Maid to Serve

Maid to Serve

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Henry dons a French maid’s outfit at the behest of Mistress Miranda and caters to her every whim — and those of her domme friends.

The very best thing about being married to Miranda is that I never know what to expect when I get home from work. Sometimes I find a loving wife and a hot meal waiting on the table for me, but other times I find a corset-clad dominatrix who wants to punish me. I get so nervous and excited when I open the door because I never know which Miranda I’m going to meet: the devoted housewife who always has food on the table or the bitch queen of my darkest fantasies.

Sometimes Miranda likes to keep me guessing, like when I got back from work on Friday night. She was curled up on the couch in a yellow robe, idly flicking through a magazine. She glanced at me, but didn’t hurry over for a kiss like she does when she’s feeling more playful. Her manner was slightly standoffish, but there wasn’t any venom. I told her I was starving, hoping she’d cooked me something filling. I’d had a tough day, filled with back-to-back business meetings, and I could have eaten a horse!

“You won’t be eating till later,” said Miranda, her eyes still upon her magazine. She didn’t say it with any real aggression, but I still felt a shiver shoot up and down my spine because her tone of voice was so crisp and decisive. Uncertain of how to respond, but eager to get in her good graces, I strolled over to give her a kiss. I aimed for her lips, but she turned her head, offering me her cheek instead. There was definitely something in the air that night. Either Miranda was feeling blue, or my mistress was coming out to play!

Growing anxious, I sat down and started explaining how my day had been. I always spare Miranda the boring details of my workday, but I like her to have a general idea of what went on. The success or failure of what I do has a huge effect on my state of mind, so she needs to know what’s happened, in case I ever seem distant, angry or hyper. Normally, she takes quite an interest in the subject. She seems proud that her husband is such a successful businessman — even at my young age, which puts me more than a decade her junior — but on this occasion she made me shush. I’d undone my laces and kicked off my shoes, and Miranda did not approve.

“Put those away immediately,” she shouted, pointing toward my shoes. Her nails were freshly manicured, and unnervingly so — each one was as pointed as a dagger. I shivered in anticipation as Miranda used another long, red nail to direct me upstairs.

Grabbing my shoes, I headed up to the bedroom. As I reached the landing, I heard Miranda shout, “And while you’re up there, fetch my heels!”

Miranda was playing a cat-and-mouse game. She’d been toying with me ever since I’d walked through the door, giving subtle hints of what was to come, but never making it totally clear. She hadn’t cooked any food. She didn’t want to hear about my work. She’d made me put away my shoes and fetch her heels. But she hadn’t called me “slave” yet, which was often the first word I heard upon getting home when she was in the mood for a mistress/slave scene. She was keeping me guessing, right up until the moment when I opened up her wardrobe.

Kneeling down to get Miranda’s heels, I spotted a small package labeled: “slave.” Presumably, I was meant to open it, but suddenly my hands were shaking too much from my excitement; such was my state of mind due to my impending scene with my mistress.

“Hurry,” Miranda yelled from downstairs, her impatient tone of voice enough to spur me into action. With shaking hands, I opened the wrapping and uncovered what was my very worst nightmare and my fondest wish: a French maid’s outfit. Miranda wanted to sissify me! The very thought shocked my senses — and stiffened my cock.

Holding the package and Miranda’s heels, I returned downstairs to find her pacing back and forth. She seemed annoyed with me for taking so long to return to her. Her normally soft, blue eyes were steely and cold, while her luscious lips had formed into an icy sneer. Under the circumstances, it was dumb of me to question her. But I couldn’t believe she was asking me to wear a frilly, girlie pinafore! Her annoyance became palpable when I told her how I felt. She grabbed hold of my shirt lapels, then tugged so hard that the buttons flew off.

“You’ll wear the pinafore,” Miranda barked, simultaneously slipping out of her robe. She was playing her trump card because all along, beneath the robe, she’d been wearing a breathtaking PVC corset, thigh-high stockings and nothing else. Instinctively, on seeing this vision of supreme womanhood, I dropped to my knees and helped my mistress into her stilettos. Elevated by her don’t-fuck-with-me heels, her formidable figure became even more daunting, casting a shadow over my kneeling form.

The vision of her and her imperious attitude made my cock breathtakingly hard.

She looked down at me, and I felt a shiver of delicious fear reverberate throughout my entire body.

“Now be a good girl, and go change,” said Miranda, “or else you can’t come to the party.”

“Party? What party?” I asked, examining my disheveled shirt. I took it off, but I still had no intention of dressing like a girl.

“I’m having a night in with friends,” explained Miranda, “and it’s strictly girls-only.” She spoke softly and clearly, her manner quite friendly until she gripped my hair and bellowed, “Strip!”

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