to his crotch. My long crimson nails made it difficult to unzip his pants. I reached into the fly of his boxers and touched his penis. A weird mix of revulsion and fascination swept over me. I pulled out his cock and balls. They were huge, easily twice the size of mine. ?Waiting for a written invitation, Lisa? Kiss it. Lick it. Suck it.? I did all those things, hesitantly at first, which earned me a slap on the head, and then with feigned enthusiasm. ?Talk to me, Lisa. Tell me why you love my cock.? ?Oh, oh, sir... your cock is so big... so strong... so long and hard... I wish I had one like yours, sir...? That got me another pop to the head. ?Bad girl! Girls don?t have cocks. Are you a girl?? I thought it unsafe to deny it. ?If you say so, sir.? He slapped me again. ?Are you a girl?? I started crying again. ?Yes, sir! Yes, yes, I?m a girl!? ?And do girls have cocks?? ?No, sir!? ?So, do you have a cock?? This was insane. Of course I did. He?d touched it earlier under my skirts. But facts didn?t seem to matter in Mr. B?s word games. ?Not unless you say so, sir.? ?Well, I say you don?t have a cock, Lisa! You?re a girly boy, a sissy, and what you have is... a Twinkie. Yes! A soft little pastry about three inches long, filled with yummy white cream. Real girls have a clitoris, but you?re not a real girl. You have a Twinkie. Not a penis, not a clitoris, but a Twinkie. Hey, that?s a good nickname for you. Don?t you agree... Twinkie?? Fresh tears spilled from my eyes. I had never felt so unmanly. I wasn?t a boy, I wasn?t a girl, I was a Twinkie, three inches of cheap pastry filled with yummy white cream, and I was sucking on a cock that was almost three times the size of my Twinkie. I slurped on Mr. B?s penis, ran my tongue around it and licked its hole, which made him jump. I ran my soft hands up and down his shaft and sucked on his testicles. I didn?t know what I was doing, but evidently my amateur efforts were good enough, because after only a couple of minutes he gasped and grabbed my pigtails and started fucking my face, jamming his cock halfway down my throat. I gagged and gasped for air, and instead got a blast of salty fluid that slid straight down into my stomach. Mr. B pulled his penis out of my mouth, stroked it a few more times and discharged a chaser across my cheek and lips. Afterwards, he made me lick his dick until it was clean. I gently put it away inside his pants and pulled up the zipper. He petted me on the head. ?Well done for a first time,? Mr. B said. ?You have a great deal to learn in terms of technique, but those fifty spanks definitely improved your attitude.? I curtseyed. ?If you say so, sir.? He laughed. ?Twinkie! I told you to stop saying that. Bad girl!? He tried to grab me. I gave a little scream and backed away. He started chasing me down the hallway. Of course it was hopeless, hobbled as I was by my heels and corset and petticoats, but he let me evade him for a few moments before he grabbed me around my waist, threw me over his shoulder and headed back down the hallway. My head hung down almost to his ass, my hair to his knees, and my skirts fell away and bared my bottom, which I?m sure was as pink as the first day of a Hawaiian suntan. I still hadn?t been allowed to pull up my panties. I briefly struggled against his grip, but he gave me a stinging spank with his free hand that made me go limp. ?Oh! Sir! Where are you taking me?? I gasped. ?To answer my last question about you,? Mr. B said. He carried me into the master bedroom, threw me face down onto its king-sized bed, lifted my disheveled skirts and rubbed his hand across my well- punished bottom. He gave it a pinch, and I yelped. ?The last question, Lisa,? Mr. B said, ?is whether you can climax when I fuck you. As a final test of your femininity, I am going to use you the way a man uses a woman. If my cock can make you spurt without touching your dinky Twinkie, you are indeed a girl and will make an excellent maid. If you have to grab your Twinkie to spurt, then you?re just a stinky little boy of no use to anyone. Let?s find out which you are, shall we?? He made me undress without getting off the bed. I took off my shoes, apron, dress and maid?s headpiece. He stopped me at that point and told me to leave on my underwear -- petticoats, slip, corset and stockings. ?But no panties,? he said. He reached under my petticoats, yanked on my lacy briefs and tossed them on the floor. I backed up against the headboard, afraid of what he might do next. What Mr. B did next was to take off his clothes. He got off the bed, warning me to stay on it. He unbuttoned and shed his shirt, unbuckled and dropped his trousers, and stripped off his boxers and socks. In the nude he looked quite fit for his age, with tight abs and a touch of salt-and-pepper in his chest hair. He leered at me. ?You?re so pretty,? he said. ?I could just eat you up.? I hated to admit it, but it was true: I was a pretty girl. And he was a handsome man. He was tall; I was tiny. He was strong; I was weak. His chest was flat and muscular; mine filled a pair of C cups. His face, chest and limbs were hairy; mine were soft, pink and hairless. And he had a penis, twice as long and twice as big around as my boy- clitty. He wore nothing; I was dressed in the lacy lingerie of a lady?s maid. He leaped onto the bed. I gave a girly little scream and scrambled to the far edge. He grabbed my ankles and pulled me toward him. I kicked free and tried to scramble away from him, but then he caught me by the waist, and I was trapped. He rolled me onto my back, lay between my legs and held my hands above my head. I was helpless. His cock was rigid now. ?Stay where you are. Don?t move.? He let me go and got up, opened a packet of condoms (?Anaconda -- For the Extraordinary Male?) on the nightstand and rolled the lubricated protection down his cock. I lay spread-eagled on the bed, not daring to move. The sight of the condom confirmed my fears, but if worse came to worst, protection was better than no protection. ?I like chasing a pretty girl around the bed as much as the next guy, but now I?ve caught you, and we?re wasting time,? he said. ?Let?s get all this girly crap out of the way.? He tugged at the slippery white mass of my petticoats and slip and shoved it all above my waist. He lifted my ankles over his broad shoulders and probed for my rear entrance. I thought about trying to push him off me, but knew I was too weak to do it, and did not want to make him angry. He spread my buttocks with his large hands, found my rosebud and started to penetrate me. The pain brought tears to my eyes, but he entered slowly and rested inside me, not moving, until my muscles relaxed. I gave a tiny wiggle, and he began to hump me, sliding his cock in and out of my boy-pussy, slowly at first and then faster. It massaged my happy place much more strongly than his fingers had, and I was immediately in bliss. My feet kicked up and down over his shoulders. I clutched the bedclothes, tried to push myself farther onto his cock. His balls slapped against my boy buns. ?Oh! Mr. B! Oh, sir! Oh! Oh! Fuck me, sir! Fuck me, fuck me like a girl! Oh, please, fuck me! Sir! Sir! Ah! Ahh! Ahhh!? Too soon I exploded in ecstasy, shooting my boy juice into the froth of my petticoats. My orgasm seemed to go on forever. Mr. B continued to slide in and out of me, and every time he rubbed that spot inside, I trembled with deeper, more profound pleasure than I had ever known. My boy-clitty continued to ooze milky fluid as he pumped in and out of my boy-pussy. Mr. B gently stroked my hair and kissed me and played idly with my breasts. Thanks to the treatments Ms. N arranged years ago, my girls were firm and round and responded enthusiastically to his stimulation. I found myself writhing again on the satin sheets, unable to control the feelings created by those tiny lumps of flesh, so soon after quite a different lump of his flesh had created even stronger feelings in me. When he kissed me, I kissed him back. I was in love with him, and deeply ashamed of myself for being so. ?That answers my last question, Lisa. You?re a girl, except for your little Twinkie, which will never go stale. You?re even better than a real girl. So cute.? He hopped out of bed and dressed himself from head to toe in about the time it would take me to straighten my stocking seams. ?I?ve seen what I needed to see, Lisa. I?ll be going now. I?m having dinner with Ms. N. She?ll be back afterwards. You go clean yourself up, get dressed and get back to your chores.? He paused. ?You were a good girl today, Twinkie. I will give Ms. N a favorable report.? It was early, but I was exhausted. I dragged myself to my room and fell asleep without cleaning myself up. SATURDAY When I awoke the next morning, I knew it hadn?t been a dream. I?d fallen asleep the way Mr. B left me, without performing my evening toilette. I felt dirty and used. I had dried cum on my face. I was still wearing my slip, corset, stockings and petticoats. I got up, shed my skirts, managed to undo the busks of my corset and walked unsteadily into the bathroom. My face was a fright, a textbook illustration of why girls must always remove their makeup before going to bed. I got out my makeup remover and cotton pads, undid the damage and soaked in a tepid bubble bath until I felt clean again. I usually preferred hot water, but my little fanny was too tender after its encounter with Mr. B?s tool. Afterwards, I brushed my hair into my usual bangs and bob and dressed in my morning uniform. I made and took tea up to Ms. N and took her order for breakfast. She came downstairs only a few minutes later, perfectly turned out in a plum wool pencil skirt and peplum jacket over a crisp white georgette blouse, with taupe stockings and matching plum pumps. She had a sip of coffee and turned to me. ?Well, Lisa, you made quite an impression on Mr. B yesterday.? ?I hope it was a good impression, ma?am,? I said nervously. ?It was,? she said. ?He said you were very pretty and very obedient... just the way men like women to be.? I heard the scorn in her voice. ?He found your appearance and deportment completely feminine. He approved of the way you dressed, particularly your lingerie. He was impressed by your housekeeping skills, and said you seemed to be more intelligent than a typical bimbo maid, which I suppose is possible. More important, he was delighted by your physical performance.? I felt my face go red. ?Oh, not just the sex,? she said. ?He said that your bottom pinks up nicely when spanked and that you accept punishment meekly, which is important. Your little Twinkie -- oh, I love that name! -- is just the right size compared to his, and he doesn?t want you to lose it. He enjoyed the way your nipples respond to manual stimulation. As for the sexual tests, you passed easily. You respond to anal stimulation; you can bring a man to orgasm using your mouth; you can take a man inside your boy-pussy; and you can have an orgasm without touching your boy-clitty while being fucked by a man. Very good, Lisa!? I was humiliated by the list of these feminine accomplishments, but I supposed it was better than listening to a list of my failures and being turned out on the streets to turn tricks. ?Thank you, ma?am,? I said, and curtseyed. ?And now for the best news of all, Lisa! Mr. B has made an offer for you.? ?An offer? What does that mean? Does he want to... marry me?? Ms. N laughed. ?Marry you? Heavens, no! What an idea. He wants to buy you, sweet cakes.? ?B-buy me? How can he buy me? I?m not for sale!? ?Oh, honey, in this life we?re all for sale, one way or another, to the right person at the right time for the right amount. Mr. B is a very dear friend, pumpkin, and since his wife passed away, he?s been looking for -- well, not another wife exactly, but a certain kind of girl.? ?What kind of girl?? ?A girl like you, my dear. A girl with that little something extra she gets from her Y chromosome.? ?Does he think he?s buying me from... you? You don?t own me, ma?am.? ?Don?t I? Everything you have, everything you are, comes from me, doesn?t it? I created you, my little maid.? ?Yes, ma?am, but...? ?Really, dear, don?t be tiresome. Mr. B has made a very suitable offer for you, and I have accepted it, and if you have an ounce of sense you will kiss his feet in gratitude. This is a wonderful opportunity for you, and you should feel honored to be sold to him.? ?Are you telling me I have to leave? Do I have to go live with him, ma?am?? ?Have to? You get to! Oh, you silly little Twinkie, Mr. B is even richer than me, and he knows how to get exactly what he wants. You are so lucky that he has chosen you as his new domestic servant. He has a beautiful house full of beautiful things that will need dusting by a pretty little maid who flashes white lace every time she bends over. You will have your own lovely maid?s suite, with a bedroom, boudoir and bathroom, and bigger closets filled with lovely uniforms and dresses. Your only job will be to keep house for him and make him happy.? ?How happy, ma?am?? I had to ask. ?May I ask how much... Mr. B... paid...?? ?For you? Seventy-five thousand pounds, sweetness. A hundred thousand dollars.? My jaw dropped. ?For me? Oh my God! Oh... oh... do I get some of it?? She laughed. ?You? Oh, Lisa, my little Twinkie girl, don?t be ridiculous. The money goes to my foundation. You?re just a sissy, an oh-so-fuckable little sissy maid. Bend over.? She gave me a loving spank, pulled down my panties and slipped a finger inside my love hole. I jumped and gave a yelp. ?What a good girl you are, so ready and obedient. Well, dear, the chauffeur is ready to leave. Just wear what you have on. You can pull up your panties now. Mr. B will give you a new wardrobe and beauty supplies, so you have nothing to pack. The car is waiting for you, Lisa. Goodbye.? ?What? You?re sending me away, right now? But I... but...? ?But what? I created you. You own nothing, not even the clothes you?re wearing, those belong to me. In fact, I want you to take off everything except your corset ? it was custom-made for your body, so you may as well keep it. Fold them neatly and leave them on that chair.? ?You mean I have to leave dressed only in a corset?? ?Oh, that would leave you dangling, wouldn?t it? Naughty! Well, all right, you can take the panties, too -- after all, you sewed those pretty rows of lace on the bottom. Which means anyone who sees you can give you a spank until you?re properly dressed again! I offered Mr. B a good price on your entire wardrobe, but he said no, so I imagine he will be giving you new clothes. Lucky little Lisa!? I wept with shame as I stripped down to my corset and panties, folded the rest of my uniform neatly and laid it on the chair. ?Very good, Lisa. Now you must go to Mr. B. His car is outside the staff entrance. Goodbye, Lisa. I hope life treats you gently.? I choked up and started to cry. ?Goodbye, ma?am,? I said. I needed a hug so badly, but she did not touch me, did not shed a tear, and I knew better than to touch her without her permission. I pulled up my panties and stumbled out of the room in tears, not knowing if I would ever see her again, and found my way to the servants? entrance. A black Lincoln town car with tinted windows idled in the driveway. Its rear door was open. A stern woman?s voice called to me from the open door. ?Lisa Lovelace!? ?Yes?? I could barely see her figure inside the car. ?I?m here to escort you to your new owner. Get in.? I gulped. ?I... I don?t think I want to go to him! He doesn?t own me.? A wicked laugh from inside the car. ?You be sure to tell him that, gorgeous, and let me know what he says. Meanwhile, get in the goddamn car. Or I can have the driver tie you up, toss you in the trunk and let you roll around in the dark. Choose one.? What else could I do? She was right. I no longer had a job with Ms. N, nowhere to go, no money. I didn?t even own the corset and panties I wore. I climbed into the car and awkwardly pulled the door closed. I plopped onto a wide, deep, low-set leather seat that would make a woman expose herself if she were not careful, a seat that only a man could have designed. My lack of clothing was intensely embarrassing. The woman perched on the edge of the seat opposite me wore a black pencil skirt and an ivory pussy bow blouse, with black-rimmed glasses and her black hair up in a tight bun, the very model of an efficient corporate secretary. She fixed me with eyes framed by severely plucked brows. I found her frightening. ?Tell me, dear, do you always dress like this? It can?t be comfortable in winter.? ?No!? I said. ?Ms. N made me take off my uniform. These are the only clothes I have.? She gave me a predatory smile. ?You?re certainly down to essentials. Why all the rows of white lace on your bottom?? I explained the spanking game that Ms. N made me play with guests, a game I could never win. ?If you had a dress and petticoats to cover yourself, you might have a chance,? she said. ?But dressed as you are... poor Lisa. Did you get an awful lot of swats?? ?Yes... ma?am?? ?Correct. I am Ms. Fuchs, Mr. B?s housekeeper and head of the female staff, so you call me ma?am. You are part of the female staff because you are officially a maid, even though my understanding is that you are biologically male. Is this true?? ?Yes, ma?am, I am a boy.? ?Why are you wearing women?s clothing?? ?I?m Ms. N?s lady?s maid, and she likes me to dress the part. She has me wear a maid?s uniform on duty, and dresses or skirts when off duty.? ?Do you wear women?s underwear?? I blushed. ?Yes, ma?am.? ?Including...?? She leaned slightly closer. I counted off on my fingers. ?Panties. Garter belt. Stockings. Corset, or a girdle and bra. Full slip. The dress. Two petticoats, usually, depending on how full the skirt is. The apron. This.? I patted my headpiece. ?Heels.? ?My, you are girly, aren?t you? Have you any men?s clothes?? ?No, ma?am.? ?Well, Lisa, this is all a bit awkward. Mr. B wants you to serve him personally, the way a lady?s maid serves her lady. But Mr. B, of course, is not a lady, and as there is no Mrs. B, we have no staff position or budget for a lady?s maid. I suppose we could call you a chambermaid and permanently assign you to the master?s chamber, but then you wouldn?t be part of the chambermaids? duty rota, and the other maids would quickly find out that you aren?t actually a girl, and if you served only the Master, they?d become jealous and resentful, which I. Will. Not. Tolerate. I even gave some thought to assigning you to Mr. B as his valet.? ?Isn?t that a male position?? ?Normally yes, but in your case it would have an unusual condition, which is that you must dress as a lady?s maid on and off duty. Ms. N insisted on making your dress part of the contract between Mr. B and Ms. N, and frankly, it?s causing all sorts of trouble. We aren?t allowed to let you wear any male attire, but we obviously can?t have a feminine little flower like yourself dressing and undressing in front of the male staff, or sleeping in male quarters, or putting on your makeup in a male bathroom.? I certainly hoped not! An idea came. ?Ma?am, may I make a suggestion?? ?Yes, but I?ll spank you if it?s one I?ve heard before.? She seemed serious. I was daunted, but pressed on. ?Hire me as lady?s maid to the future Mrs. B, ma?am.? Her lips tightened. ?Did you not hear me just tell you there is no Mrs. B?? ?Yes, ma?am. But couldn?t Mr. B employ a lady?s maid for the future Mrs. B? Someone to maintain the rooms and belongings of the lady of the house, the family?s jewels and silks and so on, ready to serve Mr. B?s bride at such time as he marries, and until then, ready to serve Mr. B in other ways.? ?Serve him in other ways... I see. And why should that someone be you instead of a real girl?? Her words stung, but I fought back. ?I was a lady?s maid to Ms. N, ma?am, so I am experienced in the role, and to be blunt, ma?am, there are some advantages if a biological male fills it. Masters often molest maids, but if that happens to me, no child can result. Likewise, if Mr. B does marry, he can use me in ways his wife might not wish to be used. And, since a lady?s maid does not report to the housekeeper, it will be perfectly proper for Mr. B to give me orders and discipline me directly. Until, of course, there is a Mrs. B.? Ms. Fuchs considered this. ?Hmm, interesting. Yes... yes. Very well, child, no spanking for you. In fact, we shall do as you suggest. You will be the lady?s maid to the future Mrs. B, and in her absence, you will serve Mr. B. This simplifies things. Since you are male, there is no impropriety in your serving him privately, and since you are a lady?s maid, you will wear the clothing appropriate for your position, and everyone will be happy. The position includes private quarters next to Mrs. B?s chambers, so you need not share beds with the male staff. And, since you do not report to me, I need not discipline you. Mr. B will do that in Mrs. B?s absence. Have you ever received a spanking from him?? I swallowed. ?Yes, ma?am.? ?Good, then you know what to expect.? Her smile was almost a leer. ?Welcome to your new position as lady?s maid to the future Mrs. B. I?ll let him know of the change, and I?m fairly sure he?ll approve it. If not, of course, you?ll be on the street and I?ll be over his lap with my panties pulled down -- so you and I both have reason to make this work for him.? I pulled myself to the forward edge of the pink leather seat, sat up straight, arched my back and thrust my breasts forward. ?Thank you, ma?am. I intend to please him any way I can.? ?For a hundred grand, you?d better, child. Not just please him, but captivate him, make him worship you, make him choose your boy-pussy over real pussies. If you can?t do that, someone else will, and then what use are you to anyone?? Her tone of voice was as chilling as the question itself. I did not reply, but thought long and hard about how someone in a submissive role could captivate dominants, and reached the dispiriting conclusion that it was all about sex. I?d experienced sex as a female now, to my shame, but when it came to using my feminine wiles to control males, I could not hope to compete with real women with a lifetime of experience at flirting. So how did I plan to survive? Mr. B might find me fetching at the moment, but the day would come when he would lose interest, and I needed a way to survive that potentially fatal moment. The limousine drove north on I-85, crossed into North Carolina, passed through Greenville and headed up into the Appalachian foothills. Ms. Fuchs spent most of the drive on her cellphone, speaking sternly to someone on the other end about how they were spending too much on household supplies. I sat quietly, shamed to be wearing only a corset and panties, hands in my lap, avoiding Ms. Fuchs?s eye, feeling an unpleasant mix of fear and boredom. We reached Asheville around lunchtime, but didn?t stop. I still hadn?t had breakfast. If lunch wasn?t on the menu, either, maybe I might lose a pound today. I tuned out, daydreaming about Mr. B, and was startled back into awareness only when Ms. Fuchs spoke to me. ?Lisa...! Lisa, we?ll be there soon, and I need to ask you some questions before we arrive.? I sat up straight, wiggled my bottom on the limo seat and automatically smoothed my skirts. ?Yes, ma?am?? ?These questions are for research purposes. What sexual acts have you performed with Mr. B?? ?What?? ?Was I not clear? What sexual acts have you performed with Mr. B?? My face must have been bright pink. ?Um... well... I gave him a blowjob, ma?am. But he made me do it.? She tapped on her phone, as if entering data. ?You performed fellatio upon him? Did he ejaculate?? I lowered my eyes, ashamed. ?Yes, ma?am.? ?Where did he ejaculate?? ?Mostly in my mouth, ma?am. A little on my face.? Tap tap. ?You swallowed the bulk of his discharge?? How dreadfully embarrassing. ?Yes, ma?am.? Tap tap. ?And...? Any other sexual acts?? ?Yes, ma?am. He... he fucked me in the ass. But again, I didn?t have a choice.? ?You allowed his penis to penetrate you for anal sex?? Allowed? Well, I hadn?t dared resist. ?Yes, ma?am.? Tap tap tap. ?And did he ejaculate? Inside or outside?? ?Yes, ma?am. Um, inside.? ?Did you have an orgasm as a result?? ?Yes, ma?am.? Tap tap. ?Did you or he or anyone else touch your penis in order to achieve this orgasm?? ?No, ma?am. I was surprised. It was just... the feel of him when he touched a certain spot.? I gave an involuntary wriggle at the memory. ?And did Mr. B perform fellatio on you, or allow you to penetrate him for anal sex?? ?No, ma?am!? Yuck! So wrong. Tap tap. ?And how many times have you performed these acts with Mr. B?? ?Once, ma?am. I mean, one blowjob, and one ass-fucking.? ?When did these incidents occur?? ?Yesterday, ma?am.? Tap tap tap. ?I see. Thank you, Lisa. Interesting.? ?Er... ma?am? May I ask why it?s interesting?? ?Do you really want to know? Miss Smarty Pants.? I cringed at the insult, but said yes, hoping it wasn?t the wrong answer. ?Well, sweet thing, I?m doing a study comparing how quickly male maids sexually submit to Mr. B, compared to how quickly female maids sexually submit to Mr. B. The results are interesting because we don?t see that many male maids.? ?Oh.? Dared I ask her how I rated? I did not. She gave me an indulgent smile. ?In case you?re wondering, you submitted more quickly than any of our previous males. But, as I said, it?s a small data set.? I submitted more quickly than other males? Well, there weren?t many of them, and maybe I had less choice than they did. I got out my compact, powdered my nose and forehead and touched up my lip gloss, thankful to have something to do, even more thankful that she stopped asking such personal questions. The male part of me was humiliated by what I had admitted to her, that I had had sex with a man and had enjoyed it. What did that say about me? Maybe I really was a sissy, not a man. A sissy boy who liked to dress like a girl. But Mr. B was handsome and rich, and could have real girls if he wanted. What did he want with a sissy? I could have asked Ms. Fuchs, but I was afraid to. A few miles past Asheville, the limousine turned off the highway onto a well-maintained gravel road or driveway. The dense hardwood forest met over our heads, casting dappled shadow. After half a mile or so we reached a clearing, surrounded by a tall spiked fence with a sturdy gate. The driver spoke to the gate. It opened, and we passed beautiful gardens and smoothly shaved lawns that reminded me of the Masters Tournament on TV, ending a hundred yards later at a roundabout in front of a Southern mansion, complete with classic columns and a broad veranda. The car drove around to the back of the house and stopped in front of what presumably was the staff entrance. The driver got out and opened the door for Ms. Fuchs, then for me. In a ladylike manner I managed to swivel my legs out of the car with my knees together, find my footing and let him pull me safely to my feet. ?Follow me, Lisa.? Ms. Fuchs led me into the house. At first I wondered if it was a restored antebellum home, but soon I could tell that it was all new construction, with modern amenities tastefully integrated into an airy, open version of a Southern colonial design. It looked like the kind of place you saw in the fancy-house magazines that Ms. N read, full of valuable things that would need dusting forever. Evidently Mr. B had serious money. Ms. Fuchs led me up two steep flights of stairs and down a hallway. She stopped outside a door. ?This is your room. All the bedrooms are named after flowers. Your room?s name is Pansy.? She opened it and we entered. It was similar to the room I?d had at Ms. N?s. It held a bed, a tiny bedside table and a chest of drawers. ?Ooh, a double bed.? I was surprised by the luxury. ?When the staff was larger, servants had to share beds,? she said. ?You?re lucky, such a lucky girl.? I can?t say I felt lucky. When I woke up this morning, I worked for Ms. N, but now I had been sold to a man I barely knew. A huge amount of money had changed hands, and none of it went to me. Based on how he had treated me at Ms. N?s house, my job would now include sexual services to the master of the house. None of this struck me as particularly lucky, but of course things could always be worse. ?I?ll give you five minutes to freshen up. Brush your hair, fix your makeup, brush off that... uniform.? She said it with a sneer. Apparently she didn?t care for the way Ms. N had me dress. ?Meet me in the front hallway.? I tidied myself quickly, wondering what was wrong with my uniform, and quietly went downstairs, where Ms. Fuchs was waiting. She took me a few steps down a hallway and stopped. In a low voice, almost a whisper, she said, ?Are you ready, Lisa?? ?Ready for what, ma?am?? ?You are about to become our master?s slave.? She held up her hand to silence me. ?Yes, yes, you were a maid for Ms. N. But she was your employer, not your owner. Did she offer you a contract?? ?Yes, ma?am.? ?Mr. B will not. Did you call her Mistress?? ?No, ma?am. I called her ma?am. But she once did say she owned me, and she sold me to Mr. B.? ?Do not refer to him as Mr. B. You are to call him Master.? ?Um, is he your Master, too?? ?Yes, child. He is my Master and yours, and you are his slave. I hope you understand what that means. Mr. B owns you. He bought you and he can sell you. He can use you for sex, or let others use you for sex. You will obey every order he gives you, cheerfully and without hesitation. If you are not completely obedient, you will be punished, by Master or, if you are unlucky, by me. You will obey me as faithfully as you obey Master. If I tell you to clean the kitchen floor with your tongue, you will do it, and do it happily. Or you will be punished, and you will not like my punishments. Do you understand?? I trembled with fear. What had I gotten myself into? Or, rather, what had Ms. N gotten me into? I had no desire to be a slave in this house. ?I said, do you understand?? I jumped. ?Yes, ma?am,? I said. ?What do you understand?? ?That Master owns me and that I am to call him Master and obey him perfectly or I will be punished.? ?And...?? ?Uh, that I am to obey you as perfectly as I obey Mis... Master.? ?Good girl, Lisa. Now I will take you to Master. Curtsey deeply, listen well, and do not speak unless he invites you to.? Ms. Fuchs knocked on the door. Self-conscious about my uniform now, I nervously tugged at my skirts, smoothed them over my petticoats, straightened my apron. Mr. B?s voice came from within. ?Enter.? Ms. Fuchs opened the door, walked in and curtseyed to Mr. B. I found that I still thought of him as Mr. B, even though I was supposed to call him Master now. I gave him a deep curtsey, rose and stood perfectly still, demurely lowering my eyes and folding my hands over my apron. ?Your new personal maid, sir,? Ms. Fuchs said. She gestured that I should move closer to Mr. B?s desk. The desk was oversized, like Mr. B himself, and quite messy. His enormous computer monitor was divided between Facebook and Candy Crush. The idea crossed my mind that Ms. Fuchs might be the real brains of this organization. She was organized, decisive and demanding. After my strange conversations with Mr. B at Ms. N?s house, I still did not know what to make of him, except that his presence thrilled me in a way I could not explain. I wasn?t attracted to men in general, but something about this one -- his presence, his commanding way -- made my nerves tingle. Even if he played Candy Crush. ?Thank you, Ms. Fuchs,? he said. ?That will be all.? She gave me a disapproving -- or just jealous? -- look and left the room, closing the door behind her. He had sent her away so that I would be alone with him, and I could tell she didn?t like it. I nervously wondered what it meant, and how vulnerable I was here in what I had to accept as my new home. Mr. B looked at me for so long that it made me uncomfortable. ?Lisa Lovelace,? he said. ?Do you?? ?Yes, Master,? I said. Instead of telling him how stale the joke was, I curtseyed again. He chuckled. ?Did you choose that dress?? I felt embarrassed. ?No, Master. This is what Ms. N gave me to wear.? ?Do you like what she made you wear, Lisa?? I wasn?t sure what to say. I thought my outfits were over the top, more like Lolita costumes than a working domestic?s uniform, but then I liked that kind of clothing, all fussy and lacy and girly. I knew most real girls preferred plainer styles, but I wasn?t a girl, I was a sissy, and I couldn?t help it, I liked sissy clothes. Not that I was going to admit any of this to Mr. B, not now. ?I?ve gotten used to it, sir. I mean, Master.? ?I didn?t think you liked it. It?s a bit much, isn?t it? At least you?re not wearing that shocking pink dress.? He stood, approached me and toyed with my uniform, plucking at the ruffles and lifting my skirts to peek at my petticoats, corset, garters, stockings and panties. His hand rubbed my silken bum. I gave a squeak but managed not to jump. ?Your lingerie is better than the dress,? he said. ?Take it off.? I gulped. ?Right now, Master? Do you want me to take off all my clothes?? ?No. Just the dress. Then put your pinafore back on, over your petticoats. All in white, so lovely and virginal.? ?Yes, Master.? I took off the pinafore, folded it, laid it on a chair and then took off my black satin dress. I felt dreadfully exposed in just my full slip and petticoats, but felt better after putting my pinafore back on. Its broad straps calmed me greatly by covering my corset and slip straps. Ms. N was no longer around to spank me for an exposed strap, but my bottom would not soon forget her training. ?That?s better,? he said. ?You make a very cute French maid, but we?ll have to get you more elegant uniforms. I?ll have a dressmaker in tomorrow to take your measurements.? It felt odd to be talking with a man about the details of female clothing, especially while feeling half-dressed myself in just my lingerie and pinafore. Mr. B didn?t seem the tiniest bit like a sissy to me, and the way he had used me at Ms. N?s house made it clear he was a man who was used to being dominant, but he seemed to want to dictate things about my appearance that males normally don?t care about and often aren?t even aware of. Boys were attracted to girls? bodies, not their clothes. That wasn?t how I felt, but it was the way boys were supposed to feel, and Mr. B seemed to be violating the boy rules. So was I, of course, but I was a different kind of boy, and as far as I could tell, Mr. B was a man?s man. Maybe he was just humoring me by choosing a topic he knew I could talk about. Maybe he was as bored by my clothing as I was by his. I mean, what else could we talk about? Sports, business, news? I was clueless. Ms. N let me read female novelists, and she had fashion and celebrity magazines around the house, but otherwise my education was an inch wide and an inch deep. I could probably hold my own in a discussion of makeup or bra styles, but I was hopeless at cars, arithmetic, reading maps, arguing or any of the other things boys are supposed to be good at. For all practical purposes, I was a girl. ?You are probably wondering what your job here will be,? Mr. B said. Actually, I?d been wondering when I could eat, and wishing I had a chair so I could get relief from my heels, but I did want to know more about the job. ?Yes, Master.? ?You will be my lady.? A pause. ?You mean, your lady?s maid? Your lady?s lady?s maid? I... Are you married, Master?? ?No. I don?t care about the job title, whatever you work out with Ms. Fuchs. You will be my lady.? He lightly took my hand and looked into my eyes, and at that moment -- oh God, I don?t want to admit this -- I felt a wave of love for him. I was pathetic. I was in love with a man who spanked me and made me give him a blowjob and fucked me in the ass, and I didn?t even know his name. ?I don?t have a female wife. I don?t need one,? he said. ?I have no interest in breeding -- everything will go to my brother or his brats, not that I care. But I do need the equivalent of a wife, someone to keep house and serve as a hostess for me, someone I can escort in public, someone who can look beautiful in formal gowns and cocktail dresses, not just sissy maid?s uniforms. I think that someone might be you.? My heart swelled, followed immediately by doubt that I could possibly play such a complex role convincingly. I was a sissy, not a trophy wife! A trophy wife had a lifetime of experience dealing with the world as a female. I wasn?t a trophy, I wasn?t a wife, I wasn?t even a hostess. I was just a maid for the hostess to boss around. ?Understand that my lady is not my equal,? he said. ?My lady obeys me completely. She accepts me as her lord and Master, and she promises always to do as I say, and I will punish her like a maid if she disobeys.? ?Oh... yes, Master,? I said, my breasts heaving, my boy-pussy aching to be filled. ?You can be sure I?ll be completely obedient to my... to my lord and Master, and will always do as he says.? He patted my head. ?I?m sure you will, sweetness. You?ve been a lady?s maid, you look lovely in women?s clothes and, with some additional work, you?ll be ready to appear with me in public. Speaking of which, while you?ll always be my naughty little Lisa in private, you need a higher-class name to use in your public role. Your public name will be... Emma Mountjoy. We?ll leave the society mavens and the press to wonder who the dazzling Emma Mountjoy is. Who are you, Lisa?? ?I?m... I?m confused, Master. Do you want me to be Lisa or Emma? Is Emma different from Lisa?? I couldn?t follow his leaps of thought. I just wanted him to tell me what to do, what to be, who to be. He would tell me, I would obey him... ooh! I felt my nipples tingle, I wanted him to play with them, make me respond helplessly, make me writhe before him, submit to him, be his slave, wear his chains, be his property. I heard him reply and struggled to understand his will. ?Yes, my dear. Emma is my trophy wife. She appears whenever you and I are in public. Emma is posher than Lisa and doesn?t call me Master, though she is every bit as obedient. Emma is an English rose who wears designer gowns to charity galas, while Lisa is an American girly girl who appears only in private and flounces around her Master?s house in frilly little dresses and petticoats.? ?Yes, Master,? I said, embarrassed by his all too accurate description of me. ?I?m Lisa now, unless you say otherwise. Do you want me to try to be Emma instead? I don?t have any designer clothes. In fact, I don?t have any clothes except what I have on.? I ran my hands up and down the stays of my corset, tugged up my panties, flagrantly wiggled my butt at him. Mr. B smiled. ?Oh, I think you?ll find that all the new clothes and shoes in your closet fit you perfectly, as Lisa or as Emma. Never mind. Here?s how it will work. When you and I are alone, you?re Lisa. So who are you now?? ?Lisa, Master?? ?Got it in one. Good girl.? ?But, Master, if Ms. Fuchs entered the room, who would I be?? ?Good question, love. If anyone else is present, anyone at all, even Ms. Fuchs, you are Emma.? ?But she knows I?m not really Emma, Master,? I said. ?She knows you?re not really Lisa, either,? he said. Which was true. I was just a boy who liked to wear girls? clothes. A pervert, the lowest rung on the LGBT ladder, an unwanted thing. I felt so embarrassed. ?I don?t know if I can do this, Master,? I said. ?I don?t know how to be posh! I?m not an actress! I?m not even a real girl.? Tears rolled down my cheeks, whether of happiness or joy I could not say. His smiled warmed my heart. ?No, not yet,? he said. ?I?m giving you a year.? You will be trained in private. One year from now, you will be able to act as my elegant consort Emma or as my slave maid Lisa, and you will be able to dress and make up and speak behave appropriately for either role. I will see that you receive the training and accent coaching you need.? Terror overwhelmed me. ?Only a year, Master? I can?t possibly...? ?A whole year! During which you?ll also have some procedures Ms. N should have given you. Cheekbones, nose, jawline, Adam?s apple, vocal cords, the usual. Be thankful I?m paying for it.? I looked down at my crotch. ?I will leave your Twinkie intact, Lisa, though the hormones will continue to shrink it,? Mr. B said. ?But at some point we?ll want to remove the unnecessary tissue around it.? Fear flared in me. ?You mean my balls, Master? You can?t...! Oh, please...!? Mr. B glared at me. ?Don?t you tell me what I can or can?t do, girl! You?re my slave, you belong to me. I can do anything I want to you. Those useless little lumps of yours don?t work anymore, thanks to the hormones. They?re just a cancer risk. If we remove them, we can fold your boy-clitty back so that you look smoother and sleeker under tight clothes, with no bump, and won?t that make all of us happy?? I felt faint. ?Oh, Sir... Master! All this, all these things happening to me... it?s too much!? I swayed on my feet. He caught me in his arms. I buried my face in his chest and broke into sobs. His strong arms held me tight. I wanted him never to let me go. ?Why me?? I asked. ?You could have your pick of real girls.? ?You mean, you?re wondering if I?m gay,? he said. He handed me a tissue. I sniffed and dabbed at my ruined eyeliner. ?You don?t seem at all gay to me, sir,? I said. ?You?re extremely manly.? ?Yet I purchased you instead of a real girl,? he said. I remembered the amount, and would have crumpled to the floor if he hadn?t been holding me. He circled my corseted waist with his big, strong hands. I wanted to respond, to hug him, to melt against his broad chest, but I didn?t know if he wanted me to initiate anything, so I just waited to see what he would do next. Like a real girl, I wondered what, if anything, he truly felt for me. What was I to him? Was I anything more than just an expensive toy, a receptacle for his sperm? Did he love me? How could he? How could a girl ever be sure of a boy? More to the point, how could a sissy ever be sure of anything? Even if I became his ?lady,? I would be living a lie. I was not a woman. I wanted to live like a woman, but I was not prepared to become one. Mr. B grasped my arms, drew me to him, kissed me on the lips and let me go. I ?It?s like this, Lisa,? he said. ?I like girls, I?ve had girls, but I also like boys like you, girly boys. Something about them turns my crank. I am not like you at all -- I don?t want to dress up or suck another man?s dick or take it up my ass. But for some reason, I do like boys like you. I like to see their girly little outfits, their girly little mannerisms, and you are very girly. Stay that way. I like to make girly boys suck my cock, and I like to fuck them in the ass. Both of which you already have let me do.? My humiliation and excitement increased. My back passage had an itch I couldn?t scratch, and it embarrassed me. I curtseyed to him. ?Yes, Master.? ?As I said, I don?t need a female wife, don?t need all the complications that come with female bodies, female minds, female drama. God, save me from female drama! Two women in a house are like two men in a knife fight with their left hands tied together. But I am looking for someone very special to play two feminine roles in my life: as my perfectly groomed consort, Emma Mountjoy, in public and as my bad little slave girl, Lisa Lovelace, in private. If I ever find that someone very special, he or she might even be the person I decide to marry.? I caught my breath. Was he proposing? No, not now, but later, a year from now, when I?ve learned to be Emma as well as Lisa? Is that what he meant? I wasn?t sure. I was so happy that he was sharing his intimate feelings with me, and elated to know that I was exactly what he wanted for now, a feminine boy willing to be his slave girl. I wanted to be Lisa, and now I couldn?t wait to discover who Emma was. I felt a surge of love for the man who was doing this to me, making my sissy dreams come true, overwhelming my feminine sensibility with his masculine power, strength and wealth -- and, perhaps, the prospect of a deeper relationship in the future. ?Now, Lisa, tell me what you like,? he said. Oh, how could he care what I liked? It was for him to tell me what to like. Emotions swept over me like a Southern summer thunderstorm. I wept freely, but they were tears of happiness. ?I want to like what you like, Master. I want to be what you like.? I dared to stare into his eyes. ?I am already slutty Lisa for you, and I?d love to be posh Emma, whatever you want her to be, whoever you want me to be. I want to be a frilly French maid curtseying to my stern but kind Master and cooking and cleaning and keeping house for him. I want to make my Master hard and swallow his sperm and take it up my ass, so that I can have a sissy orgasm without touching my little Twinkie. I like girls, too, but there is something about you that makes me want to be the girl, your girl, your helplessly submissive little slave girl. Dear Master, I want to be your love slave, your most personal assistant ever, your Lisa and your Emma, and only you can give me what I need. Oh please, please, pretty please, Master, I feel so empty, please fuck me, fuck me, FUCK ME!? With a visceral grunt Mr. B sat me on the edge of his desk, tore open his trousers, threw up my skirts and ripped off my panties. He grabbed my nylon-clad ankles and flung them over his shoulders. I lay back, scattering the clutter on his desk, and felt the weight of him descend upon me, enter me, fill me, overwhelm me, take control. The thrust of his cock hurt enough to make me shriek, but once he was inside, the feeling of fullness quickly mounted to bliss. He was stiffer than the last time he entered, he found my spot sooner, he drove me harder, and he came more quickly. So did I, like a woman, feeling waves of ecstasy pulsing outward from the core of my being in a shattering sissy orgasm. Not until afterwards did I notice that my orgasm drew only a salty trickle from my shrinking Twinkie... which I hadn?t touched. Oh, oh, oh! In that shattering moment, my life changed. I felt safe, cared for, submissive, dominated, completely feminine and utterly happy. Ms. N made me a girl, but Mr. B made me a woman. He was my new lord and Master. I was now his property -- his private property -- his intimate and thoroughly owned female chattel. I owned nothing, he owned me. I wanted to be owned, to be his humble possession, his to treat as he wished. I throbbed with love for my new Master, with hunger for the joy he made me feel. I could not wait for him to fuck me again. By the time I returned to earth, Mr. B was up and getting dressed, rolling the sleeves of his crisp white shirt up his sinewy forearms. ?Well, Lisa,? he said with a wicked grin, ?I think you can consider yourself well and truly fucked.? The End A possible part 2: Mr. B hires a stern English governess to turn Lisa into Emma.