Maid Of Buxcombe Manor free porn video

MAID OF BUXCOMBE MANOR By Lisa Lovelace After two humiliating years as a male maid in petticoats at Buxcombe Manor, I was desperate to escape - but I had to time my attempt perfectly. Through the kitchen window, I could see that the rear door of the caterers' panel truck was open. I needed to duck away from Ms. Buxcombe's party, at which I was serving as the maid, and stow away in the truck just before the caterers closed the rear door and drove away. With luck, the truck would take me beyond the range of the GPS bracelet locked around my left wrist before Ms. Buxcombe noticed my absence and checked my location on her cellphone. I didn't know what I would do if I managed to escape, but at least I would be free. There was no one in the truck at the moment, no one in sight on the driveway leading up to the service entrance. I opened the back door, hurried to the truck with my heels clicking on the pavement, climbed inside the rear compartment and saw, as I could not from the house, that it was too full for me to hide in. Damn! The truck had two rows of seats, so I awkwardly clambered over the back of the rear seat and hid myself underneath it. I had to tuck my petticoats and dress behind me to keep them from visibly spilling out into the footwell. I was scared. Things were going wrong already. I heard heels clicking their way toward the truck. Someone opened the back door, crammed in one last thing, and closed and locked the back door. The driver's and passenger's doors opened and people climbed in. If they would just hurry up and leave now... The side door opened, and a pretty girl in a waitress uniform started to climb in. She stopped. "Oh, who's this?" She bent over and looked straight at me. Curse! I'd failed. I should never have tried this. "Hey, Carlos," she called out, "there's a girl back here!" The driver's door opened and someone, presumably Carlos, hopped out and circled the truck. Another head stared at me. A big, beefy head. "Who are you?" he said. "Get out of my truck!" I extricated myself from my hiding spot, trying but not succeeding to keep my skirts under control. I climbed out and stood before them, smoothing down my rumpled maid's uniform. Petticoats poufed out my below-the-knee black satin dress. Over it I wore a white cotton pinafore apron, tied in a bow in back. A ruffled mob cap covered my hair. "Who are you?" Carlos asked. He ran his eyes up and down my corseted figure and licked his lips. I curtsied, hoping to placate him. "Please, sir, I'm Lisa the maid, and I'm trying to escape from here, and I need your help! Please, please take me with you!" "Why should I do that?" Carlos said. "Madame is one of my best customers. I'm not about to piss her off by helping one of her girls run away. You wait here. Pedro, Isabel, don't let this Lisa run away. I'll ask Madame what to do." He headed back inside. Oh, my God. I begged Pedro and Isabel to help me, but they refused. I couldn't run, not in these heels. I was toast. Carlos returned. "She wants to talk to you, Lisa. Come with me." His big, calloused hand grabbed me by the wrist and hauled me inside to Ms. Buxcombe's office. He let me go. "Well, Lisa," my mistress said, "would you care to explain yourself?" Caught in the act, I could only beg for mercy. I burst into tears and sank to my knees. "I'm sorry, ma'am! I don't know what I was thinking! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" "Yes, you will be," she said. She turned to Carlos. "Thank you, Carlos. You did exactly the right thing. I'll add a hundred to your tip." He bowed to her. "Thank you, Madame." He shook a finger at me. "Bad girl, trying to run away from your mistress!" He left the room. Ms. Buxcombe looked at me. I stared at the floor, expecting pain. "You are so foolish, Lisa. Your bracelet would've sent me an alarm the moment you left my property. Come up to my boudoir. We need to talk." Talk? I expected a major spanking, if not now then later. I heard the caterers drive away as I followed her upstairs. My chance to escape, gone. She took the love seat in her beautiful dressing room. I remained standing. I knew better than to sit in her presence unless she invited me to. She shook her head. "Oh, Lisa. Why did you try to run away?" I played with the hem of my dress, trying to look deserving of mercy. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. I was confused. I made a big mistake." "Yes, you did," Ms. Buxcombe said. "The only possible reason you would want to run away is that you don't fully appreciate how lucky you are to be a maid in my house. It's so much nicer and safer and more comfortable here than it is out in the real world. If you did manage to run away, you would have found out very quickly how ugly the real world is." I could not deny her words and did not reply. She sighed. "The problem, I think, is that you became a girl only two years ago, without going through girlhood. You were forced to dress as a boy and were denied the experiences that teach girls the joys and the sorrows of femininity. I think we need to correct that." ~ ~ ~ What she said was true. I grew up as a boy in flyover country, a drama nerd in a place where boys were expected to try out for football, not Faust. I wasn't attracted to boys, but I knew I was some kind of pervert because I wanted to wear women's clothing. It was an urge I'd never had an opportunity to indulge. When I graduated from high school, I ran away from home, hitchhiked to Los Angeles, got a job as a housecleaner and tried to make it as an actor - me and a million other good-looking boys. I did better than most, worked as an extra, got a few bit parts and was just starting to make a tiny name for myself in the business when I made the mistake of my life. It was two years ago, at an industry party in Topanga Canyon. Booze and weed were circulating freely, and most of the people there were flying high, and I was higher than most. I entered the kitchen through a sliding glass door and saw the woman of my dreams. She was standing by the kitchen island with a martini in her hand. Beautiful rather than cute, with outstanding breasts and an incredible derri?re that glistened under a skin-tight silver minidress. If I'd been sober, I would never ever have done it, but intoxication overcame inhibition. I walked up behind her, grabbed that glorious ass and kissed the perfect nape of her neck. She smelled heavenly. She twisted out of my grip and slapped me in the face, hard enough to hurt. I staggered back. "What the fuck?" she said. "Who the fuck are you?" I made the second biggest mistake of my life when I told her. "I'm Luther Lamb." "Do you know who I am, Luther Lamb?" "No, ma'am," I said. " Ask anyone," she said. "Leave this party immediately and don't come back." A pair of bulky men in suits and sunglasses loomed behind her. Suddenly sober, I saw it would be prudent to accept her advice. "Yes, ma'am, sorry, ma'am," I said, and headed for the front door. On my way out, I asked a waitress who the lady in silver was. "You don't know?" she said. "That's Jennifer Buxcombe." "Thought so. Thanks," I said, and hurried outside. I wasn't about to reveal the depth of my ignorance by asking her who Jennifer Buxcombe was - that's what the Internet's for. When I got in my car, I pulled out my phone and did a search. Spelled it wrong the first time, but found her. Uh-oh. I'd fucked up big time. Jennifer Buxcombe was one of the most powerful women in Hollywood. She was the producer who turned an ancient comic strip into the billion- dollar "Nancy + Sluggo" action movie franchise. She conquered TV with "The Family Circus," the Emmy-winning comedy now in its eighth season. Billy, Dolly, Jeffy, and P.J. toys were everywhere, and the show's app let parents view their children's movements throughout the day as a dotted line hopping from place to place. After this fatal faux pas, my career as an actor died. I no longer got callbacks. I'd just decided to resume my career as a housecleaner when I got a message inviting me to audition for a minor role in an upcoming movie spinoff, "Family Circus: Granddad Returns." I leaped at the chance and arrived early. A pretty production assistant told me the producer wanted to see me and waved me toward an office. I entered and almost jumped out of my skin. Behind the desk sat Jennifer Buxcombe. "Hello, Luther," she said with a smile I could not interpret. "Hello, Ms. Buxcombe," I said, embarrassed by the thought of our first encounter. I had hoped she'd forgotten me. Now I hoped she'd forgive me. There was an open bottle of champagne in a cooler on her desk. She had a full flute, and poured one for me. She raised hers in a toast. "We all make mistakes, Mr. Lamb. Here's to your future career." I felt a vast sense of relief, raised my glass to her and drank. Ms. Buxcombe set down her glass and watched me, not speaking. I felt woozy. Realized what she'd done. She led me over to a sofa before I passed out. ~ ~ ~ I woke up flat on my back under a soft duvet in a pink-and-white girl's bedroom. I was wearing clothes. A dress. I sat up too quickly and made my head swim. I threw off the duvet and looked at myself. It wasn't just a dress. It was a maid's uniform. A black satin frock trimmed with white lace, falling below my knees. A white apron tied around my waist. The skirt rustled. I pulled it up and exposed a frilly petticoat under the dress. Tight straps around my upper body and the apparent size of my bosom told me I was wearing a padded bra. I reached under the dress and petticoat and found that I was wearing panties, a slip, thigh-high stockings, and black patent heels. I had a bracelet on my left wrist, a slim band paved with diamonds or, more likely, rhinestones. It was too tight to take off. I rose from the bed and, wobbling on my heels, stood in front of a full-length mirror on the wall. I was wearing light makeup, with eyeliner and dusty rose eyeshadow, lips and nails. My collar-length hair was combed into a center part with a cute little maid's cap pinned on top. Who did this to me? Where was I? What happened? I tried the door of the room. It was locked. The ensuite bathroom had pink towels and a counter covered with female paraphernalia: makeup, lotions, perfume, tissues, brushes, a blow dryer. I opened the closet and saw more maid's dresses like the one I was wearing. Mostly black, though one was pink and another was short and tight. More petticoats dangled from skirt hangers. I saw no trousers, no tops or skirts, just dresses. A chest of drawers was filled with sumptuous lingerie: panties, bras, full and half slips, camisoles, hosiery, nightwear, a couple of girdles, even a fearsome-looking corset. There was no sign of my clothing anywhere. Someone knocked once on the door of the room, unlocked it and walked in before I could respond. It was Jennifer Buxcombe. She grinned at the sight of me. "Oh, Luther! I do love a man in a uniform." "Did you do this?" I said. "Where are my clothes?" "Sit down, shut the fuck up and I'll tell you," she said. "I assume you know who I am." "Yes, ma'am," I said. "You sexually assaulted me, Luther. Your movie career is over. Dead. I hear you can clean houses, though, so I want to offer you a position on my household staff." "What, as a maid?" "As a personal assistant. Deputy assistant housekeeper. Domestic service technician. Whatever you want to call it." "You can't really expect me to dress like this! I mean..." I spread my skirts wide, secretly enjoying the gesture. "Oh, yes, I can," she said. "It's actually an attractive look for you. You clean up nicely." "Well, I won't do it!" I said, feeling obliged to outwardly resist what I inwardly halfway wanted to happen. "I'm not a girl, and I won't be your maid!" "Are you sure? Because if you don't want to work for me, I might decide to file a criminal complaint of sexual assault against you in L.A. County. It would probably make the TV news. I could even give them video of you. Very recent video." Oh, God. This was total blackmail. My life would be destroyed. If it got on TV, my parents might see it. I had a horrible vision of me doing the perp walk in a black satin dress. Or the pink. Pink would be worse. "The cops would be looking for you," Ms. Buxcombe said. "Not a good time to be Luther Lamb. So much safer to disappear into a wealthy household with twenty-four-hour onsite security and turn into a maid, a maid called... hmm... how about Lisa? Change the last name, too, just to be safe. Lisa Lambchop." I didn't know what to say. This was outrageous. In a #MeToo world, it was also... plausible. "Um... do I have any other options?" I asked. "You can walk out the door anytime, dressed as you are. But I'm going to keep your wallet, keys and cellphone. You might find it difficult to resume your former life." "You can't do that! Give me my stuff back!" "No. It might be needed as evidence against Luther in my criminal complaint. Do you like your new bracelet?" "What?" I looked at it. "It's too tight, I can't take it off." She smiled. "No, you can't. It's a magic bracelet. A GPS transmitter. My cellphone can tell me exactly where you are. If you run away, don't expect to get far." I was trapped. "Where am I, anyway? Is this your house?" "One of my houses. I call it Buxcombe Manor. It's in Montecito, near Santa Barbara. We brought you here after you fainted at that audition. Cleaned you up and got you dressed. You were out for hours." "Fainted, hell! You put something in the champagne!" "What if I did? Here you are. Looking so pretty, I might add." I was frightened. "Why are you doing this to me, ma'am?" She stared at me. "Well, Luther, I really, really don't like it when strange men grab my ass and kiss me. So I'm going to turn a sexual predator into prey. When I'm done with you, strange men will want to grab your ass and kiss you. Isn't it ironic?" ~ ~ ~ That was two years ago. Ms. Buxcombe didn't file charges against me, because I agreed to become her maid, Lisa Lambchop. I had to live in her house and dress as a woman 24/7. That was okay with me because I liked wearing the clothes, though I never told her that. I learned how to do makeup, fix my hair, walk in heels. I already knew how to do housework - cooking, cleaning, laundry, mopping, vacuuming, the works. I didn't mind that too much. It gave me something constructive to do while I was wearing my lovely uniform. But I did mind it when Chad moved in. Chad was a well-known actor who starred in bad-guy roles, a masterful hunk who towered over me and made me feel weak and subservient. Ms. Buxcombe met him in a salsa dance class, of all places, and liked him well enough to invite him over for dinner. In my prettiest uniform, I opened the door for him and cooked and served the meal, and he thought I was a girl until after dinner, when Ms. Buxcombe told him who I was. Chad was enormously amused, and made me show him and describe every piece of clothing I was wearing, even my panties. He fondled my butt as he was leaving. Asshole! A week later, Chad stayed overnight, sleeping in Ms. Buxcombe's room. At one point I tiptoed down the hall in my nightgown to eavesdrop, and overheard both of them in the throes of passion. I hurried back to my room, realizing that Chad was now the man of the house. Soon Chad was staying over a couple of nights a week. I was not happy. He had a way of saying Lisa as Leeesa! that really got on my nerves, and his hands tended to roam fairly freely when Ms. Buxcombe wasn't looking. I wondered why he liked groping my male butt and silicone breasts, and came to think it wasn't about sex - it was all about domination and humiliation. Early one morning, while Chad lay snoring in Ms. Buxcombe's bed, she and I had coffee in the kitchen. She informed me that she'd invited him to move in with her, and he would be living here starting this weekend. I was to consider myself his maid as well as hers, and obey his instructions as I obeyed hers. "Yes, ma'am," I said with a curtsy and a sinking heart. This would be awful. Another person for me to obey, feed, clean up after, do laundry for and accept insults from. A person who already mistreated me and I already disliked. A pig. Just yesterday, he'd grabbed me in the hallway and squeezed my fake boobs. I struggled, managed to twist out of his grasp, and slapped him his face as hard as I could. He laughed, grabbed my upper arm and marched me into an empty guest bedroom. He closed the door, sat on the bed and pulled me across his lap. He held me down with one hand, and used the other to pull up my dress, petticoat and slip, pull down my panties and begin spanking me. "Help! Help!" I cried. "No one can hear you," he said. "She's at yoga class." "Stop, please! Ow! Why are you spanking me?" "You hit me first!" he said. "You're such a bad girl! You need to do as I say. I want you to start calling me sir, and when I'm done spanking you, I want you to give me a blowjob." "Ow! I won't!" "I told you to call me sir!" He struck my bottom so hard that I started to cry. After ten powerful spanks, he stopped. "Get up," he said. I stood, and reached under my dress to pull up my panties. "Stop!" he snapped. "I didn't say you could pull up your panties. Leave them where they are." I stopped. My skirts slid down over my bare bottom. "When may I pull up my panties, sir?" Chad thought for a moment. "Leave them pulled down until you get undressed tonight." "Yes, sir," I said. I tried to leave the room. "Hang on, Leeesa!" he said, grabbing my arm and pushing me down on my knees. "You still owe me a blowjob." He started to unzip his pants. We heard the front door open. Heels clicked in the entry hall. Ms. Buxcombe's voice called out, "Lisa?" Saved! I rose, shot Chad a nasty look and hurried out of the room, straightening my rumpled dress and apron, feeling my panties hugging my thighs below my bottom. "Yes, ma'am?" It was nothing important, she just wanted a glass of mineral water with a slice of lemon, but it allowed me to escape Chad - for the moment. I did not look forward to the next time he caught me alone. That night, I went to Ms. Buxcombe and complained about Chad's behavior, including his demand for oral sex. "I'm so disappointed to hear you tell me a story like this, Lisa," she replied. "I've never seen him treat you that way, and he's always been the perfect gentleman with me. I wonder if you're just reluctant to admit that he's the man of the house now. Surely you're not jealous of him?" She smiled. "Or is little Lisa just embarrassed to be such a silly sissy maid around such a big, strong man?" This and other incidents convinced me that I had to escape from Buxcombe Manor. I kind of liked being Ms. Buxcombe's maid, but I did not like being Chad's sex toy. ~ ~ ~ So, when I thought I had a chance to escape, I took it. But Carlos the caterer caught me and now I was in deep trouble. I stood humbly before Ms. Buxcombe, waiting to hear the price I would pay for my failed escape attempt. I thanked my lucky stars that Chad was playing golf today. "I'm going to have to punish you for trying to run away," Ms. Buxcombe said. "I've been thinking about this, and I'm going to use what I call my Six Year Plan." "Six Year Plan, ma'am?" "Yes, Lisa. For the next six weeks, you're going to experience six stages of a girl's life, six years apart. In week one, you'll be a baby girl. In week two, you'll be a little girl of six. Week three, you'll be a budding girl of twelve. Week four, a high-school senior of eighteen. Week five, a working girl of twenty-four, and in week six, a housewife of thirty." Oh, my God. A baby? A little girl? This sounded awful. "Why are you making me do this, ma'am?" "To make you understand what it's like to grow up as a girl, and to show you why life as my maid is a better fate than most women can hope for." "I don't understand, ma'am. What will I be doing? Dressing up?" "More than that. Let's start with the first stage, being a baby girl. You'll wear diapers, plastic panties and a baby girl's dress. You won't be allowed to walk - you'll have to crawl everywhere. You won't be allowed to talk - we'll have a bottle or pacifier in your mouth at all times, and you'll have to cry to get attention. You'll spend a lot of time sitting in a playpen, watching kiddie TV and playing with blocks." "What? That's crazy! Why do you want me to be a baby?" "Ma'am!" she snapped. "Sorry! Why do you want me to be a baby, ma'am?" "To teach you humility and obedience. To make you understand it's better to be a grownup maid than a baby girl." "Isn't that obvious, ma'am? And... diapers? Really?" "Yes. And you must use them. The bathroom is off limits to you while you're a baby." "No! That's ridiculous!" "Are you refusing to obey me, Lisa?" I was on dangerous ground. After two years in her household, I knew how Ms. Buxcombe punished disobedience. Ice-cold enemas were not my favorite. "No, ma'am, I... I'll be a good girl and do as you say." "Excellent. We start tomorrow, bright and early on Monday. You will have a nanny to keep an eye on you. Her name is Miss Emma. You will obey her as you do me, with the same consequences for disobedience." "Yes, ma'am." "I have a present for you, Lisa. Each week, I'll give you something that will be useful for your next stage of the Six Year Plan." She handed me a wrapped box. I opened it. It was a pair of plastic panties that babies wore over their diapers, in my size. They were pink with white polka dots and rows of white ruffles across the seat and around the leg openings. As I held them up for her to see, my face was probably as pink as the panties. "You'll be such a cute baby!" she said. Fortunately, she didn't make me wear a diaper or the plastic panties that night. Instead, I slept in an adult-sized pink Hello Kitty onesie. ~ ~ ~ Week 1: Baby Girl Ms. Buxcombe knocked on my door at six the next morning, on the first day of my Six Year Plan, an hour earlier than I usually got up. She entered without waiting for a response. An attractive young woman with blonde hair up in a bun, wearing a sleeveless knee-length black dress and pearls, followed her into my room. Miss Emma, my new nanny. "Baby Lisa is sleeping in," Ms. Buxcombe told her. "She's Hello Kitty! So cute," the young woman said. I scrambled out of bed and plucked at my onesie to sketch an awkward curtsy. "Good morning, ma'am." "Lisa!" Ms. Buxcombe snapped. "You're a baby now! Down on all fours, and no talking." I obeyed. She turned to Miss Emma. "For better or worse, here is your new charge. As we discussed, Lisa will be a baby this week and will need to be watched closely to make sure she behaves properly." "Don't worry, ma'am. I'm sure I can convince Lisa to do as she's told." Ms. Buxcombe turned to me. "Lisa, this is your new nanny, Miss Emma. She's in charge of you now. Do exactly as she says and be a good baby girl. If you misbehave, she'll give you demerits, and demerits will earn you a spanking later." Ms. Buxcombe left the room. I looked up at Miss Emma. She was a gorgeous blonde. She had an athletic figure, and would be taller than me even if I could stand up. "Hello, Lisa," she said in a smoky voice. "Do you wax regularly? You may speak to answer a direct question." I hesitated. "Yes, miss," I said. "How long since your last waxing?" "A week." "Good enough. Take off your onesie. No more talking." I wriggled out of the humiliating garment and got back down on all fours, naked and ashamed. "What, no diaper?" she said. "Come with me. We can't have a baby crawling around without her diaper." I crawled after her down the hallway and into the guest suite. It was larger than my room, with a distinctly feminine d?cor, and contained a queen-sized bed, a night table, a chest of drawers, a girl's vanity with a lighted mirror and an oversized changing table stocked with diapers, baby powder and wipes. "This will be your room for the Six Year Plan," Miss Emma said. "Your usual room will be locked. Please get on the changing table." Was I really going to let this happen? "Miss...!" I began. "Lisa! Babies don't talk. One demerit. " I lay down on the changing table, feeling utterly humiliated. "I see you had a Brazilian," Miss Emma said. "My, what a cute little boy-clitty!" She pulled a diaper off the stack and unfolded it. "Lift your bottom, baby," she said brightly, and slid the diaper under me. To my shame and chagrin, I began to get hard. Why? I didn't have a thing for diapers. Maybe I had a thing for Miss Emma. She wrapped the diaper tightly around my waist and closed it with the adhesive tabs. She admired my new pink plastic panty and pulled it up my legs and over my diaper. Her delicate fingers toyed with the ruffles. "Off the table, baby," Miss Emma said. I climbed off and stood, fussing with my plastic panties and diaper to adjust the fit. I couldn't believe it. I was wearing a baby's diaper and plastic panties, a helpless little girl who had to obey her nanny, and I was fully erect. "Lisa! Babies can't stand up! Another demerit. That makes two now. I'll have to tell Ms. Buxcombe." I dropped to my hands and knees. "Good baby!" She went into the closet and brought out a frilly dress in an adult size. "Is little Lisa ready for her baby dress? Raise your handsies!" She slid the dress down my body. It was a floaty yellow fabric and had puff sleeves, a sash and a poufy skirt that barely covered my diapered bottom. The bodice was embroidered with tiny kittens and puppies. She buttoned it up the back and tied the sash behind me in a big bow. "Oh, what a pretty baby Lisa is!" Miss Emma said. She popped an oversized pacifier into my mouth and tied it in place with a length of ribbon so I couldn't spit it out. "Now just one more thing." She took a baby bonnet out of one of the drawers, tucked up my hair in a bun, pulled the bonnet over my hair and tied its ribbons in a pretty bow under my chin. The poke of the bonnet limited my view, and I had to turn my head to see her. "Does baby Lisa like her pretty bonnet?" I shook my head, sucking on my pacifier. "Well, I like baby's bonnet, so baby will just have to wear it. Does baby need to go potty?" I shook my head again. "Okay. When you need to go, you must use your diapers. The bathroom door is locked. Is baby hungry?" I nodded. "I guess it's time for baby's lunch. Come with me to the kitchen." She left the room. I crawled after her and had to go down the stairs one at a time, bumping on my butt. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to cry. Here I was, a legal adult, not allowed to walk or talk, diapered and forbidden to use the bathroom, dressed as an infant girl, sucking on a pacifier and wearing a frilly bonnet. On top of all that, there was Miss Emma's baby talk. Why did she bother, when I wasn't supposed to be able to talk? To demean me, of course. It worked. "I'm afraid we don't have a high chair for baby," she said, "so baby will use a big girl's chair. But we'll tie her sash to the back of the chair so she doesn't fall out." She reached behind me, untied the sash of my baby dress, wove the ties through the spindles of the chair and retied it. I tried to shift in the chair but couldn't. The sash held me almost as firmly as Chad's hands did. For lunch, she fed me a small bowl of hot cereal, a small jar of applesauce and a big bottle of milk. The food was utterly bland, but I wolfed it down. I wanted to ask her if I could drink from a cup instead of a bottle, but I didn't want to risk another demerit. The opening in the bottle's nipple wasn't quite big enough, so I had to suck harder, like that guy in the old movie "Get Shorty." It took me a good twenty minutes to empty the bottle. I could just imagine how I looked in my baby dress and bonnet, nursing my baby bottle, unable to modestly close my legs because of the big, thick diaper I wore. By the time I finished the bottle, I had to pee, but I couldn't make myself go in my diaper. My inhibitions were stronger than my need - or were for a few more minutes, until I finally couldn't hold it any longer. I tried to release only a little urine, but once I started, I couldn't stop, and I flooded my diapers. I hoped my plastic panties wouldn't leak. "Oh, Lisa!" said Miss Emma. "Are you peeing in your diaper like a good girl?" I nodded, thankful there was no one else to witness my humiliation. "Good baby! Let's get you changed, and then it'll be time for your nap, and afterwards, maybe baby will be able to poop. Crawl after me, Lisa." Back upstairs, Miss Emma took off my wet diaper, cleaned me with a baby wipe, and dusted me with baby powder. I started getting stiff. "No! Bad baby!" she said, and gave my penis a sharp slap. It deflated. She slid a dry diaper under me, fastened it and pulled my plastic panties up over it. I stiffened inside my diaper and hoped she didn't notice. She said there was no crib, so I would have to sleep in the big girl's bed. I crawled over to the bed and climbed in. My eyes were heavy. I wondered if Miss Emma had fed me a sedative at lunch, and fell asleep. When I woke up it was mid-afternoon. Miss Emma was in the room, tidying the baby supplies on the changing table. "Did Lisa have a nice nap?" she said. "Yes, she did! What a good baby she is! Is she dry?" She put her hand up my baby dress and felt inside my diaper. "She is! Well, we'll see how long she stays that way. Crawl after me, Lisa." I followed her downstairs into the family room off the kitchen. She set up a portable playpen on the floor, made me get inside and turned on the TV. She tapped on the remote. The Teletubbies came on. "I have to start dinner for Ms. Buxcombe and do some chores that baby can't do," she said. "Baby can watch TV as long as baby stays in her playpen. If baby gets out of her playpen, baby will go to bed without any dinner." Hmm. Which was worse, hunger or Teletubbies? It was a close call, but lunch had been disappointing, and by tomorrow morning I'd be ravenous. I sat in my playpen and watched the Teletubbies ramble around their weird green AstroTurf world, making cooing sounds without words. As the hours passed, I fell into a sort of Teletubbies-induced trance, from which Miss Emma awoke me at five. She tied me to the kitchen chair again and fed me a baby's dinner. I wanted to verbally protest, but didn't want more demerits. A little jar of something like Spam, but with less flavor. A little jar of what might have been prunes, probably designed to make me poop. Some tasteless teething biscuits. Two large baby bottles of milk. I think it was whole milk, not my usual two percent, and realized that milk would probably be my primary source of protein, fat and calories this week. Because I was a baby now. Because I was a baby, I couldn't talk and had to crawl everywhere. Because I was a baby, I had to go to bed early. Because I was a baby, I would pee and poop in my diapers that night, making me extremely uncomfortable and forcing Miss Emma to clean up a yucky mess in the morning. Because I was a baby, I had to drink half a dozen bottles of milk a day. Because I was a baby, I had to endure the same mind- deadening routine for the entire week, the days blending into each other, confined to a playpen and living in the surreal world of Tinky Winky, Laa-laa, Dipsy and Po. I'd heard one of the Teletubbies was supposedly gay, but I didn't know which one. The first break in the demeaning routine came on Sunday night, when Ms. Buxcombe had me crawl into her office and kneel before her desk in my diaper, baby dress and bonnet. Miss Emma sat in an armchair near the desk. "Six demerits this week," Ms. Buxcombe said. "If you'd gotten seven, I would have held you back for another week as a baby. You need to do better, Lisa. But you made it!" She and Miss Emma both clapped. I felt ridiculous. "Starting tomorrow morning," Ms. Buxcombe said, "you are no longer a baby. You are a little girl, six years old. You can walk and talk now. You can wear panties instead of diapers - unless, of course, you have an accident! Instead of being your nanny, Miss Emma is now your governess, and she will teach you to behave like a six-year-old girl." "May I talk now, ma'am?" "You may." "When may I take off my diaper, ma'am?" "Are you dry? Go check her, Emma." My new governess lifted my dress and stuck her hand inside my diaper. She removed it just before I started to swell. "Yes, Madame, she's dry." "Then let's get her swats out of the way. Pull down her diaper, and I'll let you swat her." "Oh, thank you, ma'am." Miss Emma made me count the six swats and thank her after each, and then pulled up my diaper. "When can I take off my diaper, ma'am?" I said. "After the next time you wet it," Ms. Buxcombe said. Miss Emma had changed me not long ago, so I wasn't able to wet my diaper until after dinner. Miss Emma took me upstairs, removed my diaper - "Your last diaper! I'm so proud of you, Lisa!" - and gave me a bubble bath. On the bed, I found a little girl's cotton nightgown in my size, with ruffles on the short sleeves and the knee-length hem. The front was covered with a picture of Elsa, the Disney princess from "Frozen." Ms. Buxcombe handed me a present in a small gift bag. It was a three- pack of cotton Frozen panties. ~ ~ ~ Week 2: Little Girl Miss Emma woke me at seven. "Good morning, Lisa! You're six now! Old enough to wear panties instead of diapers! Let's get you dressed, sweetie." Getting dressed started with the Frozen panties and a matching cotton camisole. A short, stiff crinoline petticoat edged with lace. A little girl's dress that came down to mid-thigh in my size, in a lilac floral print. It was sleeveless, with a short bodice embroidered with tiny purple flowers, a sash that tied in back, and a full skirt edged with a dainty ruffle. With it came lace-trimmed anklets and Mary Jane shoes. I twisted my hips to make the dress swish around me. The petticoat made it flare prettily. I liked the feeling, shameful though it was. Miss Emma brushed my hair into pigtails tied with lilac ribbons. The faintest touch of pink eyeshadow and lip gloss. A girl's floral scent. I looked in the mirror and was stunned to see how young I looked. The dress was a key part of the look, but just as much so were the pigtails, whose ribbons perfectly matched the dress. Miss Emma looked over my shoulder into the mirror. "You look so cute, Lisa! I think we should call you Lisa Sugarplum instead of Lisa Lambchop." "I look ridiculous, miss," I said. "This is a little girl's party dress." "You don't look ridiculous! You're a little girl now, so it's just the perfect dress for you! You'll get to wear lots of pretty dresses this week, and I'll start teaching you how to be a girl. Let's go have breakfast, and then we'll start your girl lessons." Breakfast was a bowl of Cheerios, a blueberry Pop-Tart and a glass of milk. I was getting sick of milk, but at least I didn't have to drink it from a bottle while wearing a diaper. When I finished eating, Miss Emma tied a lacy little apron around me and had me rinse the breakfast plates and put them in the dishwasher. "A little girl like you should start doing her share of the housework," she said. She spent the rest of the morning teaching me deportment, which was how to sit, stand, walk, turn and otherwise behave like a young lady. We started off with curtsies. It was important, she said, for me to know how to curtsy properly to Ms. Buxcombe and other adults. A good curtsy was harder than it looked - I had to balance on one foot, place my right foot behind my left, grasp my skirt and petticoats, raise them, bend my knees, look down and then do it all in reverse order, as gracefully as possible. I did a hundred curtsies for her before we moved on to standing, which, like curtseying, was more complicated than you'd think. I learned that females usually stood in one of seven basic positions, each of which had variations. Miss Emma showed them to me and corrected me when I copied them. By the end of that hour, I already looked more feminine when I stood. Walking was next, and was even more complex. I had to shorten my steps, swing my hips, place my footsteps in a straight line, and hold my upper arms close to my body rather than letting them hang and swing back and forth the way a boy would. Miss Emma placed a book on my head and told me to cross the room, turn gracefully and return without letting the book fall. I got three demerits before I succeeded. I was physically tired after a morning of deportment lessons. Being more ladylike required using muscles I wasn't used to using, holding poses my body wasn't designed to hold. But Miss Emma said I already looked a lot better, and by the end of my week as a six-year-old, I would be a lovely little lady. The thought excited and frightened me. By the time I completed the Six Year Plan, my outward feminization would be complete. No one would believe that I was a man without physical proof. Lunch was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, chocolate chip cookies and the inevitable glass of milk. I had to take a nap afterwards, but I guess they fed me less of the sedative this week, because I was out for only an hour. I did a page in a coloring book, a picture of a girl riding a unicorn, and spent the rest of the afternoon watching Disney princess movies while Miss Emma worked on her laptop. "Instead of the playpen, you can sit on the big sofa," she told me. "Don't get off the sofa without asking permission. Raise your hand and wait for me to speak first. If it's an emergency - for example, if you're about to wet yourself - wave both hands." "Yes, miss," I said, and curtsied. "Oh, very nice," she said. "Okay, we'll start with 'Cinderella,' then we'll have a little tea party, and then 'Beauty and the Beast.' Remember to keep your knees together when you're sitting in a dress, sweetheart. Fold your hands in your lap." I sat on the sofa like a good girl and watched Cinderella be a total wuss. She let her stepmother and stepsisters bully her, and without a deus ex machina in the form of her fairy godmother, she never would have gone to the ball. She should have left at a quarter to midnight to give herself enough time to get home before her coach turned into a pumpkin. She should have told the prince who she was instead of running away from him. As for living happily ever after, forget it. Not with a prince stupid enough to marry a penniless commoner with tiny feet but no political allies, instead of a friendly foreign princess with a fat dowry. Afterwards, we had a tea party. I'd never been to one, so Miss Emma had to show me almost everything I needed to do. I finally managed to produce a pot of tea and some Girl Scout cookies I found in the pantry. She showed me how to sit, how to adjust my skirt after I sat, how to pour, how to hold my teacup, how to sip delicately, how to offer someone a cookie. I was a coffee drinker, not a tea drinker, but I swallowed the stuff and accepted her corrections of my behavior. Dinner was comfort food - mac and cheese, with chocolate pudding for dessert, and milk. Still no meat. I guess girls didn't eat meat anymore. After dinner, I had to watch "Cinderella II: Dreams Come True," an animated sequel with no reason to exist, so wretched that it wasn't released in theaters and went straight to video. I was actively fidgeting for the last half of the movie and picked up two more demerits. "Lisa! Sit quietly, like a good girl! Keep those knees together, and keep those hands folded quietly in your lap." The next six days were more of the same. Oh my God, so boring! Cheerios and deportment classes in the morning, PB&J for lunch, a coloring book afterwards, then more Disney princess movies in the afternoon and evening. I didn't know there were so many. By week's end we were down to the dregs - totally derivative sequels like "The Little Mermaid II" and "Mulan II." I decided I liked deportment lessons better than Disney princess movies. On Sunday, my last night as a six-year-old girl, we had a birthday party for me, with Miss Emma and Ms. Buxcombe as guests. I wore an especially frilly white party dress, all ribbons and bows and lace and, of course, petticoats. We sat at the kitchen table, where I blew out six candles on a little round cake with pink and white icing. Miss Emma served us cake and ice cream. Afterwards, Miss Emma had me demonstrate to Ms. Buxcombe what I learned this week. I entered the room, walked to a chair, smoothed my skirts under me, sat, stood, walked over to Ms. Buxcombe and did three curtsies in a row, then stood in position one, with heels together and hands folded in front. "She's making progress," Ms. Buxcombe said. "How is her behavior?" "Five more demerits this week," Miss Emma said. "One fewer than last week," Ms. Buxcombe said. "Shall I spank her for you? Come here, Lisa. Over my knees." I obeyed her. What else could I do? She lifted my dress and petticoat, lowered my panties and delivered five stinging rebukes, each of which made me cry out. She let me get up and pull up my panties and fix my skirts. "What is she learning from the princess movies?" Ms. Buxcombe asked. "Not much, I'm afraid," Miss Emma said. "She gets impatient, and talks back to the movie when the characters do stupid things." "Did you try silencing her?" Ms. Buxcombe said. "I didn't gag her, if that's what you mean. It didn't seem fair. I hadn't seen those movies in years. Emma's right, some of the characters are incredibly stupid." "Well, then," Ms. Buxcombe said. She opened a desk drawer and handed me a small wrapped gift. "Happy six-year birthday, Lisa," she said. "Tomorrow, you'll be twelve!" I unwrapped the present. It was a pink satin training bra. ~ ~ ~ Week 3: Tween Girl On Monday morning, as I became a twelve-year-old girl in Ms. Buxcombe's Six Year Plan, my new wardrobe consisted of a girls' school uniform with new lingerie. I switched from cotton to nylon panties decorated with lace and a tiny bow in front, and I started wearing my training bra, which had very little to train. I was embarrassed to find myself wishing I had something to fill it. "Miss? Should I do anything to... um... enhance my bust?" "Why?" Miss Emma said. "Twelve-year-olds usually don't have much to show. The training bra is lightly padded. Wait till next week." Miss Emma slid a full slip down my body, covering my bra and panties. She handed me a cotton blouse with short puff sleeves, a ruffled placket that buttoned backwards, like all women's clothes, and a girls' criss-cross bow tie with a pearl button in the center. Next came a knee-length, knife-pleated schoolgirl's skirt of light wool, in a black and royal blue plaid shot through with threads of white and pink, that swung fluidly around my knees and felt wonderful. I wore a pair of semi-sheer white knee socks and the same Mary Janes as when I was six. Instead of pigtails, Miss Emma combed out my hair and tied it up in a high ponytail with a pink bow. She used slightly heavier makeup than a real twelve-year-old girl would, and it made me look delectable. Light eyeshadow, a trace of eyeliner, a touch of mascara, a dusting of blush, light pink lipstick and nails, and a coat of lip gloss. "You need earrings," Miss Emma said. "We'll go out after breakfast." Which consisted of a fruit smoothie with protein powder. I began to wonder if at a certain age, girls just stopped eating solid food and began to subsist on sunlight and skin lotion. After reminding me that my bracelet made it impossible for me to run away, Miss Emma drove us to the nearest mall and took me to Claire's, where the girl pierced my ears and inserted sparkly cubic zirconia studs. I walked out with those, a matching ring for my right hand and a silver necklace with a pretty zirconia pendant. The mirror showed me what a striking difference these bits of bling made in my overall appearance. Sparkles added another dimension of femininity. On the way home, I mentioned that I hadn't seen Chad around the house. She said he was traveling on business. I asked what his business was, and she said I'd have to ask him. As if! Back home, she explained my daily routine as a tween girl of twelve. In the mornings, I would wear my schoolgirl uniform and she would teach me lessons in home economics, with a test just before lunch. Each wrong answer would earn me another demerit. In the afternoons, I would have a dance lesson, change out of my schoolgirl uniform into a lace-trimmed denim skirt and ruffled top, and watch episodes of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" until dinnertime. After dinner, I'd watch an episode of "Anne with an E." At last I was allowed to leave the sofa while the TV was on, but could not leave the room except to go to the bathroom. My week of home economics classes included Sewing, Laundry, Ironing, Cleaning, Cooking, and Shopping. For the last, Miss Emma drove me to the store and taught me how to compare prices, select brands and buy a week's groceries. Because I was officially in class, I had to wear my schoolgirl's uniform to the store, including a little black felt hat with a grosgrain ribbon tied around it. Women mostly smiled when they saw me, but several men ogled me in a way that was unnerving. Pervs! I had to take a test after each day's home economics class, but the questions were so easy that I didn't miss any. Miss Emma praised me for my perfect score. It made me absurdly proud, considering how minor an achievement it was, and made me realize how emotionally dependent on Miss Emma I was becoming. For my dance lessons after lunch, I had a male teacher, a handsome black-haired young man called Mr. Rudy. At first I felt uneasy dancing with a male, but I soon realized it was the best way for me to learn the woman's steps, and after the first day I greatly enjoyed the lessons. We spent two days each on the waltz, tango and foxtrot. I wore my schoolgirl's skirt at dance lessons, as it moved much more nicely than the denim skirt. Mr. Rudy told me I should have a formal gown for dancing. I thought I had plenty of dresses already, but it did make me wonder what it would feel like to wear a long gown with petticoats swirling around my ankles, like a prom dress, or a bridesmaid's dress, or - the ultimate - a wedding gown. On Saturday, my next to last night as a tween, we had a mock slumber party, and had more fun than I expected. I was the hostess, Miss Emma was my guest, and Ms. Buxcombe was Mom, whose job was to curb our enthusiasm when needed. We ordered pizza, made popcorn and watched YouTube videos and "Enchanted," a chick flick about a princess wearing the poufiest dress I'd ever seen. I did Miss Emma's makeup, laughing too hard to do a good job, and she did mine, making me look slutty. We had a fashion show, in which I modeled all the dresses I'd worn that week, followed by a pillow fight, in which Ms. Buxcombe had to intervene before we broke something. We both changed into babydoll nightgowns and played with each other's hair. Miss Emma put mine in pigtails, which made me look like a six-year-old again. On Sunday night, Ms. Buxcombe called me into her office. "Lisa, how much do you know about a woman's menstrual cycle?" I knew enough to know I didn't want to know anything more about a woman's menstrual cycle. "Mothers usually have this talk with their daughters around your age," she said. I steeled myself for an unpleasant hour or so. "However," she said, "I'm not your mother, so we're not going to have that talk. Especially since you'll never have a period." She smiled. "Instead, here's your six-year birthday present." I couldn't believe it. Ms. B. was going to let me skip a lecture I really didn't want to hear? O frabjous day! The present was a lacy, sexy 36C bra, a pair of C-cup breast forms and a matching pair of satin panties. Oh l? l?! Welcome to high school. ~ ~ ~ Week 4: Prom Queen When I dressed on Monday morning, now a Six Year Plan girl of eighteen, my new boobs upset my balance. I wore my new bra and panties, a miniskirt and a modest but tight-fitting top that featured my synthetic cleavage. Miss Emma added a half-slip and pantyhose, which I doubted many eighteen-year-old girls wore nowadays, but they felt nice on my legs. I was a high-school senior for the week, and Miss Emma explained what would happen. The prom was on Saturday night. I needed to go shopping today for a prom dress, so that there would be time for at least one fitting. On Friday, I would wear a cheerleader uniform for school spirit, and Saturday morning, Miss Emma would take me to the salon for hair, nails and makeup. Saturday evening, I would dress for the prom, have dinner with my date, and... "Date? I'm going to have a date?" "Yes, you'll have a nice boy to take you to the prom. If we could have more girls at your prom, they would all be jealous of you for getting him." "Who is he?" "You'll find out." "Do I know him?" "You'll find out." "Um... do I need to kiss him?" "You'll have dinner with him, dance with him and come home with him," she said. "The kiss usually happens when you come home, often on the doorstep just before you come inside." "The prom's not here? Where is it?" "A nice restaurant, Le Fromage Puant. Very romantic. Don't try to run away. Your date knows all about you, can easily subdue you and will not let you out of his sight." "I wasn't thinking of running away, miss!" I lied. "I certainly hope not," she said. During my week as a girl of eighteen, my governess tried to teach me some advanced home economics classes, but most of the week was all about the prom. We spent Monday afternoon and all of Tuesday shopping for a dress. Miss Emma asked what style of dress I wanted, and I told her I wanted a long dress with lots of petticoats, a formal ballgown. Late Tuesday, we found it. It was a burgundy chiffon gown with a cap-sleeved illusion bodice. Its skirt was an ankle-length swirl of chiffon over a long, full taffeta petticoat. It needed strapless support, and I ended up being laced into an overbust corset that nicely covered my breast forms. The saleslady summoned a seamstress, who quickly did a first fitting and scheduled a second fitting for Thursday. On Wednesday morning, we went shopping for shoes. Instead of trying to match the color of the gown, I got three-inch black patent dress sandals. I also picked up sheer black stockings to clip to the corset garters, which Miss Emma told me to run under my panties, not over them, no matter what I saw in photos. On Thursday, I had my second fitting of my gown. It fit perfectly, but Miss Emma intervened and said the corset and dress needed to be an inch tighter. Ow, ow, ow! Friday, I had to wear a cheerleader's uniform over my corset. The uniform was a show of school spirit for my imaginary Buxcombe High, and the corset was to take the extra inch off my waist to fit into my prom gown tomorrow night. The uniform was in good shape but secondhand. Its original wearer had gone to a school whose teams were called the Titans and whose colors were green and gold. I wore pantyhose covered by a tight golden brief that was part of the uniform. The box-pleated skirt flared nicely from my corseted waist and swung prettily whenever I moved. The sweater clung tightly to my bosom. I wore no-show white socks and girls' white Keds with delicately rounded toes. I felt like I should be at a high- school game, rooting for the Titans against whoever they were playing. I wished I had pompoms to shake in front of my boobies. Saturday morning, Miss Emma took me to the salon for hair, makeup and a mani-pedi. I spent more than an hour getting dressed that afternoon, and then had to sit quietly in my room with my hands folded in my lap, waiting for my date ? whoever he was ? to arrive. I didn't go to my high school prom, so I didn't know what would happen when he showed up. A knock on the door promptly at six. Miss Emma answered it, greeted whoever it was ? she didn't mention a name ? and called out for me to make my entrance. I walked down the hallway and slowly descended the staircase, daintily lifting the front of my gown as I'd been taught, hoping not to trip over my dress and make a spectacle of myself. Waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs was my date. Mr. Rudy! Wearing a tux! He looked so handsome that I relaxed immediately. "Oh, Lisa!" he said. "You look great! I'm so happy I invited you to the prom." "Oh, Mr. Rudy!" I said. "I am so looking forward to dancing with you." "Just Rudy tonight, okay?" I curtsied in assent. He produced a corsage of pink roses and baby's-breath that went well with my burgundy dress and slipped it over my wrist. I adjusted it to hide my GPS bracelet. "Oh, I love them... thank you so much," I told him, proudly showing it to Miss Emma. Rudy drove me to Le Fromage Puant. Lots of dark wood and delicious smells. A little jazz trio played as we ate. He had a manly New York strip steak with skinny fries he called frites, while I had a suitably feminine dish of seared sea scallops and baby broccoli. I liked the scallops because I could bite them off the end of my fork with my teeth without ruining my lipstick. He had a glass of wine. I had mineral water, because I was still under twenty-one and looked a lot younger. After dinner, Rudy asked me to dance. The dance floor was tiny, but we had it all to ourselves. Between songs, Rudy slipped a fifty to the band leader, the tenor sax player, and whispered in his ear. The band struck up "Cheek to Cheek," the fox trot that Rudy used for my lessons. He took my right hand, I placed my left hand on his shoulder, and we were off. Fortunately for me, he stuck to the basic step, with a corner step when we neared the edge of the dance floor. As soon as we started dancing, many of the diners began watching us, but he had taught me well enough that I wasn't scared. In fact, I loved dancing with him, even though ? or maybe because? ? he was big and strong and a confident leader. Next, the band played Shostakovich's dreamy "Waltz No. 2," another melody he used for my lessons. I floated beautifully around the dance floor in his arms, my prom gown and petticoat swirling about my legs. I twirled under his arm and sank into a deep curtsy at the end. A few people applauded, which made me blush. The band played a tango, a gorgeous melody I didn't know. To my relief, Rudy did only the basic step, so I could focus on doing one thing well. I felt sexy, stepping backward with my knees bent, submitting to Rudy's lead, hoping he wouldn't tread on my skirt. He didn't, and we drew more applause afterward. I thought we could sit down now, since we'd done all the dances he taught me, but he caught my hand and didn't move. I had a moment of panic when the band started playing again. He whispered in my ear, "This is the last dance of your prom." He put his hands on my waist and started swaying side to side. I slid my arms up his chest and clasped them behind his neck, swaying with him to the melody of a slow, sensuous "Besame Mucho." The pressure of his body against mine made me more conscious of what I was wearing: the corset gripping my torso, the garters pulling on my stockings, the petticoat and skirts wrapping around my ankles and his tuxedo trousers, the three-inch heels always keeping me slightly off balance and dependent on my partner's support. I was his prom date, and tonight I was a girl, even if I was stiff under my gown. I looked up to him and closed my eyes, inviting him to kiss me. He did. I felt like I could melt into a puddle on the floor. Never had I felt more feminine, soft and yielding. He kissed me again. I opened my eyes and sighed deeply as he took my hand and led me back to our table. "Thank you, Rudy," I said. "That was lovely, the perfect ending to the prom." "You're welcome," he said. "But it's not quite over. There's still the after party." He signaled to our waiter, who unlocked a side door, ushered us inside and closed it behind us. Rudy locked the door, which for some reason made me uneasy. We were in a small private dining room. The table was set for two, with little plates holding a pretty assortment of fruits and tall flutes of champagne. An ice bucket held the open bottle. A plain box lay on the table. "Oh, my," I said. "This is very fancy." He handed me a glass of champagne. "It is a setting." "A setting for what?" "The final act of the evening." "Which is...?" "Not so fast. First, we must crown our royalty." He opened the box, took out a pretty silver tiara that sparkled with rhinestones, and slid it into my hair. I admired and adjusted it in my compact mirror. It made me look like a princess. He raised his glass of champagne. "To the beautiful Lisa, Queen of the Prom." I took a healthy sip and raised my glass. "To Rudy, the King of the Prom, and my favorite dance teacher." Another generous swallow made me feel the effects of the champagne. "And the final act?" I said. "I want you to kneel before me, undo my trousers, take out my cock, and give me a blowjob." I stared at him. "What? No way I'm giving you a blowjob!" He put his hands on my frail shoulders and pushed me down onto my knees. I tried to rise, but he easily held me down. "Ms. Buxcombe insists you do this," he said. "She wants you to experience what many girls go through as their first sexual act. I want to make it as gentle as possible for you, but I can do that only if you cooperate and do as I tell you. Will you do that, or do you want me to force you? Some girls like to be forced." "I don't," I said. "Then take my pants down, Lisa. Have you ever given a man a blowjob?" "No!" Though I'd had a narrow escape from Chad. I was glad he was still on his business trip. "Fine, I'll tell you what to do." I unbuttoned and unzipped the trousers of his tux and pulled them and his black boxers down his legs. He was circumcised and a lot bigger than me, not that that's saying much, and impressively stiff. "Take it in your hand," he said. I reluctantly wrapped my fingers around it, and admired my burgundy nails. They perfectly matched my gown. "Give it a kiss," he said. I bent my head and kissed it, leaving a burgundy lip print. "Now take it in your mouth. Be careful of your teeth..." I followed his instructions the rest of the way. At one point he grabbed my hair and used it as a handle to control me, fucking my face until he cried out, made me gag and sent his discharge down my throat. He told me to lick him clean, and when I was done, I pulled up his boxers, zipped and buttoned his trousers, and refastened his belt. "Now what do you say, Lisa?" "I don't know." "Of course you do. You thank me for the honor of receiving my sperm." "You can't be serious. I'm not going to say that!" "Lisa! Why are you here?" "What?" "Why are you here, in week four of your Six Year Plan? What are you trying to accomplish?" I tried to remember what Ms. Buxcombe told me earlier. "To... to teach me humility and obedience. And to show me how much better it is to be a maid than... other things I could be." "Yes. Humiliation and obedience. Now, say what I told you to say." I trembled and surrendered, mentally and physically unable to oppose his will. "Um... thank you for the honor of receiving your sperm." I began to snivel, feeling completely unmanned. "You're welcome. Now, Luther and Lisa, you know what it's like when a boy forces a girl to give him a blowjob. Will you ever force a girl to give you a blowjob?" "No!" "Right answer! Now, stop crying and fix your makeup. A blowjob is nothing to cry over." Looking in my compact mirror, I blotted tears with a tissue and repaired my eyeliner. "I'll take you home now," Mr. Rudy said. "Lisa, please understand that when Miss Emma and I make you uncomfortable, we're just doing what Ms. Buxcombe wants us to do. We both think you're a very nice person. I'm sorry I had to force myself on you. Was that the first blowjob you've given?" "Yes." "Well done! And thank you." "You're welcome." My head spun. One moment he was so commanding, the next moment so polite. By the time we got home, I was semi-reconciled to what had happened. After a lovely prom, I'd given my date what was not unusual for girls to give their guys after having been treated to an elegant evening of dining and dancing. It wasn't a quid pro quo, not exactly, but both sides were aware of expectations and had to decide whether to fulfill them or not. I'd fulfilled his. I was happy with everything except the oral sex, which I found distasteful and hoped never to repeat. I slept in on Sunday and spent the day in a nightgown, robe and fuzzy slippers. Miss Emma questioned me in detail about the prom, and she quivered with glee when I told her what happened afterwards. "He was right," she said. "Boys expect girls to satisfy their urges nowadays, and oral sex can't get a girl pregnant. Not much in it for the girl, though, except whatever satisfaction she gets from pleasuring the boy. I'm impressed that you accommodated him so gracefully. Many girls get flustered by giving their first blowjob, or even refuse to do it. It sounds like you gave in almost right away." "He pushed me down on my knees, miss!" "Of course he did. Men love dominating us like that. They love it when we kneel before them and look up at them with big puppy eyes. They're really quite predictable. Stay a mental step ahead of them, which usually isn't difficult, and you can completely control the relationship. To conquer, surrender." To conquer, surrender. It was a profound thought. What if I surrendered to my life as Lisa? Learn all I could from Miss Emma, and then serve Ms. Buxcombe perfectly as her maid, enjoying the luxury and security of my surroundings and knowing exactly what I needed to do in order to continue enjoying them. It would not be hard ? for the most part I merely needed to improve skills I already had. "Tomorrow, I'll be twenty-four in the Six Year Plan," I told my governess. "What'll be different?" She deflected my question. "Are you enjoying the Plan, Lisa?" she asked. I thought about it. "No, miss." "Why not?" "It's so degrading, miss. I spend all my time embarrassed, humiliated or both. I don't like being judged by how I look and what I wear." "Such is the life of a woman in this world, Lisa. Learn from it. There are worse fates than serving a powerful woman. As you are discovering." She handed me a box. "For what starts tomorrow, Lisa." The box held a pretty pair of women's glasses, with delicate black frames highlighted by tiny jewels. I looked through them. They were plain glass. They were just to make me look ? smarter? More like a secretary? I'd find out soon enough. ~ ~ ~ Week 5: Office Girl Monday morning, Miss Emma woke me up at seven. The first thing I noticed was that she started called me "Miss Lisa." I was no longer a child, I was an adult, if that mattered in Ms. Buxcombe's crazy Six Year Plan. She had me dress in a knee-length black pencil skirt that was tight enough to severely limit my stride, and a white pussy bow blouse that was sheer enough to show off the lace-lavished slip I wore over my white corset and bra. Underneath I wore matching white panties, sheer black stockings gartered to the corset and four-inch black patent stilettos. A fuchsia peplum blazer and a black patent handbag completed my outfit. Oh, and my new glasses, which I almost forgot. Ms. Buxcombe was out for the day, so Miss Emma set me up in her home office. "I have more seniority, so I'll take her desk and chair," Miss Emma said. "You sit here." She pointed to a TV tray with a laptop on it and a folding chair in the far corner of the room. The tray had no modesty panel, so I would need to sit carefully in order not to expose myself. The door opened. I jumped. Mr. Rudy walked into the room. "Miss Emma!" he said. "Yes, boss?" "This is our new hire, Miss Lisa. Please give her the typing test." "Yes, sir." I failed. I typed 66 words per minute, not fast enough to meet their requirement of 70 wpm, and I made five errors. Miss Emma walked me from Ms. Buxcombe's office to the dining room, where Mr. Rudy had set up his imaginary office. "She failed, sir. Too slow, and five errors." "Which means five spanks," Mr. Rudy said. He stood. "Miss Lisa, please bend over the table." "What, so you can spank me? I don't think so! I'm a grown woman!" I said. He grabbed me by the wrist, forcibly bent me over the table and gave me five spanks strong enough to hurt through my skirt, slip and panties. He let me go. I stood and backed out of his reach, rubbing my sore butt. "Next time, the spanks will be on your bare bottom. Is there anything else, Miss Emma?" "I haven't measured her hem, sir. Would you like to do the honors?" "Why not? Hand me the ruler. Miss Lisa, climb up and kneel on the table ? oh, nice panty flash!" He placed the end of the ruler on his desk and measured the distance from the table to my skirt hem. "Your skirt is too long," he said. "It's only four inches above the knee, and the requirement is at least six inches. Get your skirt and slip shortened by tomorrow, or it'll be five spanks per inch." "Yes, sir," I said wearily, and clambered down from the table, exposing a lot of leg in the process. I'd been shown how to sew the week before last, when, by their crazy reckoning, I was twelve. The sewing machine was still on a shelf in the closet of the Six Year Plan room. "Miss Lisa!" barked Mr. Rudy. "It's ten o'clock! Where's my coffee?" "Sorry, sir. I didn't know you wanted coffee at ten," I said. "Every morning. Don't forget!" "Yes, sir." I went to the kitchen, where I started a fresh pot and poured him a cup. I took it to the dining room in my short, tight skirt and impossible heels and set the coffee on the table. "You should have asked how I like it," he said. "Two packets of sweetener. The pink kind. No sugar, no cream." I hurried back to the kitchen and fetched him two packets of the pink sweetener. "That's better. Practice your typing this morning. Ask Miss Emma to show you a tutorial." I curtsied and returned to my desk. Was I supposed to curtsy to my boss? I didn't think so, but it couldn't hurt. Miss Emma set me up with a typing tutorial, so I worked on that for a while. The laptop they'd given me was an ancient piece of crap still running Windows 7. Mr. Rudy followed me into the office, which had a row of filing cabinets against the rear wall. He began removing file folders from the cabinets, always from the bottom drawer. I wondered what type of information was only stored in bottom drawers. He took a couple of dozen folders out into the dining room. Half an hour later, he messaged me to come to his office, where I saw the file folders stacked neatly on the dining table. "Miss Lisa, I'm done with these files and need them returned to the file cabinets," he said. "They're filed by the date on the tab, starting in the top drawer of the cabinet on the left. The card on each drawer lists the date range it contains." "Yes, sir," I said. "You need practice walking in heels, so please file only one folder at a time. I'll keep an eye on how you're doing." He walked back into Ms. Buxcombe's office and spoke briefly to Miss Emma, who got up and left the room. He took her seat. I picked up the first folder, walked back to the office and matched its date to one of the bottom drawers. I bent my knees and hips to lower myself modestly in my short, tight skirt, opened the drawer, leafed through the folders, found the correct location and inserted the folder. "Not that way, Miss Lisa," Mr. Rudy said. "When you bend over, bend from your waist." "Excuse me, sir?" What a letch! If I bent from my waist, my skirt would ride up and he'd be able to see what panties I was wearing today. "When you bend over, bend from the waist, facing away from me." "I don't see why I should do that, sir. You'll be able to look up my skirt!" "Don't be silly," he said. "I don't want you to look like a slut. I want you to look elegant. Now bend over properly. That's an order." All the weeks of humiliation and frustration boiled up in me at that moment. "I won't!" I stamped my foot. My four-inch heels turned it into a girlish gesture. Mr. Rudy rose from his chair and approached me. "Miss Lisa, are you refusing a direct order from your superior?" I took a step back, afraid he would bend me over Ms. Buxcombe's desk and spank me. "Well?" he demanded. "Are you?" I fell to my knees and looked up at him with puppy dog eyes, hoping to avert his anger. "No, sir. I'll do as you say." "You'll file these folders the way I tell you?" "Yes, sir." "Then get to it. One folder at a time." "Yes, sir." I went to the dining room and returned with the next folder. I located the bottom drawer it belonged in. Keeping my legs perfectly straight, I bent from my waist with my bottom facing my boss, opened the drawer and inserted the folder as slowly and sensually as I could. I peeked back over my shoulder and saw my boss staring at my lace-covered bottom. "Nice, but keep your ankles together, Miss Lisa," he said. "It's an important job, so take your time to do it perfectly." I spent almost the entire hour before lunch refiling the twenty-odd folders that remained. My boss ogled my butt the entire time. After a while I made it a game to see how sexily I could walk to the dining room, pick up a file folder, return to the office, bend over the right drawer, show him my panties, insert the file in the proper slot and stand up straight. I finished the task a few minutes before noon. "That was a beautiful job of filing," Mr. Rudy said. "Thank you, sir," I said, and wiggled back to my tray table and folding chair. I had mixed feelings about what I'd just done. The idea of wanting to sexually attract a man was alien to me, and yet I'd just had a good time doing it. It was fun. It gave me a power I hadn't had before all this. I bet he got stiff watching me. At noon, I went to the kitchen, made myself a tuna salad sandwich and had it with a Diet Coke for lunch. It seemed an appropriate lunch for a working girl like me. When I went back to my tiny desk, I looked through to the dining room and saw that Mr. Rudy wasn't there. I got an IM from Miss Emma, who was sitting six feet away from me at Ms. Buxcombe's desk. >wanna watch some flix I replied: >wheres rudy She typed: >hes out this afternoon I typed back: >im in We got up, stopped by the kitchen to pick up a bottle of pinot grigio and two glasses, and went to Ms. Buxcombe's media room. Miss Emma chose the movies, all about girls with bad bosses: "The Devil Wears Prada," "9 to 5," with horrible Seventies hair and fashions, and "His Girl Friday," one of those old black-and-white comedies with snappy dialogue. At ten minutes to five, Mr. Rudy entered the media room. "Lisa! Why are you not at your desk?" Miss Emma paused the movie. "I... I thought you were gone for the day, sir," I said. "I'm here, and there's something I need you to do," he said. I rose and followed him to the dining room. "What do you need, sir?" "I need to punish your unexcused absence from your desk," he said. He pointed at the floor in front of his feet. "On your knees." I knelt, hoping he wasn't about to demand a blowjob. He did. "Sir! This is sexual harassment!" I said. "You're not allowed to use your position to demand sexual favors." "Who's going to stop me?" he said. "You?" "I could scream for help. Miss Emma would come." He chortled. "I'm sure she would. She'd watch you do me, and then she'd make you do her, too," he said. "I'm going to complain to Ms. Buxcombe!" "It was her idea," he said. "Ask her later if you don't believe me. So..." He pointed to his crotch. I did it. Undid his trousers, pulled them and his boxers down his legs, took his cock and balls into my hands. This was the second time I had to blow him, and I hoped it would be the last. I kissed the tip, licked him, sucked on his stones, slurped up and down, wrapped my fingers around him, took him into my mouth and started to suck. It didn't take long for me to get another free helping of his manly spunk. "I think we'll make this a daily assignment for you, " he told me. "Your final task of the day. Be in this room on your knees ten minutes before quitting time." Oh, God. Well, it'd only be for a week. "Yes, sir," I said. "May I go now?" "You bet, sweetheart. See you tomorrow." He gave my bottom a swat that propelled me out of the room. He left Miss Emma and me alone for the rest of the evening, so we finished our movies ? and our wine. By that point I had my head in her lap, and she was gently running her fingers up and down my arm. Our stockings rubbed together as our legs entwined. "He made you blow him? Poor Lisa. Has he fucked you yet?" she asked. "No. Is he going to? I don't want to be fucked, and I wish I could stop the blowjobs." "You don't like sucking cock?" "No," I said, snuggling closer. "Do you like licking girls?" she said. "I don't know," I said. "I've never tried it." She began stroking my hair. "There's this girl where I work," she said. "A girl?" "I'm crushing on her hard at the moment," she said. I blushed. "Oh?" "She's so pretty, and she dresses very femininely," she said. "I could almost imagine living with her as my housewife. She'd stay home and do the chores, and I'd go to work and make money, and when I got home, I'd take her in my arms and kiss her. Like this." She kissed me on the forehead. "And this." She kissed the tip of my nose. "And this." She kissed me on the lips. "And this." Her tongue invaded my mouth. This was fun, but wondered what she was up to. Was it part of the Six Year Plan? Was she still playing the office game? Or were we just Lisa and Emma at the moment? Or... or... I was having trouble thinking. Emma had pulled the breast forms out of my bra and was playing with my real nips. They were unusually sensitive tonight. "And my housewife would do for me what you just did for our boss." She pulled up her skirt, lifted herself on the sofa and pulled off her panties. I knew what she wanted, and having given oral pleasure to Mr. Rudy, I knew of no reason why I shouldn't do the same for Miss Emma. I rolled off the sofa and wriggled up between her thighs. I went straight for her clit, licking and sucking it, and she came almost as quickly as Mr. Rudy had. She pulled up her panties and stood. "That was just lovely. Goodnight, Miss Lisa," she said, and left me erect and unsatisfied. It was then that I remembered I needed to shorten my skirt and slip by two inches to avoid a spanking in the morning. I got out the sewing machine and managed to remember how to thread it. I re-hemmed the skirt and added rows of tucks to the slip to shorten it. The tucks made the slip hang less gracefully, but I wouldn't be spanked for that. The rest of the week went quickly. Work was easy, because Mr. Rudy disappeared every afternoon until ten minutes to five. I spent my mornings having my skirt measured, practicing my typing, getting Mr. Rudy his coffee, and taking typing tests, with a spank for every error. From eleven to noon I refiled a stack of folders in the bottom drawers of the file cabinets, bending over as sexily as I could while Mr. Rudy ogled my posterior. In the afternoons I watched girl-power movies with Miss Emma and gave her an orgasm, and at the end of the day I gave Mr. Rudy an orgasm. Neither of them ever returned the favor. On Saturday, Mr. Rudy said we would start my performance review at ten minutes to five. I was sitting in my folding chair in front of the TV tray in Ms. Buxcombe's home office with my hands in my lap, wishing my shortened skirt covered the welt of my stockings, when he came to fetch me. I sat across from him at the dining room table. He handed me a sheet of paper with my new name on it, Lisa Lambchop, and a picture of me in my secretary outfit, and read it out loud. "Despite her weak typing skills, Miss Lambchop has been a good office girl. It took her only a day to learn obedience, and she had only one naughty outburst during the week. She is particularly adept at returning file folders to the office file cabinets in an attractive manner. She has obeyed the dress code and looks quite fetching in her office attire." He looked up from the paper. "Which is true, Miss Lisa. You are a total babe." I didn't respond. I couldn't believe he would mention my personal appearance in a performance review. Totally unprofessional! He read on. "It took her a few days to adjust to taller heels, but by week's end she could manage them better than many women IRL. She had little oral experience, but made up for it with enthusiasm and quickly became fully capable of satisfying her supervisor's needs. Her clothing, cosmetics, hair and accessories were all satisfactory. I recommend we promote Miss Lisa Lambchop to the final stage of the Six Year Plan." The written comments were a mockery of a performance review, but I was relieved to hear there was only one more week of what by now felt like my Six Year Ordeal. "Congratulations, Lisa!" Mr. Rudy said. "You have a special event tomorrow, and the final stage of the Plan starts Monday morning. Good luck!" "What's the special event?" "Your wedding!" he said. "You're getting married, Lisa!" Shock. Surprise. Terror. "To who?" "Me." Oh, my God. "Um... this is part of the Six Year thing, right? Not a real wedding?" "Right. The celebrant has no authority to marry anyone." Whew! "Will I have to wear a wedding gown?" Oh, I hoped so. "You certainly will! Ms. Buxcombe knows your size and ordered one." "And then what happens next week?" "You'll find out on Monday, won't you?" he said, with something halfway between a smile and a smirk. ~ ~ ~ End of Week 5: Wedding Sunday was a day I'd always dreamed of: the day I wore a wedding dress and became a bride. Boys weren't supposed to dream of wearing wedding dresses, but I did ? though I never dreamed of a wedding that was organized and took place in one day. It helped that it wasn't a real wedding. Everyone kept reassuring me of that. Miss Emma volunteered to be my maid of honor and took me to the salon after lunch for hair, makeup and nails. Back home, she helped me into the gown and lingerie Ms. Buxcombe had ordered for me. It was totally over the top. It was a fountain of lace with a narrow waist, all tiers and layers with a train, and under it two voluminous petticoats. It was more like a quincea?era or prom dress, the kind of goopy gown a fifteen-year-old girly girl would wear. Under it I wore my bridal panties and bra, an underbust corset with garters that held up my white stockings, and white satin gloves that tied off above my elbow. I had a blue garter on my left thigh. Thanks to a suggestion from Miss Emma, I also had a healthy dose of lubrication in and around what she called my boy-pussy. I didn't know what would happen on the wedding night, but wanted to be prepared for anything. Mr. Rudy wore his prom tuxedo again as the bridegroom. A friend of his named Daniel, probably another actor, put on a suit and stood in as his best man. Ms. Buxcombe presided over the mock ceremony in a matronly dress. They all gathered in the living room. Rudy's phone streamed "Here Comes the Bride" on speaker as I descended the staircase in my wedding dress and crossed the entry hall. There were oohs and aahs, and a few giggles, at the sight of my gown. Rudy and I stood in front of the coffee table, and Ms. Buxcombe read the vows. "Do you, Rudy, take Lisa to have and to hold for the next seven nights, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till she completes the Six Year Plan?" He did. I made the same vow, except that I promised to "love, cherish and obey," the way brides used to. Ms. Buxcombe pronounced us husband and wife. Rudy lifted my veil, and we kissed. No tongue, for which I was grateful. Emma led a champagne toast. Rudy played our Shostakovich waltz on his phone and twirled me around the room, deftly steering my full skirts around the furniture. I felt heavenly dancing in my wedding dress, which flared out beautifully as we turned, lace on top of satin on top of taffeta on top of crinoline on top of nylon. We had a light but delicious wedding meal that Ms. Buxcombe had catered by Le Fromage Puant, with more champagne. Afterwards, Ms. Buxcombe and Miss Emma retired to other rooms of the house, Daniel departed, and Mr. Rudy led me to the guest room he occupied. I nervously wondered what would happen next. He stopped before opening the door. "Lisa, we aren't really married, but this is going to be a real wedding night. I'm going to penetrate you and make you a woman. Do you agree to this? You've already serviced me orally, but now I want to give you an orgasm in your boy- pussy without touching your boy-clitty. A feminine orgasm. A bride's orgasm." How could I say no? The whole day had led up to this moment. The whole Six Year Plan seemed to be culminating tonight. I wondered what could possibly follow this next week. A housewife of thirty, Ms. Buxcombe once said. I didn't care. Tonight, I was the bride in my puff pastry of a gown and would play the role all the way to the final curtain. "I agree, husband," I said quietly. "Please be gentle." I squealed as he picked me up, carried me across the threshold of his room, and dropped me on the bed in all my finery. I climbed off the bed and he helped me undress. I took off the gown, petticoats and shoes, and left on the veil, corset, stockings and bridal panties. He stripped completely. His man-junk was considerably larger than mine. His body was slim but muscular with little body hair, actually quite handsome. "Come here, wife," he said, crooking a finger. I did. He pulled down my panties. I involuntarily wiggled in anticipation. "Oh, my," he said, reaching over and cradling my boy bits in a hand that dwarfed mine. "Your boy-clitty is so little and cute!" I blushed. He pushed me back onto the bed. "You're so beautiful, I want to see your face when I fuck you," he said, lifting my veil. "Hook your knees over my shoulders and I'll enter you slowly. It'll hurt until I get in, but then ? you'll see." "Yes, my husband." He took me. He began to force an entrance. I yelped. It hurt! I screamed. He got inside and began working my boy-pussy, slowly at first, then faster. His cock rubbed against a place inside me that made me throb with pleasure. Oh, my God! It felt incredible, as if I was masturbating without touching myself, only better, an order of magnitude better, and all I had to do was sit there and take it, take it, take it. I screamed. "Ah! Ah! Ah! Oh, God! Fu... fu... fuck me!" He did. We both exploded at the same moment, thrashed wildly about, at the very height of bliss. Joy. Ecstasy. I made a sticky mess all over my corset and garter belt and stockings. It took some time for both of us to return to earth. Grateful for my orgasm, I gently licked him clean. "I have a present for you," he said afterwards, handing me a wrapped box. I opened it. It was a baby bottle. I recognized it from its shape and color. It was the same bottle I'd nursed from when I was a diapered baby. "I don't understand," I said. He smiled ? or was it a smirk? "You will." I slept in his bed that night. He spooned me from behind, his cock pressing into my crease. I found myself wiggling against it, slowly, ever so slowly... but only when I was sure he was asleep. ~ ~ ~ Week 6: Mommy On Monday morning, Miss Emma woke me up at six. "Good morning, Mrs. Rudy." "Am I? Is that his last name?" "I don?t know. That's what he said to call you." "What will happen today?" "You're a suburban housewife now, thirty years old, and you have a baby daughter." "A baby?" "Yes, and here she is." A young woman I didn't know entered my room, holding an infant. She offered it to me and I had no choice but to take it. Oh my God. I had a baby. It was wearing a pink Hello Kitty onesie over a diaper. I blushed as I realized it was wearing a baby- sized version of the same onesie that I'd worn during the first week of the Six Year Plan. Last night my husband fucked me on our wedding night, so today must be about a year later in the weird fantasy time that I now inhabited. I was glad I got to skip being pregnant. I cradled the baby in my arms. "Whose baby is this? What am I supposed to do with it?" "She's your baby, Mrs. Rudy!" Miss Emma said. "Her name is Nancy. You're supposed to love her and cherish her, and pay attention to her all day, and then get woken up by her every hour or two at night, and still somehow get all your housewife chores done, and look pretty when your husband gets home from work, and feed him and make him happy so that he's willing to go back to work tomorrow to support you." "Wait a minute!" I said, panicking. "I have no idea how to take care of a baby!" "Put her down on the bed. She won't go anywhere. Let's get you dressed as the pretty housewife you are now," Miss Emma said. The baby squalled, and I couldn't pay attention to anything else. Help! I was instantly a slave to a baby I hadn't borne, couldn't have borne, but somebody had to be her mother, and right now it was me. I knew instantly that nothing was more important than protecting Nancy. "What am I supposed to wear?" I was in the babydoll nightgown I'd worn to bed, completely impractical for babies, housework or anything else, except sex. "I'll lay it out for you," she said. Bra, panties and a light girdle with garters. Stockings. Two-inch heels. Full slip. Petticoat. Housewife dress, a knee-length light blue shirtwaist with a white Peter Pan collar and big buttons and a full skirt. Apron. Earrings, wedding ring, pendant on a gold chain, bracelet. I hastily dressed in my mommy outfit while watching Nancy. She wasn't a newborn, and she wasn't crawling yet, thank goodness. Four or five months old, maybe. "You need to feed her and get breakfast for your husband," Miss Emma said. "But first, do your makeup and hair. You mustn't look a fright when you send your man off to the salt mines. Don't forget perfume." I hastily slapped on some makeup, threw my hair into a high pony tail and gave myself too big a squirt of perfume. I probably still looked a fright when I picked up the baby and headed for the kitchen, wondering what to do next. Rudy came downstairs in a suit, tightening his tie. "Good morning, Mrs. Rudy!" He kissed my cheek. "What's for breakfast?" "I don't know," I said, feeling guilty for not having gotten up earlier to make my husband a hot meal. "I have to feed the baby." I looked inside the pantry and saw a number of small plastic containers of baby formula. Bingo. I'd just have to follow the instructions. Who to feed first? Guilt guilt guilt. "You need somewhere to put Nancy down," he said. "Shall I get the baby car seat out of the garage?" "Oh, yes, please!" I said gratefully. "Then I'll cook you some eggs, and feed the baby afterwards." He returned with the car seat and put it on the kitchen table. I moved it away from the edge before setting down Nancy. I grabbed a frying pan, started heating it on the stove, and fetched bacon and eggs from the refrigerator. A coffee machine and half a loaf of whole wheat bread lay on the counter. In ten minutes, I turned this into bacon, eggs, toast and coffee, and served Rudy. I made enough to leave leftovers that I would eat later. By now Nancy was fussing. She was probably hungry. As Rudy ate, I fetched one of the containers of baby formula and read the instructions. Perfect! It was premixed and just needed to be poured into one of the bottles in the pantry. I offered Nancy the bottle in her car seat. She sucked the formula greedily but couldn't quite hold the bottle herself, so I held it for her. After a few minutes I put down the bottle and picked her up, cradling her in one arm and feeding her with the other. This was immediately more satisfying for both of us. When she was done, I held her upright and patted her on the back to make her burp. She didn't. Instead, she waited a minute and then spewed all the milk she'd drunk down the back of my dress. I shrieked and put her back in the car seat and used a kitchen towel to wipe her face and then clean up the mess that I could reach, including the puddle on the floor. "Well, I'm off to work. Have a nice day, dear," Rudy said. I heard the front door close behind him. Just like a man to disappear when there's a mess to clean up. I hurried up to my bathroom, took off my dress, slip and bra, all of which now reeked of baby formula, wiped myself off and hurriedly put on new undies and another day dress with a pretty floral design. I could hear Nancy crying in the kitchen. It was past nine, and I'd achieved nothing today except feeding Rudy and getting dressed ? twice. I would have to feed Nancy again. I hurried down to the kitchen. My breakfast was cold and congealed in the frying pan. I hurriedly gobbled it down with one hand while trying and failing to pacify Nancy with the other. I felt guilty for putting my needs ahead of hers long enough to eat something. I started to realize that this was what babies were: innocent little mechanisms to produce guilt in their mothers. It was like this for the rest of the day. I got almost no housework done, spent most of my time tending to Nancy, and felt totally out of control of everything. My guilt mounted hourly. I fed Nancy again, and then had to change her twenty minutes later, and should have had lunch at some point, but... it was impossible. Fifties housewives knew how to get everything done and look and smell wonderful when their men came home, but I sure didn't. I somehow managed to throw a chicken and some potatoes into the oven to roast before Rudy got home. I took off my dirty apron and greeted him with a kiss when he got home, and got him a cold beer. He talked about his day, and I pretended to be interested and made sympathetic sounds at appropriate intervals. When the food was ready, I served Rudy, and at that very moment, Nancy decided she was hungry. While Rudy ate, I sat and fed Nancy her bottle, took her back upstairs and tucked her into a portable baby bed that Miss Emma brought me. I went back to the kitchen and ate my cold dinner while Rudy had another beer. He started rubbing the back of my neck in the way I liked, and I... I just wanted to cry. I was half dead on my feet, sleepy from a big dinner after skipping lunch, and just not ready for a private display of affection. All I wanted was change into my comfiest nightgown and crawl into bed. So I did... and Rudy joined me. He spooned me, and I felt his cock grow from large to extra large, and then he was fumbling at my nightgown, trying to pull it up, and I was protesting that I wasn't lubricated, and he was reassuring me that his condom was, and then he was pushing into me. It hurt less tonight, and again he found my special spot inside, and I mounted the heights of bliss, and... Nancy started crying. I instantly went limp. I pulled away from Rudy and he withdrew from me with a curse. I hurried to Nancy and picked her up and rocked her back to sleep. I returned to the bedroom, wearily fended off Rudy's attempt to resume amorous activity, and fell asleep before he could enter me. The chaos continued for the rest of the week. I barely managed to take care of the baby, and had to stay up late at night to deal with dishes and laundry and all my other wifely chores that I couldn't handle during the day. I was down to three or four hours' sleep a night, and even that was often interrupted by a baby in distress. When I finally managed to collapse into bed on following nights, Rudy expected me to take care of his needs, too, and I did. Didn't always want to, but did. My job as a mommy was to give, give, give, and never need. I didn't have time to need. Somehow I managed to endure until Saturday night, my last night as a housewife, my last night ? I hoped ? in the Six Year Plan. My last night before... before whatever came next. Would I, could I, should I try to return to my life as Ms. Buxcombe's maid? Or was it time to make something else of myself, try something new? I could be a waitress... a house cleaner... a hotel maid... After I fed Nancy and changed her diaper, Miss Emma entered the room, accompanied by the same young woman who had brought me my baby a week ago. I wondered who she was. Nancy's real mother? I couldn't imagine any sane mother giving up her baby for a week to someone she didn't know, someone with no childcare experience, someone like me. I hoped she didn't know I was male. "It's time for you to give Nancy back," Miss Emma said. With a mixture of relief and regret, I handed my baby ? no, not mine! ? to the young woman. She smiled at Nancy and left the room without speaking. "Did you enjoy your week as a mommy?" Miss Emma said. "I don't know. I'm too tired to think," I said. "May I just go to bed?" "Yes," she said. "We'll talk with Ms. Buxcombe tomorrow." ~ ~ ~ End of Week 6: Decision On Sunday morning, Miss Emma let me sleep until half past nine, a luxury that I badly needed after my week as a mommy. She poked her head in the door and said the two of us were to meet with Ms. Buxcombe at ten. I could wear my peignoir, she said, but should do my hair and makeup and try to have breakfast before then. I was too nervous to eat much, and just had a slice of toast and coffee before I headed upstairs to my vanity to primp. At ten, Miss Emma met me outside Ms. Buxcombe's office. She knocked and we entered. Miss Emma took the spare chair. There were no other chairs, so I stood facing Ms. Buxcombe's desk. "Well, Lisa, allow me to be the first to congratulate you on completing my Six Year Plan," Ms. Buxcombe said. She was wearing a stylishly tailored skirt suit. "Thank you, ma'am," I said with a curtsy. I felt silly wearing my floaty nightgown and robe when she looked so businesslike. "You've had an exciting six weeks as a female, haven't you?" she said. "As the cutest little baby, as a six-year-old girl, a twelve-year-old tween, an eighteen-year-old teen, a twenty-four-year-old office girl and a thirty-year-old mom. You've experienced all the stages of a girl's progress toward womanhood. You've worn the diapers, the panties, the petticoats, the dresses and the gowns that mark the stages of a female life. What have you learned?" I wasn't prepared for her question. "Um... that I really don't want to be any of those stages, ma'am." "No? Why not?" "They were all too humiliating, ma'am. Either I was a little child, or I was a toy for men to play with, or I was a slave to a baby. I was never in control. Wear this, do this, behave like that. Blow me. Bend over so I can spank you, bend over so I can fuck you. When in doubt, curtsy." "I congratulate you again, Lisa. You now know how many women feel in a world ruled by men for the benefit of men." "And yet..." I hesitated. "As the weeks passed, I started to feel... I don't know... more like... like I didn't mind the man being in charge. I liked my prom date with Rudy." "You're naturally submissive," Ms. Buxcombe said. "And Rudy is quite handsome." "It wasn't just that," I said. "I like dressing up, but I'm not gay. I didn't fall in love with Mr. Rudy, but for some reason, I let him do things to me that I never thought I would let a man do. I wanted to be his woman, I sucked his cock, I let him fuck me, and I came without touching myself, just from him touching a magic spot..." I was too embarrassed to continue. "I understand. And now, Lisa, now that you know you don't want to be a little girl or an office worker or a mommy, what do you want to be?" I knew exactly what I wanted. "I want to be your maid, ma'am. Like before." "Do you really?" she said. "Why?" Overwhelmed by emotion, I choked up, dropped to my knees and looked up at her. "Because what else can I do, ma'am? I can't pretend to be a man again. How could I possibly compete in a man's world? I need to live as a girl now, so I want to be as feminine as I can, and what's more feminine than being another woman's maid? Serving you, curtseying to you, knowing that you're my mistress and I'm your servant, doing whatever you want me to do. Wearing my proper maid's uniform ? not diapers, not little girl dresses, not a schoolgirl's uniform, not a slutty secretary, not a housewife's dress covered with baby barf." "But isn't it humiliating, being a maid?" she asked. "Oh, yes, ma'am," I said. "So, so humiliating. Especially if... if you were once a boy. Being forced to wear the panties and bra, the corset and stockings, the slip and petticoats, the dress, the apron and cap, jewelry, makeup, scent... all the girly things. It's so humiliating... and the humiliation feels wonderful. It makes me hard." "Does it really?" she said. "It does for a boy like me, ma'am." Ms. Buxcombe gave me a look. "What do you mean, like you? Are you one of those boys who like to wear women's clothes?" "Yes, ma'am," I said, blushing. "I thought you knew. That's why it was so easy for you to put me in petticoats." "I wish I'd known," she said. "I could have made you a six-year-old pageant princess. A twelve-year-old Lolita. I may have to do that. Do you want one of those over-the-top French maid's costumes designed to show off your tits and ass?" "No, ma'am. I love the uniform I wear now. It's dignified, not degrading." "Will you ever try to run away from me again?" Ms. Buxcombe asked. "Never, ma'am! I want to live here as your maid forever. Except... Chad." "We'll talk about him later. Lisa, understand that if you are my maid and you misbehave, if you are naughty, I can return you to any of the stages of the Plan. I could make you a baby again, a six-year-old..." "I'll behave, ma'am! I don't want to be any of those things! I just want to be your maid." "It pleases me to hear you say that," she said. It pleased me that she was pleased. "May I ask you one question, ma'am?" "You may." "Why did you bother with the whole Six Year Plan, ma'am? Okay, so I grabbed your ass at that party when I was stoned and didn't know who you were, but you could have taken revenge without doing all this. Your Plan must have cost you a bundle. The room, all the clothes, the actors who played Miss Emma and Mr. Rudy, all of it ? thousands of dollars, easily! Not to mention the baby ? whose was it? Why was I worth so much expense?" Ms. Buxcombe gave me a puzzled look. "What do you mean, so much expense? It was nothing. Mostly clothes, cosmetics, a couple of out- of-work actors trying to get on my good side. I rented that ridiculous wedding dress. The most expensive thing was the changing table, and now I have it in case you are a very naughty maid and need to be babied for a week. I doubt the whole thing ran to ten grand." I gaped at her, unable to imagine having so much money. "I'm worth that much to you?" "Considerably more," she said. "I hope you'll be my maid until you retire. Let's grow old together. If my Plan has convinced you that this is the perfect job for you, then it was a tiny investment with a huge payoff in my happiness and comfort. Yours, too. I want you to be mine forever, Lisa." A tear welled up in my eye. I managed to blink it away. "I want that, too, ma'am, but... may I ask another question?" "For some reason, I'm in an unusually good mood today. You may." "What about Chad, ma'am? Is he...?" "What about him, Lisa? Do you not like him? Would you like to see him disappear from my life?" I decided to be brave. "To be honest, yes, please, ma'am." "You know what, Lisa? I reached the same conclusion. When he went away, he wasn't traveling on business, or whatever Miss Emma told you. I kicked him out. He was positively rude to me about you. He tried to tell me what to do. He was a good lay, but he turned out to be a pig, and I told him to get out. It's just you and me now." I lit up with joy. "Oh, ma'am, how wonderful! So he's gone, and I can be your maid again?" "Yes and yes," Ms. Buxcombe said. "Um... is there any chance I could see Rudy again, ma'am?" She laughed. "I'll ask him. I think he's bi. He was hot on Miss Emma, too. Too bad for him she's a lesbian." That explained the pleasant evening I spent with her. "Could I see Miss Emma, too?" A long, probing look. "Only if she wants to see you. She might want a maid for half a day a week. I'll ask her." "Thank you, ma'am. May I go change into my uniform now?" "Yes, you may," she said. "Your pink satin, I think, since you like being feminine. Present yourself for maid inspection, Lisa love, and if you pass, I'll allow you to lick me." "Yes, ma'am." I curtsied and headed upstairs to change, overjoyed by the thought of my secure future as the maid of Buxcombe Manor. The End