“I’m, I’m the new chambermaid, sir,” I said, curtsying as Mistress Cruz had taught me. If possible, his glare was even more chilling.
“Don’t you think I know that?” he hissed at me. “I’m asking you what you are doing here, at the front door, as if you were a guest of Mistress Madeleine instead of the kitchen door where it is proper for someone in your position.”
Gulping, I felt my cheeks burning hot, and tears filling my eyes. I can’t believe I made such a horrific mistake! I turned even as the butler was closing the door and ran to the side of the house, hoping to find the kitchen door before he alerted anyone to my amazingly stupid act.
The wing I was sprinting for was obscured by hedges, and as I skidded around the corner, hair disheveled under my hat, I knew it was the wrong side of the house. Full-length windows, which offered a view of the garden (and me) covered the entire south side. Through a set of open French doors I could hear someone singing German lieder accompanied by a piano. When the music stopped abruptly, I knew they had seen me. I wished myself invisible and sped on around the back of the house, finally stumbling to a halt in front of a door that stood wide open, once again facing the baleful glare of the butler.
Gathering the last of my emotional strength, I curtsied again, panting. “Sir, I’m the new chambermaid, sir, reporting in.”
As I gasped for breath, I felt his eyes move over me. My skirt was hanging wrong now, there was a run in my left stocking, and my felt hat was wilted. I had scuffed my shoes and the heels had bits of earth on them. His nose twitched as if he could smell me sweating profusely through my blouse. The palms of my gloves were stained and damp. “I will inform the housekeeper of your arrival,” he said, gesturing for me to wait under the covered roof of the breezeway, next to the recycling and compost bins.
Just before the tears spilled out of my eyes, a flash of memory. “You are not a quitter, you got chutzpah.” Miss Cruz. She said it to me so many times, sometimes after watching me drag myself off the floor after a beating, other times when I was perfecting my tea serving skills in her Chelsea apartment. “Remember that, my dear. It’s your greatest strength.”
Alison Cruz had been the best thing that ever happened to me. While meeting her had been through an odd set of accidents and misunderstandings, she had taken a liking to me, and she introduced me to the world I was now entering. First, she took me to some of the S/M clubs in New York, and later, to some of the private parties held by the professional doms. I found a partial answer to my desires there, but I wanted more. I begged her to let me serve her, to become her personal maid. Reluctantly, she agreed to a trial arrangement. I moved in with her, and for three months I served her. In return, she taught me how to speak properly, and to perfect my make-up so as to enhance my features without calling undue attention to them. When I took her to lunch after being accepted into my current position, she expressed her confidence again. “You are a natural, Francie, I knew that when I first saw you,” she said. “You will go to the Marketplace. I’m betting on it.”
So instead of running, instead of breaking down into tears, instead of doing all the things I wanted to do, I snapped open my purse, fetched my brush and pulled it through my hair, refastened my hat, and fixed my make-up. I thought about removing the sweat-stained gloves, but I heard footsteps approaching and settled for straightening my skirt. The door opened and the housekeeper stepped out to the breezeway.
“Welcome, Miss Francie,” she said formally. “I am Miss Claudia, the housekeeper and Mistress Madeleine’s personal maid. You will be working under me.”
Miss Claudia was a petite woman who wore a dark green dress with a neckline decorated with lace in a manner that appeared modest while inviting attention to her cleavage. There was lace at the wrists, and decorating her apron. Her brown hair was drawn back in a French twist, held in place by a complicated arrangement of long hairpins decorated with tiny pearls. There were curly wisps that had freed themselves, softening the overall effect to such success I knew it was deliberate. She looked like a perfect little china doll, absolutely delicious.
I curtsied in acknowledgment of her introduction. “Thank you, ma’am,” I whispered, keeping my voice soft.
“My Mistress says you have very high recommendations from Miss Cruz,” she said. “She expects good work from you, and I intend to ensure she receives it.” The housekeeper stepped closer to me, looking up into my eyes. I could smell a light floral scent from her hair. She reached forward, as if to smooth a wrinkle in my blouse, her fingers brushing my left nipple, which immediately hardened. With a small smile, her hand traced its way down my buttons to my skirt, and patted the bulge I had tried so hard to hide under a tight jockstrap. “I expect you to work hard to please me in every way, Miss Francie,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. “It is not until I am satisfied that you will be allowed to personally serve Mistress Madeleine.”
I gulped. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of my cock. I wasn’t like the men who thought dressing in women’s clothes and licking the shoes of a dominatrix was the height of sexual satisfaction. Dressing in women’s clothes wasn’t degrading or humiliating for me, in fact, it exhilarated me. But I didn’t want to change my sex. I just wanted to be a maid.
A maid with a dick.
Being a maid had been a lifelong dream. When I was a little boy I devised elaborate tea parties for my stuffed animals, and served them all. I devoured old etiquette books, memorizing the details of setting tables and changing bed linens. My favorite television show was “Upstairs/Downstairs.” As I grew older, I became devoted to Merchant/Ivory films like Howard’s End and books like Remains of the Day. I never wanted to be the butler or the chauffeur in my fantasies. I wanted to be a maid.
I fantasized that I lived in Edwardian England, working in one of the great country halls, starting as a scullery maid and working my way up the servant hierarchy until I was moved Upstairs, eventually serving as Lady’s maid. I dreamed of lacing her corsets, brushing her hair (a hundred strokes). Sometimes in my fantasies I was caught doing something wrong, and was disciplined severely. The punishment would depend on my position in the household: if I was a scullery maid, for instance, the cook would beat me with a wooden spoon. If I was a Lady’s maid, it would be a spanking with her silver-backed brush. Or I might lean forward and place my hands on the fireplace mantel in the parlor, my crisp black dress yanked up above my buttocks, and be caned by the butler or housekeeper. Never in my dreams, however, had I imagined a housekeeper so delicate and beautiful.
Pulse pounding, I followed Miss Claudia through the kitchen. She took me up the back staircase to the third floor, showed me the room I would share with the other maids, and instructed me to freshen up and prepare to meet the rest of the staff. “Your uniform is on the bed. We will be waiting in the parlor at four p.m. precisely, Miss Francie,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
I kicked off my pumps and let myself slump against the wall momentarily. I was awash in a mix of emotions: awe, fear, joy, and an unrelenting horniness ever since the pretty housekeeper had touched me. I undressed, washed my upper body, and shaved my face at the basin in the corner of the room. Foundation, blush, mascara, a hint of eye shadow, and lipstick in a soft coral were next. Then I padded over to the bed, and looked at the uniform. It was exactly as I had dreamed about all those years: simple, black rayon dress, starched white apron, crisp white cap. Black leather pumps and sheer black stockings. Each garment was an erotic delight to handle and put on. I could have spent hours just running my fingers across the silk slip, and pulling the tight, high-waisted girdle over my throbbing privates nearly made me come. But I only had a few minutes before my introduction to the staff, so I contented myself with snapping the garters against my thighs as I secured the stockings.
Standing in front of the room’s full-length mirror, I studied myself. My short, dark brown hair was once again brushed firmly into an old-fashioned pageboy, bangs marching straight across my brow, cap fastened firmly on
top. The dress had been made from my measurements, and showed off my slender waist, the hem line precisely at my knees. I would still tower over most of the women in the house, but I kept my shoulders down and my back straight. I knew other men who slumped to hide their height when they were in women’s clothes; Miss Cruz had cured me of that habit long ago. Besides, my shoes had low heels, keeping my height at a manageable five-foot-eight. Taking a deep breath, I headed down the stairs.
The parlor was just off the main hall. I knocked quietly at the door, and once again came face to face with the frosty-eyed butler. I curtsied again, mostly to avoid his eyes, and he stepped to one side, allowing me to enter. The staff was lined up in front of the fireplace, Miss Claudia standing in front of them.
“Welcome, Miss Francie,” she said warmly, indicating that I should join her, then turned to the staff. “Miss Francie is to be the new second chambermaid. Her responsibilities will cover the guest rooms, and to assist the first chambermaid and myself in any other duties.” She then introduced me one by one to the rest of the staff: the parlor maid, Miss Charlene; the first chambermaid, Miss Susan; the Cook (“Cook,” of course); and finally, the butler, Mr. Fletcher. As I was introduced to each, I curtsied and they would respond with a curtsy (or in the case of Fletcher, a bow).
“Jefferson, the chauffeur, is out with Mistress Madeleine,” Miss Claudia explained, “and the garden is managed by a company, and is not part of the house. But in any event, you would have little contact with Jefferson or the gardeners, as your duties should not take you even downstairs, except for meals and to assist Charlene for special events. We don’t need chambermaids running through the gardens, interrupting music lessons in the Conservatory, despite evidence to the contrary.”
I blushed a deep crimson, and heard someone snigger. The housekeeper’s head snapped in the direction of the sound, and her pretty eyes narrowed.
“Susan,” she said quietly. The plump red-head stepped forward quickly, her face filled with dread. “Fetch me a cane from the stand, please.” I watched the maid’s eyes fill with tears, but she didn’t protest. She trotted to what I had mistakenly thought was an umbrella stand, and pulled a cane from the half dozen that were kept there. She returned to hand the cane to Miss Claudia, and curtsied. The housekeeper pointed to the fireplace mantle, and with a nervous whimper, the red-head turned to the mantle and pulled her skirt up, revealing creamy white buttocks barely covered with black lace panties, and a black garter belt. With trembling fingers, she lowered those wispy panties to just below the curve of her bottom.
“Susan, you are to receive four strokes for inappropriate verbal behavior,” the housekeeper stated.
“Yes, Miss Claudia,” the girl answered, her voice quavering. The first stroke came almost immediately after she finished speaking, and I winced involuntarily at the sharp sound of cane hitting flesh. The impact had hit the softest, fleshiest part of the maid’s buttocks, just above her thighs, and two red, parallel lines were already appearing in sharp relief against her skin. She had gasped, but made the formal reply. “Thank you, Miss Claudia.” The swish of the cane and its impact cracked through the air again, and again two parallel marks appeared, directly below the first set. “Thank you, Miss Claudia,” the maid whimpered. The third stroke bit into her thighs, and I flinched again, in sympathy. The housekeeper flicked the cane through the air one last time, and now there were eight angry red lines paralleling each other perfectly across the chambermaid’s buttocks and thighs. “Thank you, Miss Claudia,” she responded, a sob catching in her voice. I watched the housekeeper step forward and touch the girl reassuringly on the shoulder.
“Don’t cry now, Susan, it’s not seemly,” she said, “Mistress Madeleine will be home for dinner, and we can’t have your eyes all puffy and red, can we?” I watched her hand dropping to caress the chambermaid’s buttocks, cupping them briefly, and running a finger across the marks. “What if she wants a juicy redhead to turn her bed down tonight, hmmm?” The maid nodded, a smile lighting up her face now, and Miss Claudia patted her once more before pulling her panties up and smoothing her skirt back over her buttocks. She then returned her attention to the rest of us. Other than a slight rise of color in her pretty cheeks, the housekeeper was as calm as she was before she had so viciously caned the young maid. I shivered. What composure!
“Mistress Madeleine will be returning at six,” she informed us. “Mr. Linden will be joining her for dinner, and is expected to stay through the weekend next. Dinner will be served at seven thirty. Charlene, please assist Cook in preparations. Mr. Fletcher, I must ask you to attend to the table, as I will be instructing Francie in her upstairs duties. I expect to be finished before seven, and will assist you at that time. That will be all, thank you.” With her dismissal, the servants left quickly, to attend to their various tasks.
I followed Miss Claudia to the back stairs, still in shock. I knew I would have trouble sleeping tonight, thinking of her sweet, smooth hands wielding a cane that would come sizzling down on my backside, but I kept that thought in the back of my head and made a determined effort to concentrate. On the second floor, Miss Claudia began opening doors.
“This is the guest wing,” she explained. “There are four rooms, each with their own bathroom. Linens are kept here.” She continued the tour, pointing out where supplies were to be found, the closet for storing dirty linens until they were to be taken to the laundry room in the basement, and the dumbwaiter located between the second and third rooms.
“Mr. Linden will be using the blue room,” Miss Claudia said as she showed me the room, which was decorated in the more masculine Federal style, with a sturdy four-poster bed dominating the room. “He takes a snifter of brandy at night, and prefers his windows open.” She hesitated, looking at me. “Previously, Mr. Linden has requested that Mr. Fletcher attend to him because we don’t have a valet on staff, but Mistress Madeleine has decided that you shall be called upon for those duties.” She hesitated, and I wondered if Mr. Linden was expecting someone like me to appear at his door. Then the housekeeper seemed to come to a decision. “Follow me, Miss Francie,” she said, and we headed to the other wing, passing through a hidden door into a small bedroom that I knew instantly was hers.
The room was petite and very feminine. The walls were bisected with a chair rail, and floral wallpaper reached up to the ceiling. Pink curtains moved slightly in the afternoon breeze. A double bed with a fluffy comforter was pushed against one wall. A vanity set, a straight-backed chair, and a chest of drawers were the other furniture. I stood in the center of the room on a round rug decorated with a rose pattern, while the housekeeper went to her vanity and opened one of the drawers, retrieving something that I couldn’t see.
“Francie, please take off your undergarment,” she requested. I pulled the skirt up to grasp the top of the restrictive girdle and peel it off my body. As I started to pull my skirt back down, she interrupted. “No, keep your skirt up.” She walked slowly toward me, her eyes fixed on my cock. I blushed, and I felt my cock get harder under her gaze.
“That’s such a pretty package, it’s a shame to hide it under something so binding,” she said. “I think an alteration in your uniform is required.” She gently gathered my balls into her hand. I breathed hard at her touch, my insides melting in embarrassment and desire.
“Francie, from now on, this will be worn beneath your uniform instead of underwear.” In her hand was a leather strap with snaps that I immediately recognized as a cock ring. She smiled at me as she wrapped the leather around my cock and balls. “This was a special gift from a friend, a fellow maid when I first met him,” she remarked as she snapped it tightly around my privates. “Oh, I’m so pleased it fits,” she said.
She started to pat my balls, the palm of her hand coming up between my legs, first gently, then harder, until she was lightly and rapidly slapping my scrotum. A moan escaped my lips, and she smiled wider. She stopped slapping and grasped my cock in her hand, moving up and down on the shaf
t, encouraging it to grow. I was panting from the intensity until she slapped it as well, and the pain stabbed through my groin. Even as I gasped she returned to fondle my balls again, torturing me to the edge of pleasure, then slapping, never so hard as to cause real agony, but enough to make me gasp. Finally, she stopped, but the leather ring kept my balls engorged and my cock was protruding nearly straight out from my body. Miss Claudia stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Yes, that will do splendidly,” she decided. “I’ll have your uniforms shortened to enhance the effect, but this will do nicely for this evening.” She smoothed my skirt down, her eyes twinkling as my throbbing package showed in sharp relief through the fabric.
“Yes, this will do quite splendidly,” she repeated, and gestured for me to follow her out of the room. Glancing at the grandfather clock in the corridor, she ordered me to my duties, and started downstairs to assist Mr. Fletcher.
I was dusting the windowsills in the blue room when Susan knocked timidly on the door and entered.
“Francie, I wanted to apologize to you personally for my behavior earlier today,“ she said, after curtsying to me. “I hope you won’t be mad at me—I’d like us to be friends.”
“Oh, I hope we can, too,” I responded eagerly. “But I must admit I was rather taken aback by your punishment. After all, you barely made a peep. Is Miss Claudia always so stern with the maids?”
“Oh, yes,” said Susan, with a bit of relish in her voice. “It’s one of the reasons I love being here. You know,” she added, lowering her voice confidentially, “she wasn’t always that way. When I was first working here, Miss Claudia was a timid little thing. She would cry at the slightest thing. I thought she was rather brainless, really, the way she would flutter about. She wasn’t much good for anything other than serving tea and polishing the silver.”
The Academy Page 8
