Transaction, Part 2 free porn video

Transaction, Part 2 By Lisa Lovelace (This is my second contribution to Fictionmania, a sequel to my debut, "Transaction" (12/16/2018), which I suggest you read first.) A WEEK LATER After moving into Mr. B's house, I quickly settled into a daily routine. I rose at 6:30, showered, moisturized, and did my hair and makeup, then took off my drab flannel nightgown and changed into the one beautiful thing in my almost empty closet, a classic white chiffon peignoir. At 6:59, I tiptoed down the stairs and hallway and knelt outside Mr. B's bedroom. No sound came from within. I wondered whether he was asleep or awake and waiting for me. I quietly opened the door just far enough to see the clock on Mr. B's dresser. When it turned to 7:00, I entered and crawled to the foot of his king-sized bed. I slithered up onto the bed and delicately drew the duvet down his torso, baring in turn his muscular chest, toned abs and manly genitals. A smile crossed his face. He was awake. I ran my tongue up the impressive length of his cock and kissed the tip, leaving a pretty lipstick stain. "Ah, Lisa," Mr. B yawned. I stopped licking long enough to answer, "Good morning, Master." I drew him into my mouth and did my duty to my owner, looking up at him all the time. I was happy to do my duty to him, happy to be owned by him, because I was his sissy maid. Afterwards, I rose, curtseyed, closed the door behind me and returned to my room, where I carefully hung up my peignoir, fixed my makeup and changed into my uniform. I called it my uniform, but it wasn't one really, just a plain white cotton blouse, a black pencil skirt and a little white tea apron. Under it I wore plain white panties, a corset with cups, a white slip, black pantyhose, and sensible black pumps with a two-inch heel. No jewelry except for pearl studs in my ears. Except for the apron, I looked just like a secretary in an office, and I wasn't happy about it. A week ago, when I was still Ms. N's lady's maid, I had a lovely wardrobe of frilly maid's uniforms -- black cotton in the morning, gray poplin in the afternoon, black satin in the evening -- and 1950s-style housewife dresses to wear while off duty. Under them I wore corsets, frilly panties, opera-length nylon stockings, a garter belt and bouffant petticoats that rustled sweetly whenever I moved. I adored the clothes Ms. N made me wear. They were so lovely, so soft, so feminine, so much nicer than the rough male clothing I wore years ago, before I started working for Ms. N and was still called Lewis. But then Ms. N sold me to Mr. B, and the sale did not include my pretty clothes, and now I had almost nothing to wear. Mr. B told me this was just temporary, that soon I would be fitted for a whole new wardrobe, but meanwhile, my closet was almost empty. The day after I moved in, Mr. B's secretary, Ms. Fuchs, took a few hours off work to take me shopping, but allowed me to buy only a week's worth of extremely sensible panties and bras; a corsets; another plain white blouse and black pencil skirt, so I had something to wear when my other blouse and skirt were in the laundry; half a dozen pairs of beige pantyhose; the black pumps; the frumpy flannel nightgown; and, for Mr. B's viewing pleasure rather than mine, the white peignoir. I complained that the clothes were boring, that I didn't want to have to wear the same outfit all day, every day. Ms. Fuchs slapped me and told me to be grateful that Mr. B gave a house slave like me anything to wear, and that if I complained about it again, a week in nothing but handcuffs would change my attitude. Her attitude shocked me into silence. What was this? I thought Mr. B was going to buy me not just one new wardrobe, but two. When he bought me, he told me he didn't want a female wife. He said he was straight but had a thing for girly boys, and he wanted me to learn to play two female roles in his life: as Lisa Lovelace, his private sissy maid and sex slave, and as Emma Mountjoy, his posh British girlfriend who accompanied him to public events. Ms. N, he said, had made a good start of training me to be Lisa, and now he would see that I was trained to be Emma. So why wouldn't Ms. Fuchs let me buy more clothes? How could I become Emma if I wasn't allowed to dress as Emma? My outfit made me look more like Emma's receptionist, and it was uncomfortable. I couldn't raise my arms any higher than what the blouse was designed to show off, my breasts, and my skirt restricted me to short, mincing steps. I hated pantyhose, much preferred stockings. I liked girly clothing with lots of lace, but except for some narrow trim on my corset and slip, none of my clothing had any feminine decoration. I wanted to complain to Mr. B but didn't dare. He could dress me any way he liked. Still, even a man should have known that my outfit was designed for office work, not housework. However, as I quickly discovered, I really didn't have all that much housework to do. A cleaning service came once a week to dust and vacuum and mop and do all the heavy cleaning, and gardeners came once a week to take care of the yard, so I mostly just had to take care of Mr. B. For all practical purposes, I was his housewife. I cooked and served the meals he ate at home, washed the dishes, changed the linen, did the laundry and ironing, tidied the house, answered the door, and ran errands to the grocery store or dry cleaner. Always in my white blouse and black skirt, the only daytime clothes I had. I'd expected him to have other household staff, a butler or housekeeper, but he and I were the only people who slept in the house. That was soon to change. A week after he bought me, Mr. B rang the bell that summoned me to his home office. I hurried downstairs and stood demurely in the middle of the room, clasping my hands over my silly little apron, hoping I hadn't done anything to deserve punishment. That was one big difference between Mr. B and Ms. N. She loved to spank me and did so almost every day, whereas he punished me less often. A good thing, as his punishments were memorable. "Tired of that dress yet, Lisa?" he said. "It's a skirt and blouse, Master, not a dress, but... yes, I would wear more things if I had them." "We'll get that sorted soon enough. I've hired a governess for you, Lisa." "A governess, Master?" I wasn't quite sure what a governess was. "Yes. She is from England, and she is going to teach you to become Emma." "Emma? Oh, thank you, Master!" I said with an enthusiasm I did not quite feel. To be honest, I was actually quite nervous about becoming Emma. How could a trailer-trash sissy like me possibly pass as a posh English girl? I would fail miserably. People would know instantly that I was a fake, that I was a boy who had never been to England in his life. I would embarrass Mr. B in public and he would punish me, or worse, he would send me away and find another sissy who could do a better job of being Lisa and Emma. There must be loads of sissy English actors who could impersonate a posh girl better than I could. Self-doubt tormented me, made me feel guilty and naughty and bad for being girly, for pretending to be a girl and being doomed to be found out in the most embarrassing and humiliating possible way. Mr. B said my governess would arrive in a week, and until then I should watch Downton Abbey and listen to how the Earl's family spoke, and to ignore how the servants spoke, and that should be my Emma voice. So, for the next week I watched and listened to Lord Grantham and Lady Edith and Lady Mary and Lady Sybil, but not Lady Grantham, because she was American. I must admit I spent as much time admiring the ladies' dresses as studying their accents. I wanted to look like Lady Mary, not Lisa the Sissy. Lady Mary had so many pretty dresses and frocks and gowns, and at the moment Lady Lisa the Sissy had none. Just a white blouse and a black pencil skirt. When my Governess arrived, Mr. B introduced me to her without telling me her name -- he just called her Governess. I couldn't tell how old she was -- somewhere in middle age, but still quite handsome in a traditional way. She was taller than me in her high heels and wore a perfectly tailored pink wool skirt and jacket that made me think of old Queen Elizabeth. I immediately felt inferior in her presence, and instinctively curtseyed to her. I couldn't curtsey nicely in the tight skirt, and I wished I was wearing my old French maid's uniform instead, even if Mr. B thought it was tacky. Governess looked at me, but spoke to Mr. B. "Well, I see you've made a start," she said in an English accent that sounded posh to me. "The right physical type, short and slender, and I see that the child already has a bosom. Hormones or inserts?" "Can't say. She came that way," Mr. B said. "Hormones," I said quietly. "Ah, the child can speak. B or C cup?" I felt myself blush. "C cup." "You will call me Governess or Ma'am." I did not want to call her Governess. It made me feel as if I was a little girl and she was a grownup who would train me in women's ways. Was I not worthy even to know her name? What was Mr. B's real name, for that matter? What was Ms. N's? I didn't know where their mail was delivered, never saw an envelope or letter, never saw any personal documents. I was owned by a man whose name I didn't know. Deep shame filled me. What a pathetic thing I had become, a boy dressed as a girl and serving a man as his maid and sissy sex toy. Oh! What a thought. I felt so empty... so unfulfilled. So unfilled. "C cup, Governess... Ma'am." "I am glad it is no larger. Maids should not be over-endowed. We shall see what we can make of you. Your posture is not hopeless. Walk around the room. Hmm. You obviously have experience in skirts and heels." She walked up to me and grabbed my crotch through my skirt. I yelped and jumped. "Don't be silly, child, let me feel you." I braced myself and let her grope my genitals through my panties, slip and dress. "You seem to be nicely tucked away," she said. "Assuming you still have your...? What a humiliating conversation! "I still have my boy-clitty, Ma'am, but I no longer have, um, boy-ovaries." "Oh, really? Who took them?" "My... previous employer." "And therein lies a story, I'm sure, but we haven't time for it now. Can you still have an orgasm from being milked with a dildo or penis?" I blushed. "Sometimes, Ma'am." "If you can do it sometimes, you can do it every time, you just need to be milked with skill. I gather you have lived as a sissy maid for several years. Did your previous owner milk you regularly?" "No... not regularly, Ma'am." "Tsk. I'll talk to Mr. B about that. Is that all your own hair?" "Yes, Ma'am." "It's pretty, but it needs trimming and highlights. Your makeup is better than average for sissies, only a bit too heavy. Tell me your name and where you were born." "Lisa Lovelace, Ma'am, and I was born near Chattanooga, Tennessee." "No, child. Your name is now Emma Mountjoy, and you were born in Surrey." "What's Surrey?" "What is Surrey, Ma'am." "Sorry, Ma'am, what is Surrey, Ma'am?" "An English county southwest of London. Posh suburbs. You haven't much of a Southern accent, Emma." "We moved around a lot when I was growing up, Ma'am." "Who named you Lisa?" "My first mistress. My real --" "No, don't tell me, I don't need to know. Your Master tells me you will be named Emma. I am here to train you to become an English rose, Emma, a beautiful flower of the countryside, ready and willing to be plucked. It will be a challenge, but Mr. B is an old friend, so I shall do my best, and so must you. Do you promise to do anything I tell you to do, Emma, even if it's difficult or embarrassing?" "I'll try my best, Ma'am." "I suggest you do that, Emma, because as your Governess, I will punish anything less than your best. At times I may demand more than your best, and you will have to improve your best. I am an old-fashioned practitioner of the technique of petticoat punishment. I convince naughty boys of the error of their ways by turning them into sissies who can pass as girls. I train sissies as maids, secretaries, harem girls, naughty nurses for rich old men. Your case is interesting, because your owner wants me to train you, a common maid, to be a posh girl fit to be seen on his arm in public. Haven't turned a boy into Eliza Doolittle before, but why not? So that is what I am here to do. And you are here to do as I tell you." Her fake smile chilled me. "Who's Eliza Doolittle, Ma'am?" She gave me a pitying look. "You already have breasts and are dressed as a girl, so you are well on your way, but you are not feminine enough," she said. "You've had some training, but to my eye you still walk like a boy, sit like a boy, move like a boy. You don't know how to use your hands the way women do. You don't know how to flip your hair and look over your shoulder and twitch your bum and bat your eyes and turn any man into a helpless fool. I will teach you how to do these things, Emma, but you will have to work hard and do your very best, or you will be punished." She cocked her head at me and waited, as if expecting an answer. "Thank you, Governess," I said nervously. "Don't thank me, child. Thank your Master. Thank him on your knees. He is so good to you, too good! You have no idea how badly some masters treat their slaves. Be grateful he treats you as something more than just an object he can suck and fuck. Be very grateful." "Yes, Ma'am," I said. I felt overwhelmed. I didn't know this woman -- could I believe her? She worked for Mr. B, so presumably she would do whatever he wanted. And I had no choice but to want whatever Mr. B wanted. I certainly knew one thing I wanted from him. My boy-pussy was empty, itching to be filled and turned into a magic temple of bliss. What was wrong with me? Boys did not want that, were not supposed to want that. I was not gay. I preferred women -- except, I had to admit, for Mr. B. He captivated me for reasons that I never understood. He wasn't old enough to be my father, but he felt like a father to me, the father I'd never really had. I wondered how I could have such feelings toward a man who bought me and owned me and could sell me at any time. He was my master, not my father, but I admired his strength and confidence, two more things I'd never had. Governess was saying something. She gave my bottom a spank. "Pay attention, Emma! Let us begin as we mean to go on. Stand up straight. That will never do. Straighter! Pretend there is a string pulling you up by your spine, like a marionette." She pulled my head up. "Chest out, show us your breasts, be proud of them, you worked so hard for them! Arch your back... lift that pretty little bottom... hmm... you need taller heels." A MONTH WITH GOVERNESS And so began my first month of Emma training, a month of Governess teaching me how to be a posh girl in public. By posh girl, she explained, she meant girls who were pretty and thin and elegant and stylish enough to appear in public with rich and powerful men. A bit like what they called WAGs (Wives And Girlfriends) for sports stars in Britain, except that Mr. B wasn't a sports star. Some were female escorts for high-status males who did not have wives or girlfriends they wanted to expose in public. Some were just fag hags, escorting gay men not yet ready to come out, but more than a few escorted men whose wives no longer wanted anything to do with public life, or in some cases anything to do with their husbands, and who were happy to let their men squire pretty girls or girly boys, if that's what it took to get their men to leave them alone. I didn't have to worry about that, because there was no Mrs. B... though in my heart of hearts, I hid a silly, secret ambition to achieve that status. Posh girls were more restrained and elegant in their movements than Lisa. They did everything beautifully. She showed me how to stand, sit, kneel, walk, stop, turn, bend down, reach up, smile, curtsey. What to do with my hands and arms, elbows in, limp wrists at the waist, clasped hands at the waist, clasped hands in my lap, hands on hips, hands behind my back. How to adjust my clothing, pat my hair, express my emotions, engage in female conversation. How to hold my head and neck and body to make myself look pretty, thin, sexy, receptive. How to do a runway strut. How to pose for photographs and how to avoid embarrassing photographs, which turned out to be a minor art in and of itself. How to touch up one's makeup in public. How to manage skirts in difficult situations: a windy day, getting in or out of a car, sitting on tall stools, sitting on a man's lap. How to flirt with a man, up close or across the room, an art that did not come naturally to me, as I wasn't interested in any man except Mr. B. How to deal with hair disasters, makeup disasters, various types of wardrobe malfunctions. The one consolation of this workload was that at last I got something to wear besides the white cotton blouse and black pencil skirt. Governess bought me a plain black knee-length cotton dress with a skirt full enough to swish a little, so that I could practice my deportment as Emma. The dress wasn't pretty, but it was a dress, and I'd always liked dresses better than skirts and blouses. "You must learn how to carry yourself like a princess," Governess told me. "Your master is an important man, and a girl who goes out in public with him will attract attention, both pleasant and unpleasant. You must always be poised, smiling, perfectly dressed and perfectly groomed, and never allow yourself to look unhappy, uncertain or frightened, or to say or do anything controversial." "I don't want to say anything in public, Ma'am," I said. She smiled. "That would be ideal. Wave, smile for the camera, look lovely and keep your mouth shut." I had to work hard to meet Governess's standards of femininity, many of which were physically fatiguing for a male body, like sitting with one's knees together when one's instinct was to manspread. I quickly learned how she gave corrections: first verbally, then with a physical reminder, and only then the (often simple) insight into how to avoid the mistake in the future. "You stupid cow! You move like a stevedore! Bend over for a correction." I hurriedly bent forward from my hips, lifted my skirts upwards over my back, pulled my panties down over my garters and braced my hands on my knees, presenting my naked bottom to Governess. She fetched her riding crop and flexed it. I gulped. I hated the crop. Please, mistress, I begged silently, spank me with your hand, or even the paddle, but not the crop! Whap! I shrieked. Whap! I screamed. Whap! I dropped to my knees in agony, and fell forward onto all fours like an animal, exposing my ass to the next stroke of Governess's crop. It did not fall. I winced, knowing she often spanked as soon as I relaxed, but the blow did not come. I opened my eyes to see her standing over me with something like pity in her eyes. "Three is enough. Get up, little sissy," she said. "I'm not here to hurt you, I'm here to teach you. But you must learn to do better." I knelt up. My skirts fell. I rubbed my burning bottom through them. "Hands off!" Governess snapped. I quickly raised my hands to my waist and let my wrists go limp. Tears of pain and humiliation ran down my cheeks. "Yes, Governess. May I please raise my panties?" "No. Leave them where they are for an hour, as a reminder. Your slip is soft enough, almost as soft as those panties. Though I don't remember saying you could let your skirts fall." "I'm sorry, Governess!" I sobbed. "I'm doing the best I can!" "I'm sure you are, Emma, but your best isn't good enough, not yet. You were off balance. Lead with your hips, place your steps on the line or across it, point your foot, yes, you have such nice small feet, that's better. Once again, this time as if you weigh nothing, as if you are a beautiful butterfly spreading her wings for the first time in the morning sun on May Day. One, two... good! Hold that pose, remember what your muscles did. Now do it again." Along with drilling me on posh deportment, Governess also began training me to speak like Emma, in a posh English accent. "As Emma, you will rarely speak in public, but when you do, you must sound like the kind of girl with whom Mr. B would appear in public." She taught me to drop my Rs and vowels and pronouns, and brought in an English dialect coach, ironically also named Emma, to supplement her work on my accent. The other Emma also taught me some of the rules of posh speech. I learned not to say "pardon," for example, or to call the loo the toilet. The living room a drawing room, not a lounge. The treat following a meal, I discovered, was "pudding" even when it wasn't pudding, and was not a dessert or a sweet. I carried my girly supplies in a bag, not a handbag or purse. I wore scent, not perfume. A hundred things like that. As Mr. B had promised, a seamstress came to the house to take my measurements. Governess introduced her as Mademoiselle and took us up to the boudoir, a spacious chamber next to the lady of the house's bedroom. There was no lady of the house, no Mrs. B, so the boudoir was not in regular use. In the hall outside the lady's bedroom we encountered Mr. B, who greeted us and began to follow us inside. Governess stopped him at the door and told him not to enter, that women had a right to privacy in their bedroom and boudoir. This was the start of my training to be Emma, she said, and his presence would interfere by making me nervous and inhibited. Mr. B replied that I was not a woman and, as his property, had no right to privacy. Governess replied that she, however, was female, and needed to use these rooms for female purposes, and insisted that he leave. She just kept talking at him until he gave up and left. She told me later that while women were weaker than men, they were better at using words as weapons -- though she also reminded me that as Lisa, I had no right to talk back to anyone. Before Mademoiselle measured me, Governess took my corsets in another painful inch. I could stand it, just barely, so I know my body would adjust in a few days, but my new uniforms would be the tightest I'd ever worn. The seamstress took dozens of measurements of my torso, neck and arms, but not my inseam. Not that I actually expected to be given any trousers or slacks. A week later, Mademoiselle returned with my first new maid's uniforms - - not all of them, just two, a daytime uniform and an evening uniform. I wanted to open the garment bags to see them and try them on immediately, but Governess said no, I must wait until Mr. B got home from the office. I reluctantly obeyed her and stayed busy with housekeeping chores until five. I touched up my makeup and hair and changed into fresh panties, a soft bra and my white peignoir, as if I had just woken up from a night of girly dreams and was ready to dress for work. I met Governess in the boudoir, where two garment bags hung from a portable clothing rack. Governess peered at a label on one of the bags. "This is your day uniform, Lisa," Governess said. "You waken and satisfy the Master in the pretty peignoir you're wearing now, and when you're done, you put on your day uniform before you cook breakfast. You wear it all day, until after tea. Try it on first." She was calling me Lisa again, not Emma. It was true that while wearing this uniform I was Lisa the maid, not Emma, but why was Governess talking to Lisa, or worrying about how Lisa dressed? Governess was in charge of Emma, and Emma would be in charge of Lisa, but Emma also was Lisa... it was so confusing! Who was I when, and who was I now? "Governess, am I Lisa or Emma?" She smiled indulgently. "At the moment you're wearing an ugly black dress cut like a maid's uniform, and you're about to try on your new maid's uniforms. So, you're Lisa at the moment. Later in your training, you'll be given nicer things to wear, and you'll become Emma. I think you'll love being Emma. But you aren't yet, and won't be for a while, and you'll never be Emma while you're wearing what's in that bag. Unless, of course, Mr. B wants Emma to dress up in a maid's uniform, which he might -- an interesting thought. Open it, Lisa, and see what Mr. B has given you." I unzipped the bag, saw the dress and gasped. It was made of soft, medium-weight black satin with a sweetheart neckline and slim elbow-length sleeves. Its slender bodice would hug breasts and tapered to a shockingly narrow waistline, then poufed out into a full skirt that fell to just below the knee. A classic maid's dress, a little more English than French in style. What made this dress special was that it was decorated with beautiful black lace and black-on-black beadwork. A narrow band of delicate black lace peeked out from under the edges of the bodice, sleeves and hem. Bordering the lace, on the dress fabric itself, delicate black beadwork circled the neckline, sleeves and hem, forming intricate patterns that echoed the design of the lace. All the maid's dresses I had worn in the past had been decorated with white lace or trim, but this dress was solid black. It would look stunning against the pale skin of my bosom, arms or thighs, or a white apron or petticoat. The workmanship or, more likely, workwomanship of the dress was exquisite. The inside of the dress was finished as beautifully as the outside, with tiny French seams and the most delicate hand-stitched curved edges. If it fit as well as it was made, I would never want to wear anything else. Accompanying it were a starched white cotton pinafore, whose shoulder straps, waistband, bib, apron and ties were decorated with white beadwork in designs similar to the dress, and a delicate maid's headpiece that, like the pinafore, was edged with white beads. The uniform's lingerie included a black satin corset with cups and six ruched garters, whose bustline was exactly an eighth of an inch lower than that of the dress; black seamed nylon stockings; filmy black panties that hid very little of what lay beneath them; and a three- tiered white petticoat with layers of taffeta, nylon net and smooth nylon trimmed with white lace and beadwork. The petticoat seemed to be about a quarter inch longer than the dress the dress, so sometimes it often danced and sparkled just below the hem of the skirt but sometimes would be shy and hide. At the bottom of the bag were a pair of black patent Mary Janes with round toes and two-inch kitten heels. I was overcome by the beauty of my new day uniform, and could not wait to wear it. "May I put this on, Governess?" "No, Lisa," Governess said. "Show me the other uniform first." In my rapture over the first uniform, I'd forgotten the second. I unzipped the other garment bag. Oh. My. God. If I died and went to Heaven, the sissy maids there would dress like this, and a just God would make me one of them. The evening uniform's dress had the same bustline and basic silhouette as the day dress, but was tighter and shorter, very French, and I suspected it would display the wearer's breasts like pastries on a rack. The sleeves were short and poufy, not straight. The skirt fell to mid-thigh and had a circle skirt that fell an inch short of covering the petticoat. The dress was made not of satin, but of a light silk brocade with a black-on-black floral pattern that shimmered in the light. The neckline, sleeves, hemline and seams of the dress were picked out in an intricate tracery of tiny crystals -- Swarovski crystals, Governess told me, ten to the inch -- that captured, refracted and reflected the light, sparkling and dancing as the fabric of the dress flowed across my fingers. It was a dress from heaven, held together by a net of stars, and its froufrou over the petticoat would be the whispering of angels. "Ohhh, Governess," I said. I held the fabric to my cheek, feeling how soft, how lovely. "Isn't it just?" she said. "And look, three-inch stiletto sandals with crystals on the straps, as light as air. Your feet will sparkle. You will float into the room, dressed in diamonds and night, and announce dinner, and when we are seated, you will serve us nectar and ambrosia." I blinked. Had the beautiful dresses softened Governess? I was used to criticism from her, not compliments. "Would seared scallops with wild rice and spring asparagus do, Ma'am?" "Don't think about food, Lisa, think about your figure. You need to try on your pretty new uniforms and make sure they fit. If they do, you can show them to Mr. B. Start with your new day uniform." Mmm. I couldn't wait to show myself off to him in these delightful uniforms. I stripped off all my clothes. "Look at you," Governess said, "no bulge in your panties! Perfectly smooth! I'm impressed." She was impressed, but I was embarrassed. When Ms. N had me gelded, my empty scrotum had been folded over my penis and stitched together so that the penis pointed down and was all but hidden, and the folded flesh looked a bit like labia. My hairless crotch was as smooth as a girl's. In the ladies' room I had to sit like a girl and wipe afterwards like a girl. I could comfortably sit with my knees modestly together like a girl. I put on the new lingerie for my day uniform. An elastic camisole worn as a liner under the black corset. The corset itself, which also was decorated with black beadwork and lace. Black seamed stockings. Black satin panties decorated in black lace but no beads. A black full slip, also with lace but not beads. Black patent Mary Janes with a rounded toe and a two-inch kitten heel. Governess had to use the lacing bar in my room to get the corset tight enough. I felt light-headed and did not see how I could do useful work with so little room to breathe. "Now, Lisa, your daytime petticoat." I stepped into it, and she pulled it up to my corseted waist. I swished my hips and admired how it swung around me, blissed out on the frou-frou of the topmost layer of white taffeta. I loved petticoats, wore them whenever I could. "And now, the dress." I raised my arms and wiggled in anticipation. She slid the dress down over my arms, over my body, tugged it into place, zipped it up, smoothed the skirts. It was perfect. It hugged my body like my long-gone mother in a dream. It fit so well that I had no fear anything would slip out of place. Above the waist, my lingerie and bodice gripped my body snugly and placed ladylike restrictions on my movements. Below the waist, the skirt of my dress blossomed outwards, supported by and (for once!) covering my petticoat. I was free, rid at last of the tight pencil skirt. I exulted in the feeling of my skirts swishing around my hips, floating on air, like an autumn leaf riding a zephyr. I hugged myself, twirled about the room, swept up my skirts and made a deep curtsey to my instructor. "Oh, Governess! It's perfect! It's gorgeous! I feel beautiful!" "It is quite pretty on you," Governess said. "Now, come over here so I can add the pinafore." She slipped it over my head, pulled the ties through the waist loops, drew it tight around my bodice and did up the ties in a tight, symmetrical bow at the back of my waist. She took a step back and surveyed me. "A good fit," she said. I had worn pinafores before, and they never seemed to sit comfortably. Straps would slip off my shoulders, or the bow would start to come loose, or the waist would ride up, or I would have to tug at the bib to straighten it. This pinafore, however, hugged me as lovingly as the dress did, as if it were part of the dress, or part of me. The uniform pinafore was tailored to my measurements, custom-made to fit my body, encrusted with white lace and beadwork that matched the black lace and beadwork on the dress. It all suddenly reminded me of a magazine article I'd read last year at Ms. N's, about haute couture, handmade dresses that cost thousands of dollars. How much had this uniform cost Mr. B? What if I spilled spaghetti sauce on it? "Very nice, Lisa, now off with it," Governess said. "Try on the evening uniform." I reluctantly removed the day uniform, including petticoat and corset, and changed into my new evening uniform. It started with a new, heavier corset an inch tighter in the waist, which lifted and plumped up my bosom to the point of mild discomfort. Over it went the white evening petticoat with its beautiful crystal-trimmed hems. I raised my arms so that Governess could draw the dress down over my body. Its seams and hems glistened with crystals. Over it she tied a white satin waist apron, spangled like the dress and petticoat with tiny crystals that sparkled in the light. I'd never seen such beautifully made clothing. If anything, its workwomanship was better than the day uniform. Haute couture, indeed. Master must have paid even more for this gorgeous dress. I wanted to cry. I wasn't worth it! "Your shoes." The strappy stiletto sandals covered with crystals. "And your evening hairpiece." Governess opened a case and lifted from it not the usual frilly white headband that maids usually wear, but a tiara that shimmered in the light. Instead of a girl-sized version of a rigid male crown, it was a swirling, feminine tracery of vaguely Celtic curves captured in silver and sparkling with more of the crystals. She placed it on my brow, tilted it back a bit and stepped back to look at me. "Oh my goodness," Governess said. "Our little maid has turned into a fairy princess." She took me to the nearest mirror. I gasped. This uniform fit as wonderfully as the daytime uniform, but in a different way. My daytime uniform was a working dress, long and full enough to let me do my daily chores without exposing my pantied ass whenever I had to bend or stretch. Its pinafore was full enough to protect most of the dress from spills. My evening uniform, on the other hand, controlled me: It was tighter, smaller, shorter, sexier, naughtier, and its little apron was purely decorative. If I bent over too far, my panties would show, and I wondered if Mr. B, like Ms. N, liked to reward the sight of a maid's panties with a quick spank. The tiara really did make me look like a princess. The crystals caught the light as I moved in the dress, creating a sparkling effect that would attract the eyes of everyone in the room. I wondered if the dress and tiara were too fancy for a maid. I didn't want to make real women jealous of me. I hoped that wasn't Mr. B's intent. "There will be more than one version of your evening uniform, Lisa," Governess said. "The dress you're wearing is the classic black satin French maid's uniform. For special occasions, you'll have the same dress in pink silk for when Mr. B wants you to look extra girly, and in amethyst silk chiffon with flutter sleeves for warm weather, and in absolutely luscious black silk velvet with long sleeves for winter, all sparkling with crystals. Look how the lines of the crystals follow the curved seams of your bodice, sleeves and skirt. They make your body look even more womanly than it is. In that dress you are a prize, Lisa. Mr. B is lucky to own you." I quivered inside at her words. "Oh, thank you, Ma'am," I said, curtseying and then primly folding my hands over the little apron. "You're calling me Lisa, showing me these beautiful maid's dresses, but aren't you here to train me as Emma?" "You're wearing a maid's dress," Governess said sternly, "and when you're wearing a maid's dress, you're Lisa. If you change into a dress that isn't a maid's dress, you're Emma." "And if I'm wearing just my lingerie, or nothing at all?" "Don't be impertinent," Governess said. "If you are undressed, you remain whoever you were until you put on a dress again. From now on, child, whenever you get a new dress, you must decide whether it is a Lisa dress or an Emma dress, and wear it only when you want to assume that role. These uniforms, of course, are Lisa dresses. So is your ugly black dress." "Will I get Emma dresses, Ma'am?" "You'll get Emma dresses when you can convince me you're Emma, and not just a sissy in skirts." Ouch. "Yes, Ma'am," I said, and curtseyed again, because I was Lisa. I didn't think Emma would curtsey to Governess, but wasn't sure. I'd find out when I became Emma. "I think you're ready to model your new uniforms for your Master," Governess said. "Take off your evening uniform but leave it out, and change back into your day uniform. Touch up your lips." She left the room in search of Mr. B and returned a few minutes later, as I was putting on my beaded day hairpiece. "Master is out in the hall," she said quietly. "Are you ready? Stand up." She looked me up and down, twitched my hairpiece and fussed with my pinafore. "You'll do. Come over here, into the light, so he can see you. The makeup will have to do, I suppose. Stand up straight! Smile! And a nice deep curtsey when he enters the room." I felt a touch of annoyance. Of course I would curtsey to my Master. She opened the door and said, "She's ready, sir." Mr. B entered. I lowered my eyes, smiled, made him a deep curtsey, rose, and clasped my hands over the apron of my day pinafore. I felt his eyes run up and down my body. I wanted to peek up at him, but didn't dare, not knowing what mood he was in. "Well! Look at you," said Mr. B, and he did. I stood up straighter, thrust out my breasts, arched my back, involuntarily wiggled my bottom. "Well done," he said not to me, but to Governess. "So much better than those silly things Ms. N had her in. The beadwork adds dimensionality, and reflects just the right amount of light, not too much for daytime. Is it practical? I don't want her walking around shedding beads all over the place." "With this workmanship, yes," Governess said. "The pinafore will protect the bodice and much of the skirt." "Yes, but what will protect the pinafore?" Mr. B said. Governess smiled. "Lisa will, because I'll make her repair any damage. She is a competent needlewoman now." Mr. B gestured for me to spin. I turned around slowly, then spun quickly enough to make the full skirt and petticoat flare. I wondered if Mr. B saw my panties, and perversely hoped he did. "Lovely," said Mr. B. He walked up to me and took me in his arms, hugging me tightly. I was surprised but obediently melted into him. I dared to raise my eyes and met his on their way up and down my body. He smoothed my uniform down my body from the bodice to the hem, slipped his hands under my skirts and squeezed my satin-covered bottom, first one globe, then the other. I dared to rub my crotch against his thigh, just a little. He gave me a final squeeze, let me go and took a step back. "I like the feel of the fabric," he said. "I like how her outer clothing slides smoothly over whatever Lisa is wearing underneath. We'll take it. However many she needs." "Thank you, sir," Governess said. "I recommend three of each: one to wear, one in the wash, and one in the closet. And now for the evening uniform. Lisa, you can change into it right here." Mr. B had seen me undressed before, but even so, I was embarrassed to remove my new dress and pinafore and change my corset and petticoat in public. I felt better when my lingerie was sorted, and I slipped into the new evening dress and let Governess tie my apron and slip the tiara into my hair. I struck a demure pose, angling my stance to look as slender and demure as possible. "Magnificent!" Mr. B said. It made me feel proud, even if he was just talking about the dress. I pulled myself taller and lowered my shoulders to make my neck look longer, and arched my back a little more. I turned slowly, then more quickly, and then spun on the ball of my foot to make my skirt and petticoat fly as high as they could. When I stopped, he grasped me by the waist, drew me to him, kissed me deeply and released me. I felt dizzy, from spinning around or being kissed or both, and wobbled slightly on my heels. He caught and steadied me. "Is the dress illuminated somehow?" Mr. B asked. "No, sir," Governess said. "It's just how the Swarovski crystals refract the light. Ten thousand crystals in that dress, sir. And the silk brocade shines, too. You did say you wanted her to glow." "I did," Mr. B said. "And she does. I love how the dress is cut. All the seams are curved, and they make her look more feminine. We'll take it. Three, you said?" "Six of these, actually, if you approve, sir," Governess said. "Three evening uniforms in this black silk for everyday use and, with your permission, three more evening uniforms for special occasions. One in a pastel pink, for spring or special occasions, whenever you want Lisa to look especially girly. One in layers of lavender silk chiffon with flutter sleeves, for warm weather. And another in black silk velvet with full-length sleeves, for cold weather. I think you and she will both appreciate the variety, sir." "So, I need to buy nine dresses just to keep a maid from walking around in her underwear? Good God. Do I need to buy her nine sets of lingerie, too?" "Oh, no, sir. Just a week's worth of panties, bras, shapewear and sleepwear. Lisa will wear the same panties all day, they don't change from day to evening. Three day petticoats, all in white, and four evening petticoats, three in white and one in black. Four day pinafores and four evening aprons, with a spare to change into if they get dirtied. Nude stockings for days, black seamed stockings for evenings. Two day corsets and two evening corsets, as they don't need to be changed as often. With removable garters in case she wears thigh- highs." "No garter belts?" "Lisa always wears a corset, sir." "Always? So, if I happen to want to see Lisa wearing stockings, but no corset...?" "Ah... of course, sir. Three garter belts, two in white, one in black." "Make it frilly, the way she likes," Mr. B said. "What's the difference between the day and evening corsets?" "The evening corset is more structured and less flexible, sir, so that it can be laced more tightly, and is designed to display the bosom somewhat more prominently." Instead of sniggering at the prospect, Mr. B showed concern for me. "Will it make Lisa uncomfortable?" I wanted to cry. I had to dab my eyes with a handkerchief to keep my makeup from running. "Oh, no, sir. She'll be wearing the evening corset for six hours a day at most, and she may find she prefers the look it gives her. In her day uniform, when she should be doing her heavier chores instead of inviting your guests to admire her breasts, she will be laced a little less tightly, in slightly lighter stays, to make it easier for her to catch her breath." "Well, I must say it is very good of you to take her needs into consideration." Mr. B spoke to Governess as if I were not present. "She is already looking better under your instruction, and I expect her to make rapid progress toward becoming Emma." "Thank you, sir. As to that, may I say, sir, that I was hired to turn her into Emma, and I am curious why you are spending my valuable time improving the maid Lisa instead." "A reasonable question," Mr. B said. He did not so much as glance at me. "The primary reason is that much of your training in basic female skills will improve both Lisa and Emma. Timing is another reason: Her new Lisa uniforms will arrive while you happen to be here, and I hope you will help her learn to wear them. Beyond that, Lisa will be Emma's lady's maid and will be responsible for how Emma dresses and presents herself. Emma must be perfect, which means Lisa must be perfect, so that she knows how to make her mistress perfect, too. The time you spend on Lisa will pay off in a more beautiful and perfectly behaved Emma. Lisa is the necessary first step toward Emma." "If you say so, sir," Governess said. He laughed. "Lisa says that, too. It's a perfect response, because you sound deferential without having to agree or disagree. You sissies are clever in how you manipulate us." Governess glanced at me and quickly looked away. I wanted to scream, but managed to control myself and pretend I hadn't heard. You sissies? Did Master just say that Governess is a sissy? Oh my God. Is Governess a boy? I was amazed. As a sissy myself, I'm usually good at spotting other sissies, but she never set off my sissy radar. I read her as a middle-aged female who was good at training sissies, if not particularly fond of them. Or at least not particularly fond of me. I wondered if maybe that was because she was jealous of my youth and -- I blushed to think it -- beauty. At least compared to her. A silence fell. I steeled myself to say, "Master, may I speak?" "Yes, but don't waste my time." I gulped and curtseyed to him. "Thank you, Master, for my beautiful new uniforms." "You're welcome, Lisa." I curtseyed again. "May I ask for one more dress, Master?" He frowned, pretending to be peeved, but I could tell he was amused. "Another maid's dress? Nine dresses are not enough?" "No, Master," I said. "Not a maid's dress. A regular dress, not a uniform. A pretty dress." Mr. B looked puzzled. "Why do you need a pretty dress, Lisa? You're my little housemaid, and you're always on duty. When you're not in your nightgown, you're in uniform. When would you wear a regular dress? Are your new uniforms not pretty enough for you?" I was afraid of annoying him, but had to answer. "Oh, yes, Master, but I don't want to be just your slave maid." "Oh? He eyed me up and down, with no sign of softness. I licked my dry lips and curtseyed to him again, wanting to please him with the unnecessary show of submission. "I want to be your Emma, Sir." "I know, and Governess calls you Emma to encourage you, but she says you have much to learn before you can truly be Emma." He turned to Governess. "When can Lisa have her Emma dress?" "As I have told Lisa," Governess said severely, "she will have her Emma dress when she can convince me she is Emma, and not just a sissy maid in a pretty dress." Mr. B smiled. "Well, there you are, Lisa," he said. "That's a reasonable requirement, and it'll give you an ambitious goal to work toward. Governess, please see that Lisa reaches that goal as soon as possible. I'm putting you in charge of her for the next month. I will be leaving tomorrow on an extended business trip overseas. When I get back, I want to see how much progress she has made, and you will tell me whether she is ready for her Emma dress." "I understand, sir," Governess said. "What look would you recommend for Emma when she earns dresses of her own?" I was not surprised by his question, as he had always shown an interest in what I wore Governess thought for a moment. "I'd consider a retro look for Emma. Modern dresses inspired by Dior's New Look from the late Forties and Fifties. Full skirts, narrow waists, fitted bodices, peplums, petticoats, three-inch stilettos. Lavish evening gowns in delicate fabrics." "Sounds nice," Mr. B said. "Collect some images of what you have in mind, and send me a link." Governess looked pleased, no doubt at the prospect of having me totally under her control for the next month. I did not look forward to it. Governess was stricter with me than Mr. B was, and offered me none of the physical satisfaction that he did. I resolved to be very good, very obedient, to give her no reason to correct or punish me. Which meant this might not be the ideal moment to investigate the mystery of Governess's true sex. "Meanwhile, Lisa, I'm leaving on a business trip tomorrow. This is the last night I'll be here for some time, and I intend to spend it with you." I curtseyed to him. "Oh, thank you, Master! I feel honored! How do you want me dressed?" "I suppose the uniforms need to go back to the dressmakers?" "Yes, sir," Governess said. "Need to take in the waist an inch on all of them." I flinched at the thought that my corsets would need to be laced even more tightly. Though it would make me that much cuter. "Then let's not rumple them tonight," Mr. B said. "Put your new uniforms back in their bags, Lisa, and then why don't you change into something more comfortable. I'm going to take a shower. When you're all pretty, you can kneel outside my room, like a pretty little kitty cat." "Yes, Master," I said. A pretty little kitty? Oh yes, if that's what Master wanted. I curtseyed again and returned to my room. The white peignoir was the only sexy outfit I had, so I wasted no time worrying about what to wear. I gave myself a quick douche, lubed myself and refreshed my hair, makeup and fragrance. I wished I had kitty ears I could wear in my hair, and a kitty tail I could wear in my boy-pussy. When I looked as pretty as I could, I knelt outside his door, scratched on it the way a pretty kitty would, and awaited my Master's pleasure. "Kitty, kitty, kitty," he called. Oh. I so wanted to be his kitty. I opened the door. The lights were low. He was sitting on the bed, wearing only his crisp white shirt, unbuttoned. I wanted to roll those sleeves up his arms, strip them off him, tear his clothes off his body. I was so bad! I wanted his full attention. "Purrr..." "Here, pussy," he called in a singsong fashion that sent a pulse through my sissy parts. I crawled to his feet, wiggling my bottom. I sat on all fours on his side of the bed and pretended to groom myself like a cat. "Meow," I said. He smiled. "Bad kitty!" he said, shaking his finger at me. "You coughed up a hairball on my pillow and peed in my best shoes. But I won't punish you for it, because you're just a little pussy and you don't know any better. Instead, I'll give you a reward. I'll let you suck my cock until I'm hard and then I'll give you a good fucking." Oh! Just what I wanted to hear. I shivered and took a deep breath. "Yes, Master." I found myself starting to cry, I'm not sure why, I was just feeling so much emotion. I leaned forward, took his knob inside my mouth and began to pleasure him. He grabbed my hair and face-fucked me until he came. I hadn't expected him to come so quickly, but I swallowed it all and hoped this wasn't the end of the evening. "Make me hard again, little kitten," he said. I obediently sucked him until he recovered. To my pleasant surprise, it didn't take him long. Mr. B was a vigorous man. When he was hard, he laid me on my back and licked my nipples until they were erect and I was writhing in ecstasy. He lifted my knees over his shoulders and entered me slowly, gently, with less discomfort than before, and I was glad I'd remembered to lube. Soon he was all the way in. He stroked slowly at first, then sped up until he was banging away. His cock found my G-spot, or P-spot or whatever it is, and gave me three orgasms, all of which lasted longer and were more intense than any in my past. After the third mind-shattering climax, I begged him for mercy and invited him to take his pleasure sooner rather than later. He did, and we both came at the same time -- his second, my fourth. I was too woozy to find my way back to my room, so Master allowed me to sleep in his bed. He took me in his arms and spooned around me. I could feel his hardness against my soft bottom, and it was nice, but I was too far gone to respond and soon fell asleep. I awoke at 6:30 the next morning, my usual time. I slipped out of bed without waking Master and tiptoed back to my room, saw my face in a mirror, eeked at the sight of morning-after makeup and cleaned it off before hopping in and out of the shower. I slipped back into my peignoir, quickly applied fresh light makeup -- no foundation, just eyes and lips -- and returned to Mr. B's room in time to crawl back into his bed and give him his regular morning blowjob. He was just waking up. "You did me last night," he said. "I'll let you off this morning." "But I want to do you this morning, Master," I said. "You're going away, and I don't know where you're going or when you'll be back, and I'll miss you so much." "And I'll miss you too, kitten," he said. "I'll be in Asia, and I should be back in four weeks. While I'm away, I want you to obey Governess. Be a very good little kitty. If I find you've been disobedient, I will be angry when I get back, and you'll have to be punished." "Yes, Master. I'll be a good kitty. Meow." He pulled me to him, kissed me savagely and released me, leaving me breathless. "Breakfast," he said. "My car will be here at 7:45." He gave my rump a swat and headed into the bathroom. Somehow excited by the heat I felt where he'd spanked me, I jumped off the bed, hurried back to my room, changed into my daytime lingerie, pencil skirt and blouse, and went downstairs to make coffee and cook breakfast. I was sick of the skirt and blouse, which had shrunk slightly in the wash and were now tighter than ever. I recalled how my new uniforms looked and fit last night, and wished I had them now, even if they meant being laced more tightly. When Master came downstairs, I served him what we jokingly called a "half English" fry-up: Canadian bacon, sausage patties, a fried egg, fried potatoes, fried tomato, fried mushrooms, toast, coffee and tea. No white or black pudding, no kidneys, no baked beans, no kippers, and the bacon and sausage weren't English, but he liked it anyway. I had an idea. "Master, may I speak?" "Be brief. You're interrupting my breakfast, and I'm in a hurry," he said. "Yes, Master. Master, could we keep the two new uniforms until the seamstress delivers the rest, and then send the first two back for the same adjustment? Then I could start wearing the new uniforms now instead of having to wear this blouse and skirt forever." "What's wrong with your blouse and skirt?" I looked down at my cleavage bursting out of the Wonderbra I wore under the blouse, which was in danger of losing a third button. "They're too tight, Master, and they're uncomfortable, and they're very plain and not very pretty. I want to be prettier for you." Mr. B smiled. "I'm leaving all that up to Governess. You'll get your new uniforms in just a few days, and you can't wear just the one day and one evening uniform until then, they'll get dirty. Anyway, you look charming in your blouse and skirt, like a cute secretary. Be patient and do as Governess says until I get back, and you won't get into trouble." In other words, no. "Thank you, Master," I said, ashamed that I had bothered him for no reason while he was trying to eat his breakfast. He wolfed it down, gave me a kiss, grabbed his luggage and was out the door just as his long black car pulled up into the driveway. I followed him to the door but, restrained by my skirt, didn't rush outside to follow him outside. I waved and shouted goodbye. He waved back and got into the back seat of the car. It pulled away from the curb and took my Master away from me. A MONTH WITHOUT MASTER Now I would be in the hands of Governess for the next four weeks. She continued to drill me relentlessly on Emma's posh female deportment, accent and behavior, and punished me for mistakes, but I was on my best behavior, and she didn't go out of her way to find other excuses to stripe my bottom with her crop. One learned to refer to oneself as "one" and to omit most other pronouns. One wasn't, one learned, trying to imitate the true upper class, but rather an upper-middle-class accent that suggested intelligence, or at least education, and obscured one's regional origin. One didn't want to sound like the Royal Enclosure at Ascot; one wanted to sound like a female BBC newsreader. As part of feminine deportment, one learned to dance backwards and in high heels. Governess discovered that one would make a fool of oneself on a dance floor, and brought a male ballroom dance teacher called Monsieur to the house for three weeks of daily lessons to teach one how to waltz, tango, foxtrot and rhumba. Naturally one learned only the women's steps. After the first week of lessons, Monsieur complained to Governess that I needed a formal gown in which to practice the dances. Governess did not want to authorize the expense because she had already decided I was not ready to receive what she called an Emma dress. I thought that was petty of her, but rather than having an argument I would lose, I suggested that since my lessons were private, I could learn the dances in my peignoir, which had a long skirt and a floaty robe that suggested the ethereal drapery of a ball gown. Governess considered the idea and said we would try it. She told me to change into my peignoir, with another long half-slip under the gown for modesty and fullness. She summoned Monsieur and showed me to him. He took my hand and spun me around in a waltz step. A real gown would be best, he told her, but the peignoir would be better than my ugly black dress or the blouse and pencil skirt. And so I wore it to my remaining lessons, feeling half naked in front of a man I barely knew, which was probably good training for wearing a formal ballgown. At least Monsieur didn't grope or molest me. Perhaps Governess had told him my secret and he wasn't interested in sissy boys. Six days after Mr. B left, Mademoiselle returned to the house in the late afternoon with the first batch of my new uniforms, two day uniforms and two evening uniforms. Governess said I could open the garment bags and hang them in my closet, and came upstairs to watch. The dresses were as beautiful as I remembered. I was so excited, and asked Governess if I could change into my new uniform now. "Which one?" Governess said. I checked the time. It was a quarter past four. "If you think you have the time," she said, "you can put on your new day uniform and then serve tea, but you'll have to be quick about it, and I expect you to look perfect. Expect a spanking if tea is late. Or you can wait until after tea to change into your evening uniform, anytime between six and seven o'clock, and wear your day uniform for the first time tomorrow. So, change immediately, or after tea. You choose." I was surprised she let me choose. Usually she just told me what to do. What was the right answer? Was she trying to trap me into an answer that would get me punished? I badly wanted to change into my new maid's uniform, but did not want to have to rush. I would need at least an hour to get dressed, arrange myself, look at myself, make adjustments, tuck, tug, brush, primp. In new shoes. "I'll wait to change into my new evening uniform after tea, Ma'am." "Smart choice. Perhaps you are not a total bimbo." I served tea at five. Afterwards, I cleaned up in the kitchen, went upstairs, took a quick shower, brushed my hair, replaced my day makeup with my evening look and renewed my perfume. At six o'clock exactly, I happily stripped off the white blouse and black pencil skirt and put them away, hopefully for good. I stripped down to my panties and changed into a new evening corset that molded me to its form instead of adapting to mine and was an inch tighter than I was used to. After Governess finished lacing me into it, I needed a minute to catch my breath. She helped me replace my day stockings with black seamed hose and fastened them to my garter belt. I stepped into my evening petticoat, admiring the lace and crystal ornaments at the hem, and drew it up to my waist. I let my dress fall over upstretched arms, pulled it down over my body, smoothed it over my corset and petticoat, and zipped it up. It felt marvelous -- perfectly tailored to my figure, snug above the waist but not constricting, draping perfectly over the petticoat, which peeped out an inch or so below the hem of the dress. I had to remember that I was no longer with Ms. N and no longer had to fear a spanking if my petticoat showed. I tied the lace-trimmed half apron around my waist and slid the crystal tiara into my hair, a simple pageboy that stopped short of my shoulders. Last of all I buckled my feet into the crystal-strapped sandals and looked at myself in the full-length mirror. I was Lisa the maid, and Lisa looked fabulous. The dress was a starry night, its seams curving seductively around my figure, ending in a contrasting burst of petticoats. The apron was almost comically decorative, covering little of the skirt and serving no function except to mark the wearer as a submissive servant. Which is exactly what I was, and exactly what I wanted to be. I remembered my chaotic life before Ms. N trained me to be a lady's maid, and shuddered. Now my life was safe, stable and comfortable. I knew exactly what I needed to do every day of the week, and I had plenty of time to do it. Yes, I was spanked for mistakes, but the spanking helped me remember not to do it again, and I was well-treated otherwise. I was lucky to be here, lucky to be owned by Mr. B, lucky to be his maid Lisa, working hard to become his lady Emma. I felt a surge of love for him, and wished he were here to hold me and comfort me and kiss me and fill me inside. I realized with a start that I would have to cook in this uniform, and wondered if I needed to wear the pinafore from the day uniform to protect the evening uniform's dress while cooking, and then take off the pinafore before serving dinner. Tonight's main dish was a roast I'd already put in the oven, but I often cooked dinner between six and eight, and I would hate to mess up my evening uniform, and would expect to be punished if I did. I decided to ask Governess what to do. The next morning, I wore the day uniform for the first time before Mr. B. He was as delighted with it as I was. The day corset was, well, less uncomfortable than the evening corset. The dress fit as perfectly as the evening uniform, but was not quite as tight, which would make it more comfortable when doing chores. The black and white beading gave the uniform a touch of sparkle. I saw how much more elegant and tasteful my new uniforms were than the uniforms I'd worn for Ms. N, and was grateful to Mr. B for buying them for me. After another week of housework and lessons in deportment and poise and dancing and posh English, the next set of my uniforms arrived -- one day uniform, one evening uniform, and another evening uniform in pastel pink. I loved the pink uniform at first sight and begged Governess to let me wear it that evening. She, too, seemed unusually taken by it, and readily agreed. I changed into it after tea, found Governess sipping sherry in the boudoir, and posed for her. "Delicious," she said. "It makes you look so very, very feminine. You know, Lisa, when I look at you, for the first time I no longer see a boy doing his best to look like a girl. I see a girl. Is it just the color of the dress? Maybe it's just a coincidence, but you seem to be behaving and moving differently, as if you've finally taken to heart all the lessons I've been giving you. You're actually very pretty, Lisa." I blushed and curtseyed. "Thank you, Ma'am." Governess normally was quite sparing in her use of compliments. How much sherry had she had? She rose from her desk and moved to the sofa opposite her desk, taking her glass with her. "Sit down, Lisa," she said, patting the spot next to her on the sofa. I obeyed, and wondered what she wanted. Governess lightly ran a finger over my pink dress, following the lines of crystals in the seams of the bodice. "So very pretty, Lisa," she said. "You're pretty, your dress is pretty, your lingerie is pretty, your name is pretty. Lisa Lovelace. Do you, Lisa? Love lace?" I ignored the stale joke and felt a rising sense of shock. Was Governess flirting with me? Governess? There had never been a hint of anything like that before. I'd always thought her a genetic female in her late 40s or early 50s, but Mr. B had dropped what might have been a hint that Governess was a sissy like me. I looked at her carefully and couldn't tell. She was a strong, statuesque woman, but that didn't mean she wasn't born a girl. Her generous bosom was no indication; I was living evidence that any boy could have boobs. She put an arm around my shoulders and began stroking my bodice -- no, my breasts. She touched a nipple. This was getting weird. She was flirting with me, on her way to first base. I tensed, but didn't move. "Do you feel pretty, Lisa?" "Yes, Ma'am," I said. "Would you like to feel prettier?" "Any girl would, Ma'am." "You can feel prettier if you do pretty things, and if you let nice people do pretty things to you." Yikes. "What... things, Ma'am?" "Things like this." She kissed me, full on the lips. I tried to pull away, but she held me tightly. "And this." She kissed me again. "And this." She thrust her tongue into my mouth. I pulled back from the kiss. "Governess! Ma'am! Why are you doing this?" "Lisa, didn't your Master tell you to obey me?" "Yes, Ma'am, but...!" "But what, Lisa?" "You're my Governess! Like a teacher! You shouldn't be touching me, and kissing me!" Her free hand began tweaking my left nipple through my uniform, rubbing and twisting and flicking. A wave of pleasure rolled over me. I went limp in her arms. "There are many things I can teach you," Governess said. "You're a girl now, almost a girl. I can teach you how girls love each other, how girly boys love each other. So much nicer than how men love girls, so much softer and gentler and delicious." "Girly boys?" I said. "Are you one of them, Governess?" She froze. "How dare you! Why would you ask such a thing?" "What you just said, about girly boys loving each other," I said. "And something Master once said. There's nothing wrong with it, is there, Governess? I mean, I'm a girly boy." Governess sighed. "You're not much of a boy, Lisa. You're mostly a girl." She hesitated. "And so am I." "Were you ever a boy, Ma'am?" I couldn't believe I'd dared to ask. "Feel for yourself, Lisa." Very carefully, I explored her crotch. She wore a rayon dress, a full slip and some kind of firm undergarment, a girdle or control panty or Spanx or something. At the base of her crotch I felt a familiar lump. "Governess! You are a boy!" "No, Lisa." Governess was on the verge of tears. Suddenly, so was I. "I'm a forty-five-year-old sissy. I was a boy once, a beautiful boy, the first girly boy that Mr. B ever loved. I was twenty-five and he was a gorgeous hunk at sixteen, precocious for his age. He'd already had women, but he'd never slept with a boy. I borrowed my sister's panties and prom dress and gave him his first sissy blowjob. He was the first man to use my boy-pussy. I suppose it was statutory rape When he turned twenty-one, he hired me as his maid and put me in dresses, and I've worked for him ever since. Now I train male maids for him. Maids like you, Lisa. You weren't the first, you may not be the last, but you're the only one he's ever thought of marrying." "Marrying?" I shrieked. "What do you mean?" "That's what he said, princess. Said he wanted you to be his lady. Two ladies, Lisa the slut and Emma the posh girlfriend, or fianc?e, or wife... depending on how far you were prepared to go." I was stunned. I'd never imagined that my stern Governess would share such personal details with me. Especially these details. "Oh my God," I said. "I can't believe this." "Then don't," Governess said. "I could be wrong. Maybe he's changed his mind. He's out of the country, he's had time to think about things..." I burst into tears. "Oh, don't say that!" "Then I shan't," Governess said. She began fondling and kissing me again. "Lisa, you are such a girl." This was so wrong, but to my chagrin, I was aroused by her attentions. "If you say so, Ma'am." She smiled and began rubbing my crotch through my dress and petticoats. "I want you to do some pretty things for me, Lisa. Mr. B told you to obey me, didn't you?" I felt powerless to stop her. "Yes, Ma'am." "Very well. As part of your training, I want you to give me a blowjob, and then I want to fuck your sissy ass." "Governess!" She stood, lifted her dress and slip, eased her panties down to her ankles and stepped out of them. She pulled up her dress and slip, and I saw the lump I'd felt. Her boy-clitty. Bigger than mine, but smaller than normal. Her crotch was hairless, like mine. "Kneel before me and fluff me, Lisa," Governess said. I knelt before her, but didn't touch her. "That's an order, Lisa," Governess said. I began to cry. I raised my hand and touched her boy-clitty. Brought it to my mouth. Took it inside. "Oh, do stop crying, Lisa," Governess said. "Suck!" I did, and I ran my tongue the length of her boy-clitty, and sucked on her hairless balls, and swirled my tongue around the top. Governess moaned and grew hard. She pulled out, flipped me over and jammed her wet boy-clitty into my boy-pussy. It didn't hurt me much going in, but it couldn't reach my L-spot, L for Lisa, so I didn't get off. Governess did, though. Her climax wasn't earthshaking, but she seemed to enjoy it greatly, and I wondered how long it'd been since her last orgasm. Her boy-clitty shrank and slipped out of my boy-pussy. "Thank you, Lisa," Governess said. "I'm really sorry for doing that to you, it must have been a bit of a shock, but I couldn't help myself -- you're so tempting, and it's been so long, so very long. Mr. B loved me once, but now..." She began to cry, and somehow I could sense the isolation and pain she must have felt when Mr. B feminized her, loved her and then lost interest in her as she aged and he found younger, prettier boys. Like me. I felt guilty, but knew that if he hadn't chosen me, he would have found someone else, so it wasn't really my fault. I still felt bad for her. "Oh, Governess," I said, and wondered whether to embrace her. I clumsily started to do so, and she did the same, and we awkwardly fell into each other's arms and cried and laughed and cried. I got no more housework done that day. In the evening, Governess noticed my idleness and gave me a nice spanking. We both felt better afterwards, as if the natural order had been restored. After I rose from her lap, let my skirts fall and reached under them to pull up my panties, I gave her a deep curtsey. "Ma'am," I said, "I just want... I need... I feel very submissive tonight, Ma'am. I'm Master's girl, but he's not here, so I'll be your girl for the night. You can do anything you want to me, Ma'am." I felt a pulse of feminine bliss and squeezed my thighs together, ready to submit to the first girly boy Master had ever met... if that story was true. "Oh, Lisa, I wish I could," she said. "But you belong to Mr. B, we both belong to him, and I made a bad mistake using you just now, using my employer's property without permission, and I won't do it again. I beg you, please don't tell him what I did. You don't belong to me, you belong to Mr. B. Be his maid and slave girl, be his Emma fantasy, make life perfect for him, and who knows what might happen." "Why would he marry me, when there are who knows how many real women who would happily marry him?" I asked. "Because he already loves you and you love him, you little idiot," Governess said. "He's yours, for as long as you continue to please him. Stay young, stay pretty, and please him! Go to bed, Lisa." The next day, Governess called me into the boudoir. She was Governess again, not a middle-aged sissy with a boy-clitty out of control, and treated me as if yesterday hadn't happened. "Emma," she said. I became Emma. I curtseyed, not knowing what to say. "Ma'am?" "Mr. B will be back in two weeks. You aren't ready to become Emma yet, but you are making progress, and we need to start preparing you to become her." "Preparing me how, Governess?" "We need to shop for Emma dresses, for one thing." "Emma dresses!" I clapped and jumped up and down. "Really?" "Yes, lovely dresses for Emma. You need to get used to wearing a wider variety of clothing, including formal gowns. Lower necklines, longer hems. You'll love it. He'll love you in it." I wiggled in girly anticipation. Formal gowns! Fancy dresses! I felt almost ready to play my part. Governess had been drilling me on social rituals: red carpets, receiving lines, greetings, how to make introductions, dinner table etiquette, how to make polite conversation, how to answer awkward questions, how to deal with reporters and photographers, how to deal with men whose hands wander, things never to say or do, and other useful advice. A couple of days later, Governess took me shopping for Emma dresses. I reluctantly wore my cotton blouse and pencil skirt over my favorite bra, panty, garter belt and stockings, because the blouse and skirt were the most normal-looking clothes I owned, more normal than my ugly black dress. We drove downtown and visited traditional department stores and dress shops at three malls. I was in a girly mood and happily tried on all the dresses that caught Governess's eye, plus a few that caught my own. I don't know if the salesladies read me as a sissy, but if they did, they didn't say a word. In the end Governess bought me five Emma dresses: a traditional floor- length ball gown in many layers of lavender tulle, with a tucked and wrapped bodice; an above-the-knee dress with a fitted bodice and very full knee-length skirts in lemon chiffon; a strapless sheath dress in red silk with a tight ankle-length skirt; a traditional ankle-length A- line bridesmaid's dress in pink satin with a little bolero jacket; and an off-the-shoulder dress with a full petticoated skirt and a short train like a wedding gown, except it was light blue and had no veil. Governess made me change in and out of the dresses and walk, stand, sit, turn, kneel, curtsey and dance in them. The light blue gown was the hardest to move in, because it was heavy and because of the train. I put the Emma dresses in my closet, which was much less empty than it once was, and asked Governess when I could wear them. She said only during Emma lessons, and she would tell me which dress for each session. During the sessions, she kept me moving about the room in the gown, walking up and down, sitting and standing, so that I grew used to all the dresses and aware of their limitations, able to maneuver modestly and gracefully in each. Between my training sessions, I dressed as Lisa and attended to my maid's duties. I grew accustomed to having to change corsets and petticoats every day after tea, something most women would hate but which I always found exciting, if not exactly comfortable. I asked Governess, and she decided that I could wear the daytime pinafore over my evening uniform in the kitchen while preparing food, but nowhere else in the house. If I needed to enter another room, I must take off the pinafore and wear only my little evening apron. I was careful to follow this rule. I'd marked a date on my calendar four weeks after Mr. B left, hoping he'd return by then. Three days before it, Governess told me that Mr. B had been able to wrap up his business early, and would be home tomorrow, around the middle of the day. Oh, oh! My heart pounded. I could not wait to see him. I wanted to curtsey to him, kneel before him, show myself off to him in my prettiest Emma dress. I wanted him to kiss me, spank me, make me suck him, fuck me, whatever he wanted to do. It had been a month, and I missed him so badly. I no longer felt ashamed to admit it. I was a sissy, and Mr. B was my Master, and I wanted him back, needed him back. I felt so embarrassed admitting this to myself, but it was true. Governess tracked his flight and told me when he would arrive, around ten at night, so I made myself ready for him. I put on one of my Emma dresses, the sleeveless lemon chiffon with the full knee-length skirt and yellow heels. I could have worn my evening maid's uniform, but I decided to surprise him with that tomorrow, and I wanted to show him that I was no longer just Lisa the maid, I was becoming Emma. I prepared three drinks -- a glass of pinot noir, a dry martini and a tumbler with two fingers of single-malt Scotch -- and set them on a silver tray on the occasional table in the entry, so that he could take his choice. I stood opposite the door, ready to take his computer bag or coat or whatever he needed to shed. I heard footsteps outside, the key in the door, and there he was. Master was wearing one of his hand-tailored suits, a white shirt with no tie, and a day's growth of beard. He looked tired. His eyes brightened when he saw me, and widened when he noticed what I was wearing. "Lisa! You look lovely." I wanted to kneel before him or lower myself into a submissive curtsey, but instead stood proudly and gave him only a polite nod. "Good evening, sir," I said in my best English accent. "Lisa is not here at the moment. I'm her mistress, Emma Mountjoy. Can I help you?" I offered him my right hand, my wrist properly limp. He took my hand and, instead of shaking it, lifted it to his lips and kissed it. I barely restrained myself from leaping into his arms, wrapping my legs around him and covering him in kisses. He let go of my hand. "I'm William Baxter. Pleased to meet you, Miss Mountjoy. I'm sorry, is it Miss?" His name! Oh my God. He had a name. I knew my Master's name! William Baxter. William Baxter. William Baxter! It sounded so masculine. I wondered if his friends called him Bill. I did my best to speak calmly. "Yes, it's Miss, I'm not married. Do come in." He was carrying only his tablet case, which he set down on the table. William Baxter. Mr. Baxter. William. Ooh! Emma Baxter. Mrs. William Baxter. Stop it! Silly sissy. I picked up the tray. "May I offer you a drink, Mr. Baxter?" "You certainly may." He took the Scotch and slugged it. "Ahhh! It's good to be back, Li... Em... Miss Mountjoy. Is that the last of the Glenmorangie?" "By no means, Mr. Baxter. I'd ring for the maid, but she's busy elsewhere. May I?" I took his glass and did a sexy walk into the living room to refill it from the cut-glass decanter on the sideboard. He followed. As I poured, he ran his hand over the layers of chiffon skirt and petticoat covering my bottom, and squeezed. Of all the nerve! I was Emma Mountjoy, not Lisa the slut! I set his glass down sharply, slapped his hand away and took a step away from him. "Mr. Baxter!" I said sternly. "I don't think I know you that well." He caught on instantly. "I apologize, Miss Mountjoy. I can only plead temporary insanity due to your stunning beauty." I couldn't help it. I giggled. "You are forgiven, Mr. Baxter." He stepped up to me, took my hand, kissed it again, hung onto it. "Is there no hope for me, Miss Mountjoy? I know I am but a humble multimillionaire businessman while you are a penniless sissy from the streets, but I hope you will overlook the differences between us and allow me to declare that I love you." The L-word! Was this still a game, or was he serious? I decided to keep playing the game. If he was serious, he needed to be more explicit. Either way, this was a significant moment... to me, at least. "Good heavens! I hardly know you, Mr. Baxter. This is very sudden. May one inquire if you are intoxicated?" "Not a bit of it," he slurred, and staggered. He fell against me, and grabbed my ass again. "I reshemble -- I reshent -- the tone of your remarksh, madam, and demand shatishfaction. Name your weaponsh." I pulled free and turned to face him. My yellow chiffon skirts whirled around my hips. I flipped my hair at him. "Hairbrushes at dawn, my lord, and may the longest curls win!" We both broke into laughter. I fell into his arms and raised my face to his. He kissed me, thoroughly and at some length. Oh! My right knee bent by reflex, and my foot rose till it met the hem of my dress. This was just what I needed. It wasn't all I needed, but it was a nice start. I asked him if he was hungry. We drifted into the kitchen, where I started cooking him a bacon butty with Canadian bacon and poured him an ice-cold local microbrew. We sat and talked. I remained in my Emma role, practicing my posh accent and behavior and pretending to be equals with Mr. B... Mr. Baxter. William Baxter. "So, you earned your Emma dress before I got back," he said. "Four Emma dresses," I said proudly. "Good lord. I'd better have a word with Governess about household expenses. Though I must say it's a very pretty dress for a very pretty young lady." "Thank you," I said. "Remember that Emma is a lady, and you need to be polite to her. You can grab Lisa's ass, she's just a common maid, but not Emma's." "I am unfailingly polite to Lisa, who is anything but common," he said. "Sometimes she just needs a spanking." I switched to Lisa's voice. "Says who?" "Says Lisa's Master," he said, and now we were back in master-and-maid mode. I felt more comfortable there. It felt presumptuous and odd to address him as Mr. Baxter rather than by his proper title. "Yes, Master," I said happily. I told him all my new uniforms had arrived and fit perfectly and were lovely and thank you, and I would wear them for him tomorrow, and model my other Emma gowns. "Have you been working hard as Emma?" he asked. "You must have been, or Governess wouldn't have ordered you such an extravagant number of dresses." I switched back to Emma. "Quite hard, Mr. Baxter. She wants me to get accustomed to moving and dancing in the dresses so that I won't be awkward when I have to appear in public." "She was right. How close is Emma to being ready to appear in public?" he asked. "You'd have to ask Governess," I said. I spread out my hands and did a little bob. "What do you think?" "Well, Emma is not from the West End of London, but she might be from the West Country. It's not obvious that she's an American. Her posture and movement are quite good, very feminine, and she's starting to show the serene self-confidence and poise that upper-class ladies seem to be born with." "Thank you, Mr. Baxter. One shall continue to work hard and do as Governess says." "Good, because I think it may be time to show you off to a live audience." Eeek! "What do you mean, Mr. Baxter?" "I'm on the board of the National Appendix Foundation, which is having its annual banquet downtown a week from Saturday. I have two seats on the dais. Cocktails, dinner and dancing. Would you care to accompany me?" I gulped. "You mean... like a date?" "Exactly like a date. In fact, yes, my dear, a date. I have put you at the very end of the head table, next to me, so you can listen to polite conversation without having to take part. You'll need to respond when I introduce you to people, but beyond that, you won't need to say much. Just dazzle them with your beauty. Almost everyone there will be American, so I don't think your accent will be a problem. Willing to have a go at it?" As if I had a choice. "One shall do one's best, Mr. Baxter." "For one thing, you'll have to call me William." Startled, I slipped back into Lisa. "Oh! Master, I couldn't!" He grinned, enjoying my embarrassment. "Oh, but you will. Say my name, Emma." I was Emma again. "Ah!... Mr. William Baxter." "No, just William." "William." I sighed. "William." A secret romantic moment that I'm sure meant more to me than to him. "Good girl. You needn't call me anything, but don't call me Master. Take my arm, smile, laugh. At one point we might hold hands briefly within view of the photographers and press. It will make you instantly interesting." "Photographers and press? Why are they... why would I be interesting to them?" "Because you're with me, and because it's a big event. TV might do some red-carpet shots." "There's a red carpet? I'll be walking down a red carpet in a formal gown, in front of TV cameras and photographers? I can't, Master!" I began to panic. "Call me William. Calm down, Emma. My car will drop us off in front of the Grand Hotel. I will open the door and help you out of the car, to prevent awkward photos. Don't speak to the media. Don't tell anyone who you are. Just stand tall and smile and look beautiful and let them take pictures and wonder who you are. If asked, I shall smile and say only that you are my guest. We will go inside for cocktail hour. You may have one drink, no more. Sip it very slowly. If you handle alcohol well, I may in future allow you more than one drink, to relax you in certain situations." His voice calmed me. "Tonight, I shall introduce you to a small number of close friends and associates as Emma Mountjoy. They will say they are pleased to meet you, and you will respond appropriately. Do not curtsey to anyone. We will take our seats at the head table, have a reasonably nice dinner and pay for it by sitting through half an hour of speeches and an award ceremony." "An award? What's the award for?" "Oh, it's nothing, just an award they give," he said. He looked embarrassed. Aha. "Are you getting the award, Sir?" "You ask too many questions, Emma." "What's the award for?" He coughed lightly. "They call it Humanitarian of the Year." "My goodness! That sounds like a high honor." He smiled. "High donor is more like it. I do my bit to support the Foundation's work. Afterwards, there will be dancing, and whenever you tell me your feet hurt too much, the car will take us home, and you will have passed your first test as Emma." "Must I dance with you in public? In my corset and heels and a formal gown?" "Yes, Miss Emma, you must. From what Governess tells me, you'll be one of the better dancers. Most of them will just shuffle back and forth." "I don't think I can do this, Mr. Baxter." "William. Of course you can. You will be an international woman of mystery. I will be with you all the time, except when you visit the ladies' loo." Another ordeal I hadn't considered. "You will do this, Emma, or you will remain Lisa full time. I don't think you want to spend your life washing and cooking and cleaning." "Is this an order, Master?" "Yes, it is. To Lisa, and to Emma." I felt the frisson of submission to his will, and spoke as Lisa. "Then I'll obey you, Master. I'll be Lisa when you want Lisa, and I'll be Emma when you want Emma. I'll go anywhere you take me as Emma, and do whatever you want her to do, and dress however you want her to dress. That's why you bought me, that's what I'm for. To be Emma, and Lisa, for you." "That's the spirit, Lisa! And Emma! I'll do what I can to make it easy on you. We'll start with small, low-risk events like this. I'm sure you'll do well." "This is a small event?" I said. "With TV and photographers? What would be a large event?" He smiled. "One of my hobbies is producing movies. Would you care to accompany me to the Oscars in Los Angeles next year?" I laughed nervously, unsure again whether he was serious. "Love to, but I'll need a very expensive gown... William." End of Part 2 A possible part 3: Emma appears in public as Mr. Baxter's mystery girlfriend, and becomes a subject of speculation that only he can put to rest.