Saturday, July 7, 2012

A Post in Advance

I'm a bit of a tennis nut, so will probably spend a lot of tomorrow, watching TV.  This being the case I thought I'd post today.
First of all?  This Chrome is driving me out of my mind!  That post that Belinda just made?  I found it fascinating, and breaking my own vow to keep things simple, added a great long comment on it.  THEN, this stupid S.O.B of a software show me a bunch of letters, say it's TWO words, and want me to type them in.  If they were two words, they were in some language other than English - and even with the use of a super magnifying glass I couldn't make out all of the letters - so I made my best guess (Naturally, the stupid bastards that invented this, don't give you a chance if you get things wrong - so I lost a ton of comments when it would appear that I got the letters wrong.)

But my thanks to Belinda - and if you haven't read it, you should.

Kammi?  If you look you can see that you're now an approved author (Again - thanks Belinda) so I'll be expecting you to add to your serial.  Kammi brought up a point.  Says that the story gets really 'dark'.  I'm probably prudish to a certain  extent - but if anyone objects?  Make a comment.  I don't censor authors - but I would like to make this blog a nice place to visit.

I also saw that some uniform place was advertising here?  Haven't found it yet - but I have no objection if nobody else does.  BTW?  I don't advertise on this blog, nor do I get paid by anyone - so if something gets offensive?  Tell me.

I'm adding another short story - one that is going into a new book on Kindle.  Dawns on me that with my lousy memory, I may have duplicated my efforts.  If I did?  Accept my apologies - but write and tell me.  Okay?  So here is my story, followed, naturally, by a few of Rosie's 'bits'.


A monolog with dominant submissive themes.

. . . . . . .  (Later, the same day)

*     *     * (A day or more afterwards)

Andrew?  I'm not questioning your virility for goodness sake!  Don't you think you may be imagining that I'm dissatisfied with your performance in bed?

Well, you sound defensive to ME.

You accuse me of just lying there and I don't think that's very fair.  What am I supposed to do?  Let's face it,  you spend SO little time arousing me . .

Very well then, I admit it . . Yes, I would prefer to be taken over and dominated sometimes. Treated like a woman!

Again dear, you're sounding defensive.  I'm well aware that you're neither physically imposing  nor particularly strong . But is there something wrong with me if I expect you to act like a man?  Even if it's only occasionally?

Talking about acting?  You're suggesting that I act as if I'm aroused?  Well, if you remember I did try that once. 

Yes, I know I laughed, but could you honestly blame me?  I mean, after all . . . But on second thoughts – would you like me to try and act the part of the dominated spouse again? 

No?  Well, if you'd just tell me what you DO want, I'll try and oblige.

Well, frankly dear?  I think you put far too much pressure on yourself.  You should relax more.  Maybe let me take the upper position – let me be the initiator . . .


See?  Now that wasn't so bad, was it? And yes, I must admit that I enjoyed sex for a change.  Mind you, it WAS rather quick m'dear.  Now why don't you just take your nice soft hands and caress me here . .

Andrew!  If I'm to have the upper hand here in bed, you'll have to understand that I have to be satisfied too!  Now stop this being sleepy nonsense at once.  Now, lick my nipples why don't you – and put your hand there – yes . . Much better! 

I thought you were tired?  Is that you stirring down there – again? My goodness! Twice in one night? 

No need to be embarrassed darling.  I understand perfectly.  But just remember this, I sincerely appreciate you giving up the male position – yes I do!  Mmmmm!  Now just lie there  - that's it!

*     *     *
Well, hello Bobby!  You and Andrew having a nice gossip?

Football?  I didn't know that Andrew was into that game . . I mean it's so rough!

Yes.  I was out shopping.  Bought myself a new dress and some undies. 

Andrew?  Would you be a dear and hang my dress up for me?  Put my new undies away?  And I'd kill for a cup of tea! 

Thank you dear. . .

Oh yes Bobby.  Andrew makes a wonderful cup of tea.  Would you like one too? . .

Oh, I'm sorry.  Didn't see your beer there.  Andrew?  Get my stuff put away?  Good.  (Dramatic p ause).   Now, have you been drinking  beer with Bobby?

DARLING!  You know I don't like you drinking alcohol . . No, I'm sorry.  Please respect my wishes in my house.  Why don't you take it into the kitchen and - yes – pour the rest of it down the sink.  Thank you! . .

No Bobby.  Of course not.  Enjoy the rest of your beer.  As a matter of fact, would you like another?

No, I really rather enjoy seeing a man having a drink now and then.  It's just that Andrew gets – well – kinda silly, you know? He's my little sweetheart, but he just shouldn't drink. 

(Calls out) Andrew?  How's that tea coming along? And while you're waiting for it to brew, bring Bobby another beer, would you darling?

No darling.  How often do I have to tell you!  That looks really uncouth.  Go back and put his beer on a tray – with a fresh glas for your friend, silly! 

Would you prefer him to pour it for you Bobby – while he’s in the kitchen? No? 

Okay Andrew, you heard the man . .

Better!  But that will never do!  If you're going to serve something, do it right! Now, go back and put doilies under Bobby's beer and his glass.  Please?

Yes Andrew.  That tray looks much better. But you haven't put a cup on it for yourself!  Yes, I would like some company – hate drinking tea on my own. Why don't you sit here at the table instead of lounging around on the couch like Bobby – like a man?

No, That's ridiculous!  Bobby doesn't need you sitting beside him!  But why don't you take the plate of  biscuits over to him and offer him one?  Then you can come back here and keep me company.


You've got that disgruntled look on your face Andrew.  What's the matter now?

What on earth do you mean?  I put you DOWN in front of Bobby?

I did NOT treat you like a servant!  If I had, you'd have been told to wear one of your aprons! Which reminds me.  That one you wore to serve dinner tonight was rather wrinkled and I could have sworn I saw a spot on it.

Yes dear.  I'm perfectly aware that the reason one wears an apron is to protect one's clothes – but that doesn't give you the right to walk around looking slovenly. When you find you've dirtied one apron?  I'm simply suggesting that you go and put on a fresh one.  Is that so difficult to understand?

What do you mean – you've only got one?

Dear, that is simply ridiculous! That apron you call yours is – well, not really appropriate for wearing in a house.  It was made for men to wear outdoors when barbequing.  . .

I was not implying that you are feminine for goodness sake! The fact that you cook indoors while I take pleasure in doing the barbequing has nothing to do with it.

So?  What's the matter with a few frills?  Honestly, you get sillier and sillier with each passing day!  Did you ever see me refusing to wear something because it was frilly?

Sarcasm does not become you darling – and I don't care for your tone of voice!

That's better – but NO!  I'm not going to waste money buying you so-called plain aprons, when there are perfectly usable ones at hand! 

Fit you?  Of course they'll fit you!  Here!  Let me show you!

Andrew!  Stop pretending to cower away from me.  Come out of that corner and let me put this apron on you!

There!  It's clean and fresh.  Fits you perfectly well.  Please don't be arguing with me on this point any more!  Honestly, some times I feel like putting you over my knees and giving you a damn good spanking! Now twirl around for me!

Andrew?  I said twirl!

*     *     *
Andi?  Like to get Betty and me a drink?  I'll have another Scotch and water.  Betty'll  have a martini please. . .

Darling?  Trust me.  I can tell when I've had enough to drink.  Now don't be a NAG!

(Laughs quietly) Betty?  For goodness sake!  You don't tell a man that he looks cute!   Look at poor Andi.  You have him blushing like a schoolgirl!  And he'll probably be ALL over me after you leave.  I mean, the fuss he raised about wearing aprons like that in the first place!

Yes, I know he looks like a little pussy cat – but once he gets his fur ruffled? (Giggles) he turns into a regular pussy.  Now Andi?  Off you go my little kitty cat and get us our drinks, huh? 

Well, thank you dear!  You're so sweet – isn't he Betty?

. . . . . . .

Andi?  I forgot to ask you before. Did you rinse out my undies like I asked?  Oh good!  Thank you.  Now would you sit down a minute . .?

Dear?  The dishes can wait!.  Before she had to leave, Betty was just apologizing earlier for laying you off, but I was telling her that you're settling down to looking after me and the house quite well and seem quite content .

Yes, she's probably aware that I keep you so busy around here that you haven't had much chance to look for further employment   She did say that she DID have a part time opening, but I wasn't too sure you'd be interested . .

Well dear, how was I to know that you'd jump at a chance of getting away from the house? It wouldn't be back at the office I'm afraid . ..

Are you SURE now?

Working at her new business . .

So you hadn't heard of it.  How could you?  Well anyway, it's only three mornings a week, as I understand it.  Frankly, I'm not sure I want to give you up for that amount of time.  You're turning into quite a little treasure around here.

Oh stop that blushing Andi!  It's cute, but you seem to be getting carried away with it. .

Oh, I'm only teasing for heaven's sake!

No, of course you wouldn't be reporting to Betty.  It's just a little boutique in her chain and she's got Joan managing it until it gets fully staffed and gets the inventory in place. .

Yes.  Joan Raney – your old office girl.  She's really come up in the world, huh?  And so quickly too!

I wish you'd make up your mind!  Hot to trot out to work one minute – then cool about the idea the next!

So, it's a boutique?  What's wrong with that? 

Oh, for heaven's sake!  I don't KNOW what you're needed for!  Probably help to rack the inventory or help Joan.  How the hell would I know?

Oh – go and do your dishes for goodness sake! I'm getting tired of your nonsense!

*     *     *
Well, hello gentlemen!  Who's winning?  Poker is it?  Bobby?  Haven't seen you since last week.  Bill?  Where have you been?  How is that charming wife of yours?  David my love!  Been losing weight?  You look positively skinny!  Andi darling?  I simply crave a good cup of tea.  Be a sweetheart and go make some, would you?

No dear, I don't think I'm wrecking the game.  Simple solution.  You go and make the tea – and I'll take your place at the table!  Simple as all that. Off you go, little pussy . .

What's the game gentlemen?  Five card stud?  Roll 'em!  I'm hot to trot!

Andi dear?  Is that a stain on your shirt that you just ironed this afternoon?

Well, it looks like it to ME!  Why don't you put an apron on?

Andi?  Don't make faces at me.  It's not polite!  Oh, I see what's bothering you! 

David, Bill, Bobby?  You don't care if Annie wears an apron, do you?

Andi?  I did NOT say ANNIE! Now stop that.  Go and put your apron on!  My bet?  Five bucks!

. . . . . . . .

You're pouting again dear.  What did I do wrong now?

So your friends teased you a little about your pretty apron!  That's just the way men are – even I know that!  And it wasn't me that picked that swishy one you wore.  Trying to look cute, were you?

Annie?  It's not MY fault that you took so long in setting up the table and making the sandwiches for them to eat.  Okay, so they teased you about the dainty sandwiches too and the nice way you set the table – but it didn't stop them from eating, did it?

Then, you should have seen your face when you slopped that dishwater onto your apron.  I thought you were going to cry for goodness sake! I think you're friends were embarrassed.

Of course I looked at you funny when you took it off! It was just as well that I didn't have to tell you to put a clean one on!   But you know something?  The bows you're tying at the back of your your apron need quite a lot of work. I'd strongly suggest you practice tying nicer ones!

Annie!  What's got into you tonight? If you're going to wear a pretty apron, why mess up the whole impression with a sloppy job of tying the bow?

Andrew, Andi,!  What's the difference? Well?  If I did call you Annie that one time, I'm sorry.  What more can I say?

Oh.  Just remembered.  Before you come to bed?  That green blouse of mine with the cowl neckline?  How's about tightening up the buttons on the right sleeve, huh doll?

*      *     *
Forgot to ask.  That depilatory that Betty suggested?  Been using it?

C'mere and let me feel.  Ooooh!  That feels nice and smooth.  Have you shaved under your arms like I asked?  Good!  Lift your arm and let's see.

Don't you think that looks much better?  Betcha it feels cooler too, don't it?  Just wait until you wear a blouse of synthetic material, you'll really notice the difference then . .

Oh a shirt – blouse – what difference does it make?

Which reminds me.  What are you wearing when you do your housework?

Okay, so I didn't phrase the question correctly.  Are you wearing old clothes?

Okay okay okay!  How was I to know you'd be laid off work and doing housework when I donated that lot of old clothes of yours to the Red Cross.  Sue me!

Well, since you ask?  I've got a ton of clothes that I've grown out of – would probably fit you fine – and be great for doing your housework in.

Who's forcing you?  It was just a suggestion, that's all!

*     *     *
So how was your first day at the boutique? How did Joan take to being your boss?

See?  I told you she'd be okay.  Last week when she called to find out when you'd be starting she and I had a very pleasant chat.

Andrew?  I don't think you can deny that you shillied and shallied about the day we discussed you working there.  I remember, for sure, you saying that you'd jump at the chance to get out of the house now and then.  True?

Okay.  You may have changed your mind afterwards, but just try and assure me that you said "No!  I don't want that job!"  You can't, can you?  I just assumed that you wanted the job and told her that.  So, what did she have you doing?

Oh?  She told me she wanted you to be moving some of the heavier stuff about . .

Got one of the girls instead?  Well dear, I did mention that you're not exactly bulging with muscles  . .

I did NOT say you were a weakling!  So, what DID you end up doing?

Checking that the clothes on the racks were hanging and filling any open spaces left by sales?  Getting the clothes out of the fitting rooms where they'd been left and re-hanging them?  So you were up in the store itself then, not down in the inventory?   Mmm.

Andi?  I just said Mmmm for chrissake!  I was just wondering how Joan felt about having a guy walking around inside a boutique, that's all.

So, did my pants fit you okay when you vacuumed this afternoon?

 See, I told you they'd be cooler to wear than those heavy old pants of yours.

Know what?  I feel kinda randy.  Lets go and snuggle, what do you say?

You really turn me on when you blush like that!

*     *     *
That was a nice dinner, Anne.  I'm stuffed.

You're welcome.  But I noticed something when you were serving it up.

Your nails.  Look like they've been manicured – and is that polish on them I see?

Well dear, I hate to tell you – but that shade has a lot more red in it than most pinks.

ANNIE!  Stop it!  I wasn't teasing you.  For God's sake, enough already!  NO! I will NOT allow you to go and take the polish off! Sit down.  The dishes can wait!

Okay.  All calm now?  Good!  Now tell me how come your nails are so nice.

Ah!  Joan and the girls at work suggested it!  Makes sense.  Handling all of those nice materials, you sure wouldn't want to snag anything, would you?

Oh – and you're helping Rose with the fittings now?  How exciting for you! Is she teaching you how to sew as well?

Yes – but basics are basics! I'm sure you'll advance rapidly with a woman teaching you properly.  I'm so PROUD of you!

No dear.  I'm absolutely delighted that you're fitting in so well with the other girls.  But dear?  Before I forget though, I have a confession to make.  And I don't want you getting all upset.

Well – remember a week or so back when I played cards with your friends? Well, I really enjoyed myself – you know how one gets tired of being with nothing but women all the time?  And, anyway, to cut to the chase, I asked them back around for a game of poker.

Well, to tell the truth?  Tonight.  Right about now.

What's all the panic about?

They'll never notice that you have my pants on – or that blouse . .

So, the pants zip up the back – the apron bow hides that pretty well – and the apron bib hides the fact that the buttons are fabric covered . .

Well – that's another thing.  I really don't think you should play – so there's no need to take your apron off, is there?

Serving drinks and munchies.  Making sandwiches.  What else?  And don't forget? You've got dishes still to do – and a whole LOT of ironing!

Dear?  It's the doorbell!  What do you think it is?  Go and answer it.  Let my friends in, okay?

Anne?  If I have to spank you just now – and I will if you don't behave - your friends will see you with tear marks all over your face.  That what you want?

. . . . . .

Not drunk! Juss wanna thank you sweetie – I had SUCH fun tonight with the guys! An' KNOW something?  You were SO cute!  I think Bill kinda fancies you – but no WAY!  No Sirreee bob! You're MY gal!  C'mere and gimme a kiss!

Whatja mean you're not a gal? Course you are! Z'matter of fack? See this gorgeous nightdress here?  Thass what I want you to wear tonight – I'm hot and ready to trot! Need my gal to get with it!  Go with the flow!  Put a bit perfume behind your ears – and some lipstick on those luscious lips of yours too!

I said I wanna KISS! But put your nightie on first!

There Anne!  You look so goddam pretty now!  Get    into    bed      this   minute . .  This    very     min . . SNORE.

 . . . . . . .

Andrew?  What in hells name are you wearing? You look like a  woman!  Oh god, my head!  Get me a drink of water – or something, would you? My mouth tastes like shit!

Thanks dear.  What do you mean that I told you to wear that nightgown?  I don't remember anything of the sort . .

No.  Keep it on. I'm starting to remember you flitting around like a pansy in front of my friends last night .  Probably felt you may as well dress the part in bed.

Well, they may have been your friends before, but they're mine now.

Yeah – I'll admit it.  I'm getting mannish – but who's wearing the sexy nightdress right now, huh? About time someone around here acted like a man!

Sweetie?  I told you.  Leave it ON! If I have to get outta this bed to you – you'll be sorry.

So?  If you're cold – put on the negligee that goes with it.

That's better.  Now why don't you run along and make breakfast.

 *     *     *

Why Hello Betty!  Come in!  What a nice surprise!  Annie?  Look who's here!

Slip of the tongue Betty, that's all.

Well, I kinda like him in aprons now.  But Annie, you've finished all your work now, you can take off your apron and come and have a little chat with us girls.

Yes Betty.  These pants he's wearing.  Now that you mention it – I did get them from your store a year or two ago – the blouse too.

Well – housekeeping can be so wearing on clothes and – after all – it IS woman's work, so it seems appropriate enough for him to be wearing clothes like that.  He gets all macho though if I even dream of suggesting that he wears a skirt or a dress.  Last night, I had some of the guys come around for a game of poker. He was wearing a plain pair of my pants and a blouse with hardly any frills – not like this one – and you should have seen the fuss he made!

Yeah – guys are silly that way.  I agree.

But I'll admit, he's been very good about using that depilatory you suggested.  Anne?  Lift your blouse and let Betty see your smooth tummy.

Yes Betty.  Now that you mention it?  He IS getting a tummy, isn't he?  Better put him on a diet I think!

A corset?  Oh Betty, you are a devil!  But you know?  I've been thinking that he's been developing a real slouch lately.  His posture is awful!

Exactly!  Kill two birds with one stone!

Oh Andrew!  Lots of men wear corsets!

Okay Betty!  Maybe the Merry Widow kind isn't the best, but that's the only kind I've got – and beggars can't be choosers!

. . . . . . .

Andrew!  You'd think you'd have learned by now.  I don't like being contradicted, that's for sure – but Betty is something else altogether. She's a very successful businesswoman in her own right.  Is a dyed in the wool feminist – and is just not inclined to have her wishes denied.

No.  I'm NOT saying that you just accept everything that's said to you and do as you're told, when it's obvious that a woman is joking with you!

Of course we were joking – silly!  It was when you started making all that fuss – challenging our authority for goodness sake! We HAD to react, can't you see that?

Yes – I do feel that I have some authority over you.  I'm the major breadwinner in this household and Betty, let's face it, is the owner in your place of employment! You expect us to defer to the likes of you?

What do you think I mean by that?  You're standing there in a corset, nylons, and panties – that you were made to wear.  Not a figure of masculine pride, are you? Now I will help undo the back of your corset – but only if you ask me nicely.

What do you think?  Come and sit on my lap, play a little kissy-poo.

There!  Isn't this nice? You may not want to hear this – but you feel lovely and soft.

Annie?  I thought we explained all that!  It would have been utterly ridiculous looking for you not to take advantage of the garter straps attached to the corset – don't you agree?

Naturally! And how do you think you'd have looked in a pretty corset, nylons – and men's jockey shorts?

So I called you Annie in front of Betty and a few seconds ago.  I mean, I'm fondling your erection under a pair of lacy panties. Gonna blame me for calling you by a girls name?  Mmmm!  Your lips are so soft!

*     *     *
Hi sweetie!  Have a nice morning at the boutique?  But what's wrong – and what's that you got there?

Well, you're blushing to beat the band for one thing – and your shape?  You look funny. And what IS that you're carrying in the bag?

Andrew?  Don't cry.  Whatever's the matter? Come over here and sit on mummy's lap and tell me all about it.  come on now!

Oh oh.  You feel funny under your shirt. An oh my!  Are these breasts?  Makeup too?  I think you'd better tell me.

Okay, Joan called you into her office…

A present from Betty? Was she there?

Ah – she'd phoned Joan with the instructions. So what's wrong with that?  And dear, try to stop crying – your mascara is running.

You're kidding!  Three corsets! A dozen pair of panties! Packages of nylons?  What on earth?

I did NOT tell Betty I wanted you to dress like a girl ALL the time!  She must have misunderstood!

Oh those naughty girls! Took you into the ladies room?  Put you in your corset and nylons – and panties?  Made your face up?  And is that perfume I'm smelling?

But the breasts?  Padding?

Breast forms?  And they've attached them with adhesive? How do they expect you to get them off?

Well I don't know either.  Here, let me take your shirt off.  Come on now – don't be shy.  Mmmm!  They look so real! Can I touch them?

Ooooh!  They feel real as well! Gosh!  I'd never realized just how much like a girl you look.  Give me a kiss, huh?

. . . . . . .

Wasn't that NICE?  Honestly, our lovemaking is becoming so wonderful!

So now, why don't you tell me more about this morning? Did they put you in a dress or a skirt and blouse as well?

No?  well, that was nice of them, wasn't it.

Well, I think it was nice of them.  You see Annie? When some women get an idea that a man is a sissy? They can't wait to sissify him! Put him in frilly dresses and make him act all sweet and girlish.  Give him girl things to do.

Okay.  So that IS happening to you – but just a little.  But truthfully Anne? What I just said applies to men – well, somebody that looks and acts like a man. 

Yes.  I must admit it.  With you it's getting very hard to tell.

Maybe tomorrow you can wear a dress to the boutique?

The end



It’s hardly past 9 pm and I’m already dead tired. I lie down on my bed for a minute. I meant to read some more of that book I’ve been reading the past days but before I even reached out for it, I find myself dozing off. With an enormous amount of effort, I pull myself to my feet again and start getting ready for bed.

Fantasies are fantasies and should be kept separated from reality, I soon discovered. However, when I agreed to move in with my former mother-in-law, just weeks after my divorce, I had no idea life would be like this. All I saw was someone who would happily let me indulge in what I believed were my most fervent wishes and never bothered to think twice before signing the contract and thus practically signing myself to her for the period of six months.

Having taken my apron off already in the kitchen, I briefly observe my clothes that it was covering for the whole day. For the first time since last week I’m wearing my black uniform. Even though I am completely aware of its clear implications of my status – and workload – in the house, I can’t help but to admire a little it’s short, elasticized sleeves and the way its knee length skirt flares out over the petticoat I’m wearing underneath. I unzip it at the back, step out of it and hang it in my closet. In my lace trimmed black slip – and still wearing my patent black pumps with the four inch heels I’ve been wearing all day – I go to the bathroom to remove my makeup. What seemed a fun activity at first has soon became a routine that takes half an hour of my precious morning time. Moreover, having to keep it immaculate throughout the day regardless of my workload is rather tedious, as is the constant checking if the seams of my stockings are straight. Removing my makeup sobers me somewhat and I walk back to my bedroom with my shoes in my hand, as if more aware that my whole body is aching. The high heels are much sexier than flats but after having spent the whole afternoon ironing the mistress’s dresses in them, my calves are sore and my back is beginning to ache – also due to my new, heavy breasts. The corset does help me keep a more rigid posture and that alleviates my back pain to some extent, but it is tightly laced, it chafes and reduces both my respiration to swift, shallow breaths and my meals to almost bite-sized snacks as it’s all my constricted stomach can take accommodate. My backside and thighs are still hurting from the vigorous spanking I received from my mistress’s hands for accidentally spilling hot soup over her at lunch.
Whereas I previously reveled in the constrains of my sexy lingerie, I am now only too happy to take it off and allow my skin direct contact with air before I once again cover it with satin, this time of my nightgown.
I am about to put my book away and turn off the light by my bed when I hear the ringing of the bell mistress uses to summon me. I all but groan at the prospect of getting out of bed – though this late in the evening, I have a sneaking suspicion why the mistress is calling me. I divest of my rather plain nightgown and put on a different, pale blue one, made of soft and fine nylon with a sheer nylon layer over it. It is sleeveless, with a gathered bust and a narrow trim of blue flowers. There is a satin tie under the bust and the skirt is soft and flowy. It is so long that I have to wear my three inch heeled slippers to keep from stepping over it. There’s a matching jacket that I also put on. It’s short, with a floral trim across the top of the shoulders and decorative satin ribbon on the top of the shirred sleeves.
I sit behind my vanity table and start applying my makeup. A good half an hour later I’m at the mistress’s door, my hair – as of lately a mass of platinum blonde curls – put up high, eyes dramatically darkened, eyelashes heavy with mascara, cheeks reddened, my lips gleaming crimson.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask shyly.
“Come in, girl,” she says.
She’s still dressed in her day clothes – the burgundy red silk blouse and cream colored knee length skirt though she has taken off the matching tailored jacket.
“I have to make a few social calls tomorrow,” she says, “and I’d like you to accompany me.”
Without waiting for the pause in her words, I curtsey, signaling my acknowledging of what she has just said.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Since you’re there, you can help me undress,” she says.
I step closer toward her and unzip her skirt. As it slides down her legs, she steps out of it, but other than that does not participate in the undressing.
“You can wear that red satin skirt you have, the tight one,” she says, “And that blouse you wore last time? The black short sleeved one with that gray print corset-top over it and the black belt? I rather liked that.”
When we go out together, my mistress has me dress my ordinary clothes instead of my uniforms, however I do retain my status as her maid. The only change is that in order not to attract unwanted attention from onlookers, I don’t curtsey to her and in place of ‘mistress’, I call her ‘mummy’ and thus appear as her daughter, perhaps more obedient than the average young lady but otherwise nothing out of the ordinary.
“If I may ask – who are we visiting?” I speak out, my eyes to the floor.
I cringe and blush at the though of meeting my mother – to say that she doesn’t approve of my current position in life is putting it in much nicer terms that needed to accurately describe her attitude towards is. However, as much as she hates me being a personal maid (with a college degree, for crying out loud!) to my former mother-in-law, the charade my mistress has me perform in public angers her even more. Yet as embarrassed as I am even before the meeting takes place, I look forward to the opportunity of wearing regular clothes as my day off have been very few and far between lately.
My mistress is soon standing before me in her lingerie and when I stand up again after removing her stockings, she cuts to the chase and swiftly lifts me in her arms, the skirts of my nightgown flowing softly around my legs as she does so. I stifle a shriek at my lips and wrap my arms around her neck. She gently puts me down on her bed, then lays beside me and kisses me forcefully, her tongue invading my mouth. I welcome it by token opposition of my own, only to retract it seconds later and start sucking on hers. Shyly at first, though I warm up soon enough. She is caressing my body – my thighs, my tummy, my breasts – through the soft material of my nightgown. When she unties the ribbon of my jacket I sit up to take it off, then it’s her turn to bask in my attentions. She’s lying on her back as my lips cover every inch of her body, exciting her to a fever pitch. When she gently pushes my head away from her crotch I know it’s time and with both fear and eagerness, I roll over, open the drawer by her bed and take out her strap-on dildo. She gets out of the bed and I attached the harness around her waist. Instead of getting back in bed she surprises me by sitting at the edge.
“I thought we’d try something different,” she says and pulls me over her knees.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to spank you this time,” she says as she’s raising the skirts of my nightgown. Once my backside is exposed, I feel her fingers spreading a cool lubricant around my back passage. When she’s done, I stand up again, my skirts instantly falling down my legs. Shyly, I pick up their hem in my hands and straddle her, fitting myself on her dildo.
“It’s nice to see your face while we’re doing it,” she whispers as she slides inside me.
It has been more than a week since my last sexual release and before I know it I feel myself inevitably nearing my climax.
“Wait, wait,…” I gasp, reaching for the mass of the frilly materially of my nightgown to get at least my garment out of the way but it is too late. From my rock hard penis I spurt glob after glob of hot semen until I collapse around my mistress’s neck.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I’m apologizing while I’m still feeling the last throbs of my penis.
“Don’t worry about it, silly girl,” my mistress says, holding me close for another second. Almost as if she takes pleasure in feeling the sperm soiled nightgown being pressed tightly between our bodies. Eventually I get off her, and – not allowed to take off my nightgown just yet – wipe up her tummy with a paper tissue. Only then am I allowed to return to my room.
As I’m washing my nightgown in the sink of my bathroom, I’m thinking of my mother’s feelings towards her son being feminized and degraded to an unpaid servant. I hang the garment to dry then put on the nightgown I wore before and straighten my still aching back. I still feel the pleasant tingling of the orgasm and just for a second, it all seems worthwhile. In bed I fleetingly touch my still tender penis through my satin nightgown and reflect on the pretty one I ejaculated into. That one will be a bitch to iron.


“My mom bought you some shoes to wear for her party,” said Cathy, my wife and handed me the paper bag containing the shoebox.
“Oh, not again,” I groaned, “I really wish you mother would stop buying me stuff before asking me.”
“Tell that to her,” Cathy replied, “Anyway, you haven’t even seen them.”
With a heart full of fear for what I’d find, I took the box from the paper bag. The flower print of the shoebox didn’t inspire any hopes for a favorable outcome. For a second there, I just sat on my chair, the shoebox sitting before me on the table, as if it was challenging me.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Cathy asked eventually.
“I’d rather not,” I replied weakly, “I think she’s just trying to humiliate me.”
“Just open the damn box, Darryl,” she said, “It’s a pair of shoes, nothing else. If you don’t like them, you can always take them back.”
I swallowed, then opened the box. It was even worse than I feared – what was inside was clearly a pair of ladies shoes. No faux men’s style pretenses, no low key brown loafers but a pair of flat heeled, patent leather court shoes. They were bright red with patches of white at the heel and round tipped toe.
“Oh god,” I moaned.
“Try them on,” Cathy said.
“Do I really have to?” I begged.
“It’s the least you can do,” she replied, “These were quite expensive.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“I was in the store with my mother,” Cathy replied, “Seeing how we wear the same size shoes, mom wanted me to try them on, to make sure they’d fit you. Still, you try them on yourself.”
“You bought them together?” I gasped, “Jesus, Cathy, couldn’t you told her that these are ladies’ shoes?”
“Why? You think my mother can’t tell that by herself? Is that what you’re implying?” Cathy retorted.
“No, no, not at all,” I backed down, sensing the aggravation in her voice, “It’s just that… I mean…”
“Yes?” she said, challengingly.
”Nothing,” I muttered, kicked off my own shoes and put on my new ones.
“Take a few steps,” Cathy instructed.
“Actually, they’re kinda tight,” I said, almost victoriously, feeling relieved that I might get out of wearing them for my mother in law’s birthday party.
“That’s because you’re wearing them with your own thick socks,” Cathy said, “I’ll lend you a pair of mine.”
Less than a minute later, I was pacing about our apartment wearing the red and white shoes now with a pair of Cathy’s knee high nylon stockings. I had to admit that the shoes fit me very comfortably.
“They fit fine, Cathy, but I can’t wear them,” I said, my voice mixing with the clacking of the hard soles against the hardwood floor.
“Then take them back,” Cathy said, “Your choice.”
“What if you kept them?” I shyly suggested.
“No,” Cathy said decisively, “First of all, my mother has bought them for you, not for me. Don’t you think giving her gift away would be disrespectful? And besides – they’re flat heeled. They are very nice, but they’re just not my style.”
“Oh come on, you have lots of flats,” I protested.
“Yes, but they’re casual shoes, you know, loafers and such,” she explained, “I can’t imagine myself wearing flat heeled dress shoes.”
“I still don’t see why did you let her buy me these shoes. I mean, they’re ladies’ shoes, I can’t wear them, it’s too embarrassing,” I moaned.
“Honey, frankly, I don’t know about you any more,” she said, “You certainly don’t seem to have any problem wearing the panties my mother’s given you.”
“But you told me to either wear them or give them back,” I said, “And I couldn’t return them to the store because the tags were already ripped off.”
Ignoring my protest, she went on.
“Nor did you have any problem using that depilatory cream she gave you last Christmas,” she said.
”I thought it was body lotion,” I replied, “That’s what she said it was.”
“Well what about the aprons that you wear around the place?” she said finally, “Surely you realized what they were when she gave them to you.”
I blushed and dropped my gaze to the floor.
“I was too embarrassed to take them back,” I said quietly.
“Do as you wish,” she said, “If it’s more embarrassing for you to take the shoes back to the store, then you’ll just have to wear them tomorrow.”

I got a bad feeling about the whole thing the moment I felt the salesgirl’s scornful gaze upon me.
“I’m here to return some shoes…” I began.
“Certainly, sir,” she said, taking from me the box and the receipt.
“Are these yours?” she asked.
“Um, no,” I lied, hoping my blushing wasn’t too evident, “My wife’s.”
“I see,” she said dryly, “What’s wrong? Didn’t they fit?”
“I guess not,” I said.
“But sir, we’ve only sold one pair of this style yesterday, and I clearly remember the lady trying them on,” she said.
I swallowed.
“Well, she just didn’t like them,” I said nervously.
“She seemed perfectly satisfied with them,” the girl insisted.
“I’m sorry, but I thought the return policy of this store was no questions asked,” I said shyly.
“Why, sir, I’m just making friendly conversation,” she said sternly, “But if you don’t want to be friendly, perhaps you would care to take your business elsewhere.”
“No, no, please,” I almost begged her, “I’ll be friendly. Please, just let me return the shoes.”
“Certainly, sir,” she said, the tone of voice almost dripping with mock sweetness, “I don’t mean to be intrusive, but you do realize that only with valuable customer input can we perform a satisfactory service.”
“Yes, of course you do,” I hastily agreed.
“So, can you tell me why your wife didn’t like the shoes?” she asked again.
“Well,…” I began, then I suddenly remembered – “She said that the heel was too low.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” she said condescendingly, “If you’ll just wait a minute, please?”
I stood behind the counter, waiting for her to return. I felt angry at myself that I allowed her to talk to me as if I was a child, but on the other hand, she had accepted the shoes back and that was enough to keep me happy. Not for long, however, as she soon returned with another pair.
“Take a look at these, sir,” she said, “They’re exactly the same design, but with a three inch heel. I think your wife will be very satisfied by them.”
“Oh, no, no,” I stammered in panic, “I don’t think she will.”
“But how do you know?” she said.
“I’d just like to have the money back and not the shoes, please,” I said, fighting for the courage to utter each word, my eyes on the counter.
“Sir,” the girl said sternly, “Look at me, please.”
Fearfully, I looked her in the eyes.
“I asked you what was wrong with the shoes and you said that the heel was too low. Here you have a pair in the exact same style but with a high heel. Isn’t that exactly what your wife wanted?”
“I… I don’t know,” I said quietly, afraid to speak up as I wasn’t far from crying.
“That’s exactly my point,” the girl said, “You don’t know. Now why don’t you be a good boy and take the shoes to your wife. You can still bring them back if she’s not perfectly happy with them.”
I glanced at my watch. It was five o’ clock, one hour before closing time. I did a brief calculation and realized I’d never make it back before closing time.
“But then I won’t be back in time,” I complained.
“In time for what, sir?” she said, “You have to speak more clearly.”
“Nothing,” I said, defeated, “It’s just that…”
“Sir,” she said, bending down to face me, “Are these shoes really for your wife?”
I couldn’t help it but drop my gaze again. The time she took to write another receipt couldn’t have been more than half a minute though it seemed like an eternity to me. When she was done, she handed me the pair neatly placed in a paper bag, along with the receipt. Not looking anywhere else but the door, I sped out of the shop.
“Say hi to your wife for me,” she called out after me.

“What are these supposed to be?” Cathy asked me, “Weren’t you going to return the shoes?”
“I thought maybe you’d like these,” I said, “You know, they are high heeled.”
“What, you bought these for me?” she asked.
“Well, kind of,” I said, “I just remembered how you said that they’re nice except for the heel.”
“Wait, this is important,” she interrupted me, “Did you return the shoes or not?”
“I guess so,” I shrugged, “It’s just instead of the money I got the shoes for you.”
“Oh, Christ, please tell me you’re joking,” she sighed.
“What?” I asked.
“Listen - did you pay for the shoes with your own money?” she asked.
“No, I just said so,” I replied.
“Oh, god,” she sighed again.
“What? Cathy, tell me what’s wrong,” I persisted.
“Don’t you know my mother has an account in that store? You wouldn’t have gotten any money, they’d just call my mother to tell her of the change of balance,” she said, “As they will to tell her you changed the shoes for another pair.”
“But I…, I…” I stammered, not knowing what to say.
”In short – you didn’t return the shoes, just took another pair,” she said, “So these are in my mother’s eyes still her gift to you.”
“But I didn’t know that,” I whined, “I’ll pay her back.”
“It’s not about that,” Cathy replied.
“Well, what can I do now?” I asked, “The store’s closed, I can’t take them back again.”
Cathy shrugged.
“I think you better put them on right now and start practice walking in them,” she said, “Otherwise you’ll really feel embarrassed tomorrow.”


rocketdave said...

You know, it occurs to me that if their order was reversed, these two scenarios Rosie has written could be interpreted as being parts of the same story.

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