Another New Story (Patreon)

NOTE FOUND IN THE SERVANT'S QUARTERS

Good morning, sir. 

I am writing to inform you that I will be moving into your house very soon. I'll be along this afternoon for an initial inspection, and anticipate really shifting in as soon as tomorrow.

You're doubtless surprised to hear that. Possibly especially so if you recognise my name.

...Though I expect you don't.

Just another faceless little nobody that you embarrassed and let go without a second thought. After all - not worth a first, let alone a second, thought.

But I remember you.

I remember you, and happened to look you up and discovered that your - if I may say - very nice house is rather conveniently located for some business of mine.

What business? Well, obviously that's none of your concern and you shouldn't bother your silly little head about it.

So, anyway, I'll be moving in.

At this point you're probably wondering why you're still reading this ridiculous impudent nonsense. Well, obviously enough, 'Sir', it's because of the Magic. 

This letter is magic. You can't stop reading, and you won't.

You can't affect anything that's about to happen to you.

Oh dear, I suppose.

... So, anyway, like I was saying, I'll be moving into your house. Where will you go? Don't worry - I've decided to keep you around.

Of course, certain CHANGES will have to be made. I'm sure you understand, or at least will shortly.

Yes, that's the normal feeling.

That kind of warm, tingly MELTING sensation.

That's what your, in my opinion, long overdue transformation feels like.

It's not even unpleasant, necessarily, is it?

You have my permission to stick your hand down your pants.

Yes, feel it. Feel it remold and squish and pull up into you.

Slide your hand up your belly now. You can feel the pressure of it in there, warm and swollen and...

Yes, feel it flowering out.

Moan away - there's no one to hear you.

You have a womb now.

Go back and tickle your pretty little clitty for a second, really admire what a dainty little girl you are now, then move your hand to your chest.

Your spine is shifting, even without your developing, inexorably tightening corset. Your chest will always be thrust out like this now. 

...And, yes - your nipples will always feel like that too.

Big. Hard. Hot. Sensitive. Tingly. Yearning. 

Feel that hard cone-shaped swelling beneath them. That won't always feel like that. No, feel how big and soft and wobbly and outthrust they're starting to feel already... And it's just starting.

Incidentally, and not to give anything away... But I've always felt there's something just RIGHT about Domestics with big tits, right?

A motherly thing, I guess?

Yes, your clothes will be less and less in the way, you'll notice.

Especially around your ass. Your wiggling, plumpening ass.

Feel that hair running down your back. Open your swelling lips in your ever-more-delicate face and moan again.

Your hair will start to tie itself up into a loose, sexy bun soon - don't worry. It'll still be in your face, of course, but only in an attractive way.

No, there's no use getting upset about those - their growth and soft overflowing of your little top has only just begun.

Yes - your whole lower half is pretty much bare now. No - those little stockings don't hide much at all. 

Nor do your lacy little panties.

Oh, the growth of your high heels isn't going to stop anytime soon either.

Better to just peep and jiggle and try to keep your balance as best you can - it'll be good practice for the rest of your life.

What a pleasant little change is coming over you.

...Actually, while we're on this topic, I just want to mention that I feel this aspect of my work is really misunderstood.

What is this kind of transformation, really? When you turn someone into some kind of stock sexual archetype, what is really happening?

Let's say - just for example - that I turn some fat middle-aged bastard into - I don't know - a fluffy French Maid, what is really transforming?

What do we get? 

Is it really just a Barbie doll body? A cartoon French Accent? A pair of frankly ridiculous bouncy boobs? A sexy Halloween costume? A compulsion to curtsey? An impractical feather duster?

The thing people don't seem to realise is that the physical aspects of the transformation are, in some ways, the least dramatic.

Take you, for example. You haven't even begun to examine yourself after your recent little change, but you already know perfectly what you are, in your very nature, in the depths of your soul.

You're my silly sexy little French Maid.

Go on, look down, look into your ridiculous cleavage. Admire your fluffy frilly little frou-frou dress. Subservient uber-femininity at its least subtle. The corset that seems to do nothing to support the ridiculous wobbling breasts that it pushes up into so much overflowing cleavage. The skirt that would still be short, but not THAT short, if it weren't for the countless layers of fluffy petticoats lifting it up until your ass pokes out and wiggles like a peach with your slightest lean.

The tiny white apron at your lap, knotted into a big bow around your miniscule waist. The black choker, the vestigial garter, the frilly little cap, the wildly impractical six inch heels, and - yes - the stupid little feather duster.

They're perfect for you - they're NORMAL on you, you'll never look quite right wearing anything else, but that barely matters.

What matters is that you are suddenly, crushingly aware of that slight cover of dust on the table, that minuscule discolouration to the carpet, the fact that there is a cup - A CUP - sitting on the sink... But above all that I, YOUR MASTER said I would be there later this afternoon.

Oh, that's got your adorable fluffy little head in a fluster now, hasn't it?

Do you know why? Of course you do. You understand perfectly.

You know that if you simply turned to the door and ran away, never to return (though, of course, you also know that you never EVER would do such a thing, but that's irrelevant), you know that you would end up working as a French Maid wherever you went. It's your nature, your fate, your destiny.

Now.

Even if you somehow managed to get hired as a receptionist or something, you would spend all day dusting, your ass wiggling in the air as you bent your waist, and fussing around, making silly little squeaky murmurs in French and worrying that your employer was not being looked after properly.

Because, (and I know that you totally and truly understand this, but the oversimplification of 'Bimbo in a Halloween Costume' irritates me so) you are a French Maid.

More specifically, you are MY French Maid.

Now, I know that your little mind is racing in horror at your knowledge that you have a pair of old underpants lying on the floor of your room - you must naturally remove those immediately. You need to change the sheets, make up the bed, move things around. Make it perfect for your Master - because, of course, that is HIS room now, just as you are standing, feeling so small and unworthy, in HIS house now, and you must make it perfect, because everything of the Master's must be perfect.

That is, after all, what you are for.

But, if you'll indulge me, I want to bring a few things about the New You into sharper focus.

What is it about the silly French Maid archetype? 

Why have they been a stock comedy character for so long? What makes it so sexy? 

I mean, I suppose it's pretty obvious what's sexy about the idea of a luscious young girl in your house, who is completely subservient to you and spends her days on her hands and knees in your bedroom whether she means to or not, but there's more than that.

For starters, why is she FRENCH?

A bit of naive foreigner who is confused about our ways? A bit of country bumpkin who has never seen outside her little pastoral French village and finds everything so big and impressive? A bit of nubile ambassador from a more sexual libertine culture?

...Then again, maybe people just think the accent's sexy.

I think it could be argued that she's a hugely sexualised character who doesn't realise how sexualised she is.

She seems to think that having a uniform that almost rubs your bare tits in your face while almost baring your wiggling ass everytime you bend over is somehow NORMAL. And that wobbling like that naively through wealthy men's bedrooms is just what Good Girls DO.

I think that's definitely part of it - but I think it's a bit more complicated.

I think she DOES know on some level that she's a silly little piece of eyecandy... She just can't make herself BELIEVE it, because she understands her place as a mere serving girl.

Let's start with the normal beginning of your day - waking up early in your cot in your little broomcloset of a room.

...Yes, there are much larger and nicer rooms sitting empty, but the thought of inhabiting one of them fills you with an instinctual shock, the kind that usually causes you to slap a delicate hand to your wide open mouth and mutter 'Mon Dieu!' just under your breath.

You are a mere SERVANT, after all! Such things would not be fitting for you!

What is fitting is this: waking up two hours before your Master to ensure that you have the necessary time. Time to make things perfect. Time to make YOURSELF perfect. Time to make the perfect breakfast for your Perfect Master!

You lie there for a moment, though, and lightly and ashamedly diddle yourself. You were dreaming of me, of course. You can't help it - I am the sun that your little world orbits. I am what matters.

You know it's wrong, of course, to even imagine that one such as *I* might stoop to one such as *you*, but you try to push down your shame as you finger yourself, your hard nipples and little clitty still tingling just slightly from your dreams of me smiling down on you in satisfaction.

You give up rather quickly and breathe your frustration. It is wrong to think of Master such! How shameful!

...Even if that shame, that edge of NAUGHTINESS is part what makes it so very enticing for you...

You're hopelessly in love with me, of course.

That's what makes you jump up off your little bed, makes you bound into the shower. Makes you take so long on your hair, your face, your little uniform.

You tingle as you adjust your impressively bountiful and visible cleavage for the umpteenth time, lean forward to check your make up again in the mirror, your loose hemispheres of perky tit wobbling along happily, and imagine your Master's gaze. Imagine the warmth of it moving across you, perhaps even pausing briefly in appreciation. Appreciation of the boundless, overflowing femininity crammed so carefully into this neat, subservient package.

You bite your lip at the thought. Your big nipples are so hard.

It's not that you want me to fuck you. I know - you are gasping now at the mere thought - it's that you wouldn't even allow yourself to dream of such a thing.

After all - Master is MASTER, and you keep your hopes and even your lusts to your proper station.

When serving Master coffee in the morning... Or curtsying deeply when the arrives at the door... You lean forward, bosom outthrust, cleavage angled perfectly for a glimpse right down your frilly little maid top. You keep your eyes down, as is proper when dealing with your Betters, and imagine - hope, dream, pray - that I'm taking advantage of the opportunity. That my gaze is burning into your perfectly presented boobs. That your ludicrously overdeveloped figure has not gone unnoticed.

...But you would never allow yourself to actually believe it.

To believe that you are worthy of the Honour of my gaze, of my passing lust.

Even when your back is fully turned to me, and you, bent hard at the waist, are engaged in dusting or tidying or some other activity appropriate for a servant like you, your big round ass pushed out and thrust into easy visibility beneath your pretty little petticoats, your inadequately pantied buttocks wiggling happily as you murmur and hum to yourself... Even then, you would never ever actually expect that I'm staring at you.

Hope... Fantasize... Certainly, but never actually expect it.

I am Master, after all, you are merely The Help. A scrumptious little silly girl, perhaps, but so far beneath me that it would be shameful to assume that I've even noticed.

... Which will, of course, make it quite the constant surprise when I DO fuck you.

When I grab you from behind, your mouth flying open in amazement and joy as I pop your huge titties out, bend you over a table, your silly frilly skirt lifting so far up, and fuck you raw.

It's okay - I know your little French Maid mind is utterly disbelieving of this part - and it always will be - so I can just tell you about it.

Tell you how you always babble in French, your eyes rolled back in ecstasy, your little frilly white cap knocked loose, your enormous ridiculous pale tits bouncing and sloshing heavily with my every thrust.

You always start singing for some reason, also in French, your silly Helium voice finally sounding just perfect as you breathlessly and joyously rhapsodise your Master. His perfection, his benevolence, his willingness to so honour even a mere servant girl like you, and - most of all - his huge, long, steelhard cock and just how sublimely divine it feels roughly slamming into a girlhood as tight and juicy as yours.

You very nearly weep with your pride. Your sense of utter, profound HONOUR that I would, even in passing, consider you WORTHY of this.

Worthy of the honour of a quick, sloppy fuck across a table.

Your orgasm as you feel the warmth of me dumping into you is explosive, cartoonish.

Your eyes are crossed, your jaw slack, your tongue lolls free beneath your full-lunged ecstatic squeal.

You always suffer days of self-recrimination afterwards - so mortified that the blacked out babbling mess that you devolve into for up to an hour afterwards means that Master has to wait for someone to tidy up the mess, right the furniture, sweep up the crockery or vase or photoframe that was knocked over and shattered in the violence of our passion. 

No one to stare obediently up, deep into his eyes as she cleans his dripping dick with her flapping tongue and full, sensuous lips...

That last one particularly bothers you.

But I suppose that's why you have dreams.

...Not to say that I won't cum in your mouth or just all over your face sometimes. Perhaps in the shower, perhaps while I'm watching TV...

You'll never take it for granted though - still never actually believe that you might somehow be WORTHY of such a thing.

Knowing that their Master finds them fuckable - possibly even achingly sexy - can make for a haughty, even IMPUDENT Maid.

...And that's not what you are.

You know your place - and it's almost-innocently rubbing your ridiculous tits in my face while prancing around, dressed like a pornographic cartoon, never ever forgetting your status, your station, your role in life, and that it is in every sense of the word BENEATH me.

I know what you're doing right now, by the way.

I know where your hand is. I know what you were rubbing as you read my description of that last bit.

Well - now you've yanked your hand out of your panties in horror. You know that good little Maids don't do things like that, especially while biting their lips and thinking of their Masters, ESPECIALLY not when he can see them.

Oh your current blushing and self recrimination!

Your shame at your moist fingers, at just how hard your achingly swollen nipples are poking through your little top.

How embarrassing for you! Remind me to spank you later this evening for this indiscretion.

Now think back to a moment ago - how EVEN MORE embarrassing! 

How EVEN MORE deserving of being taken across your Master's knee!

You remember it all, of course!

A moment ago, when you were an ugly fat man. An ugly fat man who thought - actually thought - that he was WORTHY of owning a house like this! EVEN thought he was worthy of mistreating MASTER! 

Who somehow WASN'T going to spend the rest of the day on his knees, scrubbing away like a good little girl! 

Who DIDN'T spend all day wiggling his little ass in a demeaning uniform, and DIDN'T even have as his greatest secret desire one day being on his knees feeling Master's hot jizz splashing his tonsils! 

How EMBARRASSING! How SILLY!

Yes, you were right to just slap a hand to your pretty little mouth and gasp "Mon Dieu!" 

It's not like that now, is it?

You UNDERSTAND now, don't you?

You understand your place.

Your TRUE place.

Your place - as decreed by me, and as such, perfect in every way.

You know what, I don't have time - you do it.

Bend over, lift your skirts, drop your ridiculous panties, and give yourself a stern spanking right now!

HARDER!

Harder even than that!

I want your perky plush ass to jiggle for a full minute after your last slap!

What a haughty, silly little thing you've been!

But you'll make it up to me. Yes, you certainly will.

You'll make it up with years spent on your knees, serving your Master happily and devotedly. 

It gives you a vast sense of satisfaction just thinking about it, doesn't it?

Your entire nature craves it. Understands that it is where you belong, my little...

Oh - I haven't named you yet, have I? 

You can stop spanking yourself now, but certainly continue to dwell on just how silly and naughty you've been, and how ecstatic you are that you've been given a chance to make your foolishness up to me.

What's a name as silly and fluffy and stereotypical as you?

Babette...? Gabriella...? Yvette...?

Fifi is probably too much - not because it doesn't suit you perfectly, but because it's likely the name of a neighbour's dog and as such could cause some confusion. 

Let's split the difference and go with Monique.

Yes - Monique. Slide your panties back up your long legs, and as you fight to pull them over your huge, aching, ass ponder just how PERFECT your name is. Just how PERFECTLY it suits you. 

...But then, it IS the name that Master gave you, and as such, it is perfect. 

... Actually, you know what?

Head over to that table. Just the close one, as fast as you can.

You'll forgive me if I laugh - and I am certainly laughing right now - but watching you move might be my favourite thing about you.

The way that your tiniest step sets your ludicrous titties bouncing and sloshing like helium balloons. It seems impossible that such slight movement could translate into such energetic - to say nothing of HEAVY - wobbling, but your feminine mysteries are boundless, aren't they, my little Monique?

That's right, straighten your back, thrust them out even further. Put out your little arms, still clutching at your little featherduster, and fight to keep your balance with every new step.

Take those tiny little quick steps in your huge heels. Try to minimise the ridiculous bounce in your ridiculous chest. TRY.

They're always just on the verge of fully popping into freedom, aren't they? They're closer to slapping your pretty little chin than you'd care to admit, aren't they? 

Take those teensy little frantic steps with your arms held out.

TAPtapTAPtapTAPtapTAPtapTAP go your sexy shoes.

It's a dainty little mince, each little foot instinctively landing right in front of the other for maximum wiggle. It guarantees that the only thing moving as much as your boobies is the furiously wiggling little peach of your almost-bare ass.

But I think it's your face that makes it perfect. Your lips compressed into a little 'O', your eyes so wide.

It's as if you're continuously surprised by this latest obstacle, but are so earnestly struggling to overcome it. 

The obstacle in this case being that you are just about the silliest little fucktoy possible.

Congratulations, you have made it five feet to the nearest table. You may now take a second to subtly try to settle your tits back into your uniform, before I want you to turn and go back to where you came from.

God, you're a treat.

...Anyway, I think I've wasted enough time today talking to the Help.

Obviously, you are going to clean the house from top to bottom. Obviously, you are going to do everything possible to make things ready for me.

Obviously, I don't have to tell you this - you already understand.

Just as you Understand that you will be waiting there for me when I step into my new house for the very first time. 

You'll be on your knees. Your eyes will be humbly downturned. Your cleavage will be angled for maximum visibility.

And you'll be wearing your thickest, reddest lipstick... Not for any other reason than HOPE. Just like your eyes will catch for one involuntary moment at my crotch, as you look up into my face for the first time as my darling little maid. 

Your lips hot and moist and just slightly parted... 

Dare to dream, my little Monique.

Your dream may come true sooner than you suspect. I've always loved the feeling of muffled French being gurgled around my cock. 

(P.S. You can dispose of this note with the usual trash. Careful with it, though - it'll have the same effect it had on you with anyone else who reads it... 

Though I suppose we COULD always use more Staff...)