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~Subject: TG Story: Belling The Cat, 1 of 6 (CD, Femdom)
~Date: Mon, 13 Jan 1997 03:39:39 -0800
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This story is intended for the enjoyment of adults over the age
of 18. It contains fantasy scenes of people engaged in graphic
sexual activity.
Please, if you are under the age of 18, or if you will be offended
by such material, read no further. God find something useful to do.
Thanks. LST
Belling The Cat
Part 1 of 6
by Little Sissy Tippytoes
* * * * *
He felt like the most powerful man on Earth, like Superman, maybe.
His cock seemed to stretch out before him like a foot-long hot dog,
as he pounded away in Miley's cunt. He entertained the thought that
he was so deep inside her he could feel all the way into her uterus.
He would draw his pecker out, almost to the very tip of the crown,
then plunge it in as forcefully as he could, causing her to gasp and
moan. Her eyes were closed, her body covered with a sheen of sweat,
her mouth open in a groan of lust. He was sweating too; he thought
he could last forever before climaxing. Never had he pumped away
in this delightful pussy as long and as hard as he was doing right
now. Their bodies were mashed together and squeaking because of
the sweat. His mouth was glued to her ear and he alternately
whispered, "Yes! Fuck! Oh, yes!" before gasping for more breath.
Her tits were pressed so tightly against him he thought for a
moment they might actually be attached to his own chest. And she
humped and thrashed against him as they both gasped and grunted,
nearing the inevitable conclusion of things. But he was Superman!
He could continue forever. He was absolutely certain of it.
She could feel him nearing the end too. She cried and began milking
his dick even before he exploded, which he did almost immediately,
in a great gusher of cum, pounding the bed with his fists, heaving
himself in an effort to be swallowed into her womb along with his
ejaculate, wanting to die and be transported into the heaven of
her womb. Oh, yes, he never, ever, wanted to see the light of day
again.
They lay still for several minutes, trying to regain control of
their breathing. Miley seemed to be humming in a low, throaty tone
as she absentmindedly stroked his hair with her fingers, waiting
for him to calm down. Gently, she milked the last drops of cum
from his penis, somehow squeezing him in a way that prevented him
from going soft on her. She had no intention of letting this one
get away. Finally he kissed her earlobe gently and whispered,
"You wanton slut. Goddamn, you're marvelous!"
She smiled the smile of a woman who has just been well-fucked,
a smile of eternal contentment, an unexpressed, mysterious joy
radiating out from her upcurved lips and her bright eyes. "Why
thank you, sir," she drawled. "You're not so bad, yourself."
Afterwards, they lay quietly in each other's arms, savoring
the touch of their bodies, the smell of their recent encounter.
His fingers gently massaged her face, his hand softly caressed her
breasts, her tummy, the fold of her pussy, her still hot inner
thighs. She sighed, then murmured, "Lover, we've got to break
up the party, I'm afraid. I've got to get back to work. A girl's
gotta feed herself, you know."
He groaned. "Oh, man, Miley, I'd give anything, anything,
to be able to take care of you so you wouldn't have to leave me
like this. I hate it when you get up and leave."
She said, "I know, lover, but I don't have a rich wife like you
who lets me lay around in bed all day screwing whoever he can get
his hands on. I have to work for a living."
He pouted. "Aw, Miley, you know there's no one else but you.
And I don't lay around in the sack all day, either. Just because
she's wealthy doesn't mean I'm allowed to be a lazy bum. I've
got all sorts of things I have to do."
She sat up and began to dress, starting with her bra. His face
looked pained as he watched her breasts disappear into the cups
of the lacy garment. Then, she pulled her panties up, after which
she rolled the legs of her pantyhose up her legs, standing up to finish
the job. His eyes were filled with fascination as he lay there
watching this reverse striptease. She stepped into her skirt, then
put her arms through the armholes of her sleeveless blouse, buttoning
it up and tucking it into the waistband of her skirt. Then she reached
into her purse to retrieve her hairbrush, dragging it purposefully
through the rich, thick waves of her light brown hair.
At last she turned to him, and reaching across to where he lay, gave
his penis a little pinch. "You know I love you, Phil. I wish you weren't
married to Ms. Warbucks, the millionairess. I wish you were married to
me. But I know you won't leave her, not as long as she's willing to
keep you in a manner you've grown accustomed to."
He smiled a rueful smile. "I guess so. It certainly is nice to drive
a Jag instead of a Yugo. But, lately, I've been getting really
frustrated. I want to see more of you, spend more time with you.
I don't know. Maybe I should ask for a divorce."
"Don't bother," she said. "Believe it or not, you're better off with
this arrangement."
"What makes you think that?" he asked.
"Because I know you love that money a hell of a lot more than you
love me." She placed her knee on the bed, bent over and kissed him
softly on the mouth. Before he could put his arms around her, she
stood up and backed away from the bed, then smiled and said, "Toodle-oo,
lover," and quickly left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
Philip lay there in the bed for a long while, savoring the still
present smell of their climax, smiling a little, then stretching his
arms, his legs, even his dick, and growling a tigerish growl. Then,
he climbed out of the bed, and went into the bathroom for a shower.
* * * * *
Victoria Broadburn leaned across the top of her huge dark maple
desk. She picked up the envelope the man had placed on the otherwise
clean surface. She fixed her eyes on his, a small, tight smile playing
at the edge of her thin mouth.
Feigning casualness, she slowly ran her long, sharp fingernail under
the flap, opening it carefully, and, without looking down, pulling the
contents out. She glanced at the photos, pretending not to be concerned
about what they revealed, but unable to hide entirely the hurt in her
eyes. She looked back at the man and said, "You got good ones this
time? Do they show everything?"
He smiled broadly, pleased with himself. "See for yourself, Ms.
Broadburn. These babies are so clear you can see the sweat beads
on their foreheads."
Her mouth tightened, and she furrowed her brow. She was pleased with
the quality of the man's work, but not with what that work entailed.
"I see," she said. She took a long look at the photo on top. It showed
her husband's head, his mouth glued to the nipple of a woman's breast.
She leaned back in her plush leather chair, made a tent of her joined
fingers, and stared intently at the pile of photographs which now
lay spread on the desk. "What do you think, Mr. Peterson? About this
bitch?"
The man formed a half-smile with his lips, his eyes also focused
on the photos, so he wouldn't have to look into hers. "I gotta tell ya,
Ms. Broadburn, I'd watch out for this one. She's hot. And he's hot
for her. The others, well, they were afternoon delights. But, this one.
Mmmph. This one's different."
A silence descended on the room as the two people sat across the
desk from one another, studiously avoiding each other's gaze. Finally,
Victoria broke the quiet: "All right, Mr. Peterson, you've done very
good work on this case, and I appreciate the quality of your effort.
Your check will contain a substantial bonus as an indication of just
how much I do appreciate all that you've done. As you can imagine,
it is quite embarrassing for me to have to see photos such as these,
to know what my husband has been doing behind my back, to know that
you know as well."
He shrugged his shoulders, an effort to dismiss her concern in as
casual a way as possible. He wanted her to know he was not letting
any of this embarrassing information go beyond this room. Discretion
was a hallmark of his profession, and he was as tight-lipped as the
best private investigator.
She made her hands into small fists, and looked at the wall beyond
Peterson. Her voice was almost a whisper. "I hate the humiliation he
subjects me to. I don't understand any of it."
Peterson shrugged again. "Some guys just can't sit still, Ms.
Broadburn," he said. "They got itchy powder on their dicks, if you'll
pardon my saying so."
She snorted. "Itching powder, indeed." She stood up and extended
her right hand. "Well, Mr. Peterson, again, thanks for your effort.
You've been reliable and honest all along. If you think this latest
flame bears watching, perhaps you should continue your surveillance
for a while longer."
"Sure thing, Ms. Broadburn," he replied. "Be happy to."
Victoria thought to herself, "Who wouldn't, when you get to see
a show like these two put on?" She said nothing, but only smiled
as the detective prepared to leave.
He took her hand in his, then turned, retrieved his hat from her
coat rack, and left the room. Victoria watched him as he quietly closed
the door. Then, she walked out from behind her desk and began pacing
her office, her brow knitted in deep thought.
* * * * *
When Philip Johnson returned to the swank townhome he and his wife
Victoria shared, he noticed a sheet of paper on the small table that
was placed just inside the front door for the newspaper, mail and
other packages. The sheet was a brief note from Victoria: "Philip.
Come at once to my office. Victoria"
"Jesus, what a cold bitch she is," he mumbled to himself. "No
'Dear Phil,' no indeed. 'Philip.' No 'Love, Victoria.' Just 'Victoria.'
What the fuck. And after that wonderful session with Miley. Ah, dear,
sweet, hothothot Miley."
He turned around, left the apartment, and hailed a cab which had
fortuitously rounded the corner. Soon, he was headed into the center
city, to the financial district where his wife's investment firm was
located. Within a few minutes, the cab pulled over to the curb and
deposited him in front of the towering, mirrored-glass fronted building.
He looked up to the vicinity where his wife's firm was located.
"Shit," he muttered, "the fucking building's as cold as she is. They
sure were meant for each other." Reluctantly, he crossed the sidewalk
and entered the building, acknowledging the security guard's greeting
as he pushed through the door.
He entered the firm's office, through a glass door which opened
into a large reception area decorated with a couple of sofas and
straight-backed chairs, and the receptionist's desk. The receptionist
looked up from her typing, smiled brightly and said, "Hi, Mr. Johnson!
Let me tell Ms. Broadburn you've arrived. I know she's expecting you."
She leaned forward, pushed a button on the intercom, and announced
Philip's arrival. He was thinking, "What a bitch! Wouldn't even take
my name when we got married. Said it complicated her financial
arrangements. Goddamn. Good thing I have access to her checking account."
Her door opened and Victoria stepped through. She nearly bumped
into Philip as he was preparing to grab the knob. "Oh," she exclaimed,
a bit startled. "There you are. Come on in, Philip." She held the
door open for him to enter. "Have a seat, Philip," she said, gesturing
to the seat the private investigator had recently sat in. Philip crossed
the floor of the huge office, and took the seat Victoria had
indicated. Almost immediately, his eye fell on the photos, which were
still spread out on the desk top. He could feel the heat of his
embarrassment beginning to crawl up his neck. "Oh, shit," he thought.
"Here we go."
Victoria passed behind him and seated herself in her large, plush
leather chair. Even though it was difficult to do so - she'd much
rather have broken down and cried - she fixed her eyes on his. After
a long moment's silence, she said, "I'll come right to the point,
Philip. I want to know what you would like to have happen now."
He avoided her gaze, instead pretending to study the pictures.
Actually, he couldn't bear to look at them. Spread out before him
in all their full-color glory, they seemed obscene. How dare she
invade his privacy this way? Who the fuck did she think - ? But
she was speaking, "... to have happen now?" He wasn't sure he
understood her. "Have happen? What? I'm not sure... What is it
you want?"
She answered, "It's not at all what I want, Philip. Not at all.
It's what you want that concerns me. Do you want a divorce?"
His eyes briefly gazed into hers. She seemed perfectly calm.
"Cold," he thought, and shivered inwardly. "Divorce?" he asked.
She looked at him sitting there, his hands nervously playing with
the edge of a photograph. Emily was straddling him in this picture.
You could see his cock disappearing into her pussy. His balls looked
like pink apples. She was lost in a world of lust. His face was hidden
behind her torso and breast. Philip was beginning to feel a little sick
to his stomach.
"Yes, divorce," she replied. "I'm asking you if that is what you
would like to have happen here. Certainly those photographs supply
ample reason for discussing divorce." She hesitated a moment, then
continued, "If that's what you want."
He looked down at his hands which were now resting in his lap.
"Umm, no, I don't want a divorce."
She was relentless. "Then, what do you want? I repeat: what would
you like to have happen now?"
Small beads of perspiration appeared on his brow. He could feel a
slight trickle of sweat slowly dripping down his spine. "I, umm, I
don't know," he murmured.
"Let me tell you this, Philip. If you want a divorce, you may have
one. But I can assure you that you will not profit from it. I have
already made the necessary arrangements to protect what is mine. In
fact, I have made all the arrangements to strip you of virtually
everything you think you own. Including the clothes you are currently
wearing. If you decide to seek a divorce, you better have a damn good
job waiting for you. Otherwise, you're going to be sleeping in the
park from now on."
He blanched at the fury of her words. He knew she was tough; and
he knew she would protect herself as much as possible. He hadn't
realized, however, how viciously she would attack him.
The silence between them grew. Finally, she broke it: "I'm not
asking you for a divorce, Philip. I want you to understand that. I
don't think it's necessary, really. But, if we decide to stay together,
I can assure you there are going to be some major changes in our
relationship. Now, I'll ask you again: what would you like to have
happen now?"
He knew he was too weak to fight. Financially, he didn't have a leg
to stand on. Legally, she was holding all the cards. If he accepted
the idea of a divorce, and asked for one, she would punish him severely.
He was too lazy to simply leave and go somewhere else to start over
again. He knew if he stayed, she would continue to take care of him,
to "keep" him. But he suspected he would pay a heavy price no matter
what he decided to do.
She sat in the plush leather executive chair, hands folded across
her stomach, patiently gazing at him, waiting for him to respond.
He continued to fidget uneasily with his hands, his eyes desperately
avoiding hers. There had been a time when he couldn't take his
eyes off her. She was extremely beautiful, and the fact that her
wealth could purchase the very best in health and beauty care allowed
her to maintain that aura. She was short, about 5 feet 4 inches tall,
and slender, with a perfect curve outward from waist to hips. Her
bottom was rounded just enough without being too prominent. And,
despite her shortness, her legs appeared long and perfectly tapered,
probably because of her slender frame. But it was her breasts that
were her greatest asset. They were perfection itself. They were large
without being overwhelming, firm and yet supple, and they attracted
the immediate attention of both men and women. She was well aware of
their attractiveness, and she dressed to accentuate them without
overemphasizing them. When they had first begun to date, Philip could
hardly take his eyes off them; he fantasized his hands kneading them
as though they were soft mounds of bread dough. He dreamed of those
gorgeous breasts.
Now, he could hardly lift his eyes to look at her. He wasn't aware
of feeling ashamed, in particular. Perhaps it was fear of her power,
especially now, when she so obviously had the advantage. He knew
she was in the driver's seat, and there was little he could do about
it. Maybe it was shame he was feeling; shame that she had defeated him.
Definitely not shame that he had made love to Emily Owens, his Miley,
his mistress. His mind wandered to thoughts of her, even as his wife
sat across the desk from him, her eyes fixed on him, waiting for his
decision.
Finally, he could no longer delay the inevitable. "Well, Vic," he
began, but quickly noticed her glowering at him, in no mood for little
tendernesses here. "I mean, Victoria. Sorry. Ok, here's the way I
see it. I definitely don't want a divorce. So I guess that means I
do want to stay married to you. And, I know I've hurt you, and I'd
like to do whatever I can to mend that hurt."
"Mend the hurt, hmmm?" she said. "What about loyalty? What about
fidelity? How can I trust you, knowing what I know about you and
your - how shall I put it - extracurricular activities? If I can't
trust you, how can any of my hurt be mended?"
He replied, "Well, it's true, of course, that my track record isn't
very good." He ignored her snort. "But I promise you, beyond a shadow
of a doubt, I'll change all that. No more, umm, extracurricular
activities. I mean that sincerely." Miley's face appeared before him,
her eyes dancing, her lips inviting. He shook his head, trying to
erase her image.
"So you really do want to remain with me." Her eyes were locked on
him, once again cold, unfeeling.
He looked at the floor. "Yes. Whatever it takes, Victoria. I'll do
whatever it takes."
The fog of silence settled between them once again. If there had been
an old-fashioned grandfather clock in the room, it would have sounded
louder than usual, annoyingly loud. As it was, the only sound was the
quiet whisper of the air-conditioner pushing cool air through the registers
in the floor.
Finally, Victoria reached forward and opened the center drawer of her
desk. She pulled out a sheaf of papers. "I'm going to insure your loyalty
this time, Philip. And your fidelity. I have several documents I want
you to sign. Later, at my convenience, I'll have them witnessed and then
my attorney will execute them. I know that's unconventional. But I don't
want anyone here seeing us together like this. You would agree with my
position on this, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, of course. I trust you to do the right thing, Victoria."
She pushed the small pile of papers over to him, along with a pen
which she had also taken from the desk drawer. "Very well. The document
on top is a quit-claim. It states that you relinquish all claims to
my estate, to my property and to my finances."
He signed. The next document transferred ownership of his Jaguar to
Victoria. He signed. Another document provided his agreement to accept
an allowance from a trust Victoria had established, but it was subject
to her approval. Each week she would verify his good behavior. Her
verification would permit the bank to place his allowance in a checking
account. If she refused to sign the verification form, no money would
be transferred to the account. In fact, the account would be frozen.
He signed.
Finally, it was done. He was broken. He now depended on Victoria for
his very existence. He wondered if Emily would continue to see him.
He sat in his chair waiting for Victoria to make her next move, whatever
it was. After several minutes, she said in a near-whisper, "Stand up."
He stood. "Remove your clothes."
"What?"
"You heard me. Remove your clothes." She glared at him. "Strip."
"But, why? What is that going to prove?"
Her answer was to reach again into the center drawer, this time removing
a lighter. She took the pile of paper in one hand, and prepared to set it
on fire. "If these documents burn, Philip, you'll have no choice but to
accept a divorce. Do you understand? No choice."
Grimly, he began to undo his belt. "All right, all right. You win."
Reluctantly, he removed his clothes, finally standing in front of his
chair completely naked. Victoria reached forward and pressed the intercom
switch. "Judith, I want you to come in here, please," she said into the
microphone. The receptionist replied, "Yes, ma'am. Right away."
Philip was aghast. "Wh- what's going on?"
Victoria glared at him again. "Silence. You'll speak when I want to
hear you."
The door opened, and the receptionist entered the room. She glanced at
Philip, and a small smile formed on her lips. Victoria said, "Judith,
I want you to take his undergarments and dispose of them, as we had
discussed. Then come back and bring your equipment."
The receptionist said, "Yes, ma'am," and began picking up Philip's
socks, drawers and t-shirt. She quickly left the office. Philip's
mouth started to open, but was stopped by Victoria's abruptly raised
hand. "I said, 'Silence.' I meant silence."
A moment later the door opened and Judith re-entered the room. She
was carrying a small case in one hand. She walked over to Victoria's
desk. Victoria turned to Philip who was standing red-faced and naked
in front of the young woman.
Victoria said, "Now, Philip, I don't think it's possible to trust
you to be faithful to me or to your marriage vows. You've violated that
trust so often and so regularly that I don't think you're capable of
behaving in a trustworthy way. So I've devised a little plan that I
hope will shame you into behaving yourself. Remember, your allowance
depends on my acceptance of your good behavior. Right?"
He was looking down, trying to avoid the receptionist's open stare.
He mumbled, "Yes. I guess so."
Victoria smiled slightly. "Very well. Here is what I propose. Judith
is going to give you a pedicure, after which she is going to paint
your toenails with a delightful red polish. I am assuming you would
never want one of your chippies to see you with painted toenails. So,
you'll keep your pants on to avoid such an eventuality. Of course, if
your pants are on, your dick most likely will be tucked away as well.
It's at least worth a try. Nothing else seems to have worked."
The receptionist giggled, clearly enjoying the scene. Victoria
gestured at the chair Philip had been sitting in. "Sit down, Philip.
And don't give Judith a hard time about this, either." She turned
to her receptionist. "I'm going out for coffee. Let me know when you're
done with him."
The receptionist, still giggling, said, "Yes, ma'am."
"And do a good job on him. I want those toenails looking absolutely
gorgeous."
The receptionist couldn't contain her laughter. "Oh, I'll do a good
job, Ms. Broadburn. You can rely on me."
And with that, she knelt down in front of Philip, opened her cosmetic
case, and went to work. With a smirk on her face, Victoria turned and
walked out the door.
Half an hour later, the receptionist opened the door of Victoria's
office. Victoria was sitting on one of the sofas, reading a magazine
and sipping a cup of coffee. "I'm all done, Ms. Broadburn."
The two women entered the office together. Philip was seated in his
chair, still naked, looking deeply embarrassed. Victoria crossed the
office and stood before him. "Let's see those toes, Philip," she
commanded. He lifted both feet so she could get a close look. Victoria
clapped her hands together. "Oh, look what Judith's done," she said.
"This is marvelous. What kind of flowers are those, Judith?"
"They're supposed to be carnations, Ms. Broadburn," Judith said.
On both of Philip's big toes, in addition to the bright red nail
polish, the receptionist had painted bright white carnations. Philip's
face turned a shade darker than the deep red polish that now decorated
his toenails.
Victoria's face wore a thoughtful expression. "Hmm. You know, Judith,
if he puts his socks back on over his toes, it might cause those
wonderful flowers to smear and ruin the effect. Don't you agree?"
Judith said, "Oh, yes, ma'am. Those socks Mr. Johnson was wearing
could definitely cause the polish to smear."
Victoria sighed. "I was afraid of that. Well, I guess we have no
alternative, Judith. Go and get me the razor and the rest of the things
I gave you this morning."
Philip was alarmed. "Razor?" he thought, suddenly afraid. "What the
fuck does she need with a razor?"
When the receptionist returned, she was carrying an electric razor
in one hand. In her other hand she had a small plastic bag with the
logo of a lingerie shop printed on it. Philip's eyes showed his concern.
Victoria said, "Philip, I was afraid that Judith's handiwork would be
too delicate for you. I know the quality of her artistic efforts.
So, I'm afraid we're going to have to cover your toes with the same kind
of material a woman would wear whose toenails were similarly decorated,
that is, with sheer nylon. However, nylon stockings would look just
awful on those shaggy, hairy legs of yours. So we're going to have
to remove the hair. I'm sure you don't mind, do you?"
Philip was almost crying in frustration. He waved his hand dismissively.
"No, of course not. Don't want to ruin the carnations, after all."
Victoria glared at him. "Well, you don't have to be so sarcastic, Philip.
Judith worked very hard on those nails of yours." She smiled sweetly at
her receptionist, then turned back to Philip. "Now, stand up so Judith
can shave your legs."
Red-faced with shame, Philip stood up. The razor Judith held in her
hand was portable, so all she had to do was kneel down at Philip's feet,
turn it on, and go to work. Victoria stood behind her, leaning her
delicately rounded bottom against the desk, watching Judith work with
the razor. The hair on Philip's legs was, of course, fairly long, too
long for an electric razor to shave neatly. Several times he cried out
when the razor became snagged in his hair. But, eventually, after several
repeated efforts by Judith, his legs were at last free of all their
hair and as white as a porcelain bowl. At Victoria's instructions, Judith
had also shaved off Philip's pubic hair as well, causing him even more
embarrassment than he already felt.
Victoria clapped her hands. "Oh, lovely, Judith. You've done a wonderful
job. Now, Philip, sit down so we can show you how to put on these nylons."
She reached into the plastic bag, and pulled out a pair of very sheer,
black nylon stockings, the kind with seams. She handed them to her husband.
"It's very important that you put them on as carefully as you can,
Philip. You want to avoid runs at all cost. And, you want your seams to
be perfectly straight, especially on those days when I inspect you in
order to verify your continuing good behavior."
He looked at the dainty handful of nylon. He had no idea how he had so
quickly been reduced to this situation. Judith took one of the stockings
from him, and showed him how it was to be folded so that he could slide
it up his leg after carefully covering his foot. She also instructed
him on keeping the seams straight as the stockings were gently pulled up
his leg. When the first stocking was in place, she handed him the other
one. He was expected to do this one on his own. His hands shaking somewhat,
he finally managed to pull the stocking up his leg, keeping the seam
relatively straight. Judith showed him how to adjust it. When he was done,
Victoria had him stand up. Immediately, the stockings began to slide back
down his legs.
"Obviously, you need something to hold your stockings in place,"
Victoria declared. She reached into the plastic bag and pulled out a
black garter belt covered with red lace. She handed it to Philip. "Go
ahead, put it on. Judith will show you how to attach the garters to your
stockings."
Visibly upset, but unable to counter this humiliation, Philip started
to put the belt on. He placed the hooks in front and attached them to
the eyes. Then, he began to reach for a garter strap.
"No, no, no, silly!" exclaimed Victoria. "Once you've got it all
snapped on, you have to slide it around your waist so the hooks are
in the rear. Silly boy."
Judith giggled as the red-faced Philip complied.
"All right," said Victoria. "Now, you can attach the garters."
Clumsily, Philip began to work on this task, finally figuring out
how to operate the snaps after Judith demonstrated the method a couple
of times. Finally, fully ashamed and humiliated, Philip stood before
his wife and her receptionist, his brightly polished toenails visible
through the sheer material of his stockings, which were attached to
the only other garment he wore, a garter belt.
Victoria's demeanor grew stern. "This is how you will dress each
day, Philip. And once a week, you will report to Judith for a pedicure.
You will wear no other undergarments, unless, of course, I permit
them. If you desire to wear panties, or a bra, or a camisole, or any
dainty feminine lingerie, why I'll be more than happy to approve
such apparel. But that's optional, for now. However, your stockings
and garter belt are not. Those you will wear every day, all day. Do
you understand?"
Philip stared at his legs and his freshly painted toes. "Yes,"
he mumbled.
"Good," said Victoria. "Then you may get dressed." She turned to
Judith. "Thanks so much, Judith. You do a wonderful pedicure. You
may go to lunch now, if you'd like." The receptionist smiled at
Victoria, gathered up her things, and left the office, but not before
giving Philip the once-over with her laughing eyes.
Victoria turned to Philip, who had finished dressing and was adjusting
his necktie. "You may go now, Philip. Remember, loyalty and fidelity."
She reached into her purse, pulling out her wallet. She removed two bills
from it and handed them to Philip. "Here's your first week's allowance,
two hundred dollars. You'll get your allowance after your inspection,
on whatever day I choose, here at the office. All right?"
Philip nodded.
"Oh, one more thing before you go. I want the keys to the Jaguar."
"But, but, how am I going to be able to get around?" he cried.
"This city has a perfectly marvelous public transportation system,
Philip. You can take the bus. We'll see how your little sluts like
being romanced on the metro." She snickered at the thought of Philip,
encased in nylon stockings, attempting to impress one of his girlfriends
as they rode through the city on a bus.
She took the car keys from Philip's outstretched hands, then waved
him away in dismissal.
* * * * *
Philip had hailed a cab to ride back to his - Victoria's - townhome.
"Take the bus," he muttered. "Fuck her, fuckin' bitch." After paying
the driver, he turned to go up the steps of the large brownstone
rowhouse. It was a three-story structure, and much wider than the
usual townhouse and very deep. In the back, there was a small yard, most
of which Victoria had turned into flower beds for her garden, which even
Philip had to admit was spectacular. Beneath the front porch, behind the
concrete steps, was a set of short steps leading down to a basement
entrance. At one time, a previous owner had converted the part of the
basement which was directly under the kitchen into a servant's apartment.
The front walk-down entrance opened into a narrow hallway, which led to
this apartment. The apartment itself consisted of a small bedroom/sitting
room, a tiny kitchenette, and a cramped shower/sink/toilet room. In the
bedroom/sitting room was a door which led directly up to the kitchen
situated at the rear of the first level of the house proper. The kitchen
also had a door which led to the laundry room. The servants would wash
the family laundry in this room, then fold and iron it in either the
kitchenette or the bedroom/sitting room. When Victoria and Philip had
moved into the townhome, they had built an enclosure behind the kitchen
and had turned it into a laundry room. So, during the years they had
lived in this townhouse, they had never had any need to use the
basement apartment. In fact, all they used the basement for was storage
space, and the entrance to the storeroom was reached separately from
the servants' apartment.
As Philip reached the landing, he took his key from his pocket and
attempted to slide it into the lock on the front door. It wouldn't fit.
"What the fuck?" he muttered. "What's happened to the lock?" It was
then he saw the envelope sticking out from the letter-drop in the
door. He reached down and retrieved it.
"Dear Philip," it read. "Until you have proven to me beyond any
reasonable doubt that your loyalty and fidelity can be trusted, I
am requiring you to move into the servants' apartment in the basement.
I have had the locks to the front entrance changed. Moreover, I have
also locked the door leading from the kitchen to the basement apartment.
When I have need of you in my quarters, I will permit you entry through
that door. I have installed an intercom in your new apartment for the
purpose of summoning you whenever I deem it necessary.
"You will find bed and bath linens in the bureau in the bedroom.
Your clothes have been moved into the bedroom also. There is
food in the refrigerator, and cooking utensils, plates, etc.
"Part of my weekly 'allowance approval' inspection will be to
examine the neatness and cleanness of your apartment. Please keep that
in mind.
"Your housekey should work in the basement door lock.
Victoria"
He wadded the note up in his fist and slammed his fist into the
palm of his other hand. "That fucking bitch!" he exclaimed. "Son-of-a-
mother-fucking-bitch!"
Slowly, he calmed down and, realizing the inevitability of his
situation, he decided to take a look in the basement at the apartment
which he hadn't seen since he, Victoria, and the real estate agent
had looked at it during their pre-settlement inspection tour. As he
descended the stairs, his eye happened to glance out to the street.
Something was wrong, he knew, but he just couldn't - "My Jag! Oh,
shit! The bitch has taken my Jag! Oh, nooo..." There was definitely
an empty space at the curbside, and there was no Jaguar in sight.
Muttering darkly to himself, he tried the key in the lock. Sure
enough, it worked. The door easily opened. Inside, the hallway was
dark, and he felt around the wall until he found a light switch.
He turned it on, and a low wattage bulb barely illuminated the
hallway. He could see the door at the other end, so he walked the
length of the narrow corridor. Once again, he tried what had once
been the front-door key, and discovered that it fit the lock on
this door. He pulled the door open and again had to grope for a
light switch to find his way into the darkened room. He found that
the entrance gave way into a bedroom/sitting room. Inside the tiny
room was a narrow, cot-like metal frame bed with a thin mattress
and box-spring. On the mattress was a pillow. There was a chair in
one corner, and a five-drawer bureau in the other. On top of the
bureau was a small, inexpensive clock/alarm radio and his razor,
toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream, deodorant and other cosmetics.
There was no closet. Next to the bureau, attached to the wall,
were some pegs with a few wire hangers suspended from them, which
would allow him to hang his clothes. There was a shelf attached to
the wall above the pegs. On it was an iron. Leaning against the
wall next to the pegs was an ironing board.
He went over to the bureau and opened the top drawer. In it
were several pairs of nylon stockings, all black, all sheer, all
with seams. There were also several garter belts in different colors,
but all with plenty of lace adorning them. In the next drawer he
found several nightgowns, all sheer, all baby-doll style, but with
no panties. The other three drawers contained bed linens, towels
and washcloths.
He went into the bathroom. There was toilet paper on top of the
toilet tank, and he realized the room was too small to accommodate
a toilet paper holder. Above the sink were two narrow shelves,
each attached separately to the wall. On these shelves were his
medicines - aspirin, bandaids, and other supplies. Above the top shelf
was a small mirror. Underneath the sink were cleaning supplies neatly
placed on the floor. In the cramped shower stall was a soap dish with
a bar of soap in it.
He next examined the kitchenette. It had a small range on top of
a small oven. There was no microwave oven, however. If he cooked,
he would have to cook in the old traditional way. Next to the oven/
range was a sink, and on the other side of the sink was a small
refrigerator. There was, of course, the narrow door leading up to
the kitchen above, and another narrow door which led to the laundry
room. That door had been removed so that the washer and dryer could
be clearly seen. There was a small table in the center of the room
with a chair neatly placed under it. Next to the opening into the
laundry room several shelves had been attached to the wall. On these
shelves were boxes of cereal, cans of soup, and other food. On the
bottom shelf was a pot and a frying pan. On the shelf above that
were a few plates, cups, and eating and cooking utensils.
Philip looked in the refrigerator. Inside were eggs, milk, some
ground beef, some fresh fruit and vegetables, cheese, and a small
freezer filled with ice cubes.
In the laundry room, beside the washer and dryer, were laundry
detergent, dryer anti-static tissues, dish detergent and other
cleaning supplies. Looking at the cleaning supplies, Philip suddenly
realized that the little apartment was immaculate. Obviously,
Victoria had gone to great trouble to prepare it for him. She'd been
planning this for a long time. His heart sank as he began to understand
that Victoria was going to be humiliating him far more severely than
he'd originally thought. "Damn," he said out loud. "Maybe I should
ask for a divorce. It can't possibly be any worse than this."
He went back into the bedroom and sat on the bed. The mattress
definitely wasn't firm like the mattress on his bed upstairs. But
it wasn't uncomfortable, either. He began contemplating his situation.
It was pretty obvious that Victoria had some kind of plan that she
wasn't revealing to him. It was also pretty obvious that she intended
to punish him for his womanizing. He considered simply removing
the garter belt and stockings and leaving, going ahead with a divorce -
no matter how painful it might be for him - and then starting over,
perhaps even moving from the city and relocating somewhere else.
But a voice inside his head continued whispering, "Stick around. See
what she's up to. Maybe you can come out ahead, after all."
* * * * *
Evidently, he had dozed off. A loud buzzing had startled him awake,
and as he sat up, groggily wiping his eyes and shaking his head to
clear the sleep away, he realized it was the buzzer on his clock radio.
The clock read 8:00, and the P.M. light-dot was lit. "Damn," he said,
"that is one loud alarm. I'll have to set it for a morning wakeup.
Like around 10:00, maybe." He stood up, looking around a little confused,
then realized he was in the apartment in the basement of his townhome.
He decided he would go out to get a bite to eat, maybe at the pub up
on the corner, Harry's Grill. They had good burgers, and he could
have a couple of brews while he sorted out his thoughts and feelings
on what was going on with Victoria.
As he stepped toward the door, suddenly a static roar emerged from
the intercom. Then, Victoria's voice boomed out, "Philip, I wish to
speak with you right away. Please come to the door in the kitchen.
There's a doorbell switch there. Just push it and I'll unlock the
door from up here." Evidently, she had installed an electronic lock
on that door. "Probably so I won't 'invade' her 'kingdom,'" he thought.
But how the hell had she known he was in the apartment? And getting
ready to go out? "She's got a camera hidden somewhere around here,
the fucking bitch." He groaned.
He walked into the kitchenette, and stepped over to the door. He
found the doorbell switch, and pushed it. Immediately, he heard a
buzz, not unlike the buzzer on his clock radio alarm, and then the
sound of the door unlocking. He pulled it open and climbed the stairs.
There was another door at the top of the stairs, which was unlocked.
He opened it and entered the kitchen. Just as he closed the door,
Victoria's voice sounded over another intercom, this one attached to
the wall next to the door. Victoria's voice commanded, "Come into
the study, Philip. I'll meet you there."
Slowly, he made his way through the kitchen and into the main hallway.
His frustration was growing, threatening to turn into real anger. He
was afraid he might say something which could cost him whatever benefit
he might have in this situation. He entered the study. Victoria was
seated in a wingback chair, facing a fireplace. There was a fire burning,
the flames dancing merrily above the large logs. She looked up and
watched Philip as he crossed the room to her, then indicated that he was
to sit down in another wingback chair facing her, his back to the fire.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Then Victoria said, "Well,
Philip, I trust your new accommodations are satisfactory."
"Smug bitch," he thought. But, he said, "They're all right, I guess.
But, why are you making me stay down there?"
She looked him straight in the eye. "Don't forget, Philip. You
violated our marriage vows. I'm not even sure I want to continue in
this marriage. But, I'm giving you a second chance. Another chance to
prove you really love me, and are willing to be a good and faithful
husband."
"So, why can't I live up here? With you? I mean if you're pissed off
at me, and don't want me sleeping with you for a while, well, ok, I can
understand that. And I'll be willing to sleep in another bedroom until
you do. You know. Want me to sleep with you again. When I have proved to
you that I am faithful and true, and you're happy to restore me into
your good graces."
Victoria contemplated him thoughtfully. "Well, Philip, I may decide
to do just that. But for the immediate moment, I prefer this arrangement."
Philip shrugged his shoulders. He was curious to see what other
conditions she was getting ready to impose on him, so he didn't feel like
arguing this point.
"Now, Philip, I like to think of these next few weeks as a sort of
trial period. Not just for you, but for me as well. So far, I've only
placed one condition upon you, that you report to my office every Friday
for a pedicure, and to have your toenails painted by Judith."
"What about this having to wear stockings and a garter belt? And no
other underwear?"
"Well, of course, that goes without saying. You have to protect your
toenail polish. But, it's all part of the same condition."
"Don't forget making me live downstairs in that little, whatever,
servants' quarters."
She smiled slightly and looked directly in his eyes. "Yes, Philip,
I guess that is a condition also. And, in fact, I am going to impose
one more condition as well. At least, for the time being. There may
be others, as time goes on."
"What is that?"
"Each morning, upon waking, you will place the clothes you wore the
previous day on hangers, and you will open the kitchen door, the one
leading to the stairs up to my kitchen, and you will place those
clothes on the peg nailed to the wall at the foot of the stairs. You'll
know what I'm talking about, because your clothes for the new day will
be hanging there already. So, it'll simply be a swap."
"That's it? That's all I have to do?"
"For now, yes. And, of course, you must show yourself to be a
faithful and loyal husband. I am hoping that the pedicure and the
stockings will remind you of that obligation. But, then, sooner or
later, and I hope sooner, you'll be a faithful and loyal husband simply
because you want to, and not because I've forced you to."
"Of course. Now, you said there may be further conditions imposed on
me as part of my, umm, probation, you might say?"
"It depends upon your progress, Philip. And whether your improvement
is genuine or not." She smiled at him. "So don't try to con me."
He looked at her, realizing that he wasn't sure he wanted this game
to continue. "Do I really love her?" he thought. "Enough to jump
through all these hoops?"
She continued to smile, and said, "You're probably wondering if it's
worth it to even try. I can't help you there, Philip. I will say this:
I had to move to protect myself and my wealth. So if you file for divorce,
there won't be any division of property, believe me. You will simply
lose what little you have left, which isn't much. But if you pass my
test, if I believe you really are in love with me, and really do wish
to be a good and faithful husband to me, then I can assure you I will
be exorbitantly generous in whatever I give you."
"Speaking of not having much left, what did you do with my Jaguar?"
he asked.
"I had it towed to a dealer and sold. The keys were yours, but the
title was mine."
"But, why?" Philip's frustration was threatening to get out of hand.
"You needed an object lesson, Philip. You needed to know that I'm
holding all the cards here."
His eyes were growing moist. He put his index finger in his mouth
and bit down on it. Hard. It was either that or start swearing at her.
"Now, don't forget. In the morning, you will find your outfit for
the day hanging by the kitchen door. And I want you to give me the
clothes you are now wearing, so I can have them cleaned. I want you
to be neat and presentable at all times. Speaking of which, from
time to time I will be inspecting your apartment, to be sure it is as
neat and clean as you found it today. Of course, I'm sure it will be."
"Yes, yes, of course," he replied, exasperated.
"Incidentally, don't forget to keep your legs shaved. It really will
help prevent runs in your stockings. Oh. One other thing. The nighties
were given to you for a reason. To enjoy. So enjoy them." She looked
him straight in the eye, and her mouth curled into a mocking grin.
"If you have no further questions, then, Philip, I'll say goodnight.
You may let yourself out the way you came in."
She stood up and walked out of the room, without looking back at
him. He sat there in stunned disbelief. Then, confused and shaken,
he stood up and began the long journey to his new home.
* * * * *
As he passed through the door at the head of the kitchen stairs,
it automatically locked behind him. Then, as he entered the apartment,
that door, too, swung shut automatically, and he heard the click of
the lock. "Damn," he thought. "That is some elaborate security system."
He looked around once again at the tiny rooms, then decided he wasn't
hungry, after all. "Might as well just take a shower and go to bed.
Get a good night's sleep," he thought. He entered the bedroom and
got some sheets and a pillowcase out of the bureau, and made up the
bed. Then, he pulled a towel and washcloth from another drawer.
He removed his clothes, being careful with the stockings. He wasn't
sure what Victoria might do if he damaged the filmy nylons.
He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower in the cramped
stall. "Damn!" he said out loud. "I don't even have room to bend over
to wash my feet!"
He managed to scrub himself off, however, and then toweled himself
dry. He had to carry the towel and washcloth back into the bedroom,
since there was nowhere in the tiny bathroom to hang them. He used one
of the pegs attached to the wall next to the bureau. He opened the
bureau drawer that contained the babydoll nighties and stood looking
at them, trying to decide whether to wear them, or just sleep naked.
He had decided to sleep in the raw, and was just closing the drawer
when the intercom came alive again. It was Victoria. "I told you,
Philip, that the nighties are for your pleasure. Go ahead and put
one on. I insist."
He looked around the room in wonder. "Motherfucker!" he exclaimed
under his breath. "The bitch does have a camera hidden in here!"
Victoria's voice broke the silence again. "Put a nighty on now,
Philip," she scolded. "Or else I'll think you don't love me anymore."
And she giggled.
"Shit," he muttered. "Bitch." But he reached in the drawer and
pulled one of the filmy nightgowns out, this one a transparent pink.
It had a silky feel to it, and it had lace edging around the deeply
scooped neckline and thin straps. He pulled it over his head and let
it drop over his body. The bottom hem of the gown, also trimmed in
lace, quit at just about his hips, leaving his hairless cock and
balls exposed.
"Cute," said Victoria's voice in the intercom. "Nighty-night,
Philip. Don't forget to put your dirty clothes on the stairs in the
morning."
Cursing and muttering darkly to himself, Philip finally crawled
into the narrow bed. He was so exhausted and shaken by his encounter
with Victoria, and the rest of the events of the day, he fell almost
immediately into a deep sleep. He had to admit that the feel of the
silky-softness of the nightgown was interesting. He'd felt such
material before, but then, of course from the outside in. Now he
was experiencing it from the inside out. He fell asleep then, and
dreamed the strangest, most vivid dream he could ever recall dreaming.
In the dream, his head was shaved completely bald, like Yul Brynner's,
and his body was wrapped in soft, transparent nylon. He was floating
in a pale-blue sky, it seemed, and just ahead of him was Victoria.
Only she seemed gigantic, and towered over him so that her face was
distant from him, hidden by her massive breasts. He floated closer
to her, so that his head came nearer and nearer to the triangular
patch of her pubic hair. Suddenly, she opened her legs and he could
feel this warm, comforting heat enveloping him like a luxurious cloak.
And he noticed an aroma that seemed to overwhelm him with desire.
He floated nearer and nearer to her open vagina, and suddenly his
head was lodged inside it. Gently, her huge hands held him at the
waist, and she pushed him further inside her opening. His head
entered her and was immediately surrounded by darkness as he moved
deep inside her vulva. It was dark; it was warm; it was moist.
As soon as he was lodged well inside her, she began to pull him back
out, until all but his face had slid back out of her pussy. He struggled
to crawl back in, and she obliged him, holding him still at the waist
and pushing him deep into her vagina once again. He had become like a
human dildo, and that is exactly how she used him. Back and forth he
floated, up and down her vaginal canal. Her breathing became heavier
and heavier, and from inside her womb, it sounded like the approach of
a thunderstorm. Her vaginal walls grew hotter and wetter, and he thought
of a tropical rainforest, hot, humid, sultry. Harder and harder she
pushed and pulled; deeper and deeper he sank into her interior; louder
and louder the roar of her breathing became, until he was completely
overwhelmed and powerless against the onslaught of this magnificent
female essence. Then everything became black and he lost all sense of
himself, indeed of any reality.
He awoke moaning, and could feel a sticky wetness on the sheets
near his pelvic region. He pulled the cover and top sheet back and
looked. He'd had a massive orgasm, evidently, because there was a
huge stain on the sheet and it was wet and cold. He shivered a little,
then sat up and placed his feet on the floor. He was still breathing
a bit hard, and he could feel his pulse racing. "Whew," he thought.
"That was one hell of a dream. I have never been through anything like
that."
He stripped the wet, cum-stained sheets from the bed and carried
them over to the laundry room, placing them on the washer lid. Then,
he went into the tiny bathroom to clean himself up. After his shower
and shave, he went over to the door in the kitchenette and pressed
the button on the jamb. Immediately he heard a buzz, followed by
the click of the lock and the door swinging slowly open. As he opened
the door, he looked at the wall next to the stairs. Sure enough, a
pair of slacks and a shirt were hanging there. He took them down,
replacing them with his soiled clothes from the day before.
He carried the clean clothes into the bedroom and hung them on one
of the pegs on the wall. It was then he noticed a piece of paper
pinned to the slacks. He took it off and unfolded it. It was a note
from Victoria:
"Dear Philip,
When you look in your underwear drawer you will notice that you
have nine identical pairs of stockings, one for each day of the week
plus a couple of spares in case you suffer a run. You should wear a
different pair each day, and wash them in the sink at night. You
also have seven garter belts, each of a different color. You should
wear a different one each day also, rotating through them in a
systematic fashion. These you can wash with your regular laundry.
Have fun!
Victoria"
Philip wadded the note up and tossed it aside. "What bullshit!"
he thought. "Why don't I just go up there and tell her to fuck off,
I'm outta here, she can have it all?" He stopped in the middle of
the room and stood stock still. Why, indeed, not go tell her off
and leave? What was keeping him here, after all? Her money? She
would dole it out only in small amounts, and he was too undisciplined
to hang on to any of it, spending it as fast as she gave it to him.
"Well, maybe this is just a whim of hers," he considered. "If I cool
it for awhile, pretend to toe the line, then she'll let me come back
into her good graces, and all of this will be just a dim memory."
He took out a pair of stockings and a clean garter belt. He attached
the belt, then sat on the bed to pull up the stockings. He did this
with great care, not wanting to tear them, and also to be sure the
seams were straight. The feel of the stockings on his hairless legs
certainly was pleasurable, and he enjoyed the sensation of coolness
and warmth simultaneously, and the tension of the garter straps holding
the stockings up high on his thighs. But it wasn't a particularly
erotic sensation; it didn't give him a hardon or anything like that.
He removed the slacks from the hanger and began to put them on.
"Hmmm," he thought, "these trousers seem a little snug. I don't
recall ever wearing them before, either. Oh, well." And he pulled them
up his legs, buttoning them at the waist and pulling up the zipper.
"Wow, they are snug!" He looked down and noticed that not only were
they a little snug, but they were also a little short. Not so short
that his stockings showed, but if he weren't careful, they certainly
would. "Fuckin' bitch!" he muttered.
He reached for the shirt, only to discover to his horror that it
was a woman's dress shirt. It wasn't frilly or overly feminine, but
it was clearly a woman's shirt. The buttons were on the left, and
the material was silky and almost transparent. He would have to wear
a sweater or jacket or something to disguise it.
"I don't know, Phil. Maybe now's the time to pull up stakes,"
he thought. But his own response was negative. "I'll just go along
for a while and see what happens."
Having decided that, he put on his sport coat (thank God it went
with almost any color) and left the apartment. His first stop was
Harry's Grill for some breakfast, and he went there immediately,
picking a seat in a booth at the back of the restaurant in order to
make himself less noticeable.
After he had eaten, he knew he needed to find a phone. No matter
what, he had to call Emily to tell her that Victoria knew of their
affair and had, in effect, called it off. He paid his bill and
located a public phone in a short hallway where the restaurant's
restrooms were located. He put in a quarter and dialed Emily's
office number. She picked up on the second ring. "Good," he thought.
"She's not too busy to talk."
"American Cardboard Association. This is Miss Owens. How may I
help you?"
"Miley, it's me, Phil."
"Phil! What's going on? You didn't call me last night. I was getting
worried."
"Listen, Miley. We've got to talk. Something really serious has
come up and I have to see you right away."
"Something serious? I hope it's not too bad, Sugar. Well, how about
lunch? We could meet at Antonio's."
"No, that's too public. Umm, how about the Savoy Bar and Grill, over on
Tenth?"
"Oh, that hole-in-the-wall. That place is always filled with cigarette
smoke and it takes me days to get the smell out of my hair."
"I know, I know. But it's also quiet and private. So meet me there
at about 12:30. Ok?"
"Well, I guess so. But you're going to have to pay to have my dress
fumigated." And she giggled in her delightfully sexy way.
Philip hung up and decided to go back to Harry's Grill for another
cup of coffee. He had a lot of time to kill, and nowhere in particular
to do it.
* * * * *
When Emily arrived at the Savoy, Philip was waiting outside for her.
He had a brown paper bag in his hand. Emily ran to where he was leaning
against the wall, and threw her arms around him, giving him a loud, wet
kiss on the lips. "Hello, my lover!" she happily exclaimed.
He looked nervously around, then said, "I decided you were right.
This place is the pits and there's no point in asking you to go in there
just to get your hair full of cigarette smoke. So what I did was I went
and got us a hotel room, and a bagful of sandwiches and a couple of sodas."
"Oh, you incurable romantic, you," she laughed. "How far is it? Will
we need a cab?"
Philip took her by the arm, and pointed to a hotel down the street.
"Right over there. It's not the Hilton, by any means. But we just need
a little privacy for a little while." He steered her along the sidewalk
until they arrived at the entrance to the hotel. It looked as though
at one time it had been a fairly classy place; but, that had probably
been more than forty years ago. It wasn't exactly rundown or seedy.
It just seemed a bit frayed at the edges. They moved through the
entrance and entered a spacious lobby, which they crossed to get
to the elevator on the other side.
Philip was holding her hand. "I already have the key. So all we have
to do is get on the elevator and go right on up."
Emily held his hand tightly. "Why all the mystery, Phil?"
The elevator door opened and they stepped inside. The door closed and
they began to climb. Philip looked her in the eye and said, "As soon as
we're in the room, I'll let you know what's going on."
Philip unlocked the door and gently nudged Emily inside. The room was
not small, but it was also not new, either. The bed's mattress was
high enough off the floor that a person felt the need to climb up
to get on top of it. There were a couple of slightly worn easy chairs,
a table for writing, a low chest of drawers, a small closet and a
small bathroom, with the counter and sink actually in the sleeping/sitting
room. Emily jumped onto the bed and rolled over on her back, raising
her arms toward Philip. He lay down beside her.
"Now, tell your darling Miley all about it. Why all this secrecy,
Sugar?"
In answer to her question, Philip slid off the bed, stood up, and
immediately lowered his trousers. Emily's eyes grew wide at the sight
of her lover standing there in a garter belt and stockings, his penis
half-erect. She began laughing loudly and rolling around on the mattress.
"Phil, ah, hahaha, oh, Phil," she roared. "I don't believe it.
Hahaha. What the hell are you doing?"
Philip stared glumly at the floor. "It's that bitch of a wife of mine.
She's making me do this."
Emily continued laughing for a few more moments, then realizing Philip
was not sharing the joke, she leaned up on her elbows and looked deeply
at him. "Victoria? She's making you wear this get-up?"
"Yes, yes," he cried. He sat down on the edge of the bed, holding his
face in his hands as he fought back the sobs which were choking him.
"She knows about us, Miley. She had me followed. She knows everything."
"And this is her punishment, eh?" Emily replied.
He brought his hands down to his lap and looked at them. "I guess
so. I don't know exactly what is on her mind. She told me if I didn't
wear this underwear, she would throw me out. And I wouldn't get a dime.
I'd be impoverished."
Emily was angry. "She can't do that, Phil. There are laws in this
State. She has to comply - "
He cut her off. "She doesn't have to do anything she doesn't want to.
Believe me. If I know anything at all, I know that."
"Ok. Suppose she does throw you out and takes all you have. So what?
We still have each other. And you can always find a job."
Philip actually blanched at that last sentence. He stood up and turned
to face her. "W-work?" he stammered. "M-me?"
"Of course you, silly," she said. "Why not? Millions of people do it
every day. It doesn't seem to be doing them any serious harm, as far as
I can tell."
"B-but..." He swallowed hard. "I-I don't...I don't have...umm..."
Emily looked hard at him. "What's the matter with you? Listen. All
you have to do is walk out of that house, walk away from that rotten
bitch, and come live with me. I don't see any huge problem here."
Philip glanced nervously around the room. "I, uhh, I think we should,
ummm, should think it over."
Emily looked up at him with a sly grin on her face. "You know what,
Sugar? You look kind of hot in those stockings. If you don't come over
here right away and kiss me, I'm going to die of horniness. And it'll
be all your fault."
She held out her hand, and he took it, then moved to the side of
the bed. She let go of his hand, and quickly grabbed his penis. He
gasped as she tugged on it, leading him to her. As he raised his leg
and knelt on the bed, she released his cock, reached behind him,
and gave him a loud smack on the ass.
"Get over here right now, you bad boy," she growled. "Miley needs
some goo-ood loving."
She pulled him across her body as she fell back on the bed, then
circled him with her arms as she drew him into a long, passionate
kiss. His right hand sought out her left breast, and he began tweaking
the nipple, causing Emily to groan in lust. Then, he covered her
entire breast with his cupped hand, and squeezed hard as her tongue
invaded his mouth, pushing as far as it could toward his throat.
His penis was now rock-hard and sticking straight out. She grabbed
it with one of her hands and began rubbing and stroking it, causing
him to begin moaning. They thrashed around on the bed, breathing heavily,
as though they had just finished sprinting a hundred-yard dash. Their
bodies were covered with a sheen of perspiration as they groaned and
grappled and panted and puffed. Finally, Emily could stand it no longer.
She took Philip's penis in her hand and guided it between her legs,
almost sucking it into her pussy like a vacuum cleaner sucking up
rug dirt. She gasped when he was fully encased in her steaming cunt,
and cried softly as he began a delightful, rhythmic pumping in and
out of her love tunnel. As he got closer and closer to his climax,
his pumping grew more frenzied, his hands, each clutching a breast,
squeezed until she cried out in orgasmic pain, his mouth pressed so
hard against hers he left teeth imprints on her lips. And then the
crisis was upon her, and she grabbed his ass cheeks, trying to pull
him even deeper into her. He lunged and pushed, grunting and panting
all the while. Then, with a sudden shout, he exploded, pouring his
hot seed into her hot hole. Her eyes rolled back into her head, her
legs, bent at the knees and spread wide apart, pumped back and forth
as his cum gushed into her, and she laughed and sobbed and pummeled
his ass with her fists. Then, too soon, it was over, and he lay
atop her, spent and gasping for breath. She crooned and hummed as
she let her hands softly caress his back, his neck, the hair on the
back of his head.
They slowly parted, and he rolled off her to rest at her side,
softly stroking her breasts, her tummy, the burning wetness of her
thighs where they joined her pussy. He softly kissed her lips, and
gazed dreamily at her face, her eyes closed in repose, as she let
herself relax and luxuriate in the pleasure of her own climax.
Finally, she opened her eyes and smiled up at him. "Mmmmm," she
cooed. "You oughta wear those stockings and garters all the time,
if they make you fuck that good."
He looked a little hurt. "Aw, Miley, c'mon. Don't even joke about
it. Ok?"
She continued smiling, then closed her eyes and let her head relax
on the pillow. "We'll see," was all she would say.
After awhile, she declared she had to get back to the office, and
she pushed him away from her as she rolled over to get off the bed
and step towards the bathroom. Philip watched her delightfully plump
ass gently jiggle as she crossed the room, then disappeared into
the shower. He lay on his back looking up at the ceiling and thinking
of her, conjuring an image of her as she showered, wishing it were his
hands softly scrubbing the sweat and semen of their lovemaking away.
He couldn't stand to let her go. He knew he didn't love her enough to
want to move in with her. But he loved loving her, and he hated to
have it end. It would have to, though. As much as he loved these
little trysts with Emily, he loved Victoria's money more. "Too bad,"
he thought. "We really did have a good thing going."
The shower had stopped, and Emily had finished toweling off. She
came back into the room, and began getting dressed. "Miley," Philip
spoke from the bed.
"Mmmmm," she dreamily replied.
"Miley, I'm sorry, baby. But this has to be it," he said, and there
was genuine anguish in his voice.
"Has to be what, Sugar?" she asked.
"I can't go on with this, Miley," he cried. "I'm telling you, Victoria
will cut my nuts off if she knows I even saw you today."
"So you leave her. What's so difficult about that?"
"It's impossible! That's how difficult!" He groaned and closed his
eyes, unable to look at this gorgeous woman whose body he so loved and
craved.
"You mean this is it? For us?" she said.
"Yes, that's what I'm trying to say," he moaned. "I don't want it
to end, ever. But, I can't go on. I'm telling you, Miley. The bitch
will bury me if I don't stop seeing you."
Emily turned toward him, her eyes narrow slits, her lips compressed
into a thin line drawn so tightly her face around them was ashen.
"Do you mean to tell me you brought me up here so you could get
one last fuck out of me, and then you were going to just kick me out?"
She glared at him, hatred beginning to shine in her eyes.
"I didn't intend to, no," he said. "It just happened. I wanted to
tell you before we came up here. Oh, Miley, I'm sorry. I'm sorry it
has to be like this. That it has to end..."
"You motherfucker!" she suddenly screamed. "You motherfucking son-of-a-
bitch!"
He literally backed away from the onslaught of her emotions.
Her voice dropped to an eerie, deadly softness. "You know what, asshole?
I don't care what she does to you anymore. In fact, I hope she does cut
your nuts off. It'd serve you right, you bastard."
Before he could reply, she turned and ran to the door, slamming it
loudly behind her as she left the room. The last sound he heard of her
was her heels clicking loudly and rapidly as she hurried down the hall
to the elevator.
* * * * *
When Philip entered his new apartment, he found a note waiting for
him on the small table in the kitchenette. It was from Victoria:
"Philip,
As soon as you have read this note, I want you to come immediately
to my office. This is an urgent matter. Please do not delay.
Victoria"
Philip held the note in his hand. "Hmmm. I wonder what the ice-queen
wants now," he thought. Then, sighing, he turned and left the apartment,
feeling in his pants pocket to see if he had enough change for the
bus.
A half-hour later, Philip was seated on one of the couches in the
receptionist's area, watching Judith as she worked her word-processor
and tried not to smirk at her employer's uncomfortable-looking husband.
She could clearly see his nylon stockings as his too-short pants hiked
several inches above his shoe-tops. Finally, the intercom buzzed, and
Judith looked over at Philip. "You may go in now," she said as gently
as possible without bursting into giggles.
Philip stood, smoothing his trousers down his legs (they seemed to
want to cling to the nylons), and crossed the floor, passing by the
secretary's desk to enter his wife's office. As he closed the door
behind him, he looked across the room to where Victoria sat, seemingly
engrossed in reading a report, or letter, or something. She looked up
at the sound of the latch clicking, and signaled him to join her.
He crossed the room and took a seat opposite her.
"What's going on?" he asked. "Your note said you had to see me
about an urgent matter. What's so urgent, anyway?"
She folded her hands and gazed at him across the desk. For several
seconds she simply studied him in silence. Then she said, "Philip,
it has come to my attention that you have again, even after all the
warnings and threats I issued, been unfaithful to me. Less than twenty-
four hours after all your solemn promises not to, there you were,
violating your word with that - that - whore!"
Philip was startled. "B-but, how, what, I --"
"Don't try to deny it, Philip," she said, "You know what you've done,
and so do I. How I came to know is none of your business. But I know."
She glared at him, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. Valiantly she
fought to maintain her composure. "How could you?" she moaned. "How
could you?"
Philip was defeated. He couldn't meet her eyes. Looking numbly at
his hands, he muttered, "I - it wasn't supposed to happen. I met her
to call it off. I - I'm sorry. It sort of got out of control."
Victoria looked at him with pity and disgust. "Oh, Philip. What
nonsense. What utter bullshit. Do you really expect me to believe that?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "No, I guess not," he mumbled.
She continued to study him, silently. The room became icily quiet.
Finally, breathing a sigh, she spoke: "There is no way I can allow this
marriage to continue. Without question I am going to divorce you. As
soon as possible."
She allowed Philip to absorb this information before she continued,
"As I told you when we first discussed this, you would be left with
nothing. I would insure that you would be lucky to have the clothes on
your back when I was finished with you. You do remember my saying that,
don't you? It was only one day ago, after all."
"Yes, yes, I remember," he said, half-whispering his reply.
"Well, Philip, perhaps I'm weak, or sentimental, or something," she
said, and Philip glanced up at her to be sure she wasn't smirking
sarcastically, "But I've decided that simply throwing you out, discarding
you like yesterday's leftover fish, isn't quite fair. To you or to me.
So, I am prepared to make you an offer that I believe is enormously
generous, given the present circumstances."
Philip's ears pricked up, and he listened carefully. "Yes, generous,"
she said. "In order to settle things between us, I am prepared to give
you one million dollars in return for your agreement to sever our marriage
bonds. And the money will be tax-free."
Philip's eyes widened in disbelief. His mouth was formed in a perfect O.
Victoria showed the slightest trace of a smile, but he couldn't see it.
"There is, however, a condition I am going to impose. And you will have
to fulfill this condition perfectly or you won't get a dime."
For a million bucks, Philip was prepared to do anything, except maybe
commit a major crime. "What's the condition?" he asked.
"For the next three months, you will submit without question entirely
to my will. Call it a time of indentured servitude if you'd like. You
will do everything I demand of you. Instantly. No questions, no complaints.
The first violation of the agreement will result in your being removed
from my house and sent away emptyhanded."
He studied her face, trying to see any sign of deceit. Her gaze was
steady, her eyes piercing his. He looked away again.
"You need not worry, Philip, I won't ask you to commit a murder, or
rob a bank, or anything of the sort. You will simply be my indentured
servant, subject to all my demands. Do you agree to do it?"
He looked up into her steady gaze. "Can I think about it?" he asked.
"No."
"Three months?"
"Three months."
"One million dollars?"
"Yes."
"Well, ok, I guess." He decided to sound certain. "Yeh. Ok."
"Very well." She reached into her center drawer and withdrew a form.
"Look this contract over carefully and sign and date it." She handed the
paper across the desk to him.
He looked at the form. It seemed like a standard employment contract,
specifying, instead of hourly or weekly wages, that at the end of three
months, he would be given one million dollars, with the income taxes to be
paid by his employer. It also specified all terms of the contract had
to be met unconditionally and satisfactorily or no payment would be
made. There seemed to be only one condition specified: "All requirements
of the employer, Victoria Broadburn, must be met without hesitation,
question, or complaint."
Philip took a pen out of his shirt pocket and signed at the bottom of
the contract. One million dollars! He smiled and handed the document back
to Victoria. She glanced at it thoughtfully, then returned it to her
center desk drawer. She leaned over and punched the intercom. "Judith,"
she said, "I have some chores to attend to at home with Philip. Please
reschedule all my appointments for the rest of the day, will you?"
Without waiting for the receptionist's response, she turned to
Philip and said, "Come along, Philip. We can get started right away."
He followed her through the private entrance of her office, which opened
into an elevator for her exclusive use. They descended to the garage in
silence, and he followed her to her limousine. The hired driver was
waiting, and he opened the door for her, seating her in the luxurious
rear seat. He held the front door open for Philip, indicating he should
ride up front with the driver. Philip sat quietly, wondering where all
this was going to lead.
The car seemed to glide noiselessly through the busy streets of the
city. But after a short time, Philip realized the driver was turning
into his street. Soon, very soon, Victoria's plans would be revealed.
He hoped they wouldn't be too difficult for him. A million dollars would
do very nicely for his future!
The car pulled to a stop before the entrance to the house, and the
driver quickly walked around to open the door for Victoria. Gently, he
took her hand, and carefully guided her from the seat to the sidewalk.
Philip, of course, was left to open his own door. Once the two passengers
were standing together on the curb, Victoria instructed the driver to wait
in the car; she might need a ride back to her office.
Turning to Philip she indicated he should follow her into the house.
She opened the door, and he reached out to hold it for her, then entered
the foyer himself. Perhaps because of their meeting in Victoria's office,
or because of the strange night he had spent in the servants' quarters
in the basement, the house now felt different to him. He no longer felt
like he was part of the household - of course, since Victoria now was
planning to end their marriage, he technically wasn't - but there was
just something odd about the atmosphere of the house, and it left him
feeling slightly uncomfortable.
Victoria motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen. When they
had both entered that room, she sat down at the table. He started to,
but she stopped him, saying, "Remember, Philip, you are no longer my
husband, you are my servant. You may stand over there," and she pointed
to a spot at the other end of the table. She studied him for what seemed
like several minutes, then said, "I've decided in your new role that
leaving you in the basement apartment is too complicated. I wish you to
be at my disposal at all times of the day, so I have arranged quarters
for you up here. Do you see that closet over there?" She pointed to
a pantry on the far wall. Philip turned to look. "Go over there and
open the door." Philip walked over to the pantry and opened the door.
On the floor beneath the shelves of canned goods, baking items and other
boxed foods was a thin mattress, tightly rolled, and a pillow and blanket.
There was also an old-fashioned tin wash tub with handles. He turned back
to face Victoria.
"When you have finished your duties for the day, you may unroll the
mattress and place it on the floor here in the kitchen. That shall be
your bed. The washbasin is for your bathing needs. You may fill it from
the kitchen sink. You will bathe each morning before beginning your
daily duties, and again at night before going to sleep. Now, go over
to the broom closet and look in there."
Philip walked across the kitchen to the door at which Victoria
pointed. He opened the door and found, besides a kitchen broom and an
ironing board, a maid's uniform hanging on a hanger. Above these, on
a shelf, was a wig box, and several packages of the sheer, black, seamed
stockings he had found in his basement apartment. Instead of several
garter belts, however, there was only a red waist-cincher, and it looked
too small to fit. He heard Victoria's voice behind him: "This is your
uniform. You will wear it every day. You will see to it that it is
kept in immaculate condition. Failure to do so will put the million
dollar settlement in serious jeopardy. Do you understand?"
He nodded dumbly. "Yes."
"By the way, from now on, you will address me as Madame. You shall
be known as Phyllis. Don't forget that."
Again he nodded. "Yes, Madame."
"Very good. Now, strip."
His fingers trembling slightly, he began to unbutton his shirt.
Suddenly, Victoria cut him off. "Stop! Aren't you forgetting something?"
His mind was racing. She had ordered him to strip and he was obeying
her order. What - ? Oh, of course. "Yes, Madame. I forgot to say, 'Yes,
Madame,' when you ordered me to strip."
"Correct. You may continue."
He bowed his head. "Yes, Madame." He resumed his task, slowly removing
his clothes. Victoria stood up and walked over to the kitchen sink. She
reached under it, opened the small door and pulled out a plastic garbage
bag. She then tossed it on the table, and told Philip - now Phyllis - to
put his clothes in the bag as he removed them. Soon, he was naked. He
turned and looked at her, awaiting further instructions.
"You may never, ever look me in the eyes that way again, Phyllis,"
she said in a cold, even tone. "When you are in my presence, your eyes
are always to be looking downwards. And you will speak only when spoken to.
Is that clear?"
"Yes, Madame." He lowered his eyes.
"Very good. Now, before you don your new uniform, I want to be sure
that all trace of filth has been removed from your body. I refer
specifically to the residue of your illicit coupling with that whore
earlier this afternoon. So, I wish you to bathe yourself thoroughly,
and remove all your leg, underarm and facial hair."
"Yes, Madame." Philip - Phyllis - retrieved the washtub from the
pantry and set it before the sink. He turned on the water, then, taking
a water pitcher, began to fill the tub as rapidly as he could. He felt
extremely vulnerable as his wife sat at the table watching him with
an expressionless face. Soon, he had enough water in the tub to step
into it, and, using a sponge he found under the sink, began to wet himself
so he could apply soap, which he also found under the sink. After a long
while he had finally succeeded in soaping himself. He stepped from the
tub onto a towel he had laid beside it, then emptied the soapy water from
the tub into the sink, and re-filled the tub with clear water to rinse
himself off. After this, he used a razor which she gave him to complete
the task of shaving.
He finished shaving and presented himself for "Madame's" inspection.
She nodded her approval, then ordered him to cross the room to get
his "uniform" down from the closet. Slowly, eyes aimed at the linoleum
tile covering the floor, he crossed to the broom closet and opened the
door.
"Take down the girdle first," said Victoria.
"Yes, Madame," he responded, and he pulled it down from the shelf.
Just as he imagined, it looked to be several sizes too small. It was
designed to cover the midriff completely from just above mid-hip at
the waist, to a few inches below the chest. A woman would wear a bra
with such a garment. Phyllis, of course, had no need of a bra. The
girdle was put on by stepping into it and tugging it up the legs and
over the hips. Phyllis strained and grunted as he struggled to pull
it into place, finally managing to do so after exerting enormous
effort. He was breathing hard, and shallowly - the garment put so much
pressure on his torso he couldn't take a deep breath. He pushed the
squeezed-up loose flesh of his chest over the top of the girdle, giving
himself the appearance of having tiny breasts.
Victoria spoke again. "You may not have noticed, Phyllis, while you
were putting on your foundation, that there is a little attachment in
the front of it, at the hem. Do you see it?"
Phyllis could hardly look down, but by straining, and also by feeling
with his hands, he located the attachment Victoria had mentioned.
"Yes, Madame," he replied.
"Good," she said. "This attachment is for your penis - you know, the
little devil that has caused you all this trouble. It will provide
support and protection for you." Here, she smirked a little. "Go on.
Put it on."
"Yes, Madame." Phyllis strained to look down. The apparatus was a
sleeve, a very narrow, stiff, vinyl cylinder about two inches long.
Attached to the sleeve by a short chain about an inch long was a
small bell, the clapper of which was taped to its inside. Phyllis
realized the only way he could fit this sleeve on was for his cock to be
absolutely soft. He also knew he would have to force the sleeve over
the head of his penis, and stretch his member so that it would be
sufficiently thinned-out enough for the sleeve to fit. It wasn't going to
be easy. But, a million bucks is a million bucks! He would make it fit!
After a struggle only slightly less vigorous than the one he'd engaged in
to put the girdle on, he finally succeeded in fitting the sleeve into place.
His cock felt like it was being mashed between two bricks. It now jutted
straight out from his pelvis. The bell hung in front of his balls, resting
against them.
With ice-cold eyes and a tight smile, Victoria said, "Now, Phyllis,
remove the tape from the bell's clapper."
"Yes, Madame," he replied. By feeling around with his fingers, he
managed to locate the end of the tape and to pull it off. Instantly,
the bell clanged, much louder than he had imagined it might. He
realized that with every step he took, this bell was going to
announce his presence. He also realized that it was going to bounce
continuously against his testicles, constantly irritating them.
"What a diabolical bitch!" he thought, but kept his mouth shut and
his eyes aimed at the floor.
"Now, Phyllis, you may put on your stockings and attach them to the
garters."
"Yes, Madame," he murmured. This task was going to be much easier
said than done. Because the girdle was so tight, he could barely bend
over to fit the stockings over his toes. But, again, with much sweat and
strain, he finally managed to complete the task, the bell clanging wildly
all the while. When he had finished, and the stockings were attached to
the girdle, seams perfectly straight, Victoria pointed to a pair of
black, patent-leather high heels in the closet. They had to be at least
three, if not four, inches high, and they had no ankle strap to hold
them on! Moreover, they were open-toed, and Phyllis's toes pushed
into the opening in such a way that they were severely pinched. These
things were going to be the worst agony he would ever experience!
"Now," said Victoria, "you may put on your dress."
"Yes, Madame," he said, and removed the dress from the closet. He
realized it was sleeveless and strapless, held up only by a zipper and
its own tightness around his middle. He also realized that it had no
skirt, but instead was constructed like a ballet tutu, with satin-covered
crinolines sticking straight out from his waist, leaving his ass and
his sheathed cock completely exposed.
"Very pretty," said Victoria. "Now, for the accessories." She reached
up and pulled down the wig box, setting it on the table. She opened the
box and pulled out a platinum blonde wig, which she handed over to him.
"You will wear this wig at all times, Phyllis, and you will keep it
immaculate and always perfectly arranged. While you are sleeping, you
will keep it on the wig form in the box."
She watched as he fitted it, somewhat clumsily, on his head. Next, she
removed an apron which was really little more than a lacy decoration to
fit around his waist, since an apron would hardly fit over the tutu-skirt.
She next pulled out a black satin ribbon with a lace-frilled white bow
attached. "This will be secured around your neck and you will wear it
at all times while you are on duty." She handed it to him and watched
as he struggled to fit it around his neck. It was obviously too small,
and he realized it would pinch constantly, making talking an uncomfortable
proposition. It attached by a hook-and-eye connection, which he finally
succeeded in closing by doing it in front, then sliding it around his
neck until the connector was in the rear and the bow was slightly
off-center, under the left side of his jaw. Finally, Victoria produced
two wristlets, each about three inches wide and covered with the same
frilly-lacy material that was used for the bow attached to his neck.
He noticed the wristlets were joined together by a thin, gold chain
about eighteen inches long. Silently, she handed the wristlets to
Phyllis, making no comment about the chain.
She pointed to the floor about two feet in front of where she sat.
"Stand here and let me get a good look at you," she said. Phyllis
tip-toed to the spot she indicated. His face was red with embarrassment
and the effects of his struggle to dress. She looked him directly in
the face. "I am going to give you some cosmetics, and I will expect you
to make yourself up each morning. This means painting your toenails as
well as your fingernails. You will fix your face, and, as I mentioned,
groom your wig. And you'd better be neat and feminine-looking when I
inspect you in the morning. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Madame."
"Do you have any questions about your attire or your appearance?"
"No, Madame."
"Very well. You will be required to have my breakfast prepared by
seven o'clock in the morning. Since it will take you at least an hour
and a half to prepare yourself, and another hour to prepare my meal,
and extra time to wake me, I would suggest you set your alarm for
four o'clock. At least until you become sufficiently skilled in these
duties. At night, you will attend me until I have turned off the lamp
beside my bed. This means you will often find yourself not going to
bed until midnight or later. You had better learn to content yourself
with three to four hours sleep a night."
"Yes, Madame."
"Of course, for an alleycat slut like you, that shouldn't be a
problem," she said with a smirk. She stood up and walked around him,
brushing him here, patting him there, making tiny adjustments to his
uniform. "When you enter into my presence, or whenever you are dismissed,
you will curtsy. Since the chain attached to your wristlets isn't long
enough for you to lift the sides of your skirt, you will curtsy
by grasping the front edge of your skirt between your index fingers and
thumbs. The chain between your wrists will be kept perfectly taut. Do
you understand?"
Having never curtsied before, Phyllis was at a total loss as to
how to respond. He shook his head, his face flushing, and said,
in a near whisper, "I'm sorry, Madame. I don't understand."
"Well, we'll practice. Then you'll know what I'm talking about.
Incidentally, you will never refer to yourself in the first person.
You will refer to yourself only by name. 'Phyllis' this, 'Phyllis'
that. Do you understand?"
Red-faced now with shame and frustration, Phyllis nodded, "Yes,
Madame."
"Try that sentence again, then."
"Yes, Madame." Then, haltingly, he said, "Phyllis is sorry, Madame.
Phyllis does not understand."
"Very well," said Victoria. "Don't ever forget. Forgetting could
cost you that million dollars."
"Yes, Madame."
For the next three-quarters of an hour, she made Phyllis practice
his curtsy. When they had finished, Phyllis was exhausted. His mind
kept repeating, "Is this shit really worth a million bucks? Fuck!"
Finally, Victoria stood up. "I'm going to attend to some business
now, Phyllis. You may rest for fifteen minutes. I will expect you to
bring me a hot, fresh cup of coffee when I call you."
He looked at the floor. "Yes, Madame," he murmured, and executed a
flawless curtsy, index fingers joined to thumbs at the front edge of
his skirt, chain perfectly straight between his wrists. With no further
comment, Victoria turned and left the room. Phyllis sagged with relief.
* * * * *
Later, after Phyllis had served Victoria her coffee, and been treated
to stinging criticism regarding its flavor and a promise of severe
punishment if the quality of his cooking didn't improve instantly,
Victoria called for her limousine as she had to return to her office for
an appointment. "A very critical meeting," she told Phyllis.
Phyllis was instructed to practice putting on makeup and styling his
wig, and to continue learning how to walk in his high-heeled shoes and
executing flawless curtsies. Once Victoria had left the house, however,
Phyllis found a chair in the kitchen, and sat relaxing, pouring himself
a cup of coffee, which, he had to admit, was pretty awful.
But, after a few minutes rest, he grew fidgety and, probably because
of the novelty of the extreme changes which had just taken place in his
life, he actually began fiddling with his hair. After trying different
ways of putting the wig up, he grew bored with that activity and decided
to practice walking in the spike-heeled, open-toed mules. He knew Victoria
would show no mercy in this area, so he would have to get used to wearing
them for long periods of time. He would have no one to complain to, in
any event.
For the next hour or so, he practiced walking back and forth in the
kitchen, curtsying as effeminately as he could before turning to retrace
his path. He discovered that, in order to look effeminate, he had to take
short, mincing steps, walking almost on tiptoe. To make any progress, he
had to step as quickly as possible, causing his feet and calves to begin
crying out in discomfort and exhaustion. Moreover, walking in this difficult
and unfamiliar way had another unforeseen consequence. The bell which had
been attached to the sleeve around his penis bounced constantly against
his balls and the underside of the head of his penis and rang and rang
until he thought he would go crazy from the irritating noise and the
even more irritating slapping of the brass object against his sensitive
organs. He reassured himself through all this by saying over and over,
almost as if he were chanting a mantra, "One million bucks...one million
bucks...only three months...only three months..."
Several hours later, he heard a buzzer sound in the kitchen. He wondered
what that was. Then, he heard the front door open and close. Almost
immediately, he heard Victoria call, "Phyllis! Where in hell are you?"
As quickly as he could, Phyllis scurried out to the front hall where
Victoria stood, impatiently tapping her foot on the hardwood floor.
"Well?" she demanded. "Where have you been? Taking a nap? You worthless
bitch. Come over here."
Phyllis minced over to stand in front of Victoria and executed a
well-practiced curtsy, all the while keeping his eyes locked on the
toes of Victoria's shoes.
Victoria glowered at her servant-husband. "Well? What's your excuse
for not being here to attend me?"
Phyllis, flustered from having to rush in from the kitchen using the
short, mincing steps he'd learned, was slightly out of breath and red
in the face. "Phyllis is sorry that Madame is inconvenienced," he said,
half-whispering his words. "Phyllis forgot his duties." Phyllis curtsied
again.
"His duties? His duties? Hah!" she sneered. "I don't see any him's
around here. All I see is a sissy slut. The appropriate response is:
'Phyllis forgot Phyllis's duties.' Do you understand, stupid?"
Phyllis's face grew even redder. "Yes, Madame," he mumbled. "One
million bucks," his mind chanted. "Only three months." He continued to
stare nervously at Victoria's toes.
"Go and make me some coffee, and it had better be good this time,
slut," she warned.
"Yes, Madame," Phyllis curtsied and hurried to carry out Victoria's
demand.
He poured the fresh coffee into a porcelain pot, and placed it and
a matching cup and saucer, plus a silver creamer and sugar bowl with
spoon on a tray and carried it into the living room. Carefully balancing
the tray as he tried to balance on the heels and bend his knees to set
the cup and saucer on the coffee table in front of the couch where
Victoria now sat silently, smirking at the spectacle before her, Phyllis
gently poured the coffee into the cup. He then poured cream and
spooned in some sugar before handing the cup and saucer to Victoria.
When he had finished that, he straightened up and stepped back from
the table.
Victoria glared up at him. "Aren't we forgetting something?" she
snarled. Phyllis seemed confused. Then, remembering her instructions,
he curtsied, "Phyllis forgot, Madame. Phyllis is sorry."
"Phyllis certainly is sorry," Victoria caustically replied. "Just
remember this, sissy-slut: it's better to curtsy than not to. Do you
understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes, Madame," mumbled Phyllis, shamefaced.
"Now, go and prepare my dinner. By the way, your meal will always
be taken at the noon hour, when I'm not likely to be here. I don't
want you stuffing your face when I'm around, because I want you
concentrating on your service to me. Understand?"
"Yes, Madame." Curtsy.
"And you will eat the meals I specify. And only those meals. You
will not snack in between, either."
"Yes, Madame." Curtsy again.
Victoria glared angrily at the specimen before her. "Well, don't
just stand there with your cock dangling in the breeze, idiot,"
she said. "Get in the kitchen and make my dinner."
"Yes, Madame," said Phyllis. He curtsied and turned to leave.
"Wait a minute, slut," shouted Victoria. Phyllis came to an immediate
halt. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
Phyllis wracked his brain. He'd remembered to curtsy. He'd addressed
her as Madame. What else was there?
"The tray, you worthless bitch. Do I have to sit here looking at
your equipment the rest of the day?"
"Shit," Phyllis thought to himself. "A million bucks...three months..."
He turned and curtsied. Then, head bowed, he said, "Phyllis is sorry,
Madame. Phyllis forgot Phyllis's tray." He crossed the room, picked up
the tray, curtsied again, then hurried into the kitchen before Victoria
dreamed up some other torment for him.
Once in the kitchen, he turned his attention to Victoria's dinner.
He knew she ate lightly, and didn't care for red meat at all. In the
refrigerator, he found some chicken breasts, and he decided to cut
one into strips, and bake it for a chicken salad. With a nice glass of
wine, this should be a dinner she would enjoy. And it wasn't too hard to
make. An hour later, he was finally finished with his masterpiece. He
had three different kinds of salad greens, some carrots, tomatoes and
broccoli cut up bite size, and several tender, nicely baked strips of
chicken breast. He went into the dining room, and carefully set a place
for Victoria. Then, he retrieved the salad from the kitchen, setting it
before her place. Finally, he opened a bottle of chilled white wine
which he set on the table near where he had set the salad bowl. He also
put a small loaf of French bread and some salad dressing on the table.
Then, as quietly and discreetly as he could, notwithstanding the
jangling of the bell as it bounced against his balls, Phyllis entered
the living room and curtsied before Victoria. "If Madame pleases," he
said, "Madame's dinner is served."
She glared up at him, but said nothing as she stood up and walked before
him into the dining room. Cautiously, he pulled her chair out and seated
her. Then, he stepped around her and picked up the wine bottle, which he
held before her so she could inspect the label. He then poured her a glass
of the wine, set it on the table, and, following a curtsy, stepped back
to await any further instructions or orders. Victoria ate silently for a
few minutes. She seemed satisfied with the dinner Phyllis had prepared, or
at least she found nothing particularly obvious to criticize. Finally, she
spoke to the silent husband-servant. "It has occurred to me, Phyllis," she
said, "that you are too clumsy and foolish to train yourself for your new
position. And so this afternoon, after I left you alone here, I returned to
my office to interview a person whom I feel would be an excellent trainer
for you. This person has accepted my offer and will be arriving sometime
after dinner."
"Yes, Madame," he murmured, and, though her back was to him, curtsied
anyway. Better to curtsy than not, as "Madame" had said.
Again silent, Victoria completed her meal, and signaled for Phyllis to
remove the used dishes. Phyllis stepped to the table, curtsied to Victoria,
and proceeded to clear away the dishes. On his first trip into the kitchen,
he turned the coffeemaker on. When he took the last load of dirty dishes into
the kitchen, the coffee was done, and he poured it into the porcelain coffee
pot, and filled the serving tray as he had done earlier in the afternoon.
He then brought the coffee out to Victoria, who watched him carefully as he
worked. He curtsied through every step of setting the tray down, pouring the
coffee, and removing the tray from the table. He was beginning to get an
ache in his lower back from all the bowing and scraping. "One million
bucks...only three months..."
Finally, the meal was complete, and Victoria excused him to go into the
kitchen and clean the dinner dishes. He was not allowed to use the dishwasher.
She told him where to find rubber gloves to protect his painted fingernails.
Then, glaring after his retreating form, she rose and went into the living
room.
A short time later, a knock sounded on the front door. Phyllis was busily
cleaning up in the kitchen, and didn't hear it. So Victoria had to get up,
cross to the kitchen door, and announce that her visitor had arrived. Phyllis,
flustered by not having been aware of this, quickly removed his rubber gloves,
curtsied to Victoria, and minced rapidly to the front door, his bell clanging
loudly and insistently. When he opened the door, he nearly fainted from the
shock. Standing in the entrance, a small cosmetics case firmly gripped in
her right hand, stood Emily Owens. His Miley!
Flabbergasted, and momentarily at a loss, he simply stood staring at her,
his mouth hanging wide open, his eyes registering his shock. For her part,
Emily stood glaring at him, her lips drawn tightly together in an angry
expression. Victoria, seated in a wingback chair in the middle of the
living room, was able to see the entire comedy being played out at the door.
Finally, she spoke, "Well, slut, don't just stand there staring like an
ignorant fool. Show my guest in. And don't forget your manners!"
Although deeply embarrassed, Phyllis still managed to perform a curtsy,
and to take the case from Emily's hand as he showed her into the room.
Emily, for her part, walked past him, nose in the air, and went to stand
before Victoria in the living room. Victoria let her stand there.
"So," she said. "You've decided."
Phyllis furrowed his brow and stared at the floor, not wanting to miss
any of the conversation, but knowing also he had better be ready to respond
to anything Victoria might require.
Emily looked at Victoria with no particular expression on her face.
"I have," she replied.
"Very well," said Victoria. "You accept all the conditions we discussed."
"I do."
"Are there any last questions?"
"No, I think I understand perfectly well what is required."
"Fine, fine," Victoria rubbed her hands together. "You may strip while
I explain what is going on to jingle-dick Phyllis here." Phyllis could
hardly believe his ears. He stood gaping as Emily, calm and assured,
began to remove her clothes. Victoria signaled him to step forward. He
was now positioned in front of Emily facing Victoria, making him unable
to continue watching Emily undress.
Victoria glared at Phyllis. "Forgetting your manners already?" she
sneered. Phyllis immediately curtsied.
Victoria continued to stare at Phyllis. "You're probably wondering what's
going on here," she said. "As you may recall, this afternoon I told you
that you were too foolish and clumsy to teach yourself to be my servant.
That you were going to need a trainer. Do you remember that?"
"Yes, Madame." Curtsy.
Victoria regarded him silently for several moments, long enough for him
to make the connection. Emily? Emily was going to be his trainer? Whatever
a trainer was? He was thoroughly confused, and a little apprehensive as
well.
Victoria looked over at Emily. "Come over here, Ms. Owens," she said in
a formal tone. "Stand where you can see the sissy-slut there." Emily
stepped over beside Victoria's seat. She was completely naked. Phyllis
noticed she had even shaved off all her pubic hair.
Victoria turned her attention back to Phyllis. "Ms. Owens here is going
to be your trainer, slut. You will follow her instructions and you will
be perfect. Every mistake you make will be severely punished. But not by
me. No. Ms. Owens will punish you. With my full approval. She has
complete authority over your training. However she chooses to accomplish
the task of teaching you to be my sissy servant is up to her. You will
consider her my voice. Do you understand?"
Phyllis had no idea what was going on. But he responded, "Yes, Madame."
And curtsied.
"You will address Ms. Owens as Mistress, just as you now address me
as Madame. Do you understand this?"
"Yes Madame." Curtsy.
Victoria turned to Emily. "Now, Ms. Owens, as per our agreement,
you will be in charge of this sissy's training. You will be accountable
for any success, and for any failure as well. I will not punish the slut
for his mistakes; you will. But, failure on your part to keep his mistakes
as non-existent as possible may result in your dismissal and the termination
of our contract. Agreed?"
Emily replied, "Agreed, Madame."
Victoria went on, "When I am home, you will remain out of sight in
your apartment." Phyllis frowned in bewilderment. "If I feel the need
for you to correct this slut's failures of performance, I will summon you
to do so. Are we agreed?"
"Agreed, Madame."
"When I am away from the house, of course, you are free to come up
and monitor the slut's performance, as you wish."
"Yes, Madame."
"Very well," said Victoria, and she reached down beside her chair to
pick something up. Phyllis trembled when he realized she was holding
a black-leather riding crop in her hand. She handed it to Emily, who took
it, and using the small sling on the end of the handle, placed it on her
wrist. "This shall be your badge of office. You may use it as you see fit."
"Yes, Madame."
"Very well," Victoria said, and a small smile played on her lips.
She stood up. "I have an appointment for this evening, so I shall leave
you here to brief the bitch about your requirements. You may retire to
your apartment whenever you wish. The slut is not permitted to visit
you there." She glared at Phyllis. "Remember, sissy, you do not retire
until the lamp beside my bed has been turned off. If Mistress Owens
decides to go to bed, that is no matter to you. You will await my return
and you will attend me until you are dismissed. Understood?"
Phyllis curtsied. "Yes, Madame."
Victoria glared at him for a few moments longer. Then she turned to
Emily and said, "The slut's all yours, Ms. Owens." And without further
word, she walked over to the closet by the door, put on a warm jacket,
and left the house.
* * * * *
Emily regarded Phyllis for a long time before she spoke. As she spoke,
she walked around him, as though inspecting him for any imperfections in
his attire, or his posture, or his demeanor. "So, to make yourself a
millionaire, you've agreed to become her servant, eh?"
Phyllis swallowed nervously. "Yes, Mistress," he mumbled.
She continued to walk slowly around him, like a shark circling a
shipwreck. "But you're such an ignorant piece of shit, she had to bring
in outside help."
Phyllis realized this was a statement, not a question. But, he responded,
anyway, "Yes, Mistress."
Suddenly, Emily stopped. "Keep those beady eyes of yours on the floor,
shithead," she said in a threatening tone.
Phyllis was beginning to perspire. He knew things had ended up badly
with Emily. He didn't realize just how angry he'd made her. "Yes, Mistress,"
he whispered.
Emily began circling again. "So, for the next three months, your ass is
mine. Oh, how delicious." She stopped directly in front of Phyllis, and
leaned her face toward his until they were separated by only an inch or two.
"Let me tell you what the deal between your former wife and me is," she
said. Her breath was warm against his face. "Every time you fuck up, I get
to use this on your ass." She waved the riding crop in his face. "And I get
to decide what constitutes a fuckup. After the way you dumped all over me,
you can imagine just how eager I am to use this on you. Can't you?"
Phyllis gulped. He could imagine. He nodded fearfully. "Yes, Mistress,"
he said.
Emily began pacing again. "So, there aren't going to be any mistakes,
are there?" She stuck her nose against his. "Are there?"
"No, Mistress. No mistakes."
"No foulups. No fuckups."
"No, Mistress." He was really sweating now.
"There better not be." She stopped in front of him again and raised
the crop to where his eyes could see it. "Turn around, slut," she said.
Phyllis turned around.
"Bend over and grab your ankles."
He did as she instructed.
"I'm going to give you a small taste of what's in store for you if
you screw up with Madame Victoria."
His lips began to quiver. The room became deathly quiet. Almost before
he heard the swish of the crop, he felt it explode against the cheek of
his bare ass. WHAP!!! He screamed and nearly fell to the floor. Again.
Swish. WHAP!!! Tears were pouring from his eyes. But Emily was far from
done. Eight more slaps of the crop, and his ass was blood-red. He was
sobbing and shaking all over.
After a minute or two, she commanded, "Straighten up, sissy. And quit
bawling." Phyllis straightened up, though his buttocks burned as if
Emily had poured gasoline on them and lit a match. He managed to stop
sobbing, and stood before her, shaking, silent tears running down his
cheeks.
She glared angrily at him. "Just remember, asshole. That was a small
taste. Try to imagine what you'll get if I decide you've really fucked
up."
He wondered if maybe he should back out of his agreement now. He
certainly hadn't considered this horrible pain as part of the bargain.
Almost as if she were reading his thoughts, Emily said in a low voice,
"One other thing. Don't even consider trying to back out of your agreement
with Madame Victoria. If you do, then my contract with her will be void,
and I won't get what she agreed to award me. I will kill you before I
will let that happen. Too bad, Phyllis. Phyllis, is it? Appropriate for
a sissy-slut like you. Understand this: You're in this thing for the
duration. So you'd better set your mind to doing it right. Like I said,
you just got a taste. I don't think you'll want to be present at the
banquet." She chuckled at her own angry humor.
She began circling Phyllis again, talking as she paced. "Madame is
going to give me your schedule, your work assignments, and your uniform
requirements. I am going to see to it that everything she requires is
done, and done perfectly. But more than that, you are my servant, too.
You will do my bidding as well as Madame's. Oh, yes, you're going to
be a busy little slut, you are. Very busy. This is going to be three
months you will never. Ever. Forget." Her last three words were
punctuated by slapping the crop hard against the palm of her hand.
Phyllis jumped at the sound of each slap.
* * * * *
Phyllis awoke from the first night of his new life stiff, sore and
still sleepy. Victoria had returned later that evening and had required
him to prepare her bath and to scrub her, dry her and dress her for bed.
By the time he had finished, and she had turned out the lamp on the
table beside her bed, he was already exhausted. But before he could
lie down himself, he had to take his own bath, a lengthy operation since
it required him to fill the metal washtub twice from a half-gallon water
pitcher, once to soap and once to rinse. Finally, however, he had pulled
the thin mattress from the supply closet, and had stretched out on it,
covering himself with the cheap, scratchy wool blanket. He was asleep
before his head hit the worn-out, uncomfortable pillow.
Soon, too soon, the cheap, tinny alarm rang, awakening him to a new
day. He quickly turned it off, not wanting to take a chance that
Victoria might hear it and be annoyed by being awakened at four o'clock
in the morning. He tiptoed through the dark house to the downstairs
powder room, where he relieved himself in the toilet. Then, he returned
to the kitchen, where he once again filled the washtub, this time for his
morning bath. Quickly, he soaped and rinsed himself, toweling off with
a thin cotton towel which had been provided for him. Next, he carefully
shaved, including his legs, underarms and pubic area, as well as his face,
as Victoria had ordered while he was getting her into bed the night
before. He managed to knick himself several times, and his legs felt
raw from the razor's scraping; but, when he put his stockings on, he
was amazed at how erotic the feeling of the smooth nylon against his
his bare legs was becoming. He worried that he might obtain an erection,
which would make fitting his penis into the narrow sleeve a hellish
proposition.
This morning's effort to dress was considerably easier than his
maiden effort had been, largely because he knew what he was doing, and
had a system of sorts for accomplishing it. Getting the girdle on was
still a struggle, since it really was one or two sizes too small, and
the elastic wanted to compress itself to severely snug him up. The
tutu-dress was difficult to manage, since it zipped in the back, and
he was unused to manipulating things with his hands when they were
reversed and hidden from view. But, despite all the obstacles, he
finally was fitted into his "uniform." He checked his stockings to be
sure the seams were absolutely straight. He put on his collar with the
large, lacy bow, and then proceeded to arrange his wig and make up
his face. Victoria had given him a makeup mirror that he could
use to do this. The mirror was small, making it difficult for Phyllis
to see himself entirely. But, after several tries with the lipstick
tube, he felt his lips looked sufficiently feminine to pass muster.
He next attacked the problem of making up his eyes. He obviously had
no familiarity whatever with mascara, eyeliner, or anything of the
sort. So, he more or less blindly experimented, hoping the result
wouldn't be too overdone. He didn't want to look like a parody of a
female, because he knew Victoria would be displeased, which would
mean Emily would be displeased, and he could still feel the bite of
the riding crop on his ass.
Finally, Phyllis was satisfied with his face, and he turned his
attention to placing his penis in the diabolical sleeve Victoria had
attached to the dress. He had to bunch the material up so he could
pass his penis through the least amount of it as possible. Then, he
had to force the head of his penis through the narrow opening. This
required much struggle and strain, and by the time he had managed
to slide his cockhead through the opening, it ached and burned from
his exertions. He next had to grasp the crown and stretch his prick
to its fullest extent, to make it as long and as thin as possible,
while, with his other hand, he attempted to smooth the sleeve out
to its fullest length. When he was done, once again he felt like
his penis was being mashed between two bricks. The crown glowed an
angry red and he hurt like hell.
At last he was able to turn his attention to preparing Victoria's
breakfast. She had ordered him to make her two eggs with toast, a
simple enough request. She also wanted juice and coffee. And it was
to be delivered to her bedroom. It was now five o'clock. It had taken
Phyllis only an hour to dress himself. "Thank goodness, he thought.
"I can sleep an extra hour." He picked up the alarm clock and reset
the alarm for five a.m. He didn't want to start Victoria's breakfast
too early. So, for the next hour he simply sat at the kitchen table,
sipping a glass of water and contemplating the trap he had let himself
fall into.
He had assumed that at any time he would be allowed to quit and
simply forfeit the money. But Emily's presence now complicated the
picture. Evidently, Victoria had set up a contract with her to be
Phyllis's trainer. If Phyllis quit, then Emily's contract would be
void as well. And Emily had made serious threats against him about
that very thing. He thought, "She must be getting as much as me
for this deal. Man, did I ever set myself up for a screwing. That
fucking bitch, Victoria. She knew all along that once I agreed to
this game, I was going to have to play it out to the end. Shit!"
Finally, the time came for Phyllis to prepare Victoria's breakfast.
He fried the eggs, breaking the yellows several times, and having to
start over, since Victoria had been very specific about wanting her
eggs over easy with the yellows intact. But, Phyllis did eventually
manage to produce two attractive-looking eggs. He made the toast
and placed everything on a plate which he then covered under glass.
He put this in the oven to keep warm while he waited for the
appropriate time to deliver Victoria's meal to her. At precisely
6:55, he put on his high-heels and his wristlets with the chain
attached, picked up the tray and headed for the stairs. As he passed
the front door, he set the tray down, opened the door, and retrieved
the morning newspaper. Then, he carried the tray up the stairs, wobbling
on the thin heels, terrified that he might trip and fall. The bell
attached to his penis sleeve jingled merrily away, and Phyllis was
certain the noise would wake Victoria up. If that happened, he knew
his ass would be in for one hell of a hiding. But, try as he might,
he couldn't stop the bell from bouncing wildly against his balls,
jangling loudly at each bounce. But what seemed loud to him must not
have been too loud, since the house remained quiet as he finally got
to the top of the stairs. He walked the few steps to Victoria's bedroom
door, where he stood quietly, waiting for the sound of her alarm.
As soon as it went off, he quickly opened the door and entered the
room, as Victoria had instructed him the night before. He crossed to
a small circular table set against a wall, and placed the tray on it.
Then, he stepped over to the table beside the bed and turned off the
alarm. He took a step back, and stood at attention, head bowed, eyes
on the floor, to await his first instructions of the day.
Drowsily, Victoria moaned, then began to sit up, stretching her arms
above her head and yawning loudly. Her eyes opened, and she saw her
husband-servant standing beside the bed. She looked him over critically;
then, her voice a bit raspy from just waking, she said, "You look
like shit, slut. Your trainer is going to hear from me about this.
Do you think I want to wake up and have to look at a worthless
slut who can't comb his own hair, and who makes himself up to look
like a downtown streetwalker?" She groaned again, while Phyllis stood
redfaced looking down at the floor.
She suddenly barked at him, "Turn around, bitch. Let me see what
you look like." He curtsied, and did as she instructed. He was
startled by the volume of her voice, "You worthless slut! Your stockings
are all crooked, and your zipper is off-center. Don't you know how to
dress yourself?" She sat up and placed her legs over the edge of the
bed, then stood up. "Turn around, bitch," she ordered. "If I weren't in
such a hurry, I'd make you go downstairs and dress all over again.
You are in serious trouble, believe me." She groaned again, then
muttered, "All right. Follow me. You have work to do."
Phyllis curtsied and followed Victoria into the bathroom. Victoria
turned to him and said, "Draw my bath, then help me off with my
nightgown." Phyllis curtsied, and knelt on the floor to place the
stopper in the tub drain and turn on the water. Then, he stood up,
and, as gently as he could, he lifted Victoria's nightgown over her
head, hanging it on a hook behind the door. Although he tried to avert
his eyes, he couldn't help seeing her naked, flawless body, her large,
firm breasts, her flat stomach, her strong supple thighs which
disappeared into her pubic bush. He could feel an erection beginning
to form, and he fought with all the strength of his mind to keep it
from happening. He could feel the sleeve tightening even more around
his poor, wounded dick. The bell vibrated and rang. Sweat drops had
formed on his upper lip.
Victoria glared at him and said, "You're looking at me, aren't you,
slut? You're getting turned on."
Phyllis's mouth felt drier than a desert. He mumbled and muttered
incoherently. Victoria's voice was sharp: "You were staring at me.
You useless bitch. Your trainer is really going to get an earful from
me. She hasn't done much of a job with you at all." Phyllis looked
like he was going to break down and cry.
Victoria stepped over to the toilet. She looked over at Phyllis.
"Come over here, slut. Kneel down beside me."
Phyllis quickly knelt on the floor beside the toilet, facing the
wall behind Victoria. Victoria sat down and proceeded to release a
long stream of pee into the bowl. When she had finished, she turned
to Phyllis and said, "You will wipe me without touching me. And you
had better be gentle and thorough. Do you understand me?"
Phyllis nervously replied in a whisper, "Yes, Madame." He took
several sheets of toilet paper in his hand and carefully reached
between Victoria's legs, nervous and fearful that he might accidentally
touch her legs with his arm. Finally, he could feel the paper against
her pussy, and he wiped, as gently as he could. Then, hoping she
was truly dry, he stopped wiping and dropped the paper into the bowl.
Very cautiously, he removed his hand from between her legs. He was
sweating and trembling.
Victoria looked at him with an annoyed expression. "You better become
expert at that duty, bitch," she said, then stood up and climbed into
the tub. Phyllis flushed the toilet, then immediately moved over beside
the tub, kneeling so he could reach her with the scrub brush, which he
soaped up before proceeding to scrub her clean. Afterwards, he dried
her with her large, fluffy towl, then followed her back into the
bedroom. She went over to the table where Phyllis had laid the breakfast
tray, and he pulled out the single chair for her to sit down. There used
to be two chairs, but evidently she had removed the one he had sat in
as her husband. He lifted the glass cover from her plate and poured her
a cup of coffee from the porcelain pot. He then stepped back, curtsied,
and waited as she ate her breakfast and read the morning's newspaper.
Her only comment during the meal was that the toast was too crispy,
and his trainer was going to get a full report of it. By now, Phyllis
figured that once Emily was finished with him, he wouldn't be sitting
down for a long time.
Finally, Victoria was done with her breakfast. She instructed him
to dress her, and he did so, curtsying at each article of clothing
he put on her, until his lower back and his calves began to ache the
way they had the day before. When she was satisfied he had performed
this task correctly - pulling her panties on without touching her skin,
rolling her pantyhose smoothly up her legs, securing her bra in place (his
hands trembled so much he could hardly hook it up), dropping her
dress over her head and zipping it up and smoothing it out, kneeling
before her to put her shoes on her feet - she instructed him to watch
carefully as she made up her face and arranged her hair. "You will
practice this task until you are perfect at it, because, beginning
tomorrow, you will perform it on me. And it had better be flawless."
He curtsied for the umpteenth time and murmured, "Yes, Madame."
Finally, she was ready to leave for the office. Phyllis gathered
the breakfast dishes onto the tray and followed Victoria into the
hall and down the stairs. She waited by the door while he set the
tray down on a table in the hallway, then went to the closet to
get her overcoat. When he had finished buttoning her coat, she opened
the door and left without a word or a backward glance.
Phyllis's body slumped as much as it could in the stiff, constricting
outfit he was made to wear. But, then, realizing he had to wake Emily
up and attend to her needs, he scurried back up the stairs to Victoria's
room to make the bed, clean the bathroom, and put away her nightgown.
Finally, satisfied that her room was presentable, he went down to the
kitchen, where he washed Victoria's breakfast dishes.
Now, he had to repeat the whole process for Emily. Since she herself
was an underling in Victoria's household, she didn't warrant the fancy
dishes and silver; but, as she was now Phyllis's superior, she did
get the same first-class treatment Victoria had. She had left instructions
that Phyllis was to wake her up as soon as Victoria had left the house.
Phyllis went to the door leading to the basement apartment and rang the
bell. Several seconds passed, and he heard a buzz, indicating she had
unlocked the door, and he could go downstairs to attend her.
Hurriedly, he went down the steps to the tiny apartment. Emily was
just getting out of bed, nude, of course, since her contract with
Victoria specified she would remain naked the entire three months.
Like Victoria, she glared at Phyllis as he stood before her, eyes
turned to the floor. She said, "Where'd you learn to put makeup on,
idiot? I didn't realize the whores had a beauty school." She glowered
angrily. "You look like a streetwalker. Did Madame say anything about
it?"
Phyllis curtsied. "Yes, Mistress," he said, nervously, "Madame said
the same thing about Phyllis's makeup."
"Shit," she muttered. "That means I'm going to get an earful of her
complaints. Well, you are in deep shit already, I see." Then, more to
herself than to Phyllis, she said, "How long am I going to have to put
up with this asshole's foulups?" She sighed, and pulled herself out of bed.
Even though her hair was tousled and her eyes were puffy from lack of
sleep, Emily was an extremely beautiful woman. She had breasts that Phyllis
yearned to touch, to kiss, to suck. Her body was stunning, and, just
as had happened with Victoria, he began to grow erect reacting to
Emily's sensuous beauty. He could feel the sleeve beginning to strangle
his penis, cutting off circulation. He moaned inwardly, trying to will
his erection away.
Emily looked at him, mildly puzzled by the strained expression on
his face. But, she decided to ignore it and went into the tiny bathroom
to begin getting ready for the day. The bathroom was too small for
Phyllis to attend to Emily's toilet, or her shower; but, he was required
to towel her dry afterwards, and then to make and serve her breakfast.
Finally, she was done eating and reading Victoria's morning newspaper.
While she had enjoyed a second cup of coffee, Phyllis had busied himself
straightening up the apartment and making Emily's bed.
Now Emily stood up and indicated Phyllis was to follow her upstairs.
They had just entered the kitchen when the phone rang. Emily took the
call. It was Victoria, Phyllis knew, because Emily simply stood there
with the phone to her ear, saying, "Yes, Madame," or "No, Madame," or
"I'll see that it's done, Madame." When Victoria had hung up, Emily
replaced the phone in its cradle, and turned to Phyllis. "Between
now and the time Madame comes home, you are going to become an artist
with makeup. Your face will be perfectly done when she gets here. So,
we are going to spend the day learning how to put you together."
Phyllis curtsied. "Yes, Mistress."
Emily fixed him with her gaze. "Come over here, idiot. Kneel down."
Phyllis minced over to where Emily stood, then, careful not to run
his stockings, he knelt before her. His face was even with the vee
between her legs.
"What do you see, slut?" Emily asked.
Phyllis said, somewhat nervously, "Phyllis sees Mistress's pussy,
Mistress."
"Wrong!" she snapped. "What you see is Goddess. She is the object
of your worship. Do you understand?"
Phyllis wasn't sure, but he answered, "Yes, Mistress."
"For the next three months, you will devote yourself to pleasing
and worshiping Goddess," she said. "Everything you do, you will
do for Goddess. Not for me. I'm only me. I'm only your Mistress."
She pointed her finger to her pussy. "But this, this is Goddess.
I am not Goddess. I am Mistress. This is Goddess. It is she you
will worship. It is she you must please. Now. Do you understand?"
Phyllis knew some line was being crossed. This wasn't in the
contract; but, of course, nothing he'd done in the past twenty-four
hours was in the contract, formally. He answered, "Yes, Mistress."
Emily went on. "When Goddess is pleased with you, she will permit
you to worship her. Your every action will be performed with one
objective in mind: pleasing Goddess so that you may be permitted
to worship her. Pleasing Madame is secondary. Of course, failure to
please Madame automatically means you will have failed to please
Goddess. So you will please Madame. Not for her sake, but so you
may worship Goddess in her temple. Do you understand that?"
His face was inches away from her vagina. He was beginning to
smell a musky aroma. He thought, "She's getting turned on by this
speech." He spoke to the shaven pubis in front of him, "Yes,
Mistress."
"When Goddess is unhappy with you, I, your Mistress, am obliged
by her to take measures to correct you so that you may be restored to
her favor and be able to worship her in her temple once again. Goddess
does not punish. Your Mistress does that. But Goddess does reward.
And her reward is to let you worship her in her temple. Do you
understand this?"
"Yes, Mistress." He wanted to taste the musk, to place his lips to
her labia, to drink the nectar from within. He felt faint.
"Now, even though Goddess is displeased with you because you have
shamed yourself with your ridiculous whore makeup, and she wishes you
to be punished for that transgression, she also wishes you to desire
to worship her in her temple, and to do so properly. But, before you may
worship her, you must pledge your love and your loyalty to her for all
time. Will you do so?"
Phyllis's head seemed light enough to float away like a helium-filled
balloon. He whispered, "Yes, Mistress."
"Then repeat after me: The center of my life is Goddess."
Phyllis said these words.
"Everything I do or say is for one purpose only: to please Goddess."
Phyllis repeated.
"I will devote my life to worshiping Goddess in her temple."
"Yes, yes," Phyllis thought. "Let's get on with it." He repeated the
statement aloud.
Emily stood before him, silent for a moment. Then she spoke, "Very
well. Goddess is pleased. You may enter her temple to worship."
Phyllis opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out. He leaned forward,
eager to taste the juices he could see dripping down Emily's inner thigh.
Suddenly, she grabbed his hair.
"What are you doing, you useless fool? I didn't say you could touch
Goddess. I said you could worship her in her temple." Immediately, she
turned around, bending over so her ass was directly in front of Phyllis's
face. She reached behind her, spreading her asscheeks and revealing
the little brown ring of her anus. "Well, slut? What are you waiting
for? Goddess wishes you to worship her in her temple. You don't want to
displease Goddess any more than you already have, do you?"
Phyllis knew he'd been tricked again. But he also knew that if he
refused to do as Emily had ordered, he would be severely punished.
Reluctantly, he pushed his face forward until he could feel her ass
pressing against his nose. Timidly, blindly, he sought out her opening
with his tongue. He nearly gagged when it came into contact with her
asshole, and he could vaguely taste the residue of her last bowel movement.
Above him, Emily spoke, "You may enter the temple of Goddess with your
tongue, slut. Show Goddess how eager you are to do so."
Trying to hold his breath, though he knew how impossible that would be,
he pushed against the opening with his tongue. By mashing his face hard
against her ass, he actually managed to insert his tongue a short way
into her asshole. He was nearly retching with the realization that he
was actually reaming her ass out with his tongue. But he knew if he balked
at this point, he would be severely punished. So, he continued to push his
tongue deeper inside her. "Make love to the temple of Goddess, slut,"
he heard Emily say. And so he began a back-and-forth rhythm with his tongue,
pushing it in as far as he could, then pulling it back until it was almost
all the way out, then ramming it back in again. Emily began swaying, and
he had to move his head to keep up with her. His neck and back were aching,
but he kept his tongue inside her. Then, after what seemed like an eternity,
he could feel her tensing, beginning to climax, moaning and pressing back
against his face. Then she cried out, and gave a mighty shove backwards,
nearly knocking him over.
Emily leaned forward, placing her hands on the kitchen table, breathing
hard, her large, soft breasts heaving. Finally, she gathered herself
together, and turned to face Phyllis, who was still kneeling on the floor,
his face red and sweaty from his exertions. She looked at him; then, her
voice stern, said, "Well, slut? Are you pleased that Goddess has allowed
you to worship her?"
Phyllis knew he had no alternative but to answer, "Yes, Mistress."
She grinned humorlessly. "And I am certain you will wish to carry the
reminder of your experience throughout the day. So enjoy the flavor, bitch.
And don't try to mask it with toothpaste or chewing gum. Got me?"
Phyllis replied, "Yes, Mistress."
Emily lifted his face with her hand until he was looking directly into
her eyes. "From now on, you will beg your Mistress to be allowed to
worship in the temple of Goddess. Won't you?"
Phyllis mumbled, "Yes, Mistress."
"Yes, you will beg and implore and cry to be allowed to taste the essence
of the temple sacrifice. But there is only one way you will be permitted to
worship Goddess. You must be perfect in all you do. Are you prepared to be
perfect?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"And why do you want to be perfect, slut?"
Phyllis closed his eyes and grimaced, "Because Phyllis wishes to worship
in the temple of Goddess, Mistress."
Emily sneered smugly at the thoroughly overpowered man who knelt before
her, defeated, tears in his eyes. "Yes, slut, you will beg. Over and over
you will beg. And you will worship there often. The essence of the temple
sacrifice will be always in your mouth and on your tongue. Worthless fool."
* * * * *
Phyllis's training began in earnest. Over and over through the long
morning, he was made to remove his makeup and reapply it, until, finally,
Emily began to make approving noises. But this was not all that Phyllis
did. Each time he would remove his makeup, before reapplying it, he would
spend anywhere from fifteen minutes to a half-hour "worshiping Goddess
in her temple." By the time Emily called a break for lunch, Phyllis
was thoroughly familiar with every every nuance of flavor in his Mistress's
asshole. Within a single morning, Emily had completely broken his will
and destroyed what little dignity he thought he had retained.
For lunch, she permitted him to eat a small salad, a piece of bread,
and a glass of water. She, in turn, had a thick sandwich of turkey, ham,
cheese, lettuce and tomato, prepared, of course, by the famished Phyllis.
Emily also enjoyed several cups of coffee, sitting at the kitchen table,
while Phyllis stood in his uncomfortable heels, broken and dejected, at
the counter next to the sink.
The afternoon's training was simply more of what had occurred in the
morning, though by now, having become used to the taste of Emily's shit,
Phyllis began to beg in a bit more spirited manner to be allowed to
worship Goddess in her temple.
In addition to continuing to learn how to apply makeup and to arrange
his hair in a style acceptable to Victoria, Phyllis also practiced
walking in as feminine a manner as possible. While he did this, Emily
had him walk from room to room, dusting and vacuuming as he went, so that
the entire downstairs fairly sparkled when he was done.
About five o'clock, Victoria called and spoke with Emily. When they had
concluded their conversation, Emily informed Phyllis that "Madame would
be home for dinner about seven, and desired lobster bisque." Phyllis would
have to work quickly to prepare such a meal. He also had to feed Emily,
who did not share the same one-meal-a-day restriction which had been
imposed on Phyllis. So, for the next two hours, Phyllis toiled in the
kitchen, feeding Emily and preparing Victoria's dinner. Emily, knowing
she had reduced him to a state of complete servitude, interrupted his
efforts several times so he could gain vital experience worshiping
in the temple of Goddess.
But, finally, a buzzer sounded in the kitchen, indicating Victoria was
at the front door. Emily disappeared to her apartment downstairs, and
Phyllis nervously rushed, mincing and swishing, to attend Victoria as
she entered the house. When the door opened, Victoria was pleased to see
Phyllis standing in the foyer, holding the front edge of his tutu, and
curtsying deeply and gracefully before her. Phyllis then removed Victoria's
coat and hung it in the closet before following her into the living room.
Curtsying again, Phyllis asked, "Would Madame care for a drink before
dinner?"
Victoria fixed Phyllis with a stare. She stood motionless for several
long seconds, then said, "I told you when we began this relationship that
you would speak only when spoken to. Do you remember that?"
Phyllis was taken aback, but answered, "Yes, Madame."
"Well, then, why did you speak just now?"
Phyllis just stood there, not knowing what to say.
"Let me tell you something, slut. If I want a drink, I'll tell you that.
You just keep your useless mouth shut unless I require you to speak."
Phyllis curtsied. "Yes, Madame."
Suddenly, Victoria grabbed his ear and yanked, nearly causing him to
topple over. "Did I ask you a question just then?"
Phyllis, in terrible pain, squealed, "No, Madame, no."
"Then keep your mouth shut!" And giving his ear one final twist, she
released her grip. He was nearly sobbing from the pain.
She continued to glare at him. "Your trainer, your Mistress, doesn't
seem to be making much progress with you. I'm going to have to have a
word with her after I've eaten."
Phyllis's ears were ringing so badly he could hardly hear Victoria.
But, he realized she had mentioned eating, so he curtsied once more
and scurried into the kitchen to finish preparing her dinner. He served
her in the dining room, remaining as discreet yet attentive as he could
as she ate in cold silence. Finally done, she turned to her hapless
servant-husband and said, "Go and call your Mistress. I wish to speak
with her. I will be in the living room waiting."
Phyllis curtsied, then rushed into the kitchen and over to the buzzer
at the door leading down to Emily's apartment. When she had unlocked it,
he descended the stairs and, entering the small kitchenette, curtsied
before her as she sat naked at the table relaxing.
"What is it, slut?" she demanded.
"Begging Mistress's pardon, Mistress, but Madame has directed Phyllis
to inform Phyllis's Mistress that Madame wishes a word with Mistress."
Trying to keep everything in the third person was clearly not going to be
an easy task for Phyllis.
"Is that so?" asked Emily. "And what does this pertain to?"
Phyllis curtsied again. "Phyllis does not know, Mistress." Curtsy.
Emily arose, her glorious breasts jiggling, causing Phyllis to nearly
gasp aloud. "Very well. I'll be right there." She wrapped the strap of
the riding crop around her wrist and climbed the stairs, Phyllis
following close behind. When they arrived in the kitchen, Emily continued
through the door into the living room, and Phyllis stayed behind, cleaning
up both Emily's and Victoria's dinner dishes. A very long time passed,
and Phyllis was growing quite concerned. He tried pressing his ear to the
closed door, but could only hear an indistinct murmur of voices. Finally,
he heard Victoria call, "Phyllis! Come in here at once!"
Quickly, nearly tripping in his haste, he scurried into the living room,
mincing in short steps, trying to look as feminine as possible, bell ringing
absurdly against his balls. He walked over to stand in front of Victoria,
before whom he executed a deep curtsy. He stood quietly, saying nothing.
He did not want to be punished for talking out of turn again. Emily was
standing a few feet away, looking somewhat agitated. As Phyllis waited,
mute before Victoria, Emily spoke, "Well, slut, just as I warned you.
Madame now knows the full story of your day and your many failures and
shortcomings. Of course, she already knew about your whorish makeup job.
And she knew about how you are prone to talk out of turn. As your Mistress,
I am now obliged to execute your punishment for all these infractions.
Before I do, however, Madame has a few words to say to you."
Phyllis was clearly worried. He remembered the previous night's "taste"
of punishment. How horrible was the real thing going to be? He was so
preoccupied with his worries over this, he almost missed what Victoria
was saying, "...worship Goddess." He stood dumbly, not knowing what to
say or do. Victoria tapped her hand on the arm of her chair. Finally,
she spoke in a low, cold, brutal tone, "Are you willfully refusing
to comply with my instructions?"
Phyllis curtsied, "N-no, Madame. Phyllis is sorry, Madame. Phyllis
doesn't know what Madame's instructions are."
Victoria appeared outraged. "What? Are you that stupid? Or were you
just not paying attention? Answer me."
Phyllis curtsied again. "Phyllis was, um, er, Phyllis is, um, just
stupid, Madame."
Victoria turned to Emily. "Add ten to the punishment."
"Yes, Madame."
Victoria then turned her attention back to Phyllis. "Just stupid,
eh? Just plain old stupid slut Phyllis." Her voice lowered to just above
an angry whisper, "Now you listen, and listen good, you worthless bitch.
I told you I wanted a demonstration of how you worship Goddess in her
temple. Can you understand me now?"
Curtsy. "Yes, Madame."
"Well?"
Phyllis was unsure as to how to proceed. Finally, fearing the worst,
he decided to take a chance and act on his own initiative. He turned
to Emily, curtsied to her, and sank to his knees before her, his nose
an inch away from her vagina. "Please, Mistress, Phyllis wishes to worship
Goddess."
Emily looked down at him with cold disdain. "Do you think after all
you've done wrong today Goddess will permit you to worship her?"
Phyllis pressed on, not knowing what else to do. "Please, Mistress,
Phyllis is sorry for all the wrong things Phyllis did. Please let
Phyllis worship Goddess."
"You aren't even worthy to lick your Mistress's toes. What makes you
think you are worthy to worship Goddess in her temple?"
Phyllis could smell the funky aroma of Emily's sexual heat. He was
beginning to feel a little lightheaded. "Oh, please, Mistress. Phyllis
will do anything if Mistress will let Phyllis worship Goddess." Tears
were forming in his eyes, and his lips had begun to tremble slightly.
"You miserable slut. You want to put your tongue into the temple of
Goddess and taste Goddess's essence. You don't even deserve to smell
that essence, let alone taste it."
Phyllis, becoming hysterical in his fear of what Victoria might do
to him if he failed to convince Emily to let him worship Goddess, was
sobbing, his voice breaking as tears freely flowed from his eyes. "Oh,
Mistress, please. Please. Phyllis will do anything. Anything!"
Emily smiled at him, a cold, ruthless, humorless smile. "Anything?"
Breaking down completely, Phyllis sobbed, "Yes, Mistress. Anything.
Just, please, please, let Phyllis worship Goddess."
"Then you'll sign over your million dollar payment to me, won't you,
slut?" said Emily, a note of triumph in her voice. Behind him, Phyllis
heard Victoria, surprised and delighted by Emily's shrewdness, laugh loudly.
He knew he had just been trapped and ruined at the same time. And all that
would result would be that he would be allowed to stick his tongue
into Emily's asshole and lick the shit inside. An asslicker. He had been
reduced to a penniless asslicker.
"Won't you, slave?" Emily demanded.
He wailed, "Yes, Mistress, yes. Yes, yes, yes."
He was crying openly, totally defeated, when Emily suddenly turned around,
thrust her ass into his face, and said in a sharp, angry tone, "Worship,
whore!" Still sobbing, he placed his hands on her asscheeks so he could
spread them apart, allowing his tongue free access to her asshole.
Evidently, she'd had a bowel movement down in her apartment, but hadn't
bothered to wipe herself afterwards. Flecks of dried shit were crusted
in the area around her asshole. Phyllis knew what was expected of him.
Nearly fainting from the odor, he pressed his lips against her flesh, and
began licking in long, rapid strokes. The shit tasted awful, and he nearly
passed out from it. In his mind, he saw his future, serving as a toilet
maid to these two revenge-maddened women. He continued to sob, the tears
running down his cheeks, ruining his carefully applied makeup.
His tongue now entered her asshole, and he knew this was truly his
place in this household. A nothing now, a complete zero, he gave in to
Emily's victory over him, and began fucking her ass with his tongue.
In and out, faster and faster, his tongue becoming raw from the effort,
he pushed and pulled and gasped and cried. His nose was filled with the
odor of shit, his mind cried, "Shit! Shit! Shit!" He was done for. All
had been lost. He wanted to laugh with Victoria.
Finally, Emily was done with him, and she stepped away, then turned
to face him. His face was covered in tears and sweat and wet mascara
which ran garishly down his cheeks. His lips were quivering as he sobbed,
his chest heaved, his head was bowed in defeat. Emily stepped forward
and bent over, then whispered to him, "It's time for your punishment now,
slave. Stand up."
Slowly, his knees nearly buckling, Phyllis struggled to stand. When
he was erect, standing at attention, Emily whispered, "Bend over and grasp
your ankles. Now." Blindly, automatically, Phyllis did as Emily had
commanded. The whipping began slowly, gradually picking up speed. It seemed
to last forever, and Phyllis was certain she'd broken the skin of his ass,
and that blood was pouring out of his cuts. His ass was most certainly a
deep, ugly, purplish hue; but, he was not bleeding. Finally, Victoria
called a halt to the punishment. Almost gently, she dismissed Phyllis,
telling him to go get a drink of water and to take a break to pull himself
together. She instructed him to repair his makeup and report back to her
when he had done so.
His ass burned so badly he could barely walk as far as the kitchen.
He took short, almost tiptoe steps, eventually reaching the relative
safety of the door which would separate him, however briefly, from his
two hell-sent tormentors. He stepped over to the kitchen sink and ran
cold water on a cloth which he then used to wipe his face to remove the
ruined makeup and his tears. After a few minutes, he had calmed down
enough to reapply his makeup, putting it on so that it looked much better
than his earlier efforts had been. Then, ass still burning, he returned
to the living room, where Victoria calmly sat talking to Emily, who
stood near the center of the room, riding crop still in hand.
When she saw Phyllis, Emily commanded, "Come over here, slave. Kneel."
Phyllis crossed the room and knelt before her, his nose once again
an inch from her pussy. Emily said in a cold, imperious voice, "I will
say this only once, and you had better never forget it. Goddess is
any woman's vagina. And the temple in which you worship Goddess is any
woman's rectum. If a woman ever says, 'Kiss my ass,' you will do so
without hesitation. And you will be glad for the honor she has bestowed
on you."
Phyllis could smell her devilish musk again.
"Do you understand, slave?"
"Yes, Mistress." It was over. Philip was nevermore. Phyllis was a
nothing, an asslicker, a slave.
"Now, I have something I wish you to sign." She handed him a sheet of
paper. His eyes were filmy with tears. He couldn't read a word of it.
She handed him a pen, and pointed to the place on the paper where he was
to sign. He did so.
Emily looked down at the top of Phyllis's head. "You just transferred
to me the one million dollars Madame promised you for carrying out your
three month's period of indentured servitude. But that contract no longer
applies, since you are now my slave. And there is no limit on your
servitude to me, is there? You do agree, don't you?"
Phyllis wasn't sure what she meant. He didn't know what to say. Instead,
he began to cry, knowing whatever he said would probably be wrong and he
would again be punished.
Emily, her voice sharp with anger, said, "You do agree don't you? That
you are now my slave?"
Phyllis, trembling, mumbled, "Yes, Mistress."
"And you are mine for as long as I wish?"
Phyllis, completely lost now, said, "Yes, Mistress."
"You just love sticking your tongue in my asshole, don't you, slave?"
Once again, his tears were ruining his makeup. "Yes, Mistress."
"It's worth a million dollars to you to stick your tongue in my asshole.
You'd give away a million dollars for the pleasure of licking my butt,
wouldn't you?"
His shoulders heaved as he sobbed, "Yes, Mistress."
"That's right. You just did. You dumb shiteater."
Behind him, Victoria was laughing loudly.
"Look at me, stupid." Phyllis turned his eyes to face Emily. "Although
you now belong to me, I desire you to continue to serve Madame, just as
you have agreed under the contract you entered into with her. You will
perform whatever tasks she requires of you, and you will be cheerful
and prompt in their execution. But, you will answer to me from now on.
Agreed?"
"Yes, Mistress," he whispered.
Emily leaned over so her face was directly in front of Phyllis's.
"Madame wishes to acknowledge this momentous occasion," she said quietly
to him. "She has some gifts which she wishes you to accept. But you
must look happy and grateful when you receive them. So I wish you to
go to the kitchen and strip naked and put on fresh makeup. And as soon
as you have done this, I wish you to return to this exact spot and
kneel as you are now doing."
"Yes, Mistress," he responded, then stood up, curtsied, and retreated
into the kitchen. As he undressed and washed the smeared makeup from his
face, Phyllis's mind was a whirlwind of emotions. How could this have
happened to him, and so quickly? In less than a day, these two women
had turned an agreement with him completely upside down. Not only was he
no longer in control of his own being, he had completely lost the million
dollars he had been expecting to get for playing this game in the first
place.
He was convinced Victoria and Emily had not originally conspired
to set him up like this. Probably, Victoria had simply wanted to shame
and embarrass them both with this bizarre arrangement. It had to have
been Emily who had turned the tables and taken control of the game.
Victoria had seemed as surprised as Phyllis by how swiftly Emily had acted.
Amazingly, Victoria didn't seem to mind. Probably, she recognized Emily's
shrewdness and appreciated the deft way in which Emily had taken the
initiative. But, the bottom line was that he, Philip Johnson, had, in
less than twenty-four hours, been reduced to a mere asslicking nothing,
a slave of these two vengeful women. He was sure this had to be a bad
dream. It couldn't really be happening.
Finally, his makeup freshly reapplied, Phyllis, now completely naked,
returned to the living room, and knelt on the floor before the two women.
Victoria was still seated in the wingback chair, and Emily was still
standing next to her, as naked as Phyllis now was. Neither woman spoke.
Both women were smiling, but their faces betrayed no particular thought
or emotion. Phyllis guessed maybe they had planned together to destroy
him. He shivered and wondered what awful degradation they would subject
him to next.
He didn't have long to wait. Emily stepped towards him. "As I said,
slave, Madame wishes to commemorate this occasion. She has some gifts
for you which she wishes you to accept. As your Mistress, I have accepted
them for you. You, of course, will be overjoyed to receive them. Am I
correct?"
Phyllis had no choice. "Yes, Mistress," he mumbled.
"Very well," said Emily. She reached behind Victoria's chair and
brought out a paper shopping bag, setting it down a couple feet in front
of Phyllis. She reached into it and withdrew a shiny, stainless steel object.
Phyllis glanced upwards and saw what appeared to be a tangled up chain.
Emily stood before him and unraveled the bundle.
"This gift is an acknowledgement of your continuing servitude, slut,"
Emily said, "both to your Mistress and to Madame." She stepped forward
and placed around his neck a chain-link collar, much like a training
collar a dog might wear. The collar fit snugly, but not uncomfortably.
It closed by means of a small padlock which rested against the back of
Phyllis's neck. Attached to the collar were two chains, each a little
more than a foot long with a handcuff attached to the end. Emily took
each of Phyllis's hands in turn and placed them in a cuff, which she
then proceeded to lock. Like the collar, the cuffs were snug, but not
uncomfortably so. Phyllis looked down at his imprisoned wrists and
saw that the cuffs were also linked together by a chain about ten inches
long. The effect of this arrangement was that his arms would always be
bent at the elbow so that, if he were standing straight up, his forearms
would be parallel to the floor. The chain binding his wrists close
together further restricted any mobility on his part.
Emily stood back and appraised him. She smiled broadly. "Well, slave?
Do you like them? They do suit you, you know."
Phyllis was about to start crying again.
Emily paid no attention, but went on, "Aren't you going to thank
Madame for her thoughtful gift?"
Phyllis said, "Thank you, Madame." But there was a lump in his
throat, and his words came out in a mumble.
Emily wasn't finished. She reached into the bag again, and produced
another set of tangled-up chains. She walked around the kneeling Phyllis
until she was standing behind him. Then, she stooped down and began
attaching the cuffs at the ends of this chain to his ankles. Again,
the cuffs were snug, but not uncomfortably so. Emily stood up and
said, "Spread your ankles, slave."
Phyllis began to spread his ankles, but was almost immediately halted
by the chain, which was only a little more than a foot long. Emily walked
around him so she was again facing him. "Because you won't be able to take
very long strides now, Madame has ordered that you learn a new way to go
up and down her stairs, so you won't trip and fall. You will be shown
this new method later. Isn't it nice that Madame is so thoughtful and
caring?"
Phyllis mumbled, "Yes, Mistress."
Emily waited a moment, then said, "Is that all you have to say?"
Phyllis, the lump still in his throat, said, "Thank you, Madame."
Tears had formed in his eyes, and the room was now a blur to him.
Emily wasn't done. She said, "Madame has also decided to honor
this moment by giving you a new uniform, one which I am sure you
will be delighted to wear." She reached into the bag again, and
pulled out what looked like a long-line corset, made of a very stiff
material and covered with black satin trimmed in red lace with
pretty red bows attached to the six garter straps. Emily handed
the garment to Phyllis. "Stand up and put it on," she ordered.
"Let's see how you look."
Phyllis struggled to his feet, nearly tripping over the short
chain joining his ankles. He knew he would have to be very careful
how he moved from now on. The corset wrapped around him and was
closed by a zipper in the front. It was designed to extend from
his waist to just below his nipples. This garment was even tighter
than the other one had been, and he struggled mightily to join the
zipper ends. By the time he had succeeded in closing the zipper
all the way, he was struggling to catch his breath. He felt as
though all his internal organs had been squeezed into his stomach.
The loose flesh from his midsection had been pushed up so that
the skin of his chest now spilled over the top of the foundation,
forming what looked like breasts. Emily had retrieved a full-length
mirror, which she now placed before him.
"Take a look," she said with a broad smile. "You look adorable."
Phyllis looked into the mirror. The corset had reduced his waist
by at least three inches, and pushed his hips out at one end, and
his chest out at the other, so he could see the breast-like protrusions.
Instead of a tutu-like skirt, there was a narrow skirt of red lace
which extended from the bottom of the corset to just above his groin,
leaving his penis fully exposed. Also attached to the front of the
corset by a short, delicate chain, was the same sleeve and bell which
had been on his other uniform. This sleeve, like the new corset, looked
even tighter and more difficult to fit over his cock than the other one
had been. By the time he had managed to get his penis into it, he felt
like he had been kicked in the balls by a gang of football punters.
His face was bathed in sweat, his makeup a smeary mess.
Emily paid no attention to that. She reached once more into the
bag and retrieved a pair of sheer, red nylon stockings, seamed like
all the other nylons Phyllis now owned. She handed them to him.
"Your ankle cuffs are just large enough so that, by being very careful,
you should be able to slip your stockings through the cuffs and then
attach them to your garters. So. Go on. Put them on."
Because of the way his arms were bent and his hands joined nearly
together, Phyllis knew the only way he could accomplish this task
would be to sit down and bend himself into a pretzel. The extremely
tight corset made it almost impossible to do this. But, by much
careful effort, and a great deal of perspiration, he finally succeeded
in slipping both stockings through his cuffs. He then stood up, nearly
tripping and falling again, and pulled the stockings the rest of the
way up his legs, carefully insuring the seams were as straight as he
could get them.
Emily left him standing there, contemplating his imprisonment in
the chains as he gazed at his image in the mirror. She disappeared
into the kitchen, returning a few seconds later with Phyllis's high-
heeled mules. "Put these on, then walk around the room for me,"
she ordered. Phyllis stepped into the mules, and began to walk.
Unfamiliar with the short length of chain joining his ankles, he took
too long a step and nearly toppled over. He realized instantly he was
going to have to take very short, tiptoe steps all the time. His
feet were going to be in a state of constant agony.
Emily said, "Walk over to the stairs, then turn and face me.
And be graceful and feminine, you clumsy slut."
Phyllis tiptoed across the room, trying to walk as gracefully
and swishily as he could. His hips rolled in an exaggerated way,
and he felt silly mincing across the room. When he got to the stairs,
he stopped and turned around to face his Mistress and Madame.
Emily said, "Sit down on a step as though you were sitting in
a chair."
Phyllis did as he was commanded.
Emily continued, "Now, lift your feet to the next higher step."
Phyllis did.
Emily said, "Now, stand up and repeat the process, going up a step
at a time."
Phyllis realized this was the only way he would be able to negotiate
the steps, since the length of chain separating his ankles was not
long enough for him to step up like a normal person would. He also knew
this procedure would be extremely uncomfortable to perform following
any kind of punishment with the riding crop. Furthermore, it would
present a nearly impossible situation if he were balancing a tray full
of dishes.
When he was about halfway up the staircase, Emily called out,
"That's enough. Now, you descend in the same manner. Let's see you
try it."
Slowly, carefully, Phyllis stretched his legs to lower his feet by
one step. Then, he stood up, sitting down again on the step below the
one he had just occupied. Coming down the stairs proved even slower
and more arduous than going up had been. By the time he reached the
bottom, he was exhausted and his legs ached terribly.
In his confusion, and because he was thinking only of how grateful
he was to have survived the journey without incident, he began to cross
the floor before he realized he hadn't been given permission to do so.
His face reddened instantly as Emily, pretending outrage, screamed,
"Who gave you permission to move, you worthless slave! Come over here
this instant, you ninny!"
As quickly as he could, Phyllis swished across the room, bell jangling
wildly, until he was standing before his Mistress, his face cast down.
He lifted the hem of the tiny skirt and curtsied as deeply as he could.
Emily spoke in a stern tone, "You will be punished instantly for
that breach of discipline, Miss sissy. Turn around. Bend over and
grab your ankles." Even before he felt the first stinging blow,
Phyllis was already crying. His ass was still sore from his previous
whipping, and now it felt like his skin was being stripped off his
buttocks. But, finally, it was over, and Emily ordered him to stand
up straight. He turned to face her, his lips quivering wildly as he
tried to stop his sobs. Emily placed the riding crop in his right
hand. "You will carry this with you at all times, slave. Do you
understand?"
He stammered out that he did. Emily went on, "This way you will
always be aware what the price of your foolish thoughtlessness
will be." She paused, and glared at the thoroughly cowed Phyllis.
"Well? Have you nothing to say to your Mistress?"
"Thank you, Mistress," he gasped.
"Kneel, slut." He knelt slowly and carefully, not wanting to
trip and fall.
Emily moved forward until her pussy was in his face. She said,
softly, "Goddess is pleased, slave. She wishes you to worship
in her temple."
Phyllis, his mouth nearly touching the soft place where Emily's
legs joined together, muttered, "Yes, Mistress."
Emily's voice grew sterner, "Aren't you forgetting something,
slut? Aren't you forgetting that you must beg to be allowed to worship
in Goddess's temple?"
Phyllis instantly responded, "Oh, please, Mistress. Phyllis wants
to worship Goddess. Phyllis needs to worship Goddess. Phyllis will
do anything to be allowed to worship Goddess, if only for a minute."
Emily, laughing at the abject figure before her, said, "Very well,
slave, you may enter the temple of Goddess." And she turned around,
once again presenting her ass to the kneeling Phyllis. Instantly, his
face was buried in her asscrack, his tongue probing the tiny cave
of her anus. As he buried himself in Emily's ass, Phyllis could hear
both women laughing loudly at his plight. He no longer cared. He was
in complete awe of them. They had so perfectly outmaneuvered him, had
so quickly reduced him to his present status, had so thoroughly destroyed
all he had been - and in less than a day! Truly, they were Goddesses!
Truly, he deserved no more than this, to have his nose and tongue buried
in their nether holes. They had won. He was theirs. And so it should be.
And so it was.
* * * * *
...He wasn't sure when his situation had become permanent. Perhaps it
had been the day Madame informed him his three-month period of indentured
servitude was concluded. He had already lost track of the passage of days
and months. Such matters were no longer of concern to him.
Madame had remained faithful to the agreement. He had been commanded
to appear before her, where she had told him his million dollars awaited
him. He had been brought over to a table in the living room on which was
stacked an enormous pile of cash. He had to assume it totaled a million
dollars.
Then Mistress had brought out two large suitcases and he was instructed
to fill them with the money stacked on the table. After he was finished
putting all the money in the containers, he was dismissed to serve
dessert to the two women. When he returned with a tray of dessert plates
and coffee cups, he noticed the two suitcases had been removed. He never
saw them again.
...Perhaps it was the day, a few weeks later, when he had returned to
the household after his convalescence following the breast augmentation
surgery. Before, his chest had measured 40 inches. He now measured a full
46 inches, and enough silicone had been inserted to expand his breasts
to a massive E-cup size. At the request of Mistress, the surgeon had
also pierced Phyllis's greatly enlarged nipples. Attached to them now
were shiny gold hoops. Mistress had also requested that a matching hoop
be attached to the loose fold of skin joining the back of his testicles
to his perineum. Accordingly, he had also been pierced there.
Once he had dressed in his uniform, a new one he was sure, since the
tight corset felt even more snug than he remembered from before his
trip to the private clinic for his breast surgery, he was summoned to
appear before Madame and Mistress.
As was now his automatic behavior, he stepped before Madame and
curtsied. Then, he turned to Mistress and curtsied again.
Madame said, "Well, Phyllis, are you all recovered from your surgery?"
Phyllis curtsied again. "Yes, Madame," he replied.
"And how do you like your new breasts?"
Because they were so large, they tended to wobble and flop wildly
whenever he walked, causing a great deal of stress and ache in his back.
Curtsying, he responded, "Phyllis loves Phyllis's new breasts, Madame."
What else could he say?
He wanted to cry.
Ever since he had entered the clinic for his surgery, he had been
receiving massive injections of female hormones on a daily basis. His
emotions had been overwhelmed by the huge shift in his hormonal balance.
He felt like crying all the time. To counter these outbursts, Madame
had also directed that he be given large doses of tranquilizers. So
now he was calm. He didn't cry, but his eyes were usually brimful of
tears wanting to spill out. Everything looked to him as though he were
seeing it from underwater.
It made him want to cry.
Mistress spoke next, "Well, slave, we are pleased that you are happy
with your new breasts. To celebrate this wonderful occasion, Madame
has some new gifts for you."
At some point while he had been in the clinic, Madame and Mistress had
become fast friends. Mistress no longer lived in the basement apartment,
but now shared the upstairs with Madame, sleeping in the bedroom adjoining
hers. Although they were obviously friends, Mistress still preferred to
remain naked while in the house. Perhaps this was her way of emphasizing
her superiority over Phyllis. He never would know. And it really didn't
matter.
Phyllis curtsied again. Mistress stepped forward and unlocked the
padlock holding Phyllis's collar in place. Then, she unlocked his
handcuffs. Finally, she bent down and unlocked the ankle cuffs. Phyllis's
chains now lay in a heap at his feet. Mistress bent over and picked up
the chains, tossing them aside. She then turned back to face Phyllis.
"Kneel, slave," she said.
Phyllis curtsied and knelt. Mistress continued, "Madame has directed
me to present you with the gifts she wishes to give you. You will remain
still and silent during the presentation."
She turned and retrieved a small shopping bag which was resting beside
Madame's chair. She reached into the bag and pulled out a short length
of gold chain, with gold-colored cuffs attached to the ends. She then
went behind Phyllis, and stooped to attach them to his ankles. She
directed him to spread his ankles apart. As he did so, he quickly realized
that this chain was shorter than his previous shackles had been. It would
be nearly impossible for him to get anywhere without shuffling on tiptoe.
The next object Mistress retrieved from the bag, however, was far
more significant than the ankle fetters; it was this object that would
forever seal his fate. Mistress held it up for Phyllis to see. Then,
she busied herself attaching it to him.
She first removed his nipple rings, inserting new ones which were
somewhat thicker and sturdier than the original rings had been. As she
clamped them on, Phyllis heard a distinctive "click," making him
realize that these rings were permanently locked in place. Attached
to the new gold rings were short lengths of gold chain identical to the
chain joining his ankle cuffs. These chains were only about eight inches
long. And attached to the ends of them were gold handcuffs, which
Mistress now fixed on Phyllis's wrists. The handcuffs were joined together
by another length of gold chain, itself also about eight inches long.
Despite the tranquilizers, Phyllis could not stop the tears. He knew
his condition was now irrevocable. He also knew his situation was all but
impossible. How was he to accomplish even the simplest tasks? He knew
Madame and Mistress were unconcerned about his dilemma. Their expectations
were that he would serve, and serve perfectly, without mistake. Failure
to do so would be punished. It was up to him to figure out how to avoid
that punishment.
Mistress looked down at her sobbing slave. "Madame has one other
gift for you, slave," she said, her tone smug and superior. She reached
again into the bag and brought out a riding crop made of stiff black
leather. It looked even more lethal than the crop Phyllis had been made
to endure during his period of indentured servitude. Attached to the end
of its handle was a thick gold hoop. Mistress also held a clamp, with a
spring-loaded insert. This clamp was attached to a gold hoop similar to
the one on the handle of the crop. Mistress, after commanding Phyllis to
stand, fed this hoop through his testicle piercing. It closed with the
same "click" of finality as the nipple rings had.
Next, she opened the clamp, feeding the small handle-loop into it.
Phyllis now carried, dangling from behind his testicles, the instrument
of his discipline. Mistress could simply unclamp the crop and it would
be available for her to whip his ass, or his breasts, or even his
penis, which stuck straight out in front of him, stretched painfully
through the tight sleeve attached to his corset.
* * * * *
Phyllis had eventually adapted to his new life. Even simple tasks
were made difficult, of course, because of the shortness of the
chains joining his wrists to his nipple rings. But he had taught himself,
encouraged by Mistress's frequent and vigorous floggings, to overcome
the limitations imposed by his restraints. These days, he moved with
a graceful dignity, slowly but efficiently performing his daily routine.
He was an accomplished toilet slave. He would gladly have eaten the women's
shit had they chosen to defecate in his mouth, which they never did.
But, frequently they would "forget" to wipe themselves, and then he would
be commanded to lick them clean. They referred to such times as "feast
days in the temple of Goddess."
But things weren't going well this morning, however. The trouble had
begun when his stockings had snagged on his ankle cuff while he was
trying to slip them through the tiny space between his ankle and the
cuff. He had wasted a pair of stockings and was growing impatient with
the effort, of course causing him even more delay.
Finally dressed, he realized that if he didn't hurry, he was going
to be late for Madame's alarm. But, in his haste to have her breakfast
prepared, he'd hurried so that he was now perspiring, and his mascara
was beginning to melt. He scurried down the hallway to the stairs as
quickly as he could, virtually running on tiptoe, taking teeny six-inch
steps. He balanced his serving tray above his breasts, which flopped
wildly about, banging the underside of the tray, nearly knocking it
loose from his shaking hands. No matter how much he worried, this journey,
short though it might be for unfettered people, always took him several
minutes and left him breathless and exhausted when he reached the stairs.
He carefully bent over, setting the tray on a step, then shuffled
to the front door to retrieve the morning newspaper. He never even
glanced at the headlines anymore. Such matters as what took place beyond
the doors of Madame's house no longer interested him. Serving Madame and
Mistress was his only concern. And avoiding the riding crop.
He placed the paper on the tray, then turned around to begin his
journey up the stairs. He sat down, then lifted his shackled feet up
a couple of steps. Carefully, he stood, positioning his bottom over
the next available higher step, then slowly sat down so the contents
of the tray would not spill. He repeated this maneuver several times
until at last he stood at the top of the stairs. Too late, he heard
the alarm sounding in Madame's room. Before he could reach her door,
he heard her speaking loudly, "Where is that slut? Must I do everything
myself?"
As he turned the knob, a difficult task requiring him to balance the
tray with one hand while grasping the knob with the other, all the while
unable to see what he was doing since the tray - and his breasts -
prevented a clear view, he could hear Madame continuing to mutter and
curse. Finally, he was able to open the door and shuffle into the room.
As he moved toward the table where he could set his tray down, Madame
shouted curses at him, and he attempted to curtsy as he continued toward
the table, nearly dumping the tray and its contents on the floor.
"You worthless fucking idiot!" she screamed at him. "You're late
again. Haven't I told you over and over to get up early enough to be
here when the alarm goes off? What have you been doing? Reading the
comics? Idiot! Fool!"
Madame's shouting finally awakened Mistress, who had been sleeping
soundly in her room next door to Madame's. Still yawning, she stepped
through the door which connected the two rooms. "What's going on?" she
asked.
"Look at this worthless piece of shit!" Madame cried. "He's late -
as usual - and his mascara is smeared all over his face."
Mistress looked angrily at the forlorn Phyllis. "You miserable slave,"
she said, in a tone which raised goosebumps on Phyllis's flesh. "Bend
over and grab your knees. Now!"
Phyllis bent over, his lips trembling. Mistress reached between his
legs to release the crop from the clamp, grabbing and squeezing his
balls as she did so. His little penis-sleeve bell jangled merrily away.
Mistress smacked his ass so hard he nearly toppled over. His breasts
were heaving, making it difficult for him to grip his knees. He stifled
a scream as she brought the crop down a second time. But by the tenth
stroke, he was openly sobbing and begging Mistress to stop the flogging.
He lost count as she continued to flail at his burning ass. But,
finally, she stopped, and ordered him to kneel before her. She placed
the crop in his trembling hand, and commanded him to return it to its
holder. Then she instructed him to beg Goddess for her forgiveness.
Mistress turned around, presenting her ass to the kneeling Phyllis,
who spread her asscheeks and buried his face in her crack. He began
begging Goddess for forgiveness, his mouth jammed up against her
anal opening, causing his words to be muffled. Mistress and Madame
didn't care. What he said meant nothing. The fact that he buried his
face in their asses is what mattered. Finally, Mistress shouted,
"Worship, slave!" Phyllis's tongue instantly shot out of his mouth
and entered her anus, where he began to lick frantically, his tears
pouring from his eyes and running down the space between Mistress's
asscheeks.
After Phyllis had cleaned out her asshole, Mistress ordered him
to stand and serve Madame her breakfast. "You've already missed your
morning toilet chores, you shiteating idiot," Madame complained.
She sat down to eat, the hapless Phyllis holding her chair for her
while Mistress stood a few feet away, watching his every move.
He poured coffee into Madame's cup, and removed the glass cover
from her plate. Madame took her fork in her hand, and cut into the
egg. She brought the fork up to her mouth, and took a bite.
"Agghh!" she cried. "This food is stone cold!"
Mistress screamed at Phyllis. "You useless piece of shit! How
dare you treat Madame this way? Bend over! Now!"
Again, the crop was brought down on his already reddened ass. It
began to turn purple, and tiny drops of blood ran down the backs of
his legs. He could barely stand as the whip sliced away. Mistress
was breathing hard as she finished, her naked breasts heaving as she
gasped air into her lungs. Phyllis sobbed and cried, begging for
mercy. Slowly, the beating tapered off, and Phyllis was told to
stand up.
Madame glared at him. "You have ruined my breakfast and you have
failed in all your other duties. You shall go hungry today, you
miserable slut. No lunch for you. Do you understand?"
Phyllis, barely able to speak above a whisper, curtsied and gasped,
"Yes, Madame."
Madame said, "Now, take this tray of wasted food away from me. This
instant! And get out of my sight!"
Phyllis curtsied, picked up the tray and shuffled as quickly as he
could to the door. He heard Mistress say, as he scurried into the
hallway, "When you've repaired your appearance, you may prepare my
breakfast and report to me with it immediately."
Phyllis turned so that he was facing back into the room. He curtsied
again. "Yes, Mistress," he whispered. Then he closed the door and
hurried to the stairs.
Behind him in the room, Madame and Mistress smiled broadly at each
other. Then Madame began to dress for the day, and Mistress returned
to her bedroom, humming happily to herself.
* * * * *
His ass on fire and hurting intolerably as he descended the stairs
in reverse fashion of the way he had ascended them, Phyllis finally
managed to get to the main floor. He shuffle-hobbled into the kitchen,
where, holding back his tears, he managed to wipe away his ruined
makeup with a damp cloth. He carefully dried his face, then reapplied
his foundation, eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick. Carefully, he
ran a brush through his hair so that each strand would be perfectly
in place.
Then, he set about preparing Mistress's breakfast. He could hear
Madame coming down the stairs, opening the closet in the foyer to
retrieve her coat, then opening and closing the front door.
Quickly, Phyllis prepared Mistress's tray, and began the long,
arduous journey back upstairs to serve Mistress her breakfast.
He arrived at her door, where, balancing the tray with one hand,
he gently knocked on her door. Mistress called out, "Enter!"
Carefully, Phyllis bent over to grasp the doorknob, balancing
the tray with his other hand. He succeeded in turning the knob
without spilling the tray's contents, and he entered Mistress's
room noiselessly, if one ignored the jangling of his penis-sleeve
bell. Like Madame, Mistress had a small circular table in her room
where Phyllis served her breakfast, as well as an occasional bedtime
cup of cocoa. Phyllis shuffled directly to the table and placed the
tray carefully down on it.
Then, pressing the palms of his hands together between his breasts,
fingers stretched out as though he were praying, and elbows held
tightly against his waist, he turned to face Mistress, his eyes drilled
into the floor.
"Go draw my bath," she muttered sleepily, "Then come here and help
me out of this fucking bed."
Curtsying deeply, Phyllis hurried to the bathroom. He knelt over
the tub as far as he could in order to be able to insert the drain
plug. Then, he turned on the water. As quickly as he could, he stood
up and shuffled back into the bedrooom. Mistress was still lying in it.
He walked over to her bed, assuming the praying position once again.
Mistress opened one eye and said, "Well, don't just stand there, you
ninny, help me up."
Phyllis bent over and took Mistress's hand in his and began to back
away from the bed, straightening up as he did so. Mistress reached her
fingers out until they grasped Phyllis's nipple, then gave a mighty
squeeze. Phyllis wanted to scream as the sudden pain shot through his
breast and straight to his brain. But he knew better than to do that.
Such behavior would leave him unable to sit down for several days.
Finally, Mistress was on her feet, and Phyllis guided her into the
bathroom, where he gently led her to the toilet. She sat down and
peed noisily, afterwards requiring Phyllis to clean her up. Phyllis
then helped her step into the tub, where she sank into the nearly
scalding water, slick from bath oil beads Phyllis had put in while
he was filling it. Mistress soaped herself, though Phyllis was
required to kneel beside her in case she might desire assistance of
some sort.
Her bath completed, Mistress stood in the tub while Phyllis carefully
and gently shaved first her legs, then her underarms. Mistress had begun
to let her pubic hair grow back, but it was still too short for Phyllis
to trim her there. She stepped out of the tub, allowing Phyllis to wrap
a towel around her and to rub her dry. She then brushed her teeth as
Phyllis stood beside her, a cup of cold water in his hand for when
Mistress needed to rinse the excess paste from her mouth.
Then Mistress returned to the bedroom, going directly to the table
where Phyllis had laid out the breakfast. She sat down, and waited
while Phyllis poured her coffee. Then, she opened the newspaper to
scan the front page, and took a sip from her cup. Suddenly, she spat
the coffee back into the cup. "Wshh! Shit! You idiot! What did you
make this coffee with? Dishwater? Aaaghh! This is awful!"
Phyllis couldn't comprehend. He had just made a fresh pot. Then -
oh, no, had he forgotten to rinse the pot out completely after he had
cleaned up Madame's dishes? - an awful realization crept upon him.
He had been in too big a hurry because his earlier punishments had left
him running behind in his chores.
Mistress glared angrily at the trembling slave. "Turn around, you
shithead," she growled. "This instant! Now, bend over!"
Phyllis, knowing what was in store for him, trembled greatly,
and could hardly bend over. Mistress snatched the crop from its
holder, scratching his balls with her nails, causing his penis-sleeve
bell to begin tinkling.
WHAP!! Instantly, Mistress connected with the thin, deadly leather.
Phyllis cried out in anguished pain. WHAP! WHAP! The blows rained down
on his already tormented ass. He could finally take no more, and he
sank to his knees, his head on the bedroom floor, sobbing and screaming
as Mistress continued to rain blow after blow upon him.
Then, all was still. Mistress stood there, the riding crop in her
hand, breathing hard from the exertion. Phyllis lay on the floor,
still sobbing in pain and humiliation. His ass was again a fiery red
color, mixed with nasty-looking purple stripes. He would have to rub
a lot of salve on this morning's wounds.
"Get up, you worthless slave," said Mistress. "Go make me a fresh pot
of coffee. And be quick about it."
Phyllis could barely stand up. But he managed to leave the room
without further incident, and to hobble down the hall, somehow managing
to negotiate the stairs and balance the tray with the porcelain coffeepot
on it. He scurried to the kitchen, where he started a new pot of coffee,
then carefully washed and rinsed the porcelain pot, drying it with a
fresh, clean dishtowel.
He hurried up the steps once again, and entered Mistress's room with
the coffeepot on his tray. Mistress had already finished her breakfast,
and she directed him to set the pot on the table and pour her a cup.
Phyllis did so, pouring in a little cream as well. The meal finished
without further incident.
Before Phyllis could dress Mistress, however, he had to worship in
the temple of Goddess, this time licking and reaming Mistress's asshole
until she climaxed in orgasmic release.
Finally, he had completed making her up, doing her hair, and helping
her get dressed. He gathered up the dirty dishes, and left the room,
hurrying back downstairs to deposit his tray in the kitchen. He shuffled
as quickly as he could to the coat closet, where he held Mistress's
coat in his hands, waiting for her to take it from him. Eventually, she
came down the stairs and took the coat Phyllis offered. She then gave
him instructions to clean the entire house and to have dinner prepared
for both her and Madame by six-thirty. Phyllis curtsied over and over
as Mistress issued her orders, his penis-sleeve bell bouncing and jangling,
his huge breasts wobbling furiously.
* * * * *
...He wasn't sure when his situation had become permanent. But as he
stood in the foyer, gazing at his shackled hands and feet; at his enormous
breasts with his hands chained forever to them; at his madeup face and
carefully combed, platinum wig; at his penis pointing straight at the
mirror, tightly encased in the vinyl sheath; at the bell resting softly
against his useless balls; at the riding crop dangling obscenely from
his testicles between his legs, Phyllis knew. He knew that for him, he'd
earned his million dollars. He was a millionaire for sure. And more.
He smiled softly, and shuffled off to clean the house.
The End