Blackthwaite House (Part 1 Of 2) free porn video

BLACKTHWAITE HOUSE (Part 1 of 2) By Lisa Lovelace After graduating from high school in Bellingham, a pretty college town at the very top left corner of the continental U.S., I decided to take a gap year before college. I began it by flying to England to take a walking tour of the Lake District in northwest England. I was an avid hiker - slender and fit, if a bit on the short side - and looked forward to exploring Wordsworth country on foot. It looked incredibly beautiful online: sparkling lakes surrounded by lush green valleys and, on the horizon, the tall, bare hills that the English call fells, with trails connecting the valleys and peaks. The real reason for the gap year and the trip was a personal tragedy. I'd lost my parents to a drunken driver only days after graduation. They died immediately. The drunk burned to death in his car, which satisfied my sense of justice. I had no other close relatives and had to deal with the aftermath myself. The discovery that my parents were better off than I thought was no consolation for their loss, but it made me feel less guilty about taking a year off before starting college - and spending the first month or so of that year in a particularly beautiful part of a country I'd always wanted to visit. I landed at Heathrow in the early morning, took the Tube to Euston, grabbed a well-timed train and arrived in the twee tourist town of Windermere around midday. I had a reservation at a rather pricy B&B, but it was hours before I could check in, so I decided to take a short walk up from the cobbled streets and chic boutiques to the top of a hill called Orrest Head, which was said to offer a magnificent view of Lake Windermere and the green hills and rocky fells beyond. And wow, it did. The walk let me stretch my legs after the all-night flight and the whole morning on the train, and on a bright, breezy day, the view from the height was superb. Dry stone walls crossed the fields and hills at random angles, demarking fields and pastures that might be hundreds or even thousands of years old. I admired the country in all directions, especially the long, narrow lake that stretched for miles from north to south. Far to the west, sun sparkled on the Irish Sea. "Beautiful," I said to a couple sharing the summit. He was old but fit, a head taller than me, and looked distinguished. She was young, maybe half his age, and pretty enough to make me think she was a trophy wife. "Isn't it just?" she said. "You're American? Canadian?" "American, sorry. You can't tell?" In Bellingham, you developed an ear for folks who went oot and aboot instead of out and about. She smiled. "I was pretty sure you weren't Australian." We laughed. I introduced myself, hoping I wasn't being too forward. "I'm Lyle." "I'm Kate. My husband is Roger." He gave me a polite nod but did not speak. I don't know how Kate got me onto the subject of myself, but I told them what had happened and why I was there. "How dreadful!" Kate said. "All alone? No brothers or sisters?" I shook my head. "Not even aunts or uncles." "So sorry. Didn't mean to pry," she said. She changed to a less personal subject by asking me where I was staying. When I mentioned the name of the B&B, she pursed her lips and suggested that I cancel my reservation - they were so busy in high season that the short notice wouldn't be a problem. "Be our guest," she said. "We have a lovely house on the other side of the lake. It'd be wonderful to have a young person around again. You remind me so much of his lord - of my husband's son when he was your age." Later, I was to learn that he had a daughter, not a son, and that I reminded Kate of her. I gratefully accepted their offer, followed them downhill, tossed my backpack into their trunk, or boot as they called it, and accepted an invitation to take the passenger's seat. It was on the wrong side of the car, of course, and made me think we were about to crash into the picturesque stone walls that lined the roads. In Windermere, we waited a few minutes to cross the lake on a ferry. Roger navigated the narrow local roads to their home. It wasn't visible from the road. He used a controller to open a steel gate set into stone walls lined with a tall, dense hedge. A steep driveway wound upward through a grove of rhododendrons twenty feet tall and ended in front of a large antique house built of the local stone. "Wow," I said. "Is the house very old?" "Oh, no," he said dismissively. "Late nineteenth century." That sure sounded old to me. I remembered the old joke that Americans think a hundred years is a long time, and Brits think a hundred miles is a long way. I grabbed my backpack from the boot and followed them inside. The entrance hall was like a medieval movie set, with a great stone fireplace, wainscoted walls and a flagstone floor. Antique weapons of various types hung on the walls. We passed through it into a more modern room with armchairs and a sofa, a sort of living room that they called the drawing room. Roger walked over to a side table bearing crystal glasses and bottles of amber fluids. "Something to drink?" "Whatever you're having, sir," I replied. "Well, Wimbledon starts Monday, so I suppose we can say it's Pimm's o'clock," he said. I nodded, having no idea what he meant, and watched him prepare three tall glasses of a dark liqueur and a clear, fizzy mixer over ice. He handed one to Kate, one to me, and raised his glass. "Who dares, wins," he said. I took a sip. The drink was sweetish and tasted of spice and citrus. In America I would have called it a girl's drink, but it wasn't bad. It reminded me slightly of a Long Island iced tea, but weaker. I took another sip. Kate set down her glass. "Excuse me for a moment," she said, and slipped out of the room. My host and I regarded each other silently and finished our drinks. "Another?" he said. "Only if you're having one, sir," I said. He refilled our glasses and raised his. "Absent friends." We had almost finished our second round when Kate rejoined us. "Just airing out the guest room," she said. "Now, for dinner - shepherd's pie? With the lamb from last night's roast?" "Splendid," he said. "You'll have to excuse me." He left the room and headed in the direction of his library. I doubted he wanted company, so I wandered into the kitchen and asked Kate if she needed help. "No need, dear," she said. "Have you ever had shepherd's pie?" I shook my head and watched her cook a stew of lamb and vegetables, cover it with a layer of freshly mashed potatoes, sprinkle it with grated cheese and put it in the oven. It smelled delicious. Kate opened a bottle of red Bordeaux and poured us each a glass, and we chatted while she worked. I ventured to observe that it was a good-sized house, which was an understatement, and asked Kate if she had any housekeeping help. "Not at the moment, I'm afraid," she said. "We had a housekeeper, but she was quite old and retired last year. Since then, it's been just me." "Can I lend a hand?" I asked. "You're doing me a favor by putting me up." "Oh, no need, but thank you. What do you know about housekeeping?" Kate asked. "More than most men," I said. "I can cook. American and Mexican, mostly. I don't know English cooking, but I can do a curry." "That's English cooking these days," she said. "What else can you do?" "Dishes, floors, bathrooms... change the linens, do the laundry..." "My, you're quite the little housekeeper, aren't you?" she said with a smile. "Have you thought about hiring one?" I asked. "Why, are you interested in the job?" I smiled. "I doubt I could get a work visa." "No, we have to save jobs like that for the village girls, who don't want them. They're all keen to move to London. We have a part-time gardener for the outdoor work, but even families like ours find it hard to hire domestic help." "Families like yours...?" Kate hesitated. "I didn't want to mention it when we met, but my husband is a peer of the realm, the 7th Baron Blackthwaite. I am Lady Blackthwaite, his baroness. Welcome to Blackthwaite House." "Whoa, really?" I said. "You're actual aristocrats? Am I supposed to call you Milady or something?" "If you were British, you would call me Lady Blackthwaite or 'my lady', and you would call my husband Lord Blackthwaite or 'my lord'. Since you're a rebellious colonial, you can call us whatever you like. Sir and ma'am would be polite. What's your last name?" "Lyndon. Lyle Lyndon. ma'am." "As in Barry Lyndon?" I had no idea who Barry was. "L-Y-N-D-O-N, ma'am." When the mashed potatoes had browned and the cheese was bubbling, she took the shepherd's pie out of the oven and went off to summon her husband to the dining room. He took the seat at the head of the table. She sat to his right and I sat to his left, across from her. The shepherd's pie was tasty, if a bit on the bland side. I would have used more seasoning in the lamb stew - rosemary, garlic, bay laurel, and perhaps not quite so much salt. The wine flowed freely, and between that and jet lag, I was starting to nod off at the table. Kate - she was young enough that I had trouble thinking of her as Lady Blackthwaite - seemed to take in my condition and told her husband she would show me to my room. She picked up my backpack and hoisted it over a shoulder with ease. We climbed a dark, narrow staircase at the back of the house to the top floor - the third floor, though she called it the second floor - and entered a spacious, airy bedroom. The d?cor was rather feminine, with pale mauve walls and white trim. White eyelet curtains covered a window. The queen-sized bed had a matching mauve duvet cover and pillowcases trimmed in white eyelet. There was an ensuite bathroom in white tile, with separate tub and shower enclosures, and a roomy but empty walk-in closet. "This was the maids' dormitory back when the house had maids," Kate said. "It once held four girls sleeping in single beds, so it's quite roomy for a single guest. I hope you find it comfortable. Get up whenever you like. Breakfast in the dining room. Good night, Mr. Lyndon." I stacked my clothes on top of a large chest of drawers, took a shower, dried off, put on the t-shirt and boxers I packed in lieu of pajamas, and slid under the duvet. The bed was comfortable and I quickly fell asleep. I awoke the next morning with a pounding headache. I groaned and turned over. It took me a minute to realize I was naked under the duvet. Where were my t-shirt and boxers? With an effort, I sat up and looked around the room. I saw no sign of any of my belongings. A jolt of adrenaline brought me fully awake. My clothes and shoes were gone. My backpack was gone. So were the phone, wallet and keys I'd left on the nightstand. Had the house been burgled? That wouldn't explain why I was naked. Had my hosts taken my things? I couldn't think of any reason why they would. I stood, felt dizzy and sat down. This wasn't a hangover. I felt drugged. There were clothes neatly folded on top of the chest of drawers, but they weren't mine. They were girls' clothes, all light pink: a matching long nightgown and robe, a bra and panties, and a pair of ballet-style slippers. They hadn't been there when I went to bed last night. I stood again, successfully this time, and inspected the chest of drawers to see if my things had somehow been put away. No such luck. The drawers were filled with women's underwear: panties, bras, slips, stockings, mysterious foundation garments. I looked inside the closet, and found it half-filled with long black dresses and white petticoats. Neatly folded aprons were stacked on a shelf. On the floor lay a few pairs of women's shoes with low heels, an inch or two. I realized with a shock that these were old-fashioned maid's uniforms. It was as if this room was still the maid's quarters - there just weren't any maids. I sat down on the bed and felt my penis erect. It wasn't just morning wood. The clothes were turning me on. The lingerie, the dresses, the petticoats, the aprons... I was getting stiffer. Damn! This was a complication I didn't need. Ever since I was a young boy, I'd always been attracted to women's clothes. They were just so much nicer and more exciting than the drab things boys wore. I didn't have a sister, and my mother's clothes were too big for me, so I had no outlet for my secret passion. Which was probably fortunate, as God only knows what my parents would have done if I'd ever been caught dressed as a girl. As I grew older, I found plenty of content online that catered to my passion. If I couldn't dress up in actual girls' clothes, I could read stories about boys who loved to dress as girls or were forced to do so, and see pictures and videos of boys and girls wearing extremely feminine clothing. But this was the first time I'd been in a room full of girls' clothes, with nothing stopping me from trying them on. Even so, I didn't. It would be too embarrassing. I was a boy, not a girl. I decided to wrap a towel around my waist, as if I'd just stepped out of the shower, and try to find my hostess, so that I could discreetly ask her where my clothes were. I opened the door, looked anxiously up and down the hallway, saw no one, and tiptoed to the top of the staircase in the entry hall. I called out quietly, "Lady Blackthwaite?" I had to repeat it more loudly before I heard her heels on the flagstones. She appeared at the foot of the stairs. A smile crossed her lips. "Your attire is rather informal, Mr. Lyndon," she said. "All my clothes are missing, ma'am. Do you know where they are?" "Yes." "Can you please bring them to me?" "I can, but you won't be able to wear them," she said. "I cut them into rags last night." "What?" I couldn't believe she'd done that. "Why?" "Well, rags are always useful, aren't they? I'll come up to your room, dear, so we can talk privately." Not wishing to expose myself further, I quickly retreated to my room and sat on the bed, wearing only the towel. She entered and closed the door. "Did you really cut up my clothes?" I asked. "Yes." She sounded amused. "Why?" "We're going to replace them." "With what?" "The clothes in this room." "Don't be ridiculous! I'm not a girl!" I felt myself grow stiffer, and hoped she couldn't see it through the towel. "Not yet, but you will be," she said. "You're going to be my maid. As you yourself noticed, I need housekeeping help. You're the help. You won't be leaving us, you'll be staying here, and I'll be training you in your new duties." I stared at her. What the hell was this? "You're crazy! I refuse! I'll leave!" Another evil smile. "I invite you to try," she said. "All the doors and windows in this house are locked electronically and can be opened only with a fingerprint. Break a window and you'll set off an alarm. If you do manage to get outside, you'll have trouble getting past the hedge and wall, especially in what you'll be wearing. The gate is electrified at night, and it might not be the only thing that's electrified by night. Or day." "What do you mean, 'in what I'll be wearing'?" "Have you ever tried to climb a wall in a maid's uniform? A proper English maid's uniform, not one of those ridiculous French costumes." "What's the difference?" She gave me a sharp look. "Do you really want to know? Are you particularly interested in English maid's uniforms? I'd expect you to be protesting the very idea of wearing a dress, not asking for details." Oops. "I don't want to wear any kind of maid's uniform! If you won't let me out, can't you hire me as a butler, or someone to do the housework in my regular clothes?" "Absolutely not! I want my maid to look and behave like a maid. And when you say hire, I should mention that, while you'll receive room, board and clothing, the position is unpaid." "That's illegal!" I wondered if that was true in the U.K. There were plenty of unpaid internships in the States. Lady Blackthwaite smirked. "What if it is? How will you proceed against his lordship and myself? You'll have to escape from a locked house, climb the wall in your petticoats and heels, find your way to a police station, curtsy to the nice constable and tell him you've been kidnapped by Lord Blackthwaite. You'll find that his lordship is widely known and respected hereabouts. The nice constable will laugh in your face, call you a Nancy boy and ask you where the fancy dress party is. Then he'll ask to see your passport. Or you could go to the U.S. consulate and complain. The nearest one's in Edinburgh. A bit of a walk, don't you think?" I did think. I was trapped. I wasn't sure my cheapo cell plan would even work in Europe. I didn't know how to place a call to the U.S. on a British phone, and wasn't sure who to call anyway. My parents' lawyer? His phone number was on a card in a desk drawer five thousand miles away. If I did call someone, I couldn't tell them where I was: "Somewhere near Windemere" covered a lot of ground. I thought the UK had something like 911, but I didn't know what it was. If I called it and told them I'd been kidnapped by Lord Blackthwaite, they'd probably have the same reaction as the local constable. Lady Blackthwaite watched me come to my grim realization. "I should perhaps mention," she said brightly, "that while you slept last night, I took the liberty of putting your phone, wallet and passport in a safe place." "Give them back!" "Sorry, no. You won't need them while you're here." Shit. Now I really was screwed. Locked in a strange house in a foreign country without clothing, money or identification, with no access to the Internet, and with a story that no one would believe. Could I steal their car? Even if I could get the keys, I didn't think I could drive a stick shift left-handed, and I'd probably crash while driving on the wrong side of the car and the wrong side of the road. Even if I could drive, I didn't know where to go. "Shall I tell you what happened yesterday?" Lady Blackthwaite said. "My husband and I went up to Orrest Head looking for a pretty boy with feminine features, as we do from time to time. Along came this delectable American lad with no family. We knew immediately that you were the one. We offered you a place to stay, and a drink with a little something extra in it, and while you slept soundly, we entered your room and changed things around, and now here you are. To stay. It was really too easy." "This is kidnapping!" "Such an ugly word, my dear. I'm offering you a new career - one you seem well qualified for, judging by the cute little tent you're making in that pretty pink towel." I felt my face redden and adjusted the towel, too late. "You really should get dressed, you know," she said. "The towel makes a cute skirt, but your breasts are showing." I blushed. "Can I have some trousers, at least?" "I'm afraid not. You can't possibly wear anything of his lordship's. He's a head taller and probably four stone heavier than you, and I certainly won't let you stretch out any of my clothes. You can choose anything in this room. I'm afraid that limits you to the nightwear on the bureau, the lingerie in the drawers or the uniforms in the closet. It's early in the day still, so I suggest the nightwear - it's easiest to put on. The nightgown is rather frilly, I'm afraid, but the robe mostly covers it up." "I demand to speak to Lord Blackthwaite!" I said. "Certainly," Lady Blackthwaite replied. "Which would you rather wear to meet him - the robe, or your towel? If you're wondering whether the sight of your body will excite him, I assure you it won't." "No, I wasn't wondering. The robe, I guess," I said reluctantly. "And the nightgown under it," she said. "It will reduce the appearance of tumescence. And I think a nice pair of knickers under the gown, to smooth you even further. Don't worry, he won't see your knickers." She selected a pair of lace-trimmed pink panties from the top left drawer and held them out for me to step into. "Drop the towel, dear." I hesitated. I was about to voluntarily put on women's clothes to appear before the man of the house, the lord of the manor. He and Lady Blackthwaite surely would see this as a step towards making me their maid. But what choice did I have? I couldn't possibly appear before him in nothing but a pink towel that barely hid my genitals. I dropped the towel and stepped into the panties. She tugged them up into place. "It's a good thing you're not very big. The knickers cover you even when you're stiff. Hold up your hands." She draped the nightgown over them and let it fall. The nylon gown was the softest thing I'd ever worn. She picked up the robe, which was satin or some similar slinky fabric, and held it for me to put my arms into. When I did, she wrapped it firmly around my waist, backwards from the way men wear robes, and tied the sash in a graceful bow in front. She told me to put on the slippers. "Much nicer," she said. "Let's see what we can do with your hair." She took me into the bathroom and brushed my shoulder-length brown hair, slowly at first and then more briskly. "You'd look good with highlights," she said. The brushing made my hair look fuller and helped it frame my face in a more feminine way. "You're very pretty," she said, "but don't worry, it's a manly sort of prettiness - no makeup, jewelry or scent, and you've still got all your body hair. I'll take you to Lord Blackthwaite." I immediately developed a case of cold feet. There was no such thing as a manly sort of prettiness. I was about to totally embarrass myself in front of an alpha male, and if he was in on this with his wife - which he no doubt was - I was wasting my time. But what if she was crazy and he had no idea what she was doing? I had to make sure, even at the price of personal humiliation. Damn! I was stiff again. I would have to remember to fold my hands in front of my groin. Lady Blackthwaite led me downstairs, warning me to lift the front of my robe and nightgown so I wouldn't trip. "His lordship will be working on his memoirs in his library," she said. "Memoirs of...?" "His career in the SAS. The parts he can talk about," she said. I tried to remember what the SAS was. "Like your Green Berets, but better trained," she said. I swallowed. Dressed in ladies' nightwear, I was about to meet a former officer in the British special services. I wondered if it would be better to be stark naked... but it was too late. We stopped outside a closed door, behind which I could hear someone typing with two fingers. Lady Blackthwaite knocked. "What is it?" Lord Blackthwaite did not sound pleased to be interrupted. "Our guest wishes to speak to you, dear," she said. "Come in." She entered and beckoned to me to follow. I had trouble making my feet move. Why had I agreed to dress like this? I'd been stupid. I should have demanded one of her husband's robes. Even if it dragged on the ground and I had to roll up the sleeves, that would have been better than letting her dress me in ladies' nightwear. But here I was. I took a deep breath and entered the room. Lord Blackthwaite was sitting in an old-fashioned leather chair behind an enormous antique wooden desk decorated with elaborate carvings. The only items on the desk were an analog telephone and a battered Olivetti portable typewriter. The room's walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling. The only other furniture was an antique armchair with a small side table and reading lamp. Lady Blackthwaite occupied it, and I was left standing in front of his desk like an errant schoolboy or schoolgirl in the principal's office. I folded my hands in front of me, hoping to hide my erection. He looked me up and down. "You wish to speak to me?" My heart was trying to break out of my rib cage. "Um... sir... Lady Blackthwaite tells me I can't leave the house, that I have to stay here and dress as a girl so she can train me to be her maid, and I won't do that, sir. I want my clothes back so I can leave." "I believe she did mention something of the sort, yes," Lord Blackthwaite said. "Well, she can't do that! I'm a U.S. citizen! You need to let me go. Sir." Lord Blackthwaite stared at me until I had to drop my eyes. "I see no need for me to do anything," he said. "I leave the running of my household entirely to her ladyship. That includes selecting, supervising and disciplining the staff." "But... but, sir -" "You'll have to talk to her ladyship." "I don't want to be a maid, sir!" He shrugged and turned to his wife. "Is the candidate acceptable?" "Oh, yes," Lady Blackthwaite said. "The right physical characteristics, better than average housekeeping skills and, despite her protests, an evident interest in the clothing appropriate for the role. I recommend we secure her services immediately." "The candidate's name...?" "Is unsuitable for a maid. She's American, as everyone will know if she opens her mouth, so she should have an American-sounding name. Let's call her... Lisa. Sounds like a California blonde in a rah-rah skirt." "Very good. Welcome to our household, Lisa," Lord Blackthwaite said. "I expect you to be a good maid and obey Lady Blackthwaite." "My name's not Lisa, and I'm not a girl, sir," I said. He turned back to his typewriter, resuming his two-fingered typing. "Thank you, Lisa," he said. Lady Blackthwaite glared at me. "Come, Lisa," she said. She grabbed my arm and hustled me out of the room and up the stairs to my room. I had to lift my gown and robe again on the stairs to avoid tripping. She closed the door behind us and berated me. "Of all the nerve! 'I'm not Lisa, and I'm not a girl'! Contradicting his lordship! Contradicting me! I will teach you better manners, young lady!" With surprising strength, she grabbed me and forced me to lie across her knees. She pulled up my robe and nightgown and pulled down my panties. "Tell me you'll be a good girl," she said. "No! Let me go!" "Bad girl!" She began to spank me, hard. Crying out in pain and humiliation, I struggled with her, rolled off her lap onto all fours and climbed to my feet. My nightgown and robe slid back down my legs, and I almost tripped over them. She took a step toward me. I tried to grab her arm. I'm not quite sure what happened next, but one second later I found myself face down on the ground with my arm twisted behind my back, completely at her mercy. "I should have told you I'm a 3-dan black belt in aikido," she said. Yes, I wished I'd known that. Ouch. "Let me up!" I said. "No! Not until you tell me you'll be a good girl. A good girl does what I tell her, with no resistance or delay. Do you understand? Tell me you'll be a good girl. Say it!" "No!" She slightly increased the pressure on my arm. I squealed in pain. "Say it!" Slightly more pressure. "Stop! Stop!" I shrieked. "I'll be a good girl, I'll be a good girl!" "What's your name?" "Lisa!" "Who am I?" "My lady!" I cried. She eased the pressure slightly. "Say, 'My name is Lisa and I'll be a good girl'." I'd never felt such humiliation. "My name is Lisa and I'll be a good girl." "Good girl, Lisa." She let go of me and stepped back. I gingerly climbed to my feet. "You didn't have to do that!" "Oh yes I did. I think you understand now who your mistress is. Who's your mistress, Lisa?" I didn't answer. "Would you like me to finish your spanking, Lisa? Who's your mistress?" "You are," I said sullenly. "You are, what?" she snapped. "You are my mistress, my lady." "What's your name, and what will you be?" "My name is Lisa, and I'll be a good girl." "And who is your mistress?" "You are my mistress, my lady." "Better," she said. "And next... a nice hot bath. During which you will remove all the hair below your eyebrows, with a depilatory or a razor. After which I will show you how to moisturize. After which I will help you put on your new uniform." "Which consists of...?" "You really are interested in the clothes, aren't you? Pants and a bra, suspender belt and stockings, slip, petticoat, dress, apron, Alice band... what else? Sensible court shoes." "I get to wear pants?" "Women call them knickers. Americans call them panties," she said. "What you call pants, we call trousers. It's funny to hear Americans talk about their underclothes." "Please, I don't want to wear girls' clothes!" It was a lie - the conversation was keeping me stiff - but I wasn't about to admit it. "What if I just wear black trousers and a white shirt?" "No," she said. "You have to wear the dress." "Women's black trousers and a white blouse?" I couldn't believe I was offering to dress as a woman. "No. We aren't negotiating, dear. I'm giving you orders. From the mistress of the house to her new and very inexperienced maid. You just promised to obey me, but you're already being disobedient. Blackthwaite House isn't a democracy." She said the word with a sneer. "It's a monarchy, and I am the queen." "So I see," I said. I wondered if she was entirely sane. "You must start addressing me as 'my lady'," she said, "and his lordship as 'my lord'." "And if I don't?" I was an American! I didn't need to buy into this aristocratic bullshit. "It would be unwise," she said. "You've been disobedient and have already earned a spanking. If you won't address us properly, there can be further consequences. I can make your spanking longer and more painful. I can spank you with a crop or tawse instead of my hand. I can put you in handcuffs or leg irons. I can gag you. I can put you in adult-sized nappies and baby dresses and lock all the bathrooms until you wet and mess yourself. I can lock you in this room and deny you food until you obey. I don't want to do any of these things, Lisa, but I will if I must. Say 'yes, my lady'." It was an ultimatum, and I had to decide whether to obey. Disobedience seemed futile at this point. I needed to know more about the house and my captors in order to come up with a plan to get free. Obedience would be safer and less painful, now that I knew she could throw me around like a sack of potatoes. Submission would buy me time to come up with a plan. It would be humiliating - but a part of me would find the humiliation exciting. If I gave in now, I would have to put on the uniform and serve as her maid until I came up with a plan. A young man feminized and forced to serve as a maid, plotting to escape his aristocratic captors... oh my! It sounded like a story I would read. "Yes, my lady," I said. "Whenever you say 'yes, my lady' or 'yes, my lord', you must curtsy," she said. "Do you know how to curtsy?" "No. Why would I?" "Because your name is Lisa and you're a girl and girls should know how to curtsy! Did your mother never teach you? I suppose I'll have to." She made me put my heels together, place my right foot behind my left, lift my gown and robe with my thumbs and forefingers, look down humbly, bend my knees, hold the pose for a moment and then straighten up and put my heels together again. She had me repeat it ten times for practice. "Now say, 'yes, my lady', and curtsy to me." "Yes, my lady," I said, and curtsied. "Very good. Now, Lisa, are you ready for your bath?" "Yes, my lady." I curtsied again. "But you need to take off your robe, nightgown and knickers first, don't you?" "Yes, my lady." Another curtsy. "You do that while I run your bath." "Yes, my lady." Curtsy. She left the room. I already regretted my decision to obey her. Yes my lady, curtsy, yes my lady, curtsy, yes my lady, curtsy... enough! She obviously got off on humiliating me. It was shameful to admit to myself that I didn't totally mind. She called me into the bath. I lowered myself into the fragrant bubbles. Phew! I would reek of lavender when I got out. Twenty minutes later, as I patted myself dry with a towel, Lady Blackthwaite asked, "Well, Lisa, are you ready to get dressed?" I sighed. "As you wish, my lady." Back into my bedroom. On my bed lay all the pieces of a maid's uniform. "Is all this really necessary, my lady?" I said. "Hotel maids don't wear anything this frilly." "Yes, it's absolutely necessary," she said. "You have no experience as a girl, no experience as a maid. You need to immerse yourself in femininity and domesticity and obedience until you adjust to your new life." "Yes, my lady," I said, and curtsied. The black cotton dress on the bed was longer than the mental picture I had of a maid's dress, mid-calf at least, with a white Peter Pan collar, white cuffs on the elbow-length sleeves and a flared but not terribly full skirt. Over it would go a white pinafore apron with a full bib, ruffled straps over the shoulders and long ties that would make a pretty bow in back. The apron skirt was two inches shorter than the dress and had a ruffled hem. Unlike the dress, the apron was trimmed with lace, as was the matching maid's hairpiece. The underwear included panties (it felt silly to think of them as "pants"), a matching bra and a waist cincher, all in white satin. The cincher was like a short corset, starting under my bra, stopping just below my belly button and laced up in back. I would need help tightening it, and did not look forward to it. Six garters, or suspenders as she called them, hung from the waist cincher to hold up my black nylon stockings. Over all this went a lacy white full slip, and then a fullish white cotton petticoat half an inch shorter than the dress, with a pretty lace-trimmed ruffle at the hem and a stout drawstring waist. The shoes were black patent pumps with two-inch heels. Lady Blackthwaite closely supervised my dressing, though I must admit that it was my hands that pulled the female garments onto my body. She drew the laces of the waist cincher almost unbearably tight, tied them in a double bow and tucked them in behind me. She helped me clip the garters to the stockings and adjust their tension. She slid the hairpiece, a lacy ruffle mounted on an Alice band, into my hair. And, finally, she sat me down at the vanity, brushed my hair into some semblance of a girl's hairdo and applied the understated cosmetics appropriate for a maid: powder but no foundation, light pink lipstick and nail polish, eyeliner but no mascara, and bare dustings of pink blush and taupe eyeshadow. When she was done, she led me to the full-length mirror for a look at myself. The person I saw in the mirror wasn't me. She was a pretty teenage girl dressed in a modest, old-fashioned maid's uniform. My calf- length black dress provided a stark backdrop for the immaculate white of my collar, cuffs, apron and hairpiece. "Heels together, Lisa," Lady Blackthwaite said. "Fold your hands over your apron. Look at a point on the floor about three feet in front of you. Stand up straight! That's perfect. Very good, Lisa, well done. Now, how do you feel in your new uniform?" "I feel ridiculous," I said. "Well, don't," she said. "You look very pretty, not at all like a boy. Your movements aren't feminine enough, but I'll teach you proper deportment, and I daresay none of our guests will realize you weren't born female." "Guests?" "My lady!" she snapped. "Guests, my lady?" I curtsied. "Yes. Once a month, his lordship and I host a black-tie dinner for friends. Tuxedos and gowns. In the past I've hired a village girl to serve, but now I have you, and you'll look just lovely as our maid. We'll have our next dinner as soon as you can pass as a real girl." It was bad enough that she and her husband would see me dressed as a maid. It was deeply humiliating to think of exposing myself to others, especially if her ladyship told them I was a boy. "Yes, my lady." I remembered to curtsy this time. "See? You're learning. Now, let's put you to work." Lady Blackthwaite gave me a list of household chores that kept me busy all morning: do the dishes, clean the kitchen, make her bed, tidy up her bedroom, clean all the bathrooms and empty all the rubbish bins. At noon I stopped to make them lunch: a Mediterranean salad for Lady Blackthwaite and a bacon sandwich that she called a bacon butty - big, thick slices of back bacon on lightly toasted white bread with brown HP sauce, with no lettuce, tomato or avocado - for Lord Blackthwaite. She made me take his lunch to him. I cringed. It was the first time he would see me dressed as a maid. I put his sandwich on a plate, put the plate on a silver tray and put a silver cover over the plate. Following her ladyship's instructions, I poured a pint of beer - I didn't recognize the name - into a glass and added it to the tray. I carefully carried the tray to the library, where I set it down on an occasional table outside the door. I knocked and was told to enter. I opened the door, picked up the tray and walked over to his desk. My hands were full, so I dipped to him instead of making a proper curtsy. "Ah, the new help." Lord Blackthwaite's voice was deep and held a tone of command. "Yes, my lord." I dipped to him again. "Where would your lordship like this?" He pointed to the top of his desk, right in front of him. I leaned over his desk to set down the tray and stepped back. "Anything else, my lord?" "No. Are you really the young person we met on Orrest Head?" "Yes, my lord." Now that I was no longer holding the tray, I made him a proper curtsy, lifting my skirt and petticoat and lowering my eyes as well as my body. "Quite a difference," he said. "Tell her ladyship I am impressed." "Yes, my lord. " I curtsied again and left the room, deeply humiliated to have made such a feminine spectacle of myself. That afternoon, Lady Blackthwaite started my deportment lessons. I thought deportment was what happened to illegal immigrants, but found out it was a different word, and included almost all the ways I used my body: my posture, how to stand, sit, walk and turn, how to hold my arms, what to do with my hands, how to bend over or reach upwards without exposing myself, and a thousand other details. Women learned these things from girlhood and had bodies that naturally moved in feminine ways, but I had to learn it all from scratch and make my body do things it wasn't designed to do, starting with keeping my knees together when I sat. Shortly before five o'clock, when I thought all my joints were about to give out, my lady told me Lord Blackthwaite would shortly emerge from his library for cocktails. He would mix the drinks, but I needed to fill an ice bucket and place it on the drinks table in the drawing room. While they enjoyed their drinks, I would set the table in the dining room and then begin preparing dinner. She wanted a simple menu - broiled trout, a baked potato and asparagus - served at half six. "Is half six before or after six, my lady?" "After. Six thirty." "Thank you, my lady." Curtsy. I found all the ingredients and had no trouble assembling the meal. I decided to cook the asparagus in the same pan as the trout, in butter, white wine and dill, instead of boiling it to death. When I served it, Lord Blackthwaite eyed it doubtfully. "What have you done to my asparagus?" "Saut?ed it, my lord," I said. "Try a bite." He chewed, swallowed, considered. "I've had worse," he announced. "In fact, it's not half bad. Better than how you cook it, Kate." "I wish I could disagree," she said. She turned to me. "Did you say you can cook Mexican food?" "Tacos, enchiladas, burritos, quesadillas, nachos - the basic stuff, my lady," I said. "His lordship likes spicy food from his time in - well, mustn't say where," she said. "Make a list of what you need, and we'll see what the shops can supply." "Yes, my lady." Curtsy. In fewer days than I'd have thought, I found myself starting to grow accustomed to my captivity. It worried me. I wore a maid's uniform, I cooked and cleaned and scrubbed and laundered and ironed, I called them my lord and my lady, I curtsied to them a hundred times a day. I realized that I needed to escape from this situation before it became routine. I'd heard that captives could develop emotional relationships with their captors, and I didn't want that to happen to me. Blackthwaite House was a prison, and I needed to break out of it. That night, I pretended to sleep until the house was quiet. I slipped out of bed and put on a uniform. It would be warmer and less conspicuous than my nightwear if I managed to get out. I left off the apron to disguise my menial status. I silently made my way down to the ground floor, where I inspected every door and window to see if I could open any of them. I found that every aperture that could be opened had a tiny fingerprint reader, which I assumed locked and unlocked it. My fingerprints, of course, did not work. I climbed the stairs to what the Brits called the first floor, and checked all the doors and windows except, of course, in the master suite where his lordship and her ladyship slept. No joy. On the top floor, I found all the rooms were locked except for the maids' suite I now occupied. My bedroom window was locked like all the others. There was no way out. Cursing silently, I took off my uniform, got back into my nightgown and slid back under the duvet. I was trapped. I could not escape unless one of them let me out or made a mistake. It seemed I would remain a maid until further notice. Part of me, I must shamefacedly admit, didn't think this would be entirely bad. Except for the waist cincher, I loved wearing the clothes. Having to call my kidnappers 'my lord' and 'my lady' was humiliating, but the humiliation tickled my perverse pleasure center. The housework was repetitious but not difficult and gave me something useful to do. Having to dress in the English maid's uniform, having to submit to a real English lord and lady, having to curtsy to them... more sexy humiliation. I stiffened at the thought of it. I even had mixed thoughts about escaping. Did I really want to? Okay, let's say I got outside somehow and climbed over the gate without being electrocuted. It wouldn't be easy in a dress and petticoat and heels, but let's say I managed to get to the public road. Then what? I would be dressed as a woman. I'd have no ID, no money, no phone. I wouldn't know where I was or where I should go. If I just started walking down the road, I might well attract the attention of passing drivers, who might well pull over and ask awkward questions of a lost American girl, or offer her a ride... maybe a ride she wouldn't want to take. In these clothes, I doubted I could resist a man who decided to force me into his car. I shuddered at the thought of my complete helplessness. No one knew where I was. No one was coming to rescue me. No one even knew I was missing. Here I was, forced to dress in petticoats and pinafores, forced to curtsy to my master and mistress, forced to pretend that I was a girl named Lisa. Forced to be the maid of Blackthwaite House. End of Part 1