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Transaction (complete story) By Lisa Lovelace (This is the complete version of my first story on Fictionmania. It includes the first two parts of the story and adds the ending. The entire text has been edited and updated.) ~ ~ ~ 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 and serve dinner at eight. Just her tonight, no guests. I climbed the rear stairs to my quarters in the attic, shed my two-inch gray pumps and wiggled tired toes in momentary relief. I stripped off the ruffled work apron 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 took off my ruffled hairpiece and put it back with other the hair decorations in my closet. Per Ms. N's standing instructions, I had to change into new lingerie for my evening uniform. I put on a black overbust corset that could be tightened by the extra inch needed to squeeze into the dress. I replaced my daytime nude stockings with sheer seamed black hose and clipped them to my corset garters. I changed from my daytime crinolines into a shorter, fuller taffeta petticoat that rustled with more frou-frou when I swung my hips. Reaching under my taffeta petticoat, I 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. When Ms. N bought me my evening panties, she had me sew five rows of ruffled white lace across the bottom of each pair, as a little game of hers. 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 from my waist 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, with a very short, full skirt, short puff sleeves and a sweetheart 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 of my dress 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 my underclothing outside my bedroom, for which the penalty was five spanks on the spot. Since my skirt did not cover my petticoat, my evening uniform was always an infraction 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! I still remembered the New Year's Eve party where she spanked me seven times in front of her friends for lingerie infractions -- twice for petticoats, twice for corset garters, twice for panty ruffles and once for a slip strap. I cried, and her friends laughed at me. Ms. N had so many rules that I was sure to be breaking at least one of them at any time. For example, my apron could have one blemish if I was doing housework, but had to be changed if it had a second blemish, and had to be pristine when I served meals. I was also careful not to dirty the exposed white hems of my petticoats. A blemished apron or dirty petticoat normally earned its wearer up to five spanks over the knee and a quick trip upstairs to change into a fresh apron or 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 and petticoat instead of my other evening uniform, the humiliatingly short, skin-tight satin minidress 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 red fingernail polish was 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, three stones set to resemble a cock and balls, was a gift from Ms. N on my first anniversary in her service. So was my bosom. I now had natural C-cup breasts with maddeningly sensitive nipples. 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 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 three years in corsets, three years of taking the pills Ms. N gave me, and three years of intense training as Ms. N's 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 strap, tucked it back under the collar of my dress and hoped it would stay there. I wondered whether to make sure with a tiny safety pin, 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 usually 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 violate 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 just had 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, thirty or forty swats. 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 a certain bad little girl had been so very naughty and needed to be punished so she 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 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 and curtsey. 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 after a spanking. 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 there! It had happened only once, when it stiffened at a most inappropriate time while I was again without panties, but once was enough for me. I begged 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 forever 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 voile 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? That'll be five spanks." I looked down at my hem. My evening uniform was the real violation of the rules, but I couldn't say that. At least it was spotless. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. If my skirt was..." "If your skirt was what? Are you complaining about your uniform again?" "Oh, no, Ma'am, I love my uniform, 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? "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 long-haired 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, a Friday. 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 kick pleat, dark stockings and four-inch black stiletto heels. Nine 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, 130 pounds. "You?d look better at 120," she said. 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 touching and rubbing 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 about to start, 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. I told her secretary that Ms. N wanted me to finish the interview at her house. She 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," she said. The heavy glass door clicked shut behind me. 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 a neighborhood that my phone map called Virginia Highlands. I spent a few minutes strolling around the neighborhood, admiring the beautiful old homes and wondering how people got rich enough 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, which she said was a Sauvignon blanc from New Zealand. I usually drank beer at parties, but the wine was good. It had a citrus tang and wasn?t too sweet, and holding the glass gave me something to do with my hands. I nervously gulped too quickly and felt it start to go to my head, so I slowed down. I needed to be careful. "Have some more wine," Ms. N said, and refilled my glass. The doorbell rang. Ms. N -- I still didn?t know her name -- excused herself and pulled her wallet out of her handbag. She returned a moment later with a large box of pizza that wasn?t from Domino?s, probably from 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. "Dinner is served," she said with mock solemnity. "You may sit. Bon app?tit." I sat. She opened the box. The pizza looked skimpy -- just sliced tomatoes, cheese and some green leaves on a thin crust, no meat. Girly pizza. She used her knife and fork to take a slice, cut off a bite and eat it. 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 and waited for her 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 she was in, so I couldn?t judge. Maybe my posture was important for some reason. "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 your arm. Tilt your head, but not your shoulders. To the left. To the right. Sit up straighter." "Hands in your lap. Turn your upper body toward me without moving below your waist. More slowly. The other way." She looked me up and down. "I think you?ll do," she said. I wondered if she was serious. Why did it my posture matter? 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 butler, 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. "You should read it before you sign." I shrugged, skipped a hundred pages of yadda yadda yadda, initialed a few places 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 ate 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 hotels on West Peachtree. She said she had a guest room upstairs that I was welcome to use. Which was a great relief, because I didn?t have enough money to stay anywhere fancy. 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 need them. Good night." The room had two inner doors. One led into a fancy bathroom, and the other led into a roomy walk-in closet, which was empty except for a couple of women?s nightgowns. They were pretty, but this was hardly an occasion to play dressup, so I took a quick shower, dried off with one of the pink towels and slept in my boxers and a t-shirt. 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 my best clothes and a few personal items, bid my foster parents a not particularly fond farewell and caught a Sunday bus back to Atlanta. Instead of a taxi, I took a Marta train to the station nearest her house and walked. I knocked on her front door just before noon. She greeted me politely and led me upstairs to the same room I?d slept in before. She told me to freshen up, unpack my things and then report 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. Some framed prints of old-fashioned ballerinas hung on the walls. I started to unpack my bag and, to my surprise, found that the upper drawers of the chest were filled with neatly folded women?s underwear: panties, bras, garter belts, stockings and a variety of shapewear, some of it rather severe, including a corset. The middle drawers held various slips and petticoats. I hadn?t opened any of the drawers on Friday night, so I didn?t know if they?d been empty. Maybe Ms. N had bought the clothes for someone who no longer worked here. It was all lovely, but I left it untouched, not daring to risk getting caught. Perhaps it would all be cleared out tomorrow. Meanwhile, the bottom drawer was empty and had plenty of room for my underwear, socks and t-shirts. I opened the walk-in closet to hang up my jacket, shirts and trousers. Two nights ago it had been almost empty, but now the closet was full of women?s clothes. Mostly black dresses, with a few in other colors, and a variety of nightwear in soft pastels. There were two rows of shoes on the floor, mostly low-heeled pumps. A built-in armoire held handbags, aprons, jewelry, hair decorations and other women?s accessories. I hung my male clothes on an empty section of rack, where they looked completely out of place amid all the women?s wear that wasn?t there when I left Saturday morning. I didn?t see anything that looked like a man?s uniform, a butler suit or whatever, but then I wouldn?t expect to find them in a maid?s room. More likely, Ms. N hadn?t ordered my uniforms yet because she would need my sizes and measurements. That made sense. I hoped I wouldn?t have to wear a tie, but I?d just have to wait and see. If nothing else, I had a white buttoned shirt and black pants from an old restaurant job, and the dark jacket I?d worn on Friday. 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 women used to make themselves beautiful. I wondered if this room was only temporary, if Ms. N planned to move me into more masculine quarters at some point. Maybe that room wasn?t ready yet, and this room was being prepared for a female employee. 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 seventy-five. 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? are your uniforms," she told me. "There is underwear and hosiery in the dresser. Do you need help getting dressed?" My heart raced. I was about to be forced to wear women?s clothes. I tried to look shocked. "You mean those are for me?" She raised her eyebrows. "Uh... are those clothes for me, 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. As my maid, 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 a Housemaid I. If you do your job well, you may eventually be promoted to Housemaid II. If you learn to give your mistress more personal services, you can be promoted to 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. "Why do you want me to wear dresses, Ma?am? I thought it would be like a butler?s uniform, or something." She frowned, as if puzzled. "I thought I made it clear. You are my 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, calf-length dress of sturdy black cotton, with a high neckline, long sleeves and a full skirt, all trimmed with tiny white rickrack. She went to my drawers and drew out two cotton petticoats almost as long as the dress. One was fuller than the other. Both had a stout drawstring at the waist and three flounces and a ruffle at the hem. "This is your Housemaid I morning uniform, for your heaviest and dirtiest chores of the day. Wear 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 white cotton apron with a bib and ruffled shoulder straps. The skirt of the apron fell almost to the hem of the dress and had a small ruffle along its bottom edge and a patch pocket trimmed in tiny black rickrack. With the apron came a ruffled mob cap, also trimmed in black rickrack. I could hardly speak, breathless at the thought that I would have to wear these clothes from now on. I could not believe my good fortune. 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 to please Ms. N as she led me into this strange but lovely new world. "Here is your afternoon uniform, for lighter chores and serving tea." 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 a slightly darker gray, creating a subtle but pretty pattern. The dress had a lower, lace-trimmed neckline, half-length sleeves with a gathered lace frill that spilled over the forearm, and a knee-length skirt fuller than the morning uniform, trimmed with the same lace as the bodice. From a drawer she drew two crinoline petticoats, each with two layers of stiff nylon netting and a soft nylon layer underneath. The hems of all the layers were trimmed in the same lace as the dress. 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 your afternoon uniform to prepare and serve luncheon at noon and tea at five. After tea, wash up and then change into this evening uniform by six o?clock." 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 ruffled white lace wider than the trim on the afternoon uniform. The skirt was so short that the petticoats would show under it no matter how carefully the wearer stood, and if she bent over even slightly, the rows of ruffled white lace on her panties would be on display. Three of the evening uniforms were black, and one was soft pink. The pink dress closed with twenty or so tiny pink satin buttons down the back instead of a zipper. One of the black uniforms, instead of a full skirt, had an extremely short, tight miniskirt that would hug the wearer?s bottom. "Normally you wear a black evening uniform with a full skirt," Ms. N said. "The others are for when I have guests. Same apron for all of them." She selected 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. "For special occasions, you?ll also wear this black satin choker and these black satin wristlets, all trimmed with white lace, and the same in pink satin. I can tell you?ll be quite cute in this uniform." "Yes, Ma?am," I said. I looked at the tight miniskirted uniform with apprehension. It was too short for a slip, and I wondered if it would even cover my panties. "When you go off duty, you can change into a house dress or nightwear. These house dresses..." -- she swept her hand along a trio 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 and waltz- length and full-length nightgowns lavished with lace and embroidery. "No pajamas, I?m afraid. The rule here is no trousers or slacks or shorts of any kind for housemaids except for panties, and all your panties must be extremely feminine. No cotton panties. They must be decorated with at least two of the following: lace, ribbons or bows. Any questions?" "Are all these clothes my size, Ma?am? The shoes?" "You told me your shoe size, and I am expert at sizing by eye. When you are properly dressed, you will be a classic size 8. As you see, my staff can stock a closet overnight." I had a hundred other 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 enjoy that." "A boy like me, Ma?am...?" "One who appreciates, shall we say, the softer side of life. I notice you?re no longer objecting to wearing dresses and lingerie, you?re just asking how to do it." She was right. I gulped. "Have you had other male... personal assistants... who dressed like this, Ma?am?" "Yes," she said. "As a matter of fact, the last occupant of this room was one of them." "Did any of them refuse to wear dresses, Ma?am?" "All of them refused at first, dear. Until now." I decided not to ask any more questions. I?d fantasized before about dressing and working as a maid, but I never expected to have the opportunity to do so in real life. I was scared and excited. 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, even if it might be less stimulating. "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. "Your 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 teenage girl who hadn?t started to develop. Ms. N began drawing a bath, and poured capfuls of scented oils and salts and liquids into it, turning it into a mass of pink bubbles. "I just took a shower, Ma?am," I said. She gave me a look. I shut up and stepped into the bath. I emerged twenty minutes later, steaming and fragrant, smooth and pink. I grabbed one of the fluffy pink towels and dried myself off. Ms. N stopped me and showed me how to pat myself dry, especially my face. She gave me a bottle of moisturizer and told me to rub it 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 is the beginning of your everyday beauty routine," she said. "Now that your body is ready to face the day, let?s get you dresses. We?ll start with your corset." "I have to wear a 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 handed me a sleek, stretchy corset liner and helped me slide it up my torso, from my belly button to my boyish breasts. She wrapped a lace-trimmed white satin corset around me. The corset had six removable garter straps and cups that I didn?t come close to filling. Ms. N quickly fastened the metal busks on the front and tightened the laces in back. The corset crushed my waist and lower ribs and forced me to sit up very straight. I begged her to loosen it, but she just laughed and said women once had to wear these all their lives, and it was high time for men to find out what it was like. She tightened it some more. From a small drawer she took out what looked like two plump pink satin pincushions. She placed one in each cup of my corset, giving me an instant if not entirely convincing bustline. "We?ll do better later," she said. I moaned. I couldn?t take a deep breath and began to feel dizzy. Ms. N had me sit down and steadied me until I was myself again. When I could stand, she took one last pull at the corset laces, tied them off and tucked them away somewhere I could not reach. I was imprisoned in the corset, unable to escape without someone else?s help. It 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 my new employer had to show me how to fasten the garters and adjust their tautness so that they tugged evenly on the corset. The feel of stockings on my newly denuded legs gave me a rush. I drew my lacy pink afternoon panties up over my garters, and stepped into the uniform?s 2-inch gray pumps. Next came a white full slip and two knee-length crinoline petticoats. I felt more than fully dressed already, and didn?t even have the dress or apron on yet. Ms. N dropped the gray uniform dress over my outstretched arms, tugged it down over me and zipped it up. The dress molded itself to my corseted body, constricting my movements. I tried to lift my arms and found they could go no higher than my fake boobs. I smoothed my dress over my petticoats and put on my afternoon tea apron and headpiece. 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. She showed me how to check myself in the mirror for dress code violations before reporting to her for duty. "Remember, it?s the longer black dress in the morning, the gray dress in the afternoon, and the shorter black or pink dress in the evening." 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 housemaid and wear whatever I tell you to wear?" Most boys would have immediately refused, but 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 some of 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?" It was embarrassing to repeat it all. "Yes, Ma?am, I promise to be your perfectly behaved housemaid and wear whatever you want me to wear." "What kind of housemaid?" I had to remember what she?d said. "Your perfectly behaved little housemaid, Ma?am." "Yes. You are little, the size of a girl, not a boy. And what will my perfectly behaved little housemaid wear?" she asked, rubbing it in. "My Housemaid I uniforms, 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. Housewife 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. Just a touch of lipstick for now." She opened a small cylinder on her desk, grasped my chin with one hand and, with the other, quickly painted my lips bright pink. "That?s a little better. Your hair is long enough to resemble a girl?s, but you desperately need a proper cut and styling." 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 new female position and clothes. 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! Look at how much lace you?re wearing right now! Lace on your panties, your corset, your stockings, your slip, your petticoat, and your dress! 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 with lace on everything you?re wearing! All your nighties, too! It doesn?t make 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 too humiliating. "What are you, Lisa?" Her voice sharpened. "I?m... a sissy, Ma?am." "A sissy what?" "A sissy maid, Ma?am." "Yes, you are. A very pretty sissy maid. What?s your name, pretty sissy maid?" "Lisa. Lisa Lovelace, Ma?am." "And do you?" "Yes, Ma?am." "Well done, Lisa. Welcome to my service. You may curtsey." How did girls curtsey? I grasped my skirts and clumsily lowered myself before her. "I can see we need to work on your curtseys, Lisa. You?ll learn." I stood there in my feminine underthings and maid?s uniform, dreadfully embarrassed but secretly loving 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. Ms. N obviously liked seeing me in skirts, so I decided to enjoy the experience while I could. The corset was painful but gave me a shapelier waist that helped my dress and petticoats 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 wearing your lovely new lingerie and maid?s 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 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 already 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 9pm, with Mondays off unless she had guests. I discovered that the contract I hadn?t bothered to read allowed her to discard all my male clothing, which she promptly did, leaving me with no choice but to wear the female wardrobe that filled my chest of drawers and closet. The next morning Ms. N took me to a fancy beauty salon and treated me to a complete makeover. A handsome gay hairdresser washed, trimmed and styled my hair into a cute wedge cut with highlights, flagrantly flirting with me the whole time. A young woman took over and gave me a relaxing facial. On to the cosmetician for full makeup and to the nail tech for nails to match my bright pink lips. I left looking more like a girl than I could have imagined. Ms. N said we would return every two weeks for maintenance. A doctor?s appointment revealed a hormone imbalance that had delayed my adolescent development, so I started to take weekly injections and two pills a day to correct it. A month later, I noticed that my nipples were starting to itch. ~ ~ ~ A year later, my appearance had greatly changed. I now had a lovely 36C bust, a 27-inch waist, 36-inch hips and a cute little bubble butt, especially in heels. I moved in my feminized body as if I had been born in it. My genitals had shrunk and were easily tucked out of view even in my tightest, shortest minis and tiniest thongs. My boy-clitty no longer got stiff, though it swelled a bit at times of passion. As time passed, Ms. N continued to train 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 as a Housemaid I and 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 six months 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 was proud of knowing 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 came home from work to a sparkling clean house, how to serve her a lovely dinner, how to brush her hair and otherwise assist in her morning and evening toilette. I became more than just her lady?s maid. I was her housewife, her helpmeet, her intimate companion, responsible for meeting her physical needs with my tongue, lips and fingers. I never knew her to sleep with a man, or another woman. Somewhat to my surprise, she seemed satisfied to receive my pseudo-lesbian caresses every other day or so. Once every month or two, she would reciprocate by stimulating me with a long, skinny dildo that always felt nice and sometimes found a secret spot inside me that I called my "Lisa spot." Rubbing it could trigger a mind- shattering orgasm that seemed to last forever. I grew to love Ms. N, though I had no hope my status would ever advance beyond that of lady?s maid with privileges. She used me for sex, but I enjoyed giving her pleasure and occasionally receiving it. In time I even learned to take a perverse joy in my punishments, as long as they were not too severe. When she struck my smooth, pink bottom, I felt more than just pain. ~ ~ ~ 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-trimmed 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 will be out all day, leaving you alone with him, so I want you to be on your very best and most ladylike behavior. I want you to do anything he tells you to do." "Anything? But, Ma?am, what if..." She held up a hand. "Just do as he tells you. I don?t need to know the details." "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, 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 and watched an episode of a Jane Austen series with Ms. N, who limited my TV viewing to costume dramas and romcoms. 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. ~ ~ ~ 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. Was this Mr. B? Whoever he was, I was intensely embarrassed to be exposed in my lingerie. I blushed, backed out of his sight and snatched up my morning uniform dress. 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 of my dress, yanked it 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 by the sight of Mr. B. He 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 an 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 schools. 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 secretly wanted him to drag me into the 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? 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?" "Finish dressing, for Heaven?s sake," she said. "Here." She zipped me up and handed me my long apron. "You seem surprised to see Mr. B." I tied the apron strings behind me. "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 tranny 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." She adjusted my apron bow. "So I need you to be just the perfect little maid for Mr. B today. Curtsey to him often -- men love it. Yes, let?s see you curtsey. Very nice -- oops! Lift your petticoats and slip along with your skirt. Try again! Very good, my dear! Oh, what a cutie 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 came, and then quickly licked her clean. Mr. B had to wait a few minutes before Ms. N was ready to open the door and invite him back in. "Was it good for you?" he asked Ms. N. I was mortified, but Ms. N 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. Up to 10 spanks on her bare bottom per offense. She can show you how to punish her, she has this cute little ritual." "I?ll look forward to it," he said. I felt my boy-clit swell in my panties. Ms. N twinkled her fingers at me. "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 in the house with this man. He looked me up and down and smiled, 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." "And if I leave you nothing?" "Then that?s what I?ll have for breakfast, Sir." He thought about this for a moment, and changed the subject. "Lisa, do you like your uniform?" "Sir?" "It?s a simple question. Do you like what you?re wearing?" 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?s a bit hot, Sir, with the long sleeves and the apron and the cotton petticoats," I said. "I wish the fabric was lighter, and I wish it was trimmed with prettier lace. And I wish I didn?t have to wear the mob cap." "Petticoats? You?re wearing more than one?" "Two, sir. Sometimes three, if I?ve misbehaved." "Why don?t you wear something lighter and prettier?" I didn?t dare blame Ms. N directly. "A maid can?t expect to choose her uniform, Sir," I said. "I wear what?s in my closet." Mr. B gave me a penetrating look but didn?t pursue the subject. 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. As the man followed me around, he moved like an athlete, large and muscular but lithe, even graceful in a masculine way. 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 finished my morning chores downstairs, Mr. B spoke. "Show me your room, Lisa. Is it upstairs?" "Yes, Sir, 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 two flights of stairs and into my maid?s quarters. "A very pretty room," he said, "but not as pretty as you." "Oh, thank you, Sir," I said, feeling embarrassed. 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 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... looking pretty to greet my breadwinner home from work... serve him a cold martini, then cook him dinner... 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 show me what you?re wearing." This was extremely embarrassing, because after years of intimate service to a wealthy woman, my lingerie is absolutely gorgeous. Most of it comes from Europe and is lavishly tucked, pleated, shirred, embroidered and decorated. He insisted that I show him all of it. Matching bra and panty sets -- briefs, tap panties, thongs and more. 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. And shapewear: corsets, bustiers, merry widows, waist cinchers, a teddy, Spanx, even traditional girdles. "It?s very different from boy?s clothes," I said. "And all so pretty," Mr. B said. "But it seems very complicated." "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. Before lunch, I change into my afternoon uniform. Before dinner, I change into my evening uniform. For each change, I have to replace at least some of my underwear as well as my dress and accessories. Later, when I?m off duty, I change into a house dress, and at the end of the day I change back into my nightclothes. And 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. 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 things 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, garters, 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. "Why are you wearing a bow on your...? Does it hurt?" "Ms. N likes me to wear it, Sir, to make me look pretty when my panties are pulled down. I?m used to it." "I see. 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." "When is that?" "When I?m wearing a house dress, Sir, with a bullet bra instead of a corset. Or a soft sleeping bralette when I?m wearing a nightgown." 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. And my nightwear -- robes, babydolls, chemises, waltz and full- length gowns." "No pretty pajamas?" he asked. "No trousers or pants of any kind, except for panties, Sir, and all my panties are decorated with lace and little bows." "You have extremely feminine tastes," he said. "All those ribbons, ruffles, lace... is that because you?re a maid, or a girly boy, or 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 normal women?s clothes? Or even 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 clothes and underwear. 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. It was noon already, so I curtseyed to Mr. B and excused myself to change into my afternoon uniform. "I?ll stay and 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, folded them 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 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. "Shall I zip you up?" Mr. B said. "Yes, please, Sir," I said. He did so. His hand touched the skin of my back, above my corset and slip. I gave a slight shiver and adjusted my 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 patent afternoon pumps, slipped my ruffled maid?s headpiece into my hair, quickly touched up my makeup, and voil?! My change was complete. It probably took fifteen minutes. "All that faff 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 a male. "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 better 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 kitchen, lowering my eyes and folding my hands over my apron. He sipped the beer, gobbled the BLT and ignored the salad, which later became my lunch, as I?d dared hope. After tidying up after the meal, I started the laundry and then began doing the upstairs. While I dusted, Mr. B started asking me questions. Some 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 ribbons and pigtails when the county caseworker came to pick me up. She helped me wipe off the lipstick, and 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 how Ms. N sometimes helped me with a dildo. I didn?t mention the things I did to her, because I didn?t know if she would mind. She might be embarrassed if he knew she used her sissy maid for oral sex. I told him Ms. N had forbidden me to pleasure myself, but that it wasn?t a big problem because my erections weren?t what they used to be. He asked me how large my penis was. I?d never bothered to measure it, but I held my thumb and forefinger about the right distance apart. "Stiff, or soft?" he asked. "It doesn?t get very stiff," I said. 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. It was nicer when he asked questions that were less personal, 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, 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. He might want a steak, he might be vegan -- you don?t know, do you? 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. I curtseyed and knelt before him, as I did before Ms. N. "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, looking stern. "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 stroked my hair, as if petting a cat. 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 pulled me up and laid me across his knees and held my wrists behind my back, the same way Ms. N did, but in a much stronger grip. My lower lip trembled, but I didn?t cry, not before being struck. I was used to Ms. N disciplining me, but not to being laid over the lap of a burly man, which was vastly more humiliating. "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 sight 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 notice that your bottom isn?t bare." "Will you please lift the skirt of my dress, Sir?" He ran his hand over my bottom through my skirts, making my boy-clitty twitch again, and then slowly lifted the skirt of 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 the place deep inside that gave me a jolt of pure pleasure, my Lisa spot. He 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?" "Please, 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 it 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?" "Oh, Sir!" I gave a squeak of fear. That was the maximum. It would make me cry like a little girl. My lower lip was trembling already. 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 much harder. I groaned, 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 his swats. "Five, Sir. May I please have another?" "No, you may not," he said. "Five offenses, five spanks." He lifted me to my feet, as if I weighed nothing, and gave me another swat over my skirts. "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 who will respond well." 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 were a bad girl. I?ll tell you when you can pull up your panties. Don?t let them fall down, or I?ll spank you again. So, what shall I observe you doing this afternoon?" "I was going to finish the laundry and 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. You?re so pretty when you do." 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 and let me escape my bedroom, then caught me easily. He dragged me back into the room, pulled me back onto his lap, lifted my skirts again and began to spank me again. 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 want Daddy to stop?" he said. "Yes please, Sir," 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 thought 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 an engraved invitation from the Queen, 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 seen it earlier. 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 more than twice 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 hair and started fucking my face, jamming his cock halfway down my throat. I had a random thought that at least I wasn?t wearing pigtails, which would be perfect handles for controlling me. 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 cock and balls until they were clean. I gently tucked him back into his trousers and pulled up the zipper. He petted me on the head and pulled me to my feet. I stood before him, lowered my eyes and crossed my hands on my apron. "Well done for a first time, Lisa," 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, 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 and pulled off my lacy briefs. I backed up against the headboard, afraid of what Mr. B might do next. What he 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 torso was flat and muscular; mine was round and soft, with breasts that filled a pair of C cups. His face, chest and limbs were hairy; mine were pink and hairless. He was nude; I was dressed in the lacy lingerie of a lady?s maid. And he had a penis more than twice the size of my Twinkie. 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, pulled a packet of condoms ("Anaconda -- For the Extraordinary Male") out of his pocket 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 shoved the slippery white mass of my petticoats and slip 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 L-spot 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 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. "Oh! Oh, Sir!" You..." "Hush, girl." Mr. B gently stroked my hair and kissed me and played idly with my breasts and nipples. My girls were firm and round and responded enthusiastically. 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 tonight. She?ll be back later. You go clean yourself up, get dressed and get back to your chores." He paused. "You were a good, obedient girl today, Twinkie. I will give Ms. N a favorable report. You can go back to your chores now." It was early, but I was emotionally and physically exhausted. I dragged myself to my room and fell asleep without changing my clothes, cleaning myself up or having dinner. ~ ~ ~ When I awoke the next morning, I knew it hadn?t been a dream. I felt dirty and used. I had dried cum on my face. I was still wearing my soiled slip, corset, stockings and petticoats. I didn?t see my dress anywhere, and realized I?d probably left it in in Ms. N?s bedroom -- along with my apron and shoes. That thought instantly brought me fully awake. I was going to be in so much trouble. 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 encounters with Mr. B?s hand and cock. Afterwards, I redid my face in my morning look, brushed my hair, slipped into fresh lingerie and put on 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 and lowered my eyes. "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. "Speaking of which, please clean up your clothing in my bedroom after breakfast." I?m sure my face was scarlet. "Yes, Ma?am. I?m sorry, Ma?am. Please excuse me, Ma?am." "I do. 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 at him 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? A hundred thousand pounds, sweetness. About a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars." My jaw dropped. "For me? Oh my God! Oh... oh... do I get any of it?" She laughed. "You? Oh, Lisa, my little Twinkie girl, don?t be ridiculous. The money goes to my foundation for female education. You?re just a sissy, an oh-so-fuckable little sissy maid. Bend over." She gave me a spank and goosed me through my panties. I jumped and gave a yelp. "What a good girl you are, so ready and obedient. Well, dear, Mr. B?s car is waiting for you outside the service entrance. Just wear what you have on. No, wait -- take off your petticoats, they have drawstrings, so my next maid can use them. You can keep your panties, since you stitched on that lace so nicely. Mr. B will give you a new wardrobe and beauty supplies, so you have nothing to pack. Goodbye, Lisa." "What? You?re sending me away, right now? But I... but..." "But what? I created you, Lisa, and now I?ve sold you to Mr. B. You belong to him now. Your purse is on the table. Take it and go." I wept with shame as I lifted my dress, untied my petticoat drawstrings and let them slip down to the floor. I folded them and laid them on the chair. My dress hung limply. "Oh, and leave the apron and mob cap, too. The next maid can use those, too." I removed them and laid them on top of the petticoats. "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 took my purse 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, my black pumps clicking on the tiled floor. 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 work for Mr. B. I?m here to take you to him. Get in." I swallowed. "I... I don?t think I should go. He doesn?t own me." A wicked laugh from inside the car. "You tell him that, gorgeous, and let me know how it goes. Meanwhile, get in the car, bitch, or I?ll have the driver tie you up and toss you in the trunk, so you can roll around in the dark. Choose one." I had no choice. I no longer had a job with Ms. N, nowhere to go, no money. I didn?t even own the clothes on my back, what was left of them. I climbed into the car, closed the door and plopped onto a wide, deep, low-set leather seat on which it was hard to sit modestly. The woman perched on the edge of the seat opposite me looked to be in her thirties and was perfectly groomed. She wore a black pencil skirt and an ivory pussy bow blouse, black-rimmed glasses and 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 am Ms. Fuchs, Mr. B?s chief of staff. I was told you are biologically male. Is that true?" "Yes... Ma?am? Do I call you Ma?am?" "You are a servant rather than an employee, so Ma?am is appropriate." Her voice was unusually deep for a woman, but her body was unambiguously female. "Yes, Ma?am, it?s true. I am a boy." She snorted. "Not much of one! Why are you wearing women?s clothing?" "I?m... I was Ms. N?s lady?s maid, Ma?am, and she made me wear a maid?s uniform on duty, and pretty dresses off duty." "What kind of maid?s uniform is that, with no apron or cap?" She briefly lifted my skirt. "Not even a petticoat under this full skirt." "She... she made me take them off before sending me out to the car, Ma?am. She said her next maid could wear them." "How thrifty," Ms. Fuchs said drily. "Are you wearing women?s underwear, too?" I blushed. "Yes, Ma?am." "Show me. Take off your dress." "What, here in the car?" She slapped me in the face. "Lisa! When I give you an order, don?t ask questions, just do as I say." I burst into tears, finally overcome by this latest assault on my emotions. "Stop sniveling or I?ll give you something to snivel about. Take off your dress." "Yes, Ma?am," I managed to say. I didn?t have a handkerchief, so I dabbed at my eyes with my skirt and prayed I wasn?t ruining my eyeliner and mascara. "Will you please unzip me, Ma?am?" "Lean forward." She pulled down the zipper. I shrugged the dress off my shoulders, thankful that it wasn?t the pink one with twenty tiny buttons, and awkwardly pulled it down to the floor of the car. "Oh my, you are girly, aren?t you? A full slip and a corset! Stockings and garters! Why didn?t she keep those, too?" "The corset is custom-made, Ma?am, it won?t fit anyone else." "I?m sure not," she said. "And the slip?" "Ms. N says a lady must always wear three layers of clothing to protect her breasts and vagina from male eyes and hands. Panties or bra, a slip, a dress. She left me that much." "But you don?t have breasts or a vagina." "I do have breasts, Ma?am," I said proudly. "But not a vagina." "Oh, those aren?t falsies?" She reached into my corset cup and tweaked my nipple, hard. I gave a tiny shriek and tried to pull away from her. She didn?t let go of the nipple. I made myself lean forward and let her play with it. "Lovely," she said. Her smile had too many teeth. "Do you still have your boy parts, Lisa?" "Yes, Ma?am, but they don?t really work." "Why?" "Ms. N had me take girly pills, and my Tw... my boy bits shrank." "Show me," she said. "Panties down." I emphatically did not want to expose my genitals to this woman, but had to obey. I knelt unsteadily between the seats, lifted my dress and slip and pulled down my panties. Ms. Fuchs lifted my hairless genitals to inspect them. "No wonder your panties show such a nice flat front, Lisa. My, what a tiny clitty! It?s not even stiff." "No, Ma?am. It works better if... if something rubs against my Lisa spot inside." "Your L-spot?" She laughed. "I?ll bet you love prostate exams." She tucked my shrunken genitals back into my panties, folding my boy-clitty back between my legs. "What?s with all the white lace on the seat of your panties?" I explained the spanking game that Ms. N made me play with guests, a game I could never win. "Poor Lisa. Were you spanked often?" "Yes, Ma?am." I decided not to tell her how Ms. N herself would make me chase a foil ball on my hands and knees like a little kitten, merrily swatting my lace-striped bottom with a spatula as I crawled about the room. "Well, that must have shown you your place. You may pull up your panties and sit down now." I did, smoothing my skirts, wishing I had at least one petticoat to soften the outline of my skinny legs and hips. Mr. Fuchs looked me over. "I must admit I?m surprised. You?re rather cute as a girl. You must understand that this is all very sudden for both of us. Mr. B dropped by the office late yesterday afternoon to tell me he?d purchased you -- that was the word he used, purchased -- and he wanted you picked up this morning, and no, I couldn?t send anyone else. It?s going to cost me a day?s work. I realize it?s not your fault, it?s just annoying." "I?m sorry, Ma?am." "I?m sure. But I?m not sure what to do with you, Lisa. I supervise the employees in Mr. B?s office, but you?re not an employee, you?re his personal property, so you aren?t paid and can?t be fired, you can only be sold or set free. For another, he?s never kept a maid in his house before, he just used a cleaning service. Now all of a sudden he wants you to move in and serve him personally, the way a lady?s maid serves her mistress, but of course he?s not a lady, and as there is no Mrs. B, I 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 become jealous and resentful, which I will not tolerate. I even gave some thought to making you his valet." "Isn?t that a male position, Ma?am?" "Normally yes, but in your case it would have an unusual condition, which is that you must dress as a woman on and off duty. Hence your pretty uniforms. Ms. N insisted on making this part of the sales contract, and frankly, it?s causing all sorts of trouble. We obviously can?t have a feminine little flower like you sleeping in the men?s quarters, dressing and undressing in front of real males, tying up their bathroom while you take care of your skin, hair, makeup and nails. They would resent you. Sooner or later, they would rape you. They might even kill you." I didn?t want that! 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 desperate, and had plenty of experience surviving spankings. "Ma?am, what if you hired me as lady?s maid to the future Mrs. B?" 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 silver and art, the house?s furnishings and d?cor. This lady?s maid would be 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 what makes you think this someone should be you instead of a real girl?" Her words stung. I almost gave in, but was afraid to quit. "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. We all know that masters sometimes 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 reports to her mistress rather than the housekeeper, it will be perfectly proper for Mr. B to supervise 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 this time. 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 and could work out very nicely. Since you are male, there can be no impropriety in your serving him privately, and since you are a lady?s maid, you will wear the clothing appropriate for the position, making everyone happy. There is already a maid?s suite leading into Mrs. B?s chambers, so you needn?t sleep with the male staff. We have a contingency budget in case of his marriage, so there?s already an account to handle your expenses. And, since you do not report to me, I need not discipline you. Mr. B will do that in Mrs. B?s absence. I don?t suppose you?ve received a spanking from him?" I swallowed. "Actually, I have, Ma?am." "Quick work, girl! So you know what to expect if you are naughty." 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 out on the street and I?ll be in disgrace -- so you and I both have an incentive to make this work." I pulled myself to the forward edge of the leather seat, sat up straight, arched my back and thrust my breasts forward. "Thank you, Ma?am. I will dedicate myself to pleasing him, and you." "For what he paid for you, you?d better, girl! 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 will you be to anyone?" Her tone of voice was as chilling as the question itself. ~ ~ ~ The limousine drove north on I-85, crossed into North Carolina, passed through Greenville and headed up into the Appalachian foothills. I wondered where we were going. 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 money on supplies. I sat quietly, hands clasped in my lap, shamed to be wearing only part of my uniform, avoiding Ms. Fuchs?s eye, feeling an unpleasant mix of boredom and fear. 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?d 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 dress. It felt odd without petticoats or an apron. "Yes, Ma?am?" "These are for research purposes. What sexual acts have you performed with Mr. B?" "What?" "Did you not understand? What sexual acts have you performed with Mr. B?" My face felt as red as my fingernails. "Um... well... I gave him a blowjob, Ma?am. But he forced me to 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?" "Yes, Ma?am." Tap tap. "And...? Any other sexual acts?" "Yes, Ma?am. He... he fucked me in my boy-pussy. But again, he made me do it." "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?" "Yes, Ma?am." "Where?" I felt ready to faint from embarrassment. "Inside me, Ma?am." "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. He just had to rub a certain spot inside me." 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." "The first time you met him?" "Yes, Ma?am. But he made me! I didn?t... offer myself." 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 flinched at the insult, but said yes, hoping I wasn?t about to get in trouble. "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. They have to be pretty enough, you see." "Oh." Dared I ask her how I rated? No. 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 had submitted more quickly than other males? Well, she said there weren?t many of them, and maybe I had less choice than they did. She didn?t ask me any more questions, thank goodness. I got my compact out of my purse, powdered my nose and forehead and touched up my lip gloss, thankful to have something to do. 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. But Mr. B was handsome and rich, and could have real girls if he wanted. What did he want with a sissy? I suppose 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 gate in a tall spiked fence surrounding a huge landscaped yard. The driver spoke to the gate. It opened, and we passed beautiful gardens and smoothly shaved lawns surrounding 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. 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 in a ladylike manner. "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. Hmm... I?m thinking we could change your name to match. After all, you look and smell like a pretty little pansy to me. Would you like that... Pansy?" "If it?s all right with you, Ma?am, I?d rather just be Lisa." "Very well." She opened the door and we entered. The room was aptly named. Its d?cor was a bright but tasteful mix of white, deep purple, lilac and gold, not at all like my pink-and-white room at Ms. N?s. It held a bed, a tiny bedside table and a chest of drawers. Doors led into a bathroom and a large, empty walk-in closet. "A double bed?" I was surprised by the luxury. "Originally designed for two servants," she said. "You?re a lucky girl." Was I? When I woke up this morning, I worked for Ms. N, but now I was the expensive property of a man I barely knew. A huge amount of money had changed hands, but 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, then meet me in the ground floor hallway." I tidied myself quickly and went downstairs, where I found Ms. Fuchs waiting. In a low voice, almost a whisper, she said, "Do you understand what is about to happen, Lisa?" "I?m going to meet Mr. B, Ma?am?" "You are about to become your 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 make you sign a contract?" "Yes, Ma?am." "Mr. B won?t. Did you call her Mistress?" "No, Ma?am, I called her Ma?am. But after she sold me to Mr. B, she did say she owned me." "Do not refer to him as Mr. B. From now on you are to call him Master." "Yes, Ma?am. Um, is he your Master, too?" "No, he?s my boss. I work for him. You belong to him. I hope you understand the difference. 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 shivered. What had I gotten myself into? Or, rather, what had Ms. N gotten me into? Though somehow the idea of serving Mr. B as his maid appealed to something deep inside me. I found that I still thought of him as Mr. B, even though I knew to call him Master now. "I said, do you understand?" I jumped. "Yes, Ma?am," I said. "What do you understand, sissy?" "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 present you to your new Master. Curtsey deeply, listen well, and do not speak unless he invites you to. Lower your eyes. Look at the carpet in front on his desk." Ms. Fuchs knocked on the door. Self-conscious about my uniform, I tugged on the hem, smoothed the skirt over my slip, wished I had a petticoat to fill it out, wished I had an apron to show that I was his maid. Mr. B?s voice came from within. "Come in." Ms. Fuchs opened the door and walked in. I followed. "Your new maid, Sir," Ms. Fuchs said. I gave him a deep curtsey, rose and stood perfectly still, demurely lowering my eyes and folding my hands over the front of my dress. "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 to leave me alone with him, and I could tell she didn?t like it. I nervously wondered what that meant, and how vulnerable I was in what I had to accept as my new home. 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. Mr. B looked at me for so long that it made me uncomfortable. "Lisa Lovelace," he said. "Do you?" "Yes, Master, I do," I said. I curtseyed again, wondering how often I would have to hear that joke. "Your uniform seems incomplete, Lisa," he said. I felt embarrassed. "I?m not wearing my apron, cap or petticoats, Master." "Where are they?" "Ms. N made me leave them behind for the next maid, Master." "Did you bring any other clothing with you, any luggage?" "No, Sir, all I have is what I?m wearing." "Dammit, she was supposed to include a week?s worth of clothes. What are you wearing under your dress, Lisa?" "My corset... slip, panties, stockings." "So, you don?t have a bra, or petticoats, or even a change of panties and hose for tomorrow? Or a nightgown for tonight?" "No, Master." "This is unfortunate, because it will be a little while before your new uniforms are ready. I?m having them custom made, so we need to have a seamstress take your measurements first. I?ll ask Ms. Fuchs to order you whatever basic stuff you need for now." "Thank you, Sir," I said with a curtsey. "When we get your new uniforms, Lisa, what style would you like them to be?" I wasn?t sure what to say. In my secret heart I wanted my uniforms to be fussy and lacy and ultra-feminine, more like Lolita costumes than what real servants wore. I knew most 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 yet. "Whatever style you wish, Master." It was odd to be talking with a real man about the details of female clothing, especially while feeling only partly dressed myself. 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 men normally don?t care about and often aren?t even aware of. They 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 Mr. B was not. 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 certain 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 lingerie styles, but I was hopeless at cars, arithmetic, reading maps, arguing, fighting or any of the other things boys are supposed to be good at. For all practical purposes around the house, I was a girl. "You are probably wondering what your job here will be," Mr. B said. Actually, I?d been wondering when we would eat, and wishing I had a chair so I could get relief from my heels, and wondering what I would wear tomorrow, but I did want to know more about the job. I curtseyed again. "Yes, Master." "If things go as I hope they will, I might make you my lady." A pause. "You mean, your lady?s maid? Or your lady?s lady?s maid -- are you getting married, Master?" "No. I don?t care what the job is called, whatever you work out with Ms. Fuchs. I want to see if you can 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 falling in love with a man who spanked me and made me give him a blowjob and fucked me in the ass and then bought me as his private property, and I didn?t even know his name. "I don?t need a female wife. I don?t want 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, a trophy wife, someone to keep house and serve as a hostess for me, someone I can escort in public, someone who can look as beautiful in formal gowns and cocktail dresses as she does in sissy maid?s uniforms. Maybe that someone will 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 the maid that the hostess bossed around. "Understand that my lady will not be not my equal," he said. "My lady will obey me completely. She must accept me as her lord and Master, and she must always do as I say, and if she disobeys, I will punish her like a lowly maidservant." "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, who to be, how to dress. He would tell me and I would obey him... ooh! I felt my nipples erect and tingle. I wanted him to play with them, make me respond helplessly, make me writhe before him, submit to him, be his slave girl. 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 sissy who appears only in private and flounces around her Master?s house in frilly little maid?s dresses and petticoats, serving his every need." "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. I don?t have any clothes except these." I ran my hands up and down the stays of my corset and tugged at my skirt. Mr. B smiled. "Oh, I think we?ll find you pretty things to wear, as Lisa and as Emma. In fact, that?s how it will work. Your name will depend on what you?re wearing. That?s easy enough! When you?re wearing one of your pretty maid?s uniforms, you?re Lisa. When you?re wearing one of Emma?s pretty dresses, you?re Emma. So who are you now?" "Lisa, Master?" "Got it in one. And if you were wearing one of Emma?s dresses? For example, a strapless tulle ballgown and six-inch heels." I squirmed at the thought. "I don?t have anything like that, Master, but if I did, I?d be Emma." "Good girl. What if Ms. Fuchs walked into the room?" "Still Emma? Though I?d be so embarrassed. She knows I?m not really Emma." "She knows you?re not really Lisa, either," he said. I had no answer to that -- it was true. I was just a girly boy who liked to wear dresses and lingerie. A pervert, the lowest rung on the LGBT ladder. A walking humiliation. "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 smile warmed my heart. "No, not yet," he said. "I?m giving you a year, my dear. You will be trained in private. One year from now, you will be able to act as my elegant consort Emma or as my naughty maid Lisa, and you will be able to look and speak and behave appropriately for either role. I will see that you receive the training and accent coaching you need." Terror overwhelmed me. "Only a year? 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, but your little boys will have to be removed." Fear flared in me. Ms. N never went this far. "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, slave! I own you. I can do anything I want to you. With all the hormones you?re taking, those little lumps are useless now, just a cancer risk. I can have the doctor wrap your empty scrotum around your Twinkie to give you a tight little girlish mound, your own camel toe. Won?t that be nice?" I felt faint. "Oh... Master! All this, all these things happening to me... it?s too much!" I swayed on my feet. He stood, circled his desk and 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. "You don?t seem at all gay to me, Master," I said. "You?re extremely manly." "Yet I bought you instead of a real girl," he said. "Think about why." I remembered the amount, and felt proud and ashamed at the same time, and might 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 passively 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 and spanks? Did he love me? How could he? How could a girl ever be sure of a man? 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 kissed me on the lips and let me go. I wanted to melt into him, but he gripped my upper arms and held me away from his body. "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 them in their girly little outfits, the girlier the better, 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 that I couldn?t. "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. 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 naughty little slave girl, Lisa Lovelace, in private. If I ever find that someone very special, I might even make her my wife." 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. I wanted to be his 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, overcoming my feminine qualms with his masculine confidence, strength and wealth -- and, perhaps, the prospect of a deeper relationship in the future. "Now, Lisa, tell me what you want," he said. Oh, why should he care what I wanted? It was for him to tell me what to want. "I want to want what you want, Master. I want to be whatever you want me to be." I dared to stare into his eyes. "I want to be slutty Lisa for you, and I can?t wait 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 keeping house for him. I want to make my Master hard and swallow his sperm and take him up my ass, so that I can have a sissy orgasm without touching my little Twinkie. I like girls, but there is something about you that makes me want to be the girl, your girl." I fell to my knees before him. "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, pretty please, please fuck me!" With a visceral grunt Mr. B picked me up, threw me face down over the edge of his desk, flung up my dress and ripped off my panties. He dropped his boxers and jammed a rocklike cock into my boy-pussy. I screamed. He entered me, filled me, overwhelmed me, took control. Once he was fully inside, the pain slowly subsided, and I felt an inner fullness that quickly mounted to bliss. He was stiffer than the first time he used me, found my L-spot sooner, rubbed it harder, and came more quickly. My orgasm was nonstop waves of ecstasy pulsing outward from the core of my being. He rubbed my L-spot until I shrieked and thrashed on his desk, spilling papers on the floor. Not until afterwards did I notice that my orgasm drew only a salty trickle from my shrunken Twinkie... which neither of us had touched. Oh, oh, oh! In that shattering moment, my life changed. I felt safe, cared for, submissive, completely feminine and utterly happy. Ms. N made me a girl, but Mr. B made me a woman. He was my lord and Master. I was his property -- his private property -- his most intimate and thoroughly owned possession. 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 crisp white sleeves of his shirt up his sinewy forearms. "Well, Lisa," he said with a wicked grin, "I think you can consider yourself well and truly fucked." ~ ~ ~ I quickly settled into a new routine in Mr. B?s beautiful house in the Appalachian hills. It helped that I had clothes now. Knowing I was a size 8, Ms. Fuchs had logged on to Amazon on Mr. B?s computer, which I was not allowed to touch, to buy me a basic wardrobe: two full-skirted LBDs that could pass as plain maid?s dresses; a week?s worth of panties, slips and hose; two crinoline petticoats; three lace- trimmed pinafore aprons; and a variety of white hair ribbons and decorations. I had to wear the same uniform all day, but at least I didn?t have to wear the same dress every day, and I looked more like a proper maid now. She also ordered me nightwear: a pink babydoll with ruffled panties, a baby blue waltz gown with lots of lace, and a gorgeous ankle-length white chiffon gown and peignoir, which instantly became the sexiest outfit in my closet. It all arrived the next day, and it all fit well enough. I thanked her with my deepest curtsey. Each day, I would rise at 6:30, shower, moisturize, do my hair and makeup, and slip into my white peignoir. I would tiptoe down the stairs and hallway, kneel outside Mr. B?s bedroom door and push it open just far enough to see the clock on his dresser. When it blinked 7:00, I would crawl to the foot of his king-sized bed, slither up under the duvet and nestle between his legs. He always slept naked. I would gently stroke his cock until it erected, run my tongue up its impressive length and kiss the circumcised tip, trying to leave a pretty lipstick stain. When I was sure he was awake, I would stop licking him and whisper, "Good morning, Master," and then would take him into my mouth to do my morning duty. I always looked up lovingly into his eyes, the way men like, and cleaned him with my tongue afterwards. Silently rising from the bed, I curtseyed, closed the door behind me and returned to my room. There I fixed my makeup, changed into my day uniform and headed to the kitchen to cook Master?s breakfast. I always cooked him a hearty breakfast, because my breakfast consisted of the remains of his. After breakfast, I started my daily chores, beginning with the dishes. Though Mr. B called me his maid, I really didn?t have all that much maid?s work to do. A cleaning service came once a week to 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 him and keep the house tidy. For all practical purposes, I was Mr. B?s 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. When I left the house, I always had to wear one of my maid dresses, because I didn?t have any others. Ms. Fuchs hadn?t bought me what I thought of as an "Emma dress," like my housewife dresses at Ms. N?s. She did let me take off my apron and maid?s cap when I ran errands, but she made me wear at least one crinoline, which always drew unwanted attention in a store full of women in yoga pants. To my surprise, I seemed to be the only servant in the house. Ms. Fuchs spent an extra day teaching me my daily routine as a maid and then returned to her job in Mr. B?s office. She?d scared me with stories about jealous chambermaids and leering male staff, but as far as I could tell, they didn?t exist. I wondered if she?d invented them to make me nervous. For whatever reason, at the moment I was alone in the house with Mr. B. That soon changed. 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 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 left vivid impressions. "I?ve hired a governess for you, Lisa." "A governess, Master?" I wasn?t quite sure what a governess was. Some kind of servant, who governed... something? "Yes. She is from England. I?ve known her for many years, and she is going to teach you how to become 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 fancy 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. There must be hundreds of sissy English actors who could impersonate a posh girl better than I ever would. Self-doubt tormented me, made me feel guilty and naughty and bad for even pretending to be a girl. I just knew I would be found out in the most embarrassing and humiliating possible way. "What about Ms. Fuchs, Master?" "She?s back at the office," he said. "She?s not a governess, she?s my business chief of staff. You may not see her again." Which was fine with me. Ms. Fuchs gave me the creeps. Mr. B said my governess would arrive in a week, and until then I should watch episodes of Downton Abbey and listen to how the Earl?s family spoke, and to ignore how the servants and Lady Grantham spoke, because they were lower-class and she was American. For the next week I watched and listened, though 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 Lisa the Sissy had none, just temporary maid?s uniforms. When my Governess arrived, Mr. B introduced me to her without mentioning her name -- he just called her Governess. I couldn?t tell how old she was -- somewhere in middle age, but still quite handsome in an old- fashioned way. She was taller than me in her heels and wore a perfectly tailored pink wool skirt and jacket that made me think of how Queen Elizabeth dressed. I immediately felt inferior in her presence, and instinctively curtseyed to her. Governess looked at me, but spoke to Mr. B. "Well, I see you?ve made a start," she said, sounding very Lady Mary. "The right physical type, short and slender, and I see that the child already has a bosom. Hormones, or inserts?" "Not sure, actually. She came that way," Mr. B said. "Hormones, Master," I said quietly. "Ah, it can speak," Governess said. "C or D cup, child?" I felt myself blush. "C." "You will call me Governess or Ma?am." "Yes, Governess. I?m a C cup... Ma?am." I curtseyed again, just to be on the safe side. 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. "A good thing you are no larger. Maids should not be over-endowed. D cups on staff cause trouble. 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 thrust her hand up under my skirts. I yelped and jumped. "Don?t be silly, child, let me feel you." I braced myself and let her grope me through my panties. She turned to Mr. B. "Is she still producing testosterone?" "I haven?t had her castrated, if that?s what you?re asking," he said. "Will you?" "Probably, at some point." I blinked back a tear, dreading the thought. What gave him the right to do that? Just because he owned me? "What hormones is she taking?" "Not sure," Mr. B said. "Lisa?" "I don?t remember the names, Ma?am, but I can show you the pill bottles." "We will have you see an endocrinologist. Can you have an orgasm from being milked with a dildo or penis?" I blushed. "Yes, Ma?am." "I gather you have lived as a sissy maid for several years. Did your previous owner milk you regularly?" "Um... not regularly, Ma?am." "Tsk. I?ll have to talk to Mr. B about that. Of course I can do it if he doesn?t want to. Is that all your own hair?" "Yes, Ma?am." "It?s pretty, but it needs a trim and highlights. Your makeup is better than average for a sissy, though still a bit too heavy. Tell me your girl name and where you were born." "Lisa Lovelace, Ma?am, and I was born near Chattanooga, Tennessee." "No, child. Your name is Emma Mountjoy, and you were born in Guildford, Surrey." "Where?s Guildford Surrey?" She thwacked my head with her knuckle, making me flinch. "Where is Guildford, Surrey, Ma?am." "Sorry, Governess, where is Guildford, Surrey, Ma?am?" "Guildford is a suburban town in Surrey. Surrey is a relatively posh English county southwest of London. London is the capital of England. I trust I needn?t tell you where England is. You haven?t much of a Southern accent, Emma." "I moved around a lot when I was growing up, Ma?am." "Who named you Lisa?" "My first employer. My real name ?" "Is irrelevant. You are now Emma Mountjoy. A perfectly lovely name. I am here to turn you into an English rose, Emma, a fragrant flower of Surrey, ready, willing and able 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, even if it?s difficult or embarrassing?" I curtseyed. "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 a practitioner of the old- fashioned art of petticoat punishment. I convince naughty boys of the error of their ways by turning them into very convincing 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. I haven?t turned a boy into Eliza Doolittle before, but there?s always a first time. So that is what I am here to do. And you are here to do as I tell you." "Yes, Ma?am. Who?s Eliza Doolittle?" She gave me a pitying look. "You already have breasts and are used to girl?s clothes, so you are well on your way, but you are not feminine," 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. And, of course, you are not English. I will teach you how to do all these things, Emma, but you will have to work hard and do your very best, or you will be punished." She raised an eyebrow, as if expecting an answer. I curtseyed by reflex. "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, much too good. You have no idea how badly some masters treat maids like you. Be very grateful." "Yes, Ma?am." 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 for Mr. B, who 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 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 rapped my head with her knuckle. "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, and another two inches off your waist." ~ ~ ~ And so began my first month of Emma training by 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 for sports stars in Britain, except that Mr. B wasn?t a sports star. Posh girls were more restrained and elegant in their movements than Lisa. They did everything beautifully. Governess 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, fix 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. How to avoid embarrassing photographs, which turned out to be a minor art in itself. 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, wearing a dress with a train. 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. How to cope with emotional disasters, which seemed to occur more frequently than any other kind. She had me wear one of my LBDs without an apron or petticoats while practicing as Emma. It was the closest thing I had to an Emma dress. On a whim one day, she had me put on a rather pretty black-rimmed pair of glasses, and decided that Emma would wear specs henceforth, not least as a way to quickly distinguish herself from Lisa. She and I spent half a day shopping for frames and ended up spending hundreds of dollars on an elegant Italian design. The correction was minimal, but the frames made me look more professional and distinctive and became part of Emma?s look. I had to remember to take them off whenever I changed into Lisa. "As Emma, you must learn to carry yourself like a princess," Governess told me. "Your master is an important man, Emma, 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. "That would be ideal. Wave, smile for the camera 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 how to avoid the mistake in the future. "You stupid cow! You move like a mechanic! 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 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. "One is enough. Get up, 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 the fresh welt on my bottom through them. "No rubbing yourself!" 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 of your naughtiness. I don?t remember saying you could let your skirts drop, either." "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 move too quickly. Move more slowly, lightly, elegantly. Glide, don?t walk. Never be 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. One, two... good! Hold that pose, remember what your muscles did. Now do it again." Along with drilling me on posh deportment, Governess began training me to speak like Emma, in a posh English accent. She taught me to drop my Rs and pronouns, and enunciate my Ts instead of turning them into Ds the way Americans did. I learned to say sorry instead of pardon, and loo instead of toilet. The living room was a drawing room, not a lounge. The treat following a meal was "pudding" even when it wasn?t pudding. The list went on. 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 empty bedroom of the lady of the house. Outside the 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 this was a female?s room and we needed to use it 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 corset in another painful inch. I could stand it, just barely, so I knew 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 went to work on the pile of ironing in the laundry until I heard Mr. B?s car pull into the garage. I rushed upstairs, touched up my makeup and hair and changed into fresh panties, a soft bra and my white nightgown and peignoir, as if I had just woken up from a night of girly dreams and was ready to do my morning duty to my Master. 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 new day uniform, Lisa," Governess said. "You will continue to wake your Master and satisfy his needs 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 -- no afternoon uniform for now. Try it on first." She wasn?t calling me Emma. It was true that while wearing this uniform I was Lisa the maid, not Emma the posh girl, 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. "You?re dressed in your blowjob nightie, 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 dresses that are only for Emma. But not yet -- you aren?t ready. Open it, Lisa, and see what you will be wearing from now on." I unzipped the bag, saw the dress and gasped. It was made of soft, medium-weight black satin with a square neckline and slim elbow-length sleeves. Its slender bodice tapered to a shockingly narrow waistline, then poufed out into a full skirt that fell to just below the knee. A classic maid?s silhouette. 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 neckline, 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 hand-stitched eases and gathers. 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 trimmed with white lace and beadwork similar to the black trim of the dress, and a delicate maid?s headpiece that, like the pinafore, was edged with white beading and lace. 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 half an inch longer than the dress, so it would dance and sparkle just below the hem of the skirt. 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 it 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 if God were just, He 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. The circle skirt fell to mid-thigh, 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, Lisa!" Governess said. "No bulge in your panties! I?m impressed." Embarrassed, I put on the new lingerie for my day uniform. The black corset, also decorated with black beadwork and lace, over a soft liner. Black seamed stockings. Black satin panties decorated in black lace but no beads. A black full slip, also with lace but no beads. 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 crinolines." I stepped into the petticoats, and she pulled them up to my corseted waist. I swished my hips and blissed out on their frou-frou. "And now, the dress." I raised my arms and wiggled my bottom in anticipation. She slid the dress down over my arms, over my body, tugged it into place, zipped it up, smoothed the skirt over the petticoats. 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, but still not quite covering, my petticoats. 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 and 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? I would have to cook in it! What if I spattered it with marinara sauce? "Very nice, Lisa, now off with it," Governess said. "Try on the evening uniform." I reluctantly removed the day uniform, including the petticoats and corset, and changed into my new evening uniform. It started with a firmer black 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 petticoats with their 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 lace and 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, would make me sew white lace onto the seat of the panties. 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. Well, maybe a little bit... "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 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." Her words made me squeeze my thighs together. "Oh, thank you, Ma?am," I said, curtseying and 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. All your uniforms, of course, are Lisa dresses." "When will I get Emma dresses, Ma?am?" "You?ll get Emma dresses when you can convince me you?re Emma, and not just an American 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 we?re ready to have you model your new uniforms for Master," Governess said. "Take off the evening uniform but leave it out, and change back into the daytime uniform. Touch up your hair and lips." She left the room in search of Mr. B and returned a few minutes later, while 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 and fussed with my hairpiece and pinafore. "Your makeup will have to do. Come over here in the light so he can see you. 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 him. The little feminine ritual relaxed me now, made me feel more dutiful and subservient and feminine, more worthy of him. She opened the door and said, "Come in, Sir." Mr. B entered. I lowered my eyes, smiled, made him a deep curtsey, rose, and clasped my hands over the apron. 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, gave my bottom a wiggle. "Well done," he said not to me, but to Governess. "So much better than that cheap stuff 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 while she?s cleaning the loo." "The uniforms are beautifully made and should be quite durable," 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 replace every missing bead. She is becoming quite the little needlewoman." "Good. I want her to learn all the housewifely skills." 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. "Just lovely." Mr. B 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 saw that his were staring down into my d?colletage. 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. "The dress slides so smoothly over whatever she?s wearing underneath. We?ll take as many of these as she needs." "Thank you, Sir," Governess said. "I recommend three of everything: one to wear, one in the wash, and one waiting 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 lingerie before a man. I felt better after changing into my new corset and panties. I put on the rest of my lingerie and slid into the evening uniform dress. Governess tied my tiny apron and slipped the tiara into my hair. I struck a model?s pose, angling my body as Governess had taught me 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. Mademoiselle says there are six thousand crystals in that dress, 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. Every seam is curved, and they make her body look more feminine. We?ll take this one, too. 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 pastel pink, for when you want her to look more girly. One in silk chiffon with short sleeves, for warm weather. And one in black silk velvet with full-length sleeves, for cold evenings. I think you and she will both appreciate the variety, Sir." "So, I need to buy nine dresses just to keep my 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, to replace the temporary stuff Ms. Fuchs bought her. I would have bought her nicer lingerie from the beginning." "Do so. Garter belts?" "Lisa always wears a corset, Sir." "Always? So, if I happen to want to see her wearing stockings, but no corset...?" "Ah... of course, Sir. Three garter belts, two in white, one in black." "Make them very frilly, the way she likes," Mr. B said. "Bras?" "Her corset holds her breasts. No bras for Lisa until she earns an Emma dress, sir." "So if I happen to want to see her in a bra and panties..." "Tell her to work harder on her Emma lessons." He gave me a look that made me quiver. "Why different 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." "I noticed," Mr. B said. "Will it make her uncomfortable?" His concern for me made me want to cry. I was so lucky to serve this man! "Oh, no, Sir. She?ll be wearing the evening corset for three or four hours a day at most, unless you have a late-evening event, and once her body adjusts to it, she may even find she prefers the look it gives her. In her daytime uniform, when she should be doing her heavier chores instead of inviting your guests to admire her breasts, her corset has lighter stays and will be laced a little less tightly, to let her 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 thought I was hired to turn her into Emma, and I am curious why you are spending my valuable time improving the maid Lisa instead." "Reasonable question," Mr. B said. He did not so much as glance at me. "The primary reason is that your basic petticoat training will improve both Lisa and Emma. Timing is another reason: Her new Lisa uniforms will arrive while you happen to be here, and you should teach her how to wear them properly. 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. The time you spend on Lisa is a necessary first step that will pay off in a more beautiful and perfectly behaved Emma." This made no sense to me. How could Lisa be Emma?s maid when we were both the same person? "If you say so, Sir," Governess said. He laughed. "Lisa says that, too. It?s a perfect response, because you sound deferential without actually agreeing or disagreeing. 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?" "Only if you have something useful to say. Otherwise, be seen and not heard." 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 for my greedy little serving girl?" "No, Master," I said. "Not a maid?s dress. A regular dress, not a uniform. A pretty dress, like the house dresses I had at Ms. N?s." Mr. B looked puzzled. "Why do you need a pretty dress, Lisa? This isn?t Ms. N?s house. You?re my little housemaid, and you?re always on duty, and you always wear a pretty uniform on duty. When you?re not in uniform, you?re in one of your pretty nighties. When would you even wear a regular dress? Are your new uniforms not pretty enough for you?" I hoped I was not annoying him. "They?re lovely, Master, but they make me feel like Lisa. To learn how to be Emma, I need to feel like Emma." "Governess says you have a lot to learn before you can be Emma." He turned to Governess. "When can Lisa have an Emma dress?" "As I have already told Lisa," Governess said severely, "she will have an Emma dress when she can convince me she is Emma, and not just a sissy boy in fancy dress with a fake English accent." 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?m 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. He always showed a curious interest in the details of what I wore. Maybe it was because, as he said, girly boys like me turned his crank. Ooh! I so much wanted to turn his crank. But now he was going away for a whole month...! Governess thought for a moment. "I?d consider a retro look for Emma. A modern version of Dior?s New Look from the late ?40s and early ?50s. Full skirts, narrow waists, fitted bodices, peplums, petticoats, cruel stilettos. Lavish evening gowns in delicate fabrics." "Sounds beautiful," 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 punish me. Which meant this might not be the ideal moment to investigate the mystery of Governess?s true sex. "Lisa, tonight is the last night I?ll be here for a month, so I shall spend it with you." I curtseyed to him, so relieved that he did not punish me for asking for an Emma dress. "You?re going away, Master?" "I?ll be in Asia. So make yourself very pretty for me." "Oh, yes, Master! What do you want me to wear?" "I suppose the sample uniforms need to go back to the dressmakers?" "Yes, Sir," Governess said. "We need to take in the waist at least an inch on all of them." I flinched at the thought that my corsets would need to be laced even more tightly. Of course, they would make me that much cuter. "Well then, let?s not mess them up tonight," Mr. B said. "Pack your new uniforms back in their bags, Lisa, and then change into something lovely. I?m going to take a shower. When you?re ready, kneel outside my room, like a pretty little pussycat." "Yes, Master," I said. A pretty little pussy? Oh yes, if that?s what Master wanted. I curtseyed again and returned to my room. My white blowjob peignoir was the sexiest outfit I had, so I wasted no time worrying about what to wear. I lubed my boy-pussy 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 bottom, but I didn?t. I would to get them if Master liked me as a sexy kitty. I made myself as pretty as I could and knelt outside his door. I scratched on it the way a pretty kitty would, meowed, and awaited my owner?s pleasure. I was his pet. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," he called. I meowed again and pushed the door open. The lights were low. He was sitting on the bed, wearing only his crisp white shirt, unbuttoned. I wanted to strip it off him and devour his body. I was a naughty kitty! "Here, pussy," he called in a singsong fashion that sent a pulse through my sissy parts. I slowly crawled to his feet, swinging my bottom. I sat on all fours at the side of the bed and made my best imitation of a purring sound. He smiled. "Bad kitty!" he said, shaking his finger at me. "You coughed up a hairball on my pillow and you peed in my favorite shoes! I?m not going to 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 fluff my cock and then I?ll give your little pussy a good fucking." Ooh! Just what I wanted to hear. I shivered and took a deep breath. "Yes, Master." I wanted to cry again, I?m not sure why, I was just feeling so tender toward him, so full of emotions. 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. When he was hard, he laid me on my back and licked my nipples until 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 L-spot and gave me three orgasms, all of which lasted longer and were more intense than any I?d ever had as a man. 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 orgasm of the evening, my fourth. I was too woozy to return to my room, so Master allowed me to sleep in his bed. He took me in his arms and spooned against me. 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, recoiled from the sight of my morning-after makeup, and cleaned it all 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 would?ve 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 when you?ll be back, and I?ll miss you every minute." "I?ll miss you too, kitten," he said. "I should be back in four weeks. While I?m away, I want you to obey Governess. Be a very good little kitty. Remember to always pee in your sandbox. If I find you?ve been disobedient, I will be angry when I get back, and kitty will 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. I jumped off the bed, hurried back to my room, changed into my day uniform, and went downstairs to make coffee and cook breakfast. When Master appeared, 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. I had an idea. "Master, may I speak?" He looked annoyed. "Be brief. You?re interrupting my breakfast, and I?m in a hurry," he said. "Yes, Master. Could we please keep the two new uniforms until the seamstress delivers the rest, and then send the first two back for the same adjustments? Then I could start wearing the new uniforms now instead of having to keep wearing these old things." "Those old things are what, a month old?" "They?re too loose now, Master, and they?re very plain. I want to be prettier for you." Mr. B smiled. "Nice try, Lisa, but I?m leaving today, so all that is up to Governess. You?ll get your new uniforms in a few days. 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, waved to him and shouted goodbye. He waved back and disappeared into the back seat of the car. It pulled away from the curb and took him away from me. I hated that car. The next day, Governess checked me into a private hospital, where my crown jewels were removed and my empty scrotum was wrapped around my boy-clitty in a way that created the semblance of vaginal lips. My panties fit more smoothly afterwards, I stopped taking one of my daily pills, and now I had to pee sitting down. ~ ~ ~ I was now in the gentle hands of Governess for the next four weeks without Mr. B to protect (or correct) me. With him gone, Lisa had less housework to do, allowing Governess to drill Emma relentlessly on posh deportment, behavior and speech. She still punished me for mistakes, but I was on my very best behavior, and perhaps as a result, she didn?t take every opportunity to give my bottom the kiss of her crop. She spared me entirely for ten days after my surgery, and my bottom began to wonder whether it would ever get a good spanking again. It did. One learned to refer to oneself as "one" and to omit most other pronouns. One wasn?t striving for a royal drawl, but rather for an educated upper-middle-class accent from nowhere in particular in the nicer bits of the counties around London. One?s goal was not to sound like the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, but like the BBC... or rather the old BBC before they starting hiring all those Ulstermen, Scots and South Africans, as Governess rather too bluntly put it. One learned about the Royal Enclosure at Ascot when one watched the old movie My Fair Lady, with commentary by Governess, and discovered that one was not all that different from Miss Eliza Doolittle, except that Professor Higgins was a pig compared to Mr. B. One felt cheated when Eliza submitted to him at the end, even though one was even more submissive to Mr. B in real life. One spent a restless night thinking about that. As part of one?s feminine deportment, one learned to dance backwards in high heels. Governess asked if one could dance, and horrified by one?s answer, promptly installed a ballroom dance teacher, Monsieur, in the house for four weeks of lessons in the waltz, tango, foxtrot and rhumba. One spent a good deal of those lessons fending off Monsieur?s wandering hands, particularly when he learned one was actually a boy. One suspected Governess of telling him one?s secret. One grew tired of him pinching one?s bottom at every opportunity, but he was a good instructor nonetheless, and one did learn the dances -- the women?s steps only, of course, as there was no reason for one to learn the men?s steps. After one?s first lesson, Monsieur complained to Governess that Emma needed a ballgown in which to practice the dances. Governess did not want to authorize the expense, because of course she had already decided one was not ready to receive an Emma dress. It was petty of her, but rather than having an argument one knew one would lose, one suggested to Governess that since the lessons were private, one might learn the dances in one?s peignoir set, which had a long-skirted gown and a floaty robe that faintly suggested the drapery of a ball gown. "He?ll just feel you up all the more," she said. I shrugged. It did me no harm, and taught me to be submissive. Governess nodded and told one -- all right, told me -- to change into my robe and peignoir. She showed me to Monsieur, who still did not approve. "I could have her wear petticoats under the robe," Governess offered. I didn?t think so. They would be too full. I would look like a drag queen. "No!" Monsieur insisted. "She needs a proper ballgown. At least ankle length." She grumbled, but evidently she gave in and went back on Amazon, because a ballgown arrived at the house the next day. I hated it. It was either a Halloween costume or the world?s cheesiest prom dress, an ankle-length pile of scratchy shocking pink tulle spangled with cheap-looking silver stars, poufed out from an elasticized strapless bodice of flimsy silver lam? speckled with shocking pink stars. It was ghastly. It made me look like a chubby 15-year-old. I found a price tag dangling from it, marked down to $19.99. I was sure it was Governess? revenge for making her buy me an Emma dress before she was good and ready. This was not an Emma dress, it was a fashion insult, but there was nothing I could do about it. It didn?t help that she always told me how lovely it looked when I had to put it on for lessons. Meow! My corset?s shoulder straps were removable, so I ended up dancing bare- shouldered with Monsieur. I didn?t like the way his eyes roved over my bare skin, and his hands kept sliding down to my bottom, where I kept having to slap them away. This amused him and, I must admit, was a useful experience for life as a female. At first I was afraid that my girls would pop out and make the gown fall to the floor, but it turned out my evening corset easily supported my d?colletage. One less disaster to worry about. After my fourth lesson, Governess ordered Monsieur to show her how well I had learned the dances. I put on the ugly pink gown, and we did all the dances he had taught me. For once, Monsieur?s hands stayed where they belonged. I had no trouble doing the basic steps, and managed to follow his lead when he added some simple variations. When we were done, Governess complimented Monsieur on his teaching, and said that I had learned enough and that Monsieur?s services were no longer required. I found I liked dancing, but not with Monsieur, and was glad to see him go. Governess took away the childish gown and did not let me wear it again, which was fine with me. A few days later, Mademoiselle returned to the house in the late afternoon with three garment bags holding all my new maid?s uniforms. Governess helped me carry them upstairs and hang them in my closet. I zipped the bags open. The dresses were as beautiful as I remembered. I was so excited that I 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. "You have to serve tea at five," she said. "If you think you have enough time to tidy yourself, change into a brand-new uniform, prepare the tea things and serve it on time, go ahead. I promise you a good spanking if tea is late. Or, you can wait until after tea to change into your evening uniform and wait until tomorrow to put on your daytime uniform. You choose." I was surprised she let me choose. Usually everyone 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 wear my new uniform right away, but I didn?t want to have to rush. I would need at least an hour to redo my makeup, change my underwear, get dressed, make adjustments. Tuck, tug, brush, primp. Not to mention new shoes. Not a chance. Or I could ask her to postpone her tea. Not a chance. "I?ll wait to change into my new evening uniform after tea, Ma?am." "Well done, Lisa. You are learning patience, a valuable thing for a woman to possess." I spent some time thinking about that later... while rubbing my nipples through my uniform. Corset, slip, dress, the three layers needed to protect me from roaming hands. Surely I was well protected -- or was until I brought myself to the edge of indiscretion using my nipples alone. Patience! I stopped, caught my breath, and finished preparing tea. I served tea in my afternoon uniform, an unexciting ritual with no guests. After I cleaned up from tea, I went upstairs, brushed my hair, changed into my evening lingerie and replaced my day makeup with my evening look. My corset molded me to its form instead of adapting to mine, and I gasped for air when Governess finished lacing me an inch tighter. She helped me replace my day stockings with black seamed hose and fastened them to my corset garters, and then helped me step into my evening panties and petticoat, admiring the lace and crystal ornaments. She lifted my dress over my upstretched arms and tugged it down over my body, smoothing it over my corset and petticoat and zipping it up. It felt marvelous -- perfectly tailored to my figure, snug above the waist but free below it. The skirt draped enticingly over my evening petticoat, which peeped out an inch or so below the hem of the dress. I instantly felt fear until I remembered that I was no longer subject to Ms. N?s rules and no longer had to fear a spanking if my petticoat showed -- unless, of course, Mr. B decided he wanted to give me one. She tied the lace-trimmed apron around my waist and slid the crystal tiara into my hair. I sat so she could strap me into my evening sandals, which sparkled with crystals. I stood and looked at myself in the full- length mirror. I was Lisa the maid again, and Lisa had never looked so 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 wanted him back. 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. Tonight?s main dish was a roast I?d already put in the oven, but I always cooked dinner between six and eight, and I would hate to mess up my brand-new evening uniform, and would expect to be punished if I did. I decided to ask Governess what to do. I knocked on the door of her room. It was larger than mine, large enough to have a sofa, where she was sitting, holding a glass of sherry and reading a book. I explained my dilemma. "Yes, Lisa, wear the pinafore for cooking dinner," she said. "I?m glad you thought of it. In fact, we should get you a plain cotton pinafore that covers everything, just for cooking, so you can keep your pretty aprons nice the rest of the time. Good girl." "Thank you, ma?am." I curtseyed. "Pour yourself a glass of sherry, Lisa," she said, waving at a decanter and empty glass on a silver tray behind her desk. I was quite surprised. I?d never been offered alcohol as a maid. I poured half a glass. "Come sit with me, Lisa," she said, to my further surprise. "You know, Lisa, or maybe I should say Emma, 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 your pretty new uniforms? 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 smoothed my skirts. "Thank you, Ma?am." Governess normally was quite sparing in her use of compliments. How much sherry had she had? Governess lightly ran a finger over the curved seams of my bodice, touching the lines of crystals. "So 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 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 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 slid closer to me and put her right arm around my shoulders. Her left hand toyed with my hair, then started stroking my bodice, and then my skin. Her fingers slid into my corset cup, touched my nipple. I froze, afraid to react. Governess was flirting with me, petting me, and she had reached first base. "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? I?m just the maid!" "A very pretty little maid! Didn?t your Master tell you to obey me?" "Yes, Ma?am, but...!" "But what, Lisa?" "You?re my Governess! Like my teacher! You shouldn?t do this!" She was playing with my nipple, rubbing and twisting and flicking. A wave of pleasure rolled over me. She lowered her other arm from my shoulder to my bosom, and started toying with my other nipple. I moaned, and twisted slightly to give her better access, and 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 men, so soft and gentle and delicious." "Girly boys like me?" "Yes, darling." "Like you, Governess?" She stopped playing with my nipples. "What makes you think..." "What you just said, about girly boys loving each other," I said. "And what Master once said. He called us both sissies. There?s nothing wrong with being a sissy, is there, Governess? I mean, I?m one." Governess heaved a great sigh. "So am I." "Are you still a boy, Ma?am?" I couldn?t believe I?d dared to ask. "Find out for yourself, Lisa." Very carefully, I ran a hand up her skirt and explored. 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!" She was about to cry, and so was I. "No, Lisa, I?m not a boy. I?m a forty-five-year-old sissy." She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. "Once upon a time I was a beautiful boy, the first 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 sissy. I borrowed my sister?s panties and bridesmaid?s dress and gave him his first sissy blowjob, and he was the first man to take me in the bottom. It might have been statutory rape, by me, but neither of us would ever report it. 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 and other men like 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. "You mean it?" "That?s what he said before he left, princess. Told me he wanted me to groom you to be not just Emma, but the possible future Mrs. B." I was stunned. "Oh my God!" I said. "I can?t believe this." "Well, it?s what he said," Governess said. "You know what men are like... or maybe you don?t. Maybe he?s changed his mind. He?s out of the country, he?s had time to think things over... met a gorgeous shemale in Thailand or somewhere..." I burst into tears. "Oh, don?t say that!" "Then I shan?t." Governess began fondling and kissing me again. "Lisa, be my girl tonight." This was so wrong, but to my shame, her attentions easily aroused me. "If you say so, Ma?am." She smiled and began rubbing my crotch through my skirts. "I want you to do some pretty things for me, Lisa. Mr. B told you to obey me, didn?t he?" 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! Are you serious?" She smiled, stood, slid her panties down her legs and stepped out of them. She lifted her dress and slip, and I saw the lump I?d felt. Her boy parts hung freely, and her boy-clitty looked a bit larger than mine. Her scrotum was empty and her crotch was hairless, like mine. "Kneel before me and fluff me, Lisa," Governess said. I knelt before her, but didn?t want to suck her cock. "That?s an order, Lisa," Governess said. I began to cry. I raised my hand and touched it. Brought it to my mouth. Took it inside. "Spare me the drama, Lisa," Governess said. "It?s not as if you haven?t done this before. 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 semi-hard. She pulled out, flipped me over and jammed her wet boy-clitty into my boy-pussy. It didn?t hurt much going in, but it couldn?t reach my L-spot, so I didn?t get off. Governess quickly had a gentle climax that she seemed to enjoy greatly. I wondered how long it?d been since she last came. Her boy-clitty shrank and slipped out of me. I remembered how it felt to have Mr. B inside me, and wiggled in frustration. "Thank you, Lisa," Governess wept. "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. He loved me once, but now..." She choked back tears, and I could sense the isolation and pain she must have felt after Mr. B feminized her, loved her, lost interest in her as she aged and turned to 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. Was I doomed to the same fate, to be replaced in my turn? At least Mr. B had given Governess a job creating and training sissy maids. Maybe he would take care of me somehow when my time came. "Oh, Governess," I said, and clumsily tried to embrace her just as 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 said I had to be punished for idleness and gave me a nice spanking. We both felt better afterwards, as if the natural order had been restored. I rose from her lap, let my skirts fall, received her permission to pull up my panties and 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 yes, 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 her story was true. Governess looked stricken. "Oh, Lisa, I wish I could," she said. "But you belong to Mr. B, we both belong to him, and I made a serious mistake just now, using his property without permission, and I must never do it again. Please, please don?t tell him what we did, what I did. You don?t belong to me, you belong to him. 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 God 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 enchant him. Stay young, stay pretty, and make him happy! Go to bed, Lisa." The next day, Governess summoned me to the boudoir early, before I dressed in my uniform for the day. She was herself again, not a horny middle-aged sissy, and she treated me as if yesterday hadn?t happened. "Emma," she said. I became Emma. I remembered not to curtsey, not to call her Governess. "Yes?" "Mr. B will be back in two weeks. You aren?t ready to become Emma yet, but you are making good progress, and we need to start preparing you to greet him as Emma." "Preparing me how?" "Well... for one thing... we need to shop for Emma dresses." I felt my panties dampen. "Really? Oh, thank you!" "Yes, lovely dresses for Emma. I?ve decided you?re ready, or will be by then. Close enough! You need to get used to wearing a wider variety of styles, including formal gowns. Lower necklines, longer hems. You?ll love them. He?ll love you in them." "Can I replace that horrid pink gown that I had to dance in?" I swear she positively snickered. "Don?t you want to keep it? Your first Emma dress? I?d think you?d want to treasure it always." "Maybe I?ll give it to Lisa," I said. Touch?. Formal gowns! Fancy dresses! I wiggled in girly anticipation. I felt almost ready to play my part. Governess had been drilling me on social rituals: red carpets, receiving lines, greetings, introductions, table etiquette, how to make polite conversation, how to evade awkward questions, how to deal with reporters, how to pose for photographers, how to deal with aggressive males, things never to say or do, and other useful advice. The next day, Governess took me shopping for Emma dresses. I wore an LBD that was no longer had to serve as a maid?s dress, now that I had my new uniforms. Governess lent me a string of costume-jewelry pearls that made the dress look nicer. Under it I wore a full slip, but not a petticoat. And no apron or cap. I felt half-dressed. We took a taxi to King?s Road in Chelsea and visited at least a dozen dress shops. I was in a happy mood and eagerly 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 three Emma dresses: a traditional floor- length ball gown in many layers of amethyst tulle, with a tucked and wrapped bodice; a strapless sheath dress in red silk with a constricting calf-length skirt; and an off-the-shoulder dress with an asymmetrical full skirt and a short train like a wedding gown, but in light blue taffeta with 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 tightest and hardest to move in, with its heavy skirt and train. I hung 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 each 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 Emma lessons, I dressed as Lisa and attended to my maid?s duties. I grew accustomed to changing corsets, panties, petticoats and dresses and aprons half a dozen times a day, something most women would hate but which I always found stimulating, if not exactly comfortable. I was a very busy girl, with no time to get into trouble. I was surprised to realize one day that it had been five days since Governess had spanked me, the longest I?d gone without punishment since Lewis became Lisa, and now Emma as well. Of course I broke my streak that night after dinner, when I broke a glass and was rewarded with five strokes of Governess?s crop. For a week, I winced whenever I sat. I?d marked a date on my calendar four weeks after Mr. B left, praying he?d return by then. Three days before it, Governess told me that Mr. B had managed to wrap up his business early and would be home late tomorrow. 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 and serve him in my lovely new uniforms. 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. It embarrassed me to admit this to myself, but it was true. Governess tracked his flight on the computer 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 red strapless sheath dress that made me shorten my stride and wiggle my bottom. 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. When he got home tonight, I would be Emma. I slipped on her glasses. 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. When did you start wearing glasses?" 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 what I hoped was an acceptable English accent. "Lisa is not available 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 just in time. "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 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. Oh! 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. May I?" I took his glass, gracefully maneuvered across the room in my tight skirt, and refilled it from the cut-glass decanter on the sideboard. He followed me. As I poured, he ran his hand over the silk brocade of my dress and squeezed my bottom. Of all the nerve! I was Emma Mountjoy, not Lisa the slut! I set the glass down sharply, slapped his hand and backed away from him. "Mr. Baxter!" I said sternly. "How dare you?" "I apologize, Miss Mountjoy," he said. I can only plead temporary insanity due to your stunning beauty." I couldn?t help it. I giggled. "I accept your plea this one time, Mr. Baxter. You are forgiven." He took my hand, kissed it again, hung onto it. He looked woebegone. "Is there no hope for me, Miss Mountjoy? I know I am but a humble billionaire baron while you are a penniless sissy, but I hope you will overlook our different stations in life and allow me to declare that I love you." The L-word again! Was this a game, or was he serious? I decided it was a game. If he was serious, he would need to be more explicit, more sincere. Even so, it was a significant moment... to me, at least. He?d said he loved me. Maybe he even meant it. "Good heavens! I hardly know you, Mr. Baxter. This is very sudden. May one inquire if you are intoxicated? A bit tipsy, perhaps?" "Not a bit of it, Mish." He staggered and fell against me, grabbing my breast with one hand and my ass with the other. "I reshemble -- I reshent -- the tone of your remarksh, Mish, and demand shatishfaction. Name your weaponsh." I pushed him away and turned to face him, my legs confined by the tight skirt. I flipped my hair at him. "Hairbrushes at dawn, Sir, and may the best curls win!" His face fell. He held out his arms in surrender. "I conshede, Mish." We both laughed. I fell into his arms and raised my face to his. He gave me a quite thorough snogging. It was just what I needed. It wasn?t all I needed, but it was a nice start. I made sure to run my hand over his crotch, and was pleased by his response. I asked him if he was hungry. We drifted into the kitchen, where I continued to be Emma, the lady of the house graciously filling in for the absent maid, and served him a bacon butty with Canadian bacon and an ice-cold local microbrew. I remained in my Emma role, practicing my posh accent and behavior and pretending to be his equal. "So, you earned your Emma dress before I got back," he said. He. Mr. B. Mr. Baxter. Mr. William Baxter. I sighed happily. "Three Emma dresses," I said. "Do you like this one?" I spun around. He ran his eye down my body. "I?m used to seeing you in petticoats, my dear, because they make your waist look tiny, but you look brilliant in a slim dress, too. I like the tailored retro look, not just a tight miniskirt. What do your other Emma dresses look like?" "I could model them..." "No, just tell me." I described the amethyst ballgown and the asymmetrical blue taffeta with its train. "Good lord," he said. "I?d better have a word with Governess about household expenses." No! This was not the right way for him to think about Emma?s wardrobe. I tried to think what to do, what to say. Words were my only weapon. "Excuse me, Mr. Baxter, but Emma will need more dresses than this. You are a wealthy man and you must keep her in a style suitable to her... sorry, Sir, to your station. Emma represents you in the world of women, a world you?ll never enter, a world of jealousy and competition and backstabbing and gossip. You must dress her so beautifully that she impresses everyone who sees her, because they will judge you by how she looks." I held my breath, wondering how he would answer. "You seem very sure of yourself... Emma," he said. What else could I say? "I am, Mr. Baxter." I tried to look powerful, and am sure I failed utterly. He eyed me. "I could turn you back into Lisa." "Even if you turn me back into a common maid, Mr. Baxter, you must be polite." "Lisa is a most uncommon maid, and I am unfailingly polite to her," he said. "Sometimes she just needs to be spanked hard and put away wet." "Mr. Baxter!" I said sternly. "I?ll thank you not to speak that way about my maid." "Your maid? I thought she was my maid." He tried to grab my ass again. I slapped his hand away. "That?s enough, Mr. Baxter! Must I ask you to leave?" He stopped. I told him all of Lisa?s uniforms had arrived and fit her perfectly, and that Lisa would wear them for him tomorrow, and that I would model my other Emma gowns for him. He seemed pleased. "You must have been working hard as Emma, or Governess wouldn?t have ordered you such an extravagant number of dresses before I got back to approve them." I shot a look at his crotch. "Yes, quite hard, Mr. Baxter. Governess wants me to get accustomed to moving and dancing in a variety of dresses so that I won?t be awkward when I have to appear in public." "She?s right. Is Emma ready to appear in public?" he asked. I wanted to say no, but didn?t dare. "You?d best ask Governess," I said. I made him a little bob. "What do you think?" "Well, Emma, I can?t tell where you?re from in England, but it?s not obvious that you?re American. Your posture and deportment are quite good. I see a girl and not a boy. A very pretty girl, I must say." He took grabbed at me again, but I kept out of his reach. "Geroff me, ye bleedin? wanker!" I said in a completely new voice. Mr. B -- Mr. Baxter, William Baxter, possible future husband of Mrs. William Baxter -- stopped in his tracks. He gaped at me and laughed. "What?s all this, then? Slumming, are we? Emma, I swear, if I ever hear you talk like that again..." I became Emma and bobbed him a curtsey. "Certainly not, Mr. Baxter. Did I get it wrong?" He laughed. "I?ve been away too long. 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 and gala in Atlanta 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. As Emma. Your first time as Emma." Please, God, no. Let me satisfy him in private. Only in private. "I have put you at the very end of the head table, outside 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." For some reason I reverted to Lisa. "Master, I couldn?t!" He grinned, enjoying my consternation. "Say my name, Emma." I was Emma again. "Ah... Mr. Baxter, Mr. William Baxter." "No. My first name." "William." I sighed. "William." A secret romantic moment that I?m sure meant far more to me than to him. "Good girl. Remember not to call me Master. Take my arm, smile, laugh. Pretend you?re my girlfriend. At one point we might hold hands briefly within view of the photographers. It will make you instantly interesting." Pretend? "Why would I be interesting to them, Master?" "Because any girl I escort somewhere is interesting to them. 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. "Calm down! And stop calling me Master. I?m William! My car will drop us off in front of the St. Regis. I will open the door and help you out of the car, to prevent awkward photos. Don?t speak to the media. Don?t speak to anyone. 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 instructions calmed me. I knew what to do. "At the gala, I may introduce you to a small number of close friends and associates as Emma. They will say they are pleased to meet you, and you will respond appropriately. Do not curtsey to anyone. You are their equal. 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 something they give out every year," he said, looking embarrassed. Aha. "To you, Sir? What for?" He coughed lightly. "They call it Humanitarian of the Year." "My goodness! It sounds like a great honor." I clapped, and he smiled. "Great donor is more like it. I do my bit to support their 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." He looked me up and down. "My beautiful Emma." "My feet hurt already. 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 will do well. Most of them will just shuffle back and forth." "I?m scared, Mr. Baxter." "William. Of course you are. You are about to become an international woman of mystery. I will be with you all the time, except when one of us needs to use the loo." Another ordeal I hadn?t considered. "You will do this, Emma, unless you want to be Lisa fulltime. I love you as Lisa, but I doubt you want to spend the rest of your life washing and cooking and cleaning." "Are you ordering me to do this... William?" "Yes, I am. You must become Emma. While remaining Lisa." I felt the familiar frisson of submission to his will. "Very well, Mr. Baxter. 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, innit?" He smiled. "That?s what I?m for, Mr. Baxter. To be Emma, and Lisa, for you." "That?s the spirit, 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 making documentary movies. Would you care to accompany me to the Academy Awards next year?" I laughed nervously, unable to tell whether he was serious. "I?d love to, William, but you?ll have to buy me a fabulous dress. No. Many fabulous dresses." He gave me a smile that might or might not have been loving. "Start shopping," he said. ~ ~ ~ Dressed in my lovely black satin day uniform, decorated with sparkling black beadwork and lace, I entered Mr. B?s library in order to do my weekly dusting. My dress rustled as it slid over my starched taffeta petticoats. I knew Mr. B would not be there because he had just left to go into his downtown office today. In my maid?s uniform I still thought of him as Mr. B, even though I knew his name now. William Baxter. It still sent a thrill through me to say it. William Baxter. Emma Baxter. Mrs. William Baxter. Not a chance! I was being silly again. I briskly wielded my pink duster until I noticed that Mr. B?s computer was on and unlocked, with a browser open. I?d never seen his computer unlocked before, it was always a sign-in page, and of course I didn?t know his username or password. I could use it! It was too, too tempting. I set down my duster, walked behind my Master?s desk, smoothed my skirts under my pantied bottom and, for the first time, sat down in his leather chair. I felt naughty for doing it, but he was not here to catch me at it or punish me for it, which made it all the naughtier. Mr. B was a large man, and his chair was too big for me. If I slid to the back of the seat, my legs could not touch the ground. Instead, I sat up straight on the front edge of the seat, where the toes of my high heels barely touched the ground, and I swiveled around to face his computer. I opened a new tab and searched for Master?s full name, William Baxter. I skimmed the results and caught my breath. I squeezed my thighs together, took my hands off the keyboard and played with my nipples, bringing myself just short of bliss. There were many William Baxters, but mine was at the top. My beloved Master was far more important than I?d guessed. He was the sixth hereditary Baron Ombersley in the House of Lords, a billionaire landowner and entrepreneur, a documentary movie producer -- and No. 3 on a list of Britain?s Most Eligible Bachelors. Oh! I would marry him in an instant. Would I? Yes. If he asked me. Which he hadn?t. ~ ~ ~ One night as I was serving him dinner, he said, "Lisa, I?m going to take you to England. You and Emma, actually. Mostly Emma." "Yes, Master," I said. "May I ask why?" "Have you ever been to England, Lisa?" "I?ve never been anywhere, Master. Well, spring break in Panama City once." "What, in Panama?" He sounded surprised. I smiled. I knew something he didn?t! "No, Master. In Florida, on the Gulf of Mexico. They call it the Redneck Riviera." Mr. B laughed. "Are you a redneck, my dear?" I put on a Southern accent. "Y?all want me to be one?" I swished my skirts and leaned over to give him a good view of my boobs. He did a reasonably good job of not staring at them. "I don?t need a Southern belle, if that?s what you?re pretending to be," he said. "I need you to be Emma Mountjoy, not Scarlett O?Hara." "Who?s Scarlett O?Hara?" He gave me a surprised look. "You don?t know?" "Some old movie...?" "Never mind. You?re not her, you?re Emma. I need to start taking you to social events and showing you off, so that people think we?re an item and try to figure out who you are. Then the fun will begin." "Fun?" "Oh, yes. Paparazzi, reporters going through your rubbish bins, cameras waiting outside your front door... the price of fame." No! I didn?t want anyone looking into my past. "I don?t want to be famous, Master!" "I?m afraid you have no choice. When you are seen with me, the press will descend upon you like a pack of hyenas." "No! Please, Master!" "I?ll protect you as best I can, but I will not allow you to spend your life as Lisa. You need to be Emma, too. You deserve it and absolutely can pull it off." He lovingly mussed my hair. "Stop selling yourself short, Emma." His words made me feel better. I spent the next week doing my absolute best trying to become Emma Mountjoy. I knew how to be a girl; I didn?t know how to be English, not instinctively. Seven days later, Mr.... seven days later, William and I flew to London. First class! I?d never flown before, but it was obvious how much nicer our odd little seat-pods were than the narrow rows back in steerage. I dressed nicely for the trip, in one of my little black dresses. It felt odd to wear it without an apron. Mr. B made gentle fun of my outfit, asking why I didn?t just wear soft leggings and a long pullover like most of the other women on the plane. "I don?t own any leggings," I told him. "They?re too much like trousers. Don?t you like what I?m wearing?" "It?s lovely, my dear, just a bit impractical." "Impractical? Why, I?m not even wearing a corset!" "You can fit into that dress without a corset?" "Oh! You beast! Of course I can!" "That must be why you didn?t set off the metal detectors," he said. "I suggest you at least kick off those heels." The flight took forever, giving me plenty of time to wish I?d worn my long pleated wool skirt from Sundance. Mr. B?s driver picked us up at Heathrow and took us to Mr. B?s house, which turned out to be a three- story luxury flat in Montpelier Square, across the street from a fenced, tree-shaded park open only to residents. He was nibbly by the time we arrived and wanted to order food in, but I checked the fridge, found it fully stocked and offered to cook for him instead. He kissed me on the forehead and said I could. I unpacked Lisa?s day uniform, slipped into it and asked Mr. B to tighten my corset and zip me up. I could have done it myself, of course, but loved the feeling of his hands on my body. I made coffee and cooked him a Denver omelet. As soon as he finished, before I could eat his leftovers, he grabbed me by my waist, spun me around and gave me a series of swats that propelled me toward one of the bedrooms. There he picked me up like a child and dropped me onto a super king-sized bed, where my petticoats flew up to expose my panties. I was Lisa at the moment, so I behaved appropriately. I undressed him, slowly lowering his black silk boxers, and knelt before him. I crossed my wrists behind me, as if in handcuffs, leaned forward and took his cock into my mouth. It stiffened rapidly. When he was fully fluffed, I got my lube out of my bag, squeezed a generous dollop into the crack of my bottom and leaned over the side of the bed, raising my rear end to my Master. I gave it a wiggle. "You are such a bad girl, Lisa," he said. A thrill ran up my spine. I loved being his bad girl. He pulled my thong aside, stuck a finger into me to lube my boy-pussy and then slowly drove in his cock. I squealed as he plunged deep. He quickly found my L-spot and thrust against it. Ecstasy! A deep, feminine orgasm soon shook me, and my boy-clit dribbled a streamlet of thin fluid into the skimpy front of my thong. "Welcome to London, Lisa," he said. I simpered at him. "Thank you, Master. Your apartment is very nice." He laughed. "I should think so! This would be a ten-million-pound flat today, my dear. Go clean up the kitchen, then hang up your Lisa uniform and change into one of Emma?s nightgowns. I?ll have the agency send us a maid tomorrow, so that you can focus on being Emma. As Emma, you?ll need to give the agency maid her orders. I?m sure you?ll know what she needs to do, but I want you to be the mistress. Be firm with her, make sure she gets her work done and correct her for any errors." "You mean, spank her?" "She?s your servant, Emma. Discipline her as you wish." "Yes... William." It still felt naughty to say his name, as if I was his equal. He gave me the rest of that day and the next day to get over my jet lag, saying I needed my beauty rest. On the following day, a Friday, he woke me at nine o?clock and told me to take a bath and do an extra special job on my beauty regimen. When I stepped out of the bath an hour later, he told me to dress to go out. I put on an LBD and a string of pearls. Mr. B?s driver took me to an elegant salon only a few blocks from our flat and handed me over to the proprietress, a woman named Anne, with orders to make me look like a movie star. I was there for five hours and had a facial, manicure, pedicure, hair and makeup done. When I looked in the mirror afterwards, I almost burst into tears, I looked so beautiful. "Don?t you dare cry!" Anne said. "You?ll spoil your makeup." She made a phone call, and in two minutes Mr. B?s car and driver pulled up next to the salon. I managed to get into the back seat gracefully, and he whisked me back to the flat. "Emma! You look perfect," Mr. B said. He checked his Rolex. "You?ll want to start getting dressed soon." "Where are we going?" "It?s opening night for the play. There will be a red carpet, so you need to look very glamorous." "A red carpet!" I tried to look stricken. "Will it be like the charity event in Atlanta?" "Ten times more so. This is London. The stars of the play will be there, and more cameras than you?ve ever seen in your life." "Must I go on the red carpet... William?" "Yes, because I must. I?m one of the show?s producers. And you must, because you?re with me. And because I intend to show you off tonight." He explained to me exactly how to behave, how to ignore the reporters while posing for the cameras, how to greet people when he introduced me. He reminded me to say nothing about who I was, to leave that entirely to him. He said I needed to look like a goddess, tall and proud, and make every gesture perfectly feminine. I was to pose for the cameras, not the crowd. I was dreadfully nervous. "Oh, William! What should I wear?" "Let?s take a look in your closet, my dear." There I found a new garment bag holding three more Emma dresses -- formal gowns. Mr. B asked me to choose one. They were all the same basic style, a strapless, sleeveless chiffon gown with crystals on the bodice and a long, full skirt. The gowns were in three colors: red, gold, and royal blue. "I had Mademoiselle make them up in advance, so they should fit perfectly," Mr. B said. "Try them on, and see which color you prefer. You?ll need to change into your tightest corset." I did so, and Mr. B drew the ribbons tighter until the edges met. It took me some time to catch my breath afterwards. The corset thrust my breasts upwards until they almost spilled out of their cups. If I wasn?t careful, my nipples would show. I changed into nude stockings and a panty that matched the corset and stepped into the red dress and its matching petticoat. Mr. B zipped it up, had me sit and strapped the matching stiletto sandals onto my feet. I stood, and he draped a filmy chiffon wrap around my bare shoulders. He took a couple steps back and looked me over. I gave him a twirl. "Stunning," he said. "You look like a star from the golden age of movies. Let?s see the other two colors." I changed into the gold chiffon dress and then the royal blue, each with their matching petticoat. I liked the last dress, but asked Mr. B which he thought would be best. "The blue," he said. "Most of the women will wear other colors, so you?ll stand out. The gold is pretty, but not quite right for your coloring. The blue matches your eyes. Do you agree?" "If you say so, William," I said. He stepped out of the closet and returned with a flat, light blue case... a jewelry case... and offered it to me. I opened it and gasped. "Oh, William!" The case contained a diamond necklace, diamond earrings, a diamond bracelet and a diamond ring. Or at least they looked like diamonds... "Not a gift, I?m afraid, Emma," William said. "Borrowed just for tonight from Cartier. Insured for a hundred thousand pounds, so please don?t lose any of the pieces in the ladies? loo." I was crestfallen to hear they weren?t mine to keep, but of course I couldn?t expect otherwise. There was no reason for Mr. B -- for William -- to give me a gift on this scale. He wanted me to look good tonight, to decorate me for the cameras. "Shall I try it on?" Hoping he would say yes. "Yes." He picked up the necklace, stood behind me and fastened it around my neck. It lay on my bosom, cold. His fingers caressed the nape of my neck, making me shiver, and drew away. I adjusted the necklace in the mirror. It was just the right length, a beautiful arrow pointing directly into my cleavage. "Now, the earrings," he said. I took out the pearl studs I usually wore and put on the diamond chandeliers. I turned my head to make them sparkle and felt them brush the sides of my neck. In the mirror they were perfectly in proportion with the other diamond pieces. "And the bracelet." I slipped it over my left wrist. Three rows of diamonds encircled my forearm, flashing in the light. "No tiara, I?m afraid. Certain people wear tiaras in London, and you are not one of them," William said. "But you definitely need the ring. On your right hand, to balance the bracelet," he said. "But on the ring finger. Let?s see what they make of that." He took my right hand in his left. I shivered at his touch. His right hand slipped the ring onto my finger. It was a rock, five carats at least. I wished he was putting it on my other hand, and that it wasn?t just for tonight... but that was absurd. Be real, Emma! Not that Emma was real... just a eunuch in a dress. A rather pretty eunuch. I didn?t miss being a boy all that much, but I would have fucked Emma if I could. I was dressed and ready to go, and it had only taken me seven hours, including the salon makeover. Was this how rich ladies lived? It seemed decadent. William showered, shaved and changed into a classic tuxedo in twenty minutes. I was jealous -- but not really, because he didn?t get to wear the lovely things I wore, no pretty lingerie, no swirling chiffon skirts, no sparkling shoes, no diamonds, no hairdo, no breasts. I was beautiful, and it was worth the time, and William?s money, that it took to make me that way. I held my wrap in one hand and my clutch in the other. William helped me into the car. He held my right hand for the short trip to the theater, playing with the ring. I wanted to leap onto him and give him a right snogging, as Emma might say in an indelicate moment, but instead I sat demurely, softly, not wishing to disturb his thoughts, whatever they were. The car pulled into some sort of VIP parking area. Two well-built security men inspected a pass that William produced. "Wot about ?er?" one asked. William beckoned him closer and spoke in a low voice. I couldn?t hear what he said. "No problem, me Lord," the security man replied, and waves us through into to a roped-off area at the start of the red carpet. We parked and William handed me gracefully out of the car. "Are you really a lord?" I asked him. He waved a hand, as if to dismiss the question. "I don?t use the title." "Why not?" If I was noble -- a noblewoman -- I would certainly want to make the most of it. "Ask me later," he said. "Smile." One side of the carpet was lined with media people -- photographers, video crews and reporters with cellphones. The other side was lined with fans. Down the middle of the carpet strolled fabulously dressed couples and singles. I gasped when I saw the male half of the couple in front of us -- I won?t mention his name, but you? d recognize it in a second. And then everyone was looking at me. Not everyone, not really, but as William led me down the carpet, more and more heads turned toward us. I straightened up and switched to the runway strut that Governess had taught me. I prayed my bouncing breasts wouldn?t pop out of the bodice of my royal blue chiffon dress, which swished over my petticoats as I swung my hips. The crystals on my bodice sparkled in the lights, like the crystals on Lisa?s evening maid?s uniform. I was scared, afraid of tripping on my hem or something equally clumsy, but avoided disaster and smiled sweetly at the TV cameras, then the still cameras, and then the crowd. Halfway down the red carpet stood a small dais where a woman in a red dress was interviewing some of the couples in front of a knot of cameras. She told the ladies they looked beautiful and asked about their dresses and who designed them, and then let them plug their next movie. Oh God. I didn?t have a next movie, I didn?t have a next anything. I was just... Lisa in disguise. No! I was Emma. I could handle this. The interviewer summoned William and I to the dais. He stood behind me, exposing me to a hundred lenses. "Lord Ombersley!" said the interviewer. "As handsome as ever, and who?s this lovely lady with you tonight?" "My guest for the evening," he said. "And she is...?" "My guest for the evening." "Oooh!" squealed the interviewer. "A mystery! Will you tell us your name, Miss Guest?" I swallowed and used my posh Emma voice. "I?d rather not, actually. Privacy, you know." "Are you a special friend of Lord Ombersley?" "His lordship has many friends," I said. "My! Is your dress a secret, too?" I smiled. "Not at all. It?s by Mademoiselle, jewelry by Cartier." "Is, ah, Mademoiselle a British designer?" "Of course. Such exquisite garments," I said, thinking of Lisa?s uniforms. William stifled a sound of amusement. I struck a variety of head-on and profile poses, swished the skirts of my gown and twirled for the cameras. I wanted to curtsey, but realized just in time that it would be out of character. Instead, I graciously inclined my head to the cameras. "Lovely," the woman said. "Are you...?" "Thank you," William told her and led me down from the dais. I lifted the front of my skirt so as not to trip on the steps. We resumed our stately progress down the red carpet. I wanted to laugh, but didn?t. "Well done, Emma," William whispered in my ear. "She?ll waste an hour wondering why she never heard of a British designer named Mademoiselle, and the Daily Mail will run a story about his lordship?s mystery date, with photos. Thank goodness you knew how to pronounce privacy properly." "Governess taught me," I said. "Governess also taught you how to wiggle your bottom, I see," he said. "You keep on doing that until we?re safely inside, and then I?ll get us some champers and we?ll drink a toast to the beauteous Emma." "Thank you, Your Lordship," I said. I sashayed the rest of the way down the red carpet and entered the theater?s spacious lobby, where I gave a great sigh of relief, happy to be away from the lights and cameras. "Wait here," William said. "Wait here." He headed to the bar. I stood quietly, trying not to be noticed, and failed. A short, stout man I didn?t know, in a tuxedo too tight for him, approached me with a smile pasted on his face. "I saw you on the carpet," he said. "You drew a great deal of attention, my dear." I gave him a polite nod. "Are you an actress or a model?" I wondered whether to reply, and decided it would be rude not to. "No." "Do you have an agent?" "No." I realized instantly that I should have brushed him off instead of answering. "You really should," he said. "You are a unique beauty. My name is Nathan Pratt, and I would be happy to represent you." "No, thank you," I said in my very poshest voice. Mr. Pratt clasped my hand. "With looks like yours, I can make you rich," he said. "Perhaps I am already rich," I said. I tried to withdraw my hand, but he clung to it tightly. I became nervous. I had so little experience dealing with unwanted male attention. He pulled me toward him and put his arm around my shoulder. I shrank from his touch and delicately tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong. "Get off!" I said quietly. I wanted to slap him, make him let go of me, but dared not make a scene. "I?m offering you what every girl wants," he said. "Money, fame and a proper appreciation of your beauty." He leered at me and licked his lips. Disgusting! "Let go of me at once." I looked desperately about the lobby. The bar was a madhouse. Where was William? "Don?t be hasty, my dear. Very few girls ever get an opportunity like this," Pratt said. "You really should think twice before..." There he was! William returned from the bar, clearing a path through a gaggle of giggling starlets, with two flutes of champagne in his hands. Seeing my plight, he set them down on a side table and strode up to Pratt. "Do you know this lady?" William said in a dangerous voice. Pratt let go of me as if I were contagious. I quickly moved toward William, but remembered just in time not to hang on him or show any other signs of our relationship. "Lord Ombersley!" Pratt said. "I was just inquiring politely whether she aspired to a career in acting or modeling." "It didn?t look very polite to me. The lady does not require your services." "Is that her decision, my lord? May I ask who she is?" "You may not," William said. Pratt turned to me. "Is that what you want, my dear? You are...?" "I?m Lady Buggeroff," I said sweetly, and gave him a mock curtsey. William laughed. Pratt grimaced, turned away and melted into the crowd. William retrieved the flutes of champagne and offered me one. "So sorry I wasn?t here to fend off that odious little man," he said. "I hope he?ll not bother you again." He raised his glass. "To Emma." "To Emma?s Master," I whispered. We clinked glasses and drank. I laid my hand on his sinewy forearm. "Oh, William, thank you, thank you. He kept touching me and I didn?t know what to do. I couldn?t hit him, couldn?t scream, not here." "Of course not. You handled it perfectly, Emma. You politely told him no without causing a scene. He was completely in the wrong. You didn?t tell him anything else, did you?" "Only that I?m Lady Buggeroff." "I don?t know much Russian, but wouldn?t that be Buggerova?" We laughed, finished our champagne, entered the orchestra section and found our seats. I had to arrange myself carefully to keep my gown from overflowing onto the seat next to me. The lights dimmed, the curtain rose, and for the next ninety minutes we were subjected to a depressing play about a couple that was unhappy at the beginning and even more so at the end. She was good, he was bad, and neither changed much. They got a standing ovation. I clapped perfunctorily, shook out my skirts and happily let William drape my chiffon wrap over my shoulders and lead me out of the theater. William told me the acting was excellent, the critics would agree that the play was important, and the opening-night sellout boded well for the play?s run. Which just shows you what I know about London theatre. Lisa?s brain in Emma?s body. On our way across the lobby, William met several people who were part of the production team, and to my surprise he introduced me to some but not all of them as Emma. Just Emma, no last name. I smiled and responded appropriately in my best English accent, and got no untoward looks. Some of them asked if he was coming to the after party, and he said he?d come later, but had to see me home first. They eyed me more carefully after that, making me feel shy. At least he didn?t tell them that he was taking me back to his flat. I was utterly exhausted from the strain of being Emma and fending off Mr. Pratt, and was delighted when we finally got into the car and I could kick off my heels. I managed to stay awake for the short drive home, but was so drowsy when we arrived that William leant into the car, picked me up off the seat, leaving my heels in the car, and carried me up to my room, where he carefully removed my jewelry and put it away, undressed me, slid one of my prettiest nightgowns over my head and tucked me into bed. "You were perfect tonight, Lady Buggeroff," he said. "I?d reward you with a good shagging, but you?d fall asleep halfway through, so we?ll save that treat for tomorrow. I?ve got to go have a pint with the cast and stroke their egos, so I?ll be late. Nighty night." He toyed briefly with my nipples, gave me a tender kiss, turned off the light and left the room. I was asleep a minute later. By the time I woke the next morning, he had already left for his office. I shamefacedly cleaned off last night?s makeup, took a bath, did my beauty regimen, dressed as Lisa and tidied up the house. I put Emma?s gown and accessories back into the garment bag, tidied up Mr. B... Master?s room, made the beds and cleaned up the kitchen and bathrooms. It felt lovely to be back in my day uniform with its pretty black beadwork and lace and rustling crinolines, duly attending to my duties as Master?s sexy housemaid. Master returned in mid-afternoon, gave me a good snogging -- another word I?d learned -- and told me to change into Emma. I hung up Lisa?s uniform and changed into Emma?s little black dress. "Mmm," said William when he saw me. "It?s not really an Emma dress... William," I said. "What I want is..." He wasn?t listening. He caressed my bottom, and then tickled me through my panties. I slapped his hand away. "Stop it!" I said. I could do that because I was Emma, not Lisa. Lisa would have squealed and let him feel her up, the slut. He smiled, opened his briefcase, took out several newspapers and laid them on the drawing room table. "Care to see yourself in print, Emma?" "What?" I leaned over to see. He opened the Daily Mail to an inside page. There were two color photos, one of me standing next William with my boobs practically popping out of my blue chiffon gown and another of me twirling for the cameras, next to a headline: Billionaire Lord O?s Mystery Girl Stuns On Opening Night "Oh my God," I said, covering my mouth with my hands. "I?ll read it to you," said William, who seemed to be enjoying my discomfort. ...The play?s producer, billionaire Lord Ombersley, arrived arm in arm with a stunning brunette whom he would not name. Every bit as tight- lipped as his lordship, Ms. Mystery Guest wore the gown of the evening, an enchantment of royal blue chiffon by the British designer Mademoiselle, and a dazzling array of Cartier diamonds. She outshone even the stars of the play, leaving everyone wondering: Who is she, and what is she to handsome Lord O? Only he knows, and so far he?s not telling. I wanted to cry. How dared they write these things about me and William? "It?s perfect," he said. "And look, in the Sun." I gasped. Two pages of mostly photos, with a brief review of the play and a story about... me! With pictures of me on the red carpet and twirling on the dais. Eeek! BILLIONAIRE?S NEW BIRD Who?s the posh brunette that Lord O is reluctant to name? William wrapped an arm around my shoulders, crushing me. "You?ve done it, Emma! Exactly as I hoped. You?ve set their tongues wagging, and they don?t know a thing about you. Now we can take Emma to the next level." He changed to a TV announcer?s voice. "Emma, International Woman of Mystery. Who is she, where is she from, and what is she to Lord Ombersley, the tenth-richest man in Britain?" "Are you really?" He ignored my interruption. "At some point, my dear, the press will stumble across the first name Emma, and then the last name Mountjoy, even if I have to leak it to them myself, and then you?ll be back in the news, and you?ll admit to being her, and we?ll feed them Emma?s curated biography, and you?ll be the It Girl of the moment, and you can choose what you want to do with your fame. Model, actress, singer, brain surgeon?" "I can?t sing!" "Doesn?t matter. We can fix it in the studio." "Brain surgery?" "We can fix it in post-production." "William, what if I don?t want to be famous?" "What?" He seemed genuinely puzzled. "Everyone wants to be famous." "Well, not me!" My emotions were close to bubbling over. "I just want to be with you. I like being Lisa at home and Emma when we go out, but I don?t want Emma to be famous! I don?t want my picture in the papers! God only knows what?s online. Are people talking about me on Twitter? I?m scared, William. Everything about me is a lie, and I don?t want the lie to be exposed, especially not if they trace it back to... who I used to be. Because that would hurt you." William enfolded me in his arms. I heaved a great shuddering sigh and nestled against him. It was so odd -- I preferred girls, I wasn?t attracted to other men, just him. "Lisa, Emma," he said quietly. "I don?t know who you used to be. I didn?t ask, and Ms. N didn?t tell me. I don?t care. Now you?re you, and the sight of you just makes me want to protect you. You?re going to be famous because you?re already famous. Last night made you famous. That clip of you twirling went viral this morning. The images will cycle through the celebrity magazines and mainstream media over the next week. And the, shall we say, lower-demographic press will be hunting you, desperate for an exclusive. The thing is, they don?t know where you are. So here?s what we?ll do." He took a moment to give me a badly needed hug, and kissed me on the forehead. "You?ll stay here as Lisa for the next fortnight, out of sight. Invisible in your maid?s uniforms. Meanwhile, the media will have to do at least one round of follow-up stories, even if all they can say is that Lord O?s new bird remains a rara avis. Social media will turn you into a meme. And then in a fortnight, it?ll be time for the next round." I knew what a meme was, not that I wanted to be one, but what was a rara avis? "The next round?" "Maybe we?ll go out for an intimate dinner," he said. "Nowhere too posh, maybe a little ethnic place in Southwark. No one there will know us. But I?ll have someone I can trust come in to take a photo of us together. Our faces close to each other, but not too close, so it?s ambiguous. Holding hands, not holding hands, we?ll decide later which to use. I?ll select the image, and you can veto it if you hate it. He?ll post it, and that?ll set off another round of media buzz." "I don?t want another round of media buzz! I was scared to death last night. I can?t think why I showed off in front of the cameras by making a spectacle of myself." "No, no, you were perfect. Excellent instincts. You twirled about in a dress made for twirling. A sexy action shot, six eye-grabbing seconds. The camera loves you." "But now what, William? What are you doing to me? You?re gradually revealing more and more about Emma, and I have to live this life that you?re inventing for me, go wherever you want me to go, wear whatever you want me to wear, behave however you want me to behave." "Yes, Emma, you do," he said. I was suddenly aware of how much larger and stronger he was than I. "That?s part of why I bought you, and you?re doing it so well." "I am?" "Oh yes," he said. "I?m messing with the media?s mind, as revenge for stories they?ve told about me, stories that aren?t true." "What stories?" He didn?t answer. "Two weeks after the restaurant photo surfaces, we?re going to Utah. Incidentally, that photo will probably make my friend enough money to put a down payment on a condo. He owes you big time." I couldn?t follow him. "Utah?" "Sundance Film Festival. We?ll stay up at Robert Redford?s place in the mountains. Do you ski?" "No!" Please, God, don?t make me learn how to ski! All I knew about skiing was that it was a good way to break your neck. "Well, buy a girl?s ski outfit, anyway. The cutest one you can find. We?ll do a photo shoot. Stick the skis in the snow, you won?t have to actually use them. You?ll need casual winter clothes, too, long skirts and pullovers and tights. No trousers, mind." Of course not trousers. "What do I have to do at Sundance?" "It?ll be like the play opening in London, with press, but at a ski resort, and people won?t dress up." In other words, nothing at all like the play opening in London, except for rude questions. What other dangers would I face? Avalanches? Bears? William gave me a hug. "Don?t worry. I?ll always be with you when you?re out in public. You can talk more this time, light conversation. It?ll be mostly Americans -- just keep an ear out for British accents and be careful. If you don?t know what to say, just wait, and I?ll come to your rescue. If anyone asks, you?re William Baxter?s guest. If they demand your real name, tell them to see Mr. Baxter. If you hear someone call out Emma or Lisa, don?t react, they don?t mean you." He smiled. "There will be several red carpets, you?ll need to pose for photos, attend some dinners, sit through some speeches and watch the awards, but it shouldn?t be too stressful. I have one movie in the festival, but it won?t win." My face must have shown my dismay at what sounded like a daunting series of opportunities for public humiliation. He read my mind. "Oh, Emma, it won?t be that bad. An event every other day or so. You can hide out in the rental house the rest of the time. It?s beautiful, it?s very private, you can even be Lisa if you want. I?ll have private meetings that you don?t need to attend." "Do you really need me to do this, William? So many opportunities for me to embarrass you in public? To say nothing of embarrassing myself." "Yes, Emma, I need you to do this. Show me you can be an international woman of mystery." I curtseyed to him. "Yes, Lord Ombersley." I sashayed down the hallway, wiggling my bum at him. "Oh, yes, Emma, very nice." I blushed, went up to my room, did my beauty routine and went to bed, thinking of him. ~ ~ ~ We did Sundance, and I survived. I can?t say I had fun. I made no mistakes as far as I know, but the stress of being Emma was endless and wearying. I heard plenty of British accents in the crowd, and tried not to speak in their vicinity. I hated the Sundance style -- the clothes were frumpy, yet none of the women seemed to care. The most popular designer seemed to be REI. William did his very best to keep me sane. I had every other day off, to spend as Emma or Lisa as I chose, and as Emma I ventured outside the condo only on his strong arm. I did the skiing photo shoot and was relieved to see only one photographer, the guy who took our picture in the restaurant. My ski photos were posted two days before the Sundance awards ceremony, so that they wouldn?t be eclipsed by actual news. The - - how did William put it? -- lower-demographic media coverage remained enthusiastic but clueless, with headlines like: Lord O?s Mystery Gal Pal Hot on the Red Carpet, Sizzling on the Slopes Billionaire Baxter Falls Hard For Gorgeous New Ski Bunny Film Mogul Leads Lover Over Moguls And so on. William told me it was even worse online. I didn?t look. Supposedly I was a heartless gold-digger, a Ukrainian whore, the illegitimate daughter of a Russian duke, an immigrant welfare cheat, a failed model sleeping her way to the top. I wanted to fight back, refute the lies, but Mr. B said no. So much better, he said, if I remained invisible on social media for now. From what little I?d seen of it, I had to agree. "Everything is going well, Emma," William said. "There?s buzz about you. At this point it doesn?t matter whether it?s positive or negative. You?re mysterious, beautiful and silent. The stage is set. In about a month, we?ll start taking you public. The world will eventually discover who you are, and you?ll make your accusers look ridiculous. You?ll emerge victorious, and you?ll be surprised to find how many doors will open to you." "But that?s not what I want, William! I don?t want to expose myself in public! I don?t want anyone to know who I am! I?ve told you and told you." I could barely hold back tears, but knew he hated it when I cried. He kissed my forehead. "It might not be what you want, princess, but it?s what you?ll get. You belong to me, and you?ll do as I say. I?ve turned a pretty boy into a beautiful woman, a woman worthy to be seen with me in public, a woman who draws every eye in the room, a woman who will learn to navigate any social situation. You are a success, and soon you will reap your reward." "What reward?" "I can?t tell you what you?ll get, but I can tell you where and when. In Los Angeles next month, at the Academy Awards. No more Gore-Tex for you! We?ll have Mademoiselle run you up some new gowns." "The Oscars? Oh! Master! I mean, William! Will it be as... um, will it be like Sundance?" "Haven?t you watched the Oscars on TV?" I shook my head. "Ten or twenty times fancier, for one night only," he said, "and the only thing you have to do is look gorgeous on the biggest red carpet in the world." Oh God! I didn?t want to do it, but it didn?t matter. William was taking me to the Oscars. I was terrified. ~ ~ ~ We flew back to London after Sundance. I spent a few contented weeks in his house as Lisa, and then we packed again and flew first class to Los Angeles, where we stayed in a house overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Such a bizarre place -- no humidity, palm trees overhead, flat California accents, London prices. Mr. B?s documentary on climate refugees in Bangladesh had been nominated for Best Documentary Feature, but he made light of its chances, saying two of the other nominees had bigger-name directors and better box office. I hoped he would win anyway, but was more worried at the moment by my impending walk down the red carpet. He was a nominee and I expected my new gown by Mademoiselle, which I had not yet seen, would be eye-catching, so there was a possibility we might be invited onto the dais for an interview. We spent the week before the Oscars attending show-business parties in Malibu, Bel Air, Beverly Hills, Topanga Canyon and other clusters of stars? homes. A surprising number were surrounded by burned brush, though there were no new fires while we were there. I won?t talk about anything that happened at the parties, but they were lavish and not always in good taste. William protected me from most of the predatory males, but did ask me to have dinner, dessert and a nightcap with three men whom I won?t name. Nothing improper happened between us, but they shortly afterwards expressed interest in financing William?s future projects. I once asked William why he needed movie financing when he was a billionaire himself. He laughed and told me that the only sensible way to make movies was with other people?s money. One thing I discovered in L.A. was real Mexican food, way better than any we?d had in Asheville or London. ?Ay! The best joints were holes in the wall and food trucks, and we devoured rellenos and tamales and carne asada and carnitas. I told William I wanted to open a real taco stand in London and enlighten the Brits, but he told me we?d have to import staff and ingredients, and with London rents and taxes we?d probably have to sell street tacos for ?20 each, which would be ridiculous. I kind of lost track of time in L.A., but the morning after a particularly lavish party at a Spanish-style mansion in Bel Air, I was shaken awake at some ungodly hour. By Governess. I automatically became Lisa. "Governess! Ma?am! How... what..." "Good morning, Emma. Mr. Baxter asked me to fly a third of the way around the world to make you beautiful today, or rather to make sure other people make you beautiful. We?re starting early. Let?s get you up and dressed." I looked at the clock. It was 6:50. "Too early," I whined. Governess pulled off my bedcovers, exposing my delicate nightwear, a lavender babydoll with befrilled, lace-trimmed panties. She flipped me over and gave me a sharp swat on my bottom. "Ow!" I hopped out of bed in a hurry. "Get up, get up! Your complete morning regimen, then your bath, then I?ll help you dress for the salon, where you?ll spend most of the day. Waxing, massage, facial, hair, nails, makeup... then back here, to get you dressed." "Yes, Ma?am," I said automatically. I climbed out of bed and followed Governess into the bathroom, where she ruthlessly ran me through everything I needed to do to prepare me for the rest of the day. To my dismay, she sent me to the salon in one of my old LBD maid uniform dresses, but it didn?t matter, because the nice ladies quickly stripped me of the dress, removed all my lingerie but my panties and wrapped me in an ultra-soft women?s robe, in which I spent the day. If you?ve done the luxury day spa thing, you know what I experienced that day, and if you haven?t, I feel sorry for you. It was absolutely lovely, and by mid-afternoon I was smooth and clean and fragrant and ready to be decorated. Back at our beach house, Governess laced me into a new white satin corset encrusted in lace, matching panties and nude stockings. The corset thrust my breasts upwards and outwards, like ripe fruit waiting to be plucked, and did not quite cover my nipples. I hoped my gown would remedy that. "Twenty-three inches! An inch tighter than ever before," Governess said. "And now for a gown to make the most of it." She opened the door to my bedroom. A lovely young hotel maid wheeled a rolling clothes rack into the room and withdrew. From the rack hung three gorgeous evening gowns. "Which do you like best, dear?" "Whichever one William likes," I said. "He likes them all, dear, and wants you to choose." "Oh!" I stepped up to the rack and examined them more closely. All the gowns were floor-length, with full skirts, well-defined waistlines and figure-hugging bodices. The first was mauve silk crepe de chine with sparkling crystals lining all the seams, like Lisa?s evening uniform. The second was a structured affair in a heavy gold taffeta that rustled and whispered, with tiny cap sleeves and a princess neckline. Its neckline and hem gleamed with gold beadwork reminiscent of Lisa?s day uniform. These references to my maid?s dresses, doubtless William?s doing, amused me but would be lost on everyone else in the audience. The third gown was a vast whirl of chiffon and tulle with a voluptuous shirred bustline and an impossibly slender boned bodice, laced up the back. Iridescent glass silk overlaying the bodice and skirt glistened and caught the eye. I fell in love with the third gown immediately. It reminded me of the gown that Cinderella wore in the movie a few years ago, except that it was strapless and a deep, rich violet. The color would stand out amid the gold, silver, red, pink and champagne-colored dresses that many of the women would wear, and the vast sweep of the skirt would make me feel like a princess. It would overflow whatever seat they stuck me in, but that didn?t matter -- I knew William wanted me to stand out on the red carpet, so I chose the gown that would do that. Governess laced me into my corset, watched as I put on the rest of my lingerie, and strapped me into my shoes. I stepped into the dress?s bouffant petticoats. Governess lifted them to my waist and tightened them. She lifted the dress itself over my head, lowered it into place and zipped it up. The bodice hugged my corseted torso and covered my nipples, barely. Governess fluffed the skirt and petticoats into place and pronounced me dressed. I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was swept into an updo decorated with sprays of diamonds, violets and baby?s breath. I wore a borrowed necklace, earrings, bracelet and ring that sparkled with diamonds and amethysts, matching my amethyst lips and nails. I felt perfect, glamorous, complete. "You?ll do, Emma," Governess said. "Wait here." I did so, trying to catch my breath. I hoped I would not need to do anything even slightly strenuous tonight, like having to tuck my girls back into my gown. William strode into the room. He wore a classic tuxedo perfectly tailored to his impressive form and looked just splendid. There is something just so right about a man in a tuxedo with no novelty, variety or irony in his attire. Let the females -- and sissies! -- of the species decorate themselves beautifully to compete for attention -- that was their proper role, and tonight they would swish and swirl and sweep about in their glistening gowns and jewels, brilliant flowery outbursts of color, shape and pattern against the somber background of serious men in the formal uniform of their sex. I felt so right to be one of the flowers, even at the cost of crushing my ribs to give me the hourglass silhouette that was part of Emma?s allure. "Well!" said William. "Emma, you are absolutely gorgeous. I have never seen you so beautiful. Everything about you is perfect." "Thank you, William," I replied and tried to curtsey to him. I could not catch up all my skirts in my hands, and made a poor job of it. He laughed. "No curtseys tonight, my dear. You are a princess." Governess entered the room, carrying a bottle of champagne and two flutes. She set them on a side table and fussed with my hair and ornaments and gown. She draped a chiffon stole over my shoulders, the final piece of my costume. I thought of it as a costume rather than a dress, a ceremonial garment worn for a ritual occasion with no regard for comfort or practicality. I loved it, and would probably never wear it again. I wondered how much my Master had paid for it. It didn?t matter, it was worth every penny. Governess finished with me, wished us luck and left the room. William removed the cork with ease and filled one flute and half-filled the other, which he handed to me. He raised his glass. "To Emma." I blushed and sipped delicately. I was surprised he was letting me touch alcohol. I hadn?t eaten today, in order to fit into my gown, and I was afraid champagne would go right to my head. He downed the rest of his bubbly. I took another cautious sip of mine and set the glass down. "Ready?" he said. "I hope so," I said. "You know so," he said, and led me downstairs and into the limousine waiting outside the front door. It whisked us away from the ocean down one of those endless L.A. boulevards to Hollywood, where we survived Oscar traffic hell only to be dropped off and ushered into a security tent, verified as humans worthy of entry, and herded toward the beginning of the red carpet. The biggest, reddest carpet in the world, on Hollywood?s biggest night of the year, and my performance of the evening was about to begin. In a few moments, I would walk down that carpet and do my best to get one of the TV networks to invite William and me onto their dais, where he would speak and I would have a few seconds to buy him as much camera love as I could. I would spread and swish the gown?s amazing skirt, and mention Mademoiselle in an English accent if they asked who I was wearing. Or at least that?s what William wanted me to do. I was scared, fearful of failure and exposure, did not want people?s attention. It didn?t matter. I would make love to the cameras so that William would not be disappointed with me. If I failed, he might turn me back into Lisa, might even punish me. I clenched my bottom at the thought of his strong hands holding me across his knees and spanking me. He?d probably make me enact my humiliating little punishment ritual, begging him to lift my skirts one layer at a time and pull down my panties one inch at a time. We waited in line behind other couples, none of whom I recognized, to enter the red carpet. I had a moment to pull up my corset and gown, make sure my nipples were covered, fluff out my skirts, pat my hair. I hoped my lipstick and gloss were intact. It was our turn. William placed his hand on my back and ushered me onto the red carpet. He dropped his hand and did not take mine. I wanted him to touch me, to show everyone that I was his, but instead we strolled down the carpet side by side, as if to deny there was anything special between us. Once again I was Miss Guest, a friend of William Baxter but no more. I put aside my disappointment and began to work the red carpet. As William chatted with others and occasionally introduced me to them, I turned toward them in such a manner as to make my violet gown come alive. I did a slow runway strut, heel to toe, swinging my hips to make the gown swirl around me, make its iridescent overskirt vibrate with color. As luck -- or perhaps William?s planning -- would have it, the women around me mostly were wearing neutral pastels, so I stood out vividly among them. I saw reflections on the lenses of cameras pointed at me, smiled sweetly, kept my head high, moved as femininely as I could, turning from left to right to keep my dress in motion, always in motion. We began to pass the interview platforms for various media, some of which called to William, trying to get his attention. He ignored them, and I began to wonder if he?d decided I wasn?t ready to stand up there next to him and pretend to be the mysterious Emma Mountjoy. He did nothing to discourage me from working the dress, though, so I continued to sparkle as brightly as I could. About halfway down the carpet, William stopped and offered me his arm. I gratefully slipped my arm into his and clung to it. My dress brushed against and around his legs. There was a burst of flashes and camera clicks. I had a discomfiting vision of what the Daily Mail would say about Miss Guest on Billionaire Bill?s arm. I smiled sweetly and held myself like a princess. Someone from the biggest media platform called to William. He stopped, gracefully prevented me from tripping on my heels, and steered us toward it. A young interny-looking woman in a black dress helped me up the stairs to the interview dais. I saw an Entertainment Tonight logo and realized that William had saved the best for last. The cameras swung around to track us. The announcer, a beautiful black woman in a tight-fitting bright red dress, introduced William and asked him something about his Bangladesh movie. He gave her a brief answer that even I understood. I swayed my hips just enough to add movement to the shot. The announcer asked him about his lovely partner. She meant me! The cameras swung to stare at me. I pretended they were all Governess, and did my best to please her. I gave her a polite nod and spread my skirts, let them fall and struck one of the photo poses she had taught me. Flash. Click. Cool it, girl, don?t be too obvious. Flash. Click. "She is my guest tonight," William said. "And she is...?" The announced sounded surprised. "My guest tonight," William said. The announcer turned to me. "A mystery! What can you tell us about yourself, Ms. Guest?" I swayed and smiled. "I?m very happy to be attending tonight." "Can you reveal who did your dress?" "Mademoiselle of London." I swished my skirts and struck another photo pose. "Thank you," William said, cutting off the interviewer before she could ask another question, and leading me down off the dais. I had to lift my skirts to avoid tripping on them. The announcer began babbling about her next guest. We strolled slowly toward the end of the red carpet, smiling for the cameras, and at long last escaped from public view and entered the Dolby Theater. I looked up at him with a question in my eyes. "Well done, Emma, well done!" he said in a low voice. "You were beautiful. Completely feminine. Your accent was good enough. You revealed nothing. I don?t know what you were doing with your dress, but it seemed to be a living thing. People couldn?t take their eyes off you." I swelled with pride. I wanted to burst into tears. "Thank you, William." The awards ceremony itself was boring. I hadn?t seen most of the movies, and our seats were so far from the stage that I couldn?t really see the stars? faces, or the details of the women?s dresses. About an hour into the show, a starlet announced the Best Documentary Feature category. I immediately perked up. She read off the names of the movies and nominees, and to my utter surprise said of William?s movie, "The Ocean Ate My Land, William Baxter, director, Emma Mountjoy, producer." My name? I gasped and turned to William in shock, but he immediately raised a finger to my lips to shush me. "And the winner is..." She opened the envelope. "The Ocean Ate My Land." I shrieked so loudly that people near us turned to look. I clapped a hand over my mouth, too late, as applause swelled. William stood, grasped my hand and lifted me to my feet. "Come with me, Emma." I couldn?t move. "I can?t!" "Don?t be silly." He firmly pulled me out into the aisle. "I?ll thank the individuals. You thank the Academy." Clutching William?s arm to avoid collapsing in shock, I set out on the longest walk of my life. The carpet was red. I remembered Governess?s lessons and, as he led me down the aisle to the stage, I swung my hips and worked my dress. When we reached the stairs, I let go of him to lift my skirts and vividly pictured myself tripping over my own feet. I followed him across the stage toward the microphone. A woman in an evening gown came onstage holding two golden Oscar statuettes and handed one to each of us. William stepped up to the microphone and quickly but gracefully thanked the people who, unlike me, had actually worked on his film. He moved aside and placed a strong hand on the small of my back, guiding me to the microphone. Jesus. There?s an Oscar in my hands. The Academy. He said thank the Academy. I?m not Lisa. I?m Emma. Emma Mountjoy. I took a deep breath, looked up into the bright lights and smiled prettily. "We?d like to thank the Academy for this great honor," I said in my best English accent, "and I?d like to thank my director for his great patience." I bobbed William an ironic curtsey, which brought a ripple of laughter and showed off my dress again. I stepped back from the microphone, the orchestra started to play, and our starlet led us off the stage. My knees almost buckled before we disappeared behind a curtain. "Oh my God, William! What... how..." "Later," he said. We were led to a room full of reporters and a giant Oscar statue. Cameras flashed and clicked and hummed. I smiled. I was still in shock. William made a short statement and answered questions. A reporter asked about me. "Emma is a pleasure to work with," he said. "A very private person. I look forward to working with her in the future." I smiled. Someone asked me to tell them about myself. William just smiled at me. "My job is to support William?s vision," I said. "I try not to say no to him." I smiled back at him. A female reporter asked about my dress. "It?s by Mademoiselle of London," I said, and gave a twirl. The next winner was led into the press room. William thanked the mass of reporters and led me into another room with a beautiful buffet and bar, where previous winners and their partners were celebrating. A few of them knew William and congratulated him on his win. He introduced me as Emma. I needed to say little beyond polite greetings, and let the movie people talk about themselves. Waiters circulated with flutes of champagne and delectable hors d?oeuvres. William took two flutes and handed one to me. "To victory," he said, and we toasted each other. I pulled William aside, far enough that no one could hear us over the background hip-hop. "William, why am I holding an Oscar?" "For tax purposes," he said. I blinked. "What?" "To manage risk. I needed the movie financing to come from a source legally unrelated to any of my companies. You and I have no legal relationship." "You own me, Master," I said very quietly. "I am honored," he said. "but the law disagrees. So I created a production company 100% owned by you, and moved a million dollars into it via other companies I own, and I used that money to make The Ocean Ate My Land. The name of your company is Pinafore Productions Ltd. I?ll show you the logo, it?s very cute." "I have a production company?" "Yes, my dear, and I used it, which is why you have the producer credit and that statue you?re holding. The good news, Madam Producer, is that we came in ten percent under budget. You still have a quarter of a million dollars in the bank. Additional financing is available for future projects." "I don?t understand. You gave me a million dollars?" "It saved me a lot more than that. I?ll explain it later. You are now an Academy Award-winning movie producer, and a complete mystery to everyone in Hollywood. Have some more champagne. I love you, Emma." Oh my God. He finally said it. I had to lean against him to stay upright, and not because of the champagne. "I love you, William," I whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. I don?t deserve this." "You just survived the better part of a year under Governess? thumb, being trained to do what you did tonight. You managed my household while I was filming in Asia. And you financed my movie. You damn well deserve it." An hour later, we were at one of a series of post-Oscars parties -- the Vanity Fair party, because I remember that?s what the photo backdrop said in letters eight feet high. William and I were photographed together against that backdrop, after which we mingled with a crowd that included people famous enough that even I recognized them. I won?t say who, because if nothing else, since that night I?ve learned that personal privacy is precious and must be protected. William finished another champagne and excused himself, presumably to take a piss. I looked around, wondering who to talk to. A short man in a tux too tight for him approached me. "Lady Buggeroff?" Ick. That slimeball from London. I took a sip of champagne to muster my thoughts. I was safe -- William would be back soon. "Nathan Pratt, at your service. I have private information that will be of interest to you. Information that you might want kept private." "I have no idea what you?re talking about," I said. He grabbed by the arm and muscled me into an alcove, where he lifted my skirt, groped my crotch and grabbed my scrotum and penis. He tugged, hard. I yelped in pain. He let go and dropped my skirt. "That?s what I?m talking about, Ms. Mountjoy." I tried to push him aside so I could get away, but he was too strong. "Take your hands off me immediately! You just assaulted me. I?ll report you to the police." He laughed. "If you do, I?ll tell them what I felt under your dress just now, and it will be in the police report, which is public." I swallowed. "And if I don?t report you?" "You?re hot news, my dear. There are plenty of outlets in England and America willing to pay for what I now know." "You don?t know anything, Mr. Pratt. You have no proof." Oh, where was William? "As it happens," he said, "I have a copy of a medical record for a procedure that one Emma Mountjoy had at a very private hospital in London last year. A very unusual procedure -- for a woman." I almost fainted. My orchiectomy! How could this vile little man possibly know? Medical records were confidential! But if someone offered the right nurse a thousand pounds... "You?re wrong, Mr. Pratt. I?m sure there are any number of women in England named Emma Mountjoy." "That may be, my dear, but I doubt any of the others have had their bollocks removed. Or who use a certain billionaire?s home address." "I have nothing to say to you." He laughed. "But I have lots to say, Ms. Mountjoy. Now, I could be convinced to keep it secret... but I would need to be compensated for the loss of potential income. And you have a very rich boyfriend." "I don?t have a boyfriend. This is blackmail, Mr. Pratt." "Such an ugly word, Ms. Mountjoy. If that?s your real name." "Of course it is." Oh God. What else did he know? To my immense relief, I saw William returning. I waved at him. He took in the situation and hurried over. "What?s all this?" he said, glaring at Pratt. "This man is threatening me, Mr. Baxter," I said. "How?" "He thinks he can prove I?m a boy, if you can believe it, and he wants to sell a story to the tabloids," I said. "But you?re not a boy," William said. He gave Pratt a look that would have made me fall to my knees and beg for mercy. "Publish and be damned to you." "William!" I said. He waved me off. "I will sue you under British law," he told Pratt. "If you have any money now, you soon won?t." Pratt smirked. "Emma Mountjoy is a strange woman. She has no past. Google can?t find her. She?s not on social media. She appeared out of nowhere last year, and has been seen only in your company, Mr. Baxter." William smiled, not in a nice way. "You seem to know very little about her." "You seem to know a great deal about her," said Pratt. "Are you lovers?" I didn?t wait for William to speak. I stepped forward and slapped Pratt across the face. William could have stopped me, but didn?t. Pratt staggered back a step or two, stopped and glared at me. A few people noticed the blow and turned to look at us. "Now we?re even, Mr. Pratt," I said. "One assault each." "That?s enough, Ms. Mountjoy," William said. He turned to Pratt. "This might be a good time for you to leave, before I call security." He lifted his Oscar statuette. "They?ll kick you out if I ask." Pratt tugged at his too-tight jacket. "For two million, there is no story." "Blackmail is an indictable offense," William replied. "For two million, you can go to hell." Pratt smirked, turned and strolled towards the door. Onlookers saw him go and returned to their conversations. "What do we need to do?" I asked William. "Nothing tonight," he said. "Just enjoy the party. Enjoy your Oscar! If the time comes, all we have to do is tell the truth. Our version of it." ~ ~ ~ We arrived back at Heathrow the day the story broke in the Sun, the British tabloid. It went viral on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram, and other media picked it up the next day. The papers were waiting for us when we slipped into the rear entrance to Edward?s London flat in Montpelier Square. The headlines made me cry. Billionaire Baxter?s New Bird is Trans, Sources Reveal Female Oscar Winner Said to Be Transsexual Hollywood?s New ?It? Girl: Is She a Boy? All accompanied by photos or video of me on the red carpet and onstage at the Academy Awards in that gorgeous violet gown, looking very feminine and giving me instant and totally unwanted fame. A day later, I couldn?t walk down the street without people stopping me. Media and paparazzi surrounded the flat, and I couldn?t even go outside. I was angry with William, though I tried not to show it. He did this to me. He gave me an Oscar and a production company that I didn?t deserve. He built up all the Miss Guest mystery around me. He made me show myself off on the red carpet and then dragged me on stage at the Academy Awards. I hadn?t wanted to do any of it! I just wanted to... Wanted to... Wanted to be Lisa. Wanted to be a lady?s maid again, no worries, no red carpets, no photographers, no sleazy men saying nasty hurtful things about me. Get up, do my chores, serve Master?s meals, wiggle my bottom at him, do whatever?s needed to make him happy. I climbed the stairs to the pretty maid?s room in the attic. I stripped off my Emma outfit, redid my makeup and changed into Lisa?s evening uniform, all crystals and petticoats. I tied on my apron, put on my maid?s cap and went looking for William. I found him in his office, where he was standing by the window, looking down on the media circus in the street below. "Lisa! This is a pleasant surprise. How are you? Where?s your mistress?" "You mean Governess?" "No, no! Your mistress, Emma. How is she bearing up under the pressure?" I loved playing these little games with him. "She?s quite upset with herself, Master. She thinks she failed you and doesn?t know what to do about it. Now the whole world thinks you?re a gay couple or something, and you?re not! She is so dreadfully embarrassed. She?s a beautiful woman, but they?re saying horrible things about her on the Internet." "That must be dreadful for her," William -- Mr. B -- said. "Yes! She wants to fight back, but she feels like she?s stuck inside here and can?t do anything." "Hmm," said Mr. B. "What would she think if we had a news conference to face this head on?" "Oh God!" I was appalled. "Talk to all those people? Let them ask us questions?" "We could skip the questions," he said. "Just read statements." "What good will that do?" I asked. "They?ll say I?m ugly, that I look like a boy in drag. And they?ll say awful things about you." "Oh, let?s see if we can get them to write about something else, shall we?" "How?" ~ ~ ~ Late that afternoon -- just in time for the evening news and tomorrow?s papers, William said -- he opened the front door of his flat and gently pulled me out after him. It was a crisp day, so I wore a camel overcoat covering everything but nude stockings and heels. We stood at the top of the stairs, said nothing and waited until the cameras stopped clicking and the reporters stopped shouting questions. There was no microphone, just us. William spoke. "We will make brief statements, but will not take questions at this time." He waited until the questions died down. "Ms. Mountjoy." The cameras and questions zoomed in on me. I, too, waited for quiet before speaking. "I?m Emma Mountjoy," I said, feeling very odd, considering that my real name was Lewis. "I?m a very private person and I don?t want any of this. I woke up this morning to find that my privacy had been violated in the most intimate way. I?m upset, and I?m very angry, not so much for my sake as for the sake of a good man whose name is being dragged with mine through the mud. To protect him, I will tell you the truth about myself, and you can judge me instead of him." I took a deep breath. "It?s true that I was born male. Since I was young, however, I?ve known that I have a girl?s feelings and desires. I had surgery, and am no longer male in any way beyond having a Y chromosome. Judge for yourself." I took off my coat and handed it to William. The cameras went crazy. I was wearing a tight, sleeveless gold minidress, one I had worn only for William in private, never in public. It plumped and upthrust my boobs, hugged my rigidly corseted waist and flowed down over my surgically enhanced hips and bottom, ending at mid-thigh. The dress looked painted on. It showed no sign of a male bulge, just the barest hint of a female mound. I struck a series of poses that showed off my figure. "I am a woman," I said, "and my name is Emma." Someone wolf-whistled. Nervous laughter and scattered boos broke out. I put one hand on my hip and shook the other at the crowd. "That?s not nice!" This drew general laughter and applause. I gestured to William, and he helped me put my coat back on. I didn?t want the minidress to distract the crowd from the rest of what we had to say. Again I had to wait for people to settle down. "I have a strictly professional relationship with Mr. Baxter," I said. "I helped him make his movie. I?ve attended theatrical openings and other events with him. It?s part of my job. He has never behaved inappropriately towards me, and I?ve never behaved inappropriately towards him. Anyone who claims otherwise is wrong. I greatly respect Mr. Baxter and look forward to working with him again in the future." I stepped back, ignoring the questions shouted at me. William waited for quiet. "I can only confirm what Ms. Mountjoy says." His voice rang out, or at least I thought it did. "We collaborate well." He lifted his Oscar. I modestly raised mine and smiled. "I saw the published rumors about Ms. Mountjoy, and I utterly condemn this commercial invasion of her privacy. I intend to pursue legal redress under the laws of England on her behalf as well as my own." He paused. "I too look forward to working closely with Ms. Mountjoy in the future... and not just in a professional way." He looked at me, and I felt a wild surmise that I tried to tamp down. "I don?t pay attention to evil gossip, and I hope she won?t, either." He knelt before me. I gasped, unable to believe what was about to happen. Why was he doing this? In public! Was he serious? "Emma, will you marry me?" Flash. Click. Shouts. Cheers. Applause. I was in shock, but managed to smile. "William, why are you doing this?" "You have to ask? I love you. I want you to be my wife. Will you marry me?" I knew what I wanted to say, had wanted to say to my Master since forever, and now at long last could say aloud. Before I could reply, someone near the front of the crowd shouted, "Is this fucking for real?" Everyone within hearing laughed. "Yes!" William replied. "The fucking will be for real." Louder laughter. When it died down, he tried again. "Emma, what is your answer?" "Yes!" I cried out. "I will. Oh, William!" I burst into tears and hugged him. We kissed. He reached into a pocket and slid an engagement ring onto my left ring finger, a beautiful circle of diamonds with no giant rock. It was pandemonium. We waved and retreated inside, where he and I had our own little celebration. ~ ~ ~ A lot happened quickly after video of the proposal went viral. Most of it I didn?t want to happen. The media glare was immense. Requests for interviews, appearances, business proposals. William hired me an executive assistant named Ruby, who quickly organized and ran my business affairs. Ruby hired several assistant Rubies to tend to my social media presence, my search and Web presence, and my mobile strategy, whatever that was. William had already hired people to create plausible presences for Emma and Lisa in the real world, a British identity for Emma and an American one for Lisa, with passports, driver?s licenses, birth certificates, credit cards, medical ID and so on. It seemed possible that he might have had to use irregular means, for example bribery, to get this done, but I did not inquire, as it was neither Emma?s or Lisa?s place to meddle in his business affairs. The disclosure of Emma?s identity made me an instant symbol people for trans people fighting for acceptance, in Hollywood and in life in general. Hollywood and the media immediately came to our defense and thoroughly approved of our romance. As a result came more requests for appearances and interviews -- and even some inquiries about movie roles for me. I wasn?t an actress, and to be honest I really didn?t want to be a public symbol of any sort, so I asked William if I could just tell Ruby to politely decline all offers except the very most important and show me only those. He said absolutely I could. So I did. I holed up in William?s house until the media watch outside dispersed. It took a couple of weeks -- the TV people left, but the paparazzi hung around. Sometimes I took off Emma?s glasses and changed into Lisa?s lingerie, makeup and uniform, and I cooked and washed and cleaned and dusted and swept. Maid?s work was an escape from the worry and stress of having to make decisions or face the public. I could tell Mr. B preferred me as Emma, except when he wanted sex. That?s because as Emma, I decided that I wouldn?t have sex with him until after the wedding, and told him so. He didn?t seem to mind much, because he cheerfully banged Lisa instead whenever he felt the need. As Emma, I decided to take no notice when William toyed with his maid... who was me. It was a sexy situation, but so confusing! I promised myself that once Emma was married, she would decline to give him blow jobs, and would make him force the maid to suck him off. Of course, playing this game meant I would have to change out of an Emma dress into a maid?s uniform just to get his rocks off in either or both orifices, after which I would have to change from the maid?s uniform back into the Emma dress, with makeup and possibly other repairs. This was sexy at first, but soon became a bother, and Emma began telling William that he had to let the maid get her work done. He didn?t pester Lisa quite as often after that. As Emma, I wondered how far I could push him, and decided not to find out. William insisted I have a hen party, which as far as I could tell was a bridal shower somewhere out of town, with more booze. I wasn?t adverse and let Ruby organize it all. Which is why I found myself cruising the Mediterranean coast of Spain on a yacht that I?m sure William paid for, if he didn?t own it outright. The scenery was lovely, the company less so. The attendees were mostly directors and actresses on Hollywood?s female A list, plus several curious lesbians from the WNBA and LPGA, plus my own Governess, who surprised me by introducing herself as Katharine. "You?re so pretty, Emma, are you really a boy?" asked a recent Best Actress winner who shall remain nameless. I shrugged. "I have breasts, but no balls. I have a cock, but no cunt. What does that make me?" Laughter. "How big a cock?" asked one of my favorite British actresses. I held my fingers apart. Titters. "That?s not a cock," said a famous soccer player. "That?s a clitty. You have a clitty, Emma. You?re a girl after all." She ran her hands down my corseted waist. "I?ll play with yours sometime, if you?ll play with mine." I flushed, unsure what to say. She laughed at my embarrassment. "You?re so cute! Is it time to play games?" I hadn?t known there were games and rituals that women indulged in at bridal showers. Fortunately for me, Ruby and one of the actresses -- I won?t say who, though you?d recognize her name in a second -- took charge of the festivities. In no time they had very rich women digging through their purses to find various risqu? items, and playing wedding movie charades, and making naughty shapes out of Play-Doh, and draping actresses in toilet paper to make mock wedding dresses. I wasn?t used to how crudely modern women behaved when no men were around. Things got worse after that: I had to open gifts in the prettiest wrapping paper decorated with ribbons, lace and bows. Almost all the women gave me sex toys, and those that didn?t gave me lingerie that left little to the imagination, which of course I had to model, and their comments made me blush. I found myself wishing this was a stag party instead, with nothing more complex than booze, steaks and a stripper. The party ended at sunset. The yacht docked, and my guests scattered to their hotels. William emerged from a bar at the head of the dock. "How was your hen party, love?" he asked. My face gave me away before I could smile. He laughed. I didn?t like him making fun of me just because bridal showers were stupid. "It was brilliant. Are you having a stag party?" "Friday, in Soho," he said. "You?d better not fuck the stripper." "Wouldn?t think of it," he said, "as long as I get to fuck you later." "Not until after the wedding," I said. "No blowjobs, either. And Lisa?s back in London. I wasn?t about to invite my maid to this. I guess you?re out of luck tonight, big boy." He chased me back onto the boat. I shrieked and ran below decks. He caught me, of course, but as his bride-to-be, I wouldn?t let him fuck me. So he spanked me instead. Oops. ~ ~ ~ Ruby offered to take me shopping for a wedding gown, but I went straight to Mademoiselle. Her business had gone through the roof since the Academy Awards. So had her prices, naturally, but she greeted me with air kisses and said she?d be delighted to design my wedding gown for free. "Not for free, Mademoiselle," I said. "Send a bill to Mr. Baxter, and don?t forget the zeros." In light of recent events, I wanted to look like a woman at my wedding, not a sissy, so I asked Mademoiselle for a traditional and fairly simple ballgown, snug on top and bell-shaped below. She approved of my change in taste and showed me a dozen dresses. I chose my favorite features of each and we talked about them. She sketched as we talked, and by the time we were done she had produced a drawing that I loved. I opted for a form-fitting bodice to show off my bust and waist, with a sweetheart neckline, tiny cap sleeves of lace and a bell-shaped skirt, in silk satin overlaid with the lightest organza embroidered with seed pearls in delicate patterns that were dense across my bustline but thinned out as they descended to the hem. Under the gown I would wear a bridal corset, panties but no bra, opera-length white stockings gartered to the corset, three-inch stiletto sandals decorated with seed pearls, and three poufy petticoats of taffeta and tulle tailored to give my skirt the right shape. I dispensed with a train; one of my first Emma dresses had a train, and I didn?t like having to twitch the thing around every time I turned. My veil was a shoulder-length breath of tulle sprinkled with seed pearls and edged in lace. All very simple and elegant and beautiful -- an Emma gown, not a Lisa gown. Not that Lisa would ever need a formal gown, as she was always in uniform or nightwear. Though I was determined to get William to let Lisa wear housewife dresses when running errands or out in public. The morning of my wedding dawned. Governess woke me up, made me get ready and took me to the salon to get my hair, nails and makeup done. She took me home, supervised my dressing, and fussed with my gown and veil. "Emma," she said in a softer voice than she usually used, "and Lisa, and whoever you really are under your dresses... I know you were a boy once, but that?s all I know about you, and it doesn?t matter. Whoever you are, whoever you become after this, I want to let you know that I am proud of you. Many females -- real women and girls like you -- have tried to catch Mr. Baxter. You?re the female who succeeded. You know how long I?ve worked for him. He is a good man, a firm but fair master, and you are a lucky, lucky girl to get him." She took a deep breath. "You probably don?t know, Emma, but on some level, this was my plan all along. When I saw the raw material Mr. B had purchased from Ms. N, I saw potential, and that?s why I made you work so hard and spanked you so often. That?s why I put up with watching that loathsome Italian dance master grope you during your lessons -- sorry! It has all paid off beautifully, and I am so proud and happy. "Now, listen to me. You exist to make your man?s life beautiful, not just with your beauty, but with the beauty of the home that you will create for him. He spends much of his life in hotels and airports. He needs a home with a wife in it, a wife who will give him unconditional love and a refuge from toil and stress. Make him happy. Understand this: If I ever hear that you?ve made him unhappy, if you ever betray him or hurt him, I will make your life hell. Spend the rest of your life proving to me that you?re worthy of him. Good luck and God bless you." She took my face in her hands and kissed me on the forehead. I teared up. I loved William already, and Governess? little speech made my heart want to burst. I never knew she thought me worthy of him, never dreamed she had groomed me for the role I would play today. "Oh, Governess!" I said, and started to cry. "Stop that at once," she ordered, and whipped a handkerchief out of her sleeve to dab at my eyeliner and mascara. She tsked, took makeup from my purse and quickly repaired me. "Are you ready? The car is here." I became Mrs. William Baxter in a very posh and very private noon ceremony before Bishop -- oh, I can?t remember his name -- in Holy Trinity Church at Sloane Square. I left the selection of the wedding parties up to William. His best man was his younger brother, Richard, and his groomsmen were Richard?s sons, who were nine and seven and would likely inherit much of William?s wealth someday. I hoped they didn?t know it. They seemed like perfectly nice boys, well-behaved for their age. All of the males were in formal morning dress, and they all looked magnificent in their cutaway coats, waistcoats and ascots. William chose Governess as my matron of honor and Ruby as my bridesmaid, which pleased me. I told them the wedding had no theme colors and they could wear any dress they wanted. To my surprise, Ms. N showed up to sit on my side of the aisle, in lieu of a parent to give me away. I had not seen her since she had sold me to William in what I considered a rather heartless transaction. Unsure what, if anything, she thought of me, I made her a formal curtsey. Ms. N laughed and air-kissed me as if we were equals, and exclaimed at my dress and hairdo and makeup, like an aunt instead of a former mistress. She congratulated me on snaring Mr. B in what she said was by far the best match ever made by any of the sissy maids she trained. I was surprised by her attitude until I realized she was treating me as Emma, not Lisa. I would have to get used to that. Part of me wanted to be Lisa again, living in a simpler world free of cameras and reporters and Web sites that let people post lies about me. At least Ms. N had kept my secret, for which I was grateful. The media had said nothing about Lisa and seemed unaware of her existence, let alone her relationship to Emma. Thank goodness! Lisa was my retreat from the pressures of being Emma. At my request, there was no wedding march. The eight of us took our places on the steps leading up to the choir, where the bishop conducted the ceremony. William and I weren?t particularly religious, so we?d requested the briefest possible service that was legal, and after we made a notable donation to the church?s restoration fund, he agreed to oblige us. When he asked me if I would love, comfort, honor and protect William, I didn?t just say yes. Instead, I said, "Yes, I will love, comfort, honor, protect and obey him." The bishop raised his eyebrows, but kept going. William looked at me and smiled. I was just being honest. It was our duty to love, comfort, honor and protect each other, but it was my unique duty to obey him. William slid a gorgeous wedding ring onto my left ring finger. It perfectly complemented my engagement ring, which of course I?d moved to my right ring finger for this day. I caught my breath at the sight of what must be a four- or five-carat rock, large enough to impress but not so large as to be vulgar. I beamed at it, so happy with this symbol of my marriage that I lost track of what the priest was saying and had to be prompted to catch up. When the Right Reverend pronounced us husband and wife, William raised my veil, turned it back over my bridal updo, and kissed me. He had to hold me by my upper arms to keep me steady on my feet. I was already his -- he?d bought me from Ms. N -- but now I was his in the eyes of the law as well, and I was supremely happy. I would legally change my name to his, if he allowed me. Emma Baxter. Mrs. William Baxter. Despite his title, it wasn?t a noble name -- Old English for baker, he said -- but I didn?t care. He was handsome, he was rich, he was strong, he was some sort of lord, and he was mine. Instead of a reception, the eight of us walked around the corner from the church to a lovely French caf? and had a lengthy and rather liquid lunch. It felt quite strange to be walking on the street in a wedding dress, with my skirt and veil blowing in the breeze and everyone on the street gawking at me. Heads swiveled as I entered the restaurant. We were led to an exquisitely laid table for eight and ran up a tab that must have been more than a thousand pounds. The men took care of it, as was proper. William?s driver somehow appeared as we left the caf?. We all hugged and kissed, and Ms. N threw a handful of rice at me, and my new husband and I climbed into the car and returned to his house, with the paparazzi none the wiser. William said an announcement would be made tomorrow, by which time we would be on our way to his mountain retreat in Asheville for a private honeymoon beyond the easy reach of the London press. "Pack your Lisa costumes if you like," he said. Oh, I liked. Governess and Ms. N did not return to the house with us, so we had it to ourselves. I didn?t want to take off my gown, but William insisted on helping me undress down to my corset, panties and hose. I helped him undress down to his nothing-at-alls and slipped into the bathroom to lube myself and to put on the peignoir I?d left hanging on the back of the door. I crawled into the bedroom, climbed up on the bed, held out my hands like paws and said, "Meow." He lunged at me, gave me ten sharp swats for being a bad kitty and told me to be a good kitty. I used my mouth to heighten his passion, and he played with my nipples to heighten mine, and then he rolled a condom onto his impressive cock and penetrated me, easily reaching my L-spot and driving me wild. I came four or five times before he did, and had my best orgasm when he came deep inside me. An hour later, we did it again. After that he left me alone... until an hour before sunrise, and again at dawn. I was deliriously happy. What I felt was so much better than my admittedly limited experience of male orgasms. This was more intense and lasted much longer. I don?t know if it was like what women felt, but if it was, lucky them, and poor male half of humanity. And as Mrs. Baxter, I would have Mr. Baxter and his wonderful cock all to myself as long as we both shall live -- as long as I remember Governess? advice to keep him ecstatically, blissfully, transcendently happy. As Emma... and as Lisa. ~ ~ ~ Three weeks later, we were living dangerously, sipping deadly Hurricanes on the veranda after William?s homemade barbecue with vinegar sauce. The sun had just gone down, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the Appalachian forest. I?d had a Hurricane on Bourbon Street in New Orleans once, and didn?t remember much of what happened afterwards. "I do have one fantasy about you, Emma," William said. "I?d like to see you dressed up as a schoolgirl at St. Trinian?s." "Saint who?" His smile was wicked. "St. Trinian?s. A school for English girls. Very naughty English girls." "A reform school?" "Not quite. Not a real school, just in cartoons and books and movies. Back in my granddad?s day. Oh, Emma, when you were younger, you would have done very well in the Sixth Form at St. Trinian?s. In your naughty little English schoolgirl uniform, with your very short pleated black skirt and your tight white blouse in imminent danger of button failure, and your gartered stockings and wicked heels, oh, yes. A menace to every male within line of sight." I drew myself up. "William! How dare you fantasize about underage schoolgirls dressed as tarts? That?s not nice! I should punish you for this." He laughed. "I?d like to see you try, Twinkie. I do the spanking around here." He spun me around and gave me a swat. "Oh, Master!" I said, clutching my bum. "What?s this, Lisa? Why are you wearing Emma?s clothes? Out of uniform again! You bad little maid!" He laid me across his knees, flipped up my skirt, pulled down my panties and showed me just how bad I was. First with his bare hand, and then with a different appendage. If this was what married life held for me, I was ready to submit. His hand descended. Oh! The End