Constant 3, Chapter 4-1 (Patreon)

This previously followed on directly from the end of the two Noir scenes, but now that I've split this arc into two chapters, this opens up chapter 4. If I'm being honest, there was always going to be a maid scene at some point in Constant, just because I thought it would be fun. It wasn't originally intended to be with Julia, but I think it works within the dynamics of their relationship well.

Enjoy! By all means, let me know what you think, if you want - feedback is always appreciated!

One: Non, Madame!

That next day, Sunday, was rough. Lying in Jonas’s bed, nestled in the crook of his arm with his snores tickling the back of my neck, I desperately wished for Julia to cancel.

            She didn’t. My phone pinged. She expected me at her place, 2pm on-the-dot. I dropped the phone by the side of the bed and closed my eyes.

            The boy’s hand rested lightly on my ass. I felt very detached from myself and from his touch. Jonas stirred, hand shifting from ass to boob. This was my first time waking up in a man’s bed, in a man’s embrace. He held me a little closer in his half-sleep, and his cock grew and pressed a little more insistently against my bum. His morning wood was an echo of my own, though I felt mine very differently.

            I must have dozed, because when I opened my eyes again the watery sunlight slanting through the blinds was higher up the wall. Jonas was propped up on one elbow, looking down at me with a curious half-smile.

            I blinked up at him sleepily. “How long have you been watching me?”

            “Not too long.” He sat back in his bed. “Not long enough.”

            “Creep,” I smiled, and yawned.  The bedsheets fell away as I stirred, and his gaze tracked the expanse of an exposed leg, thigh and breast, before returning to my face.

            “You’re beautiful,” he said.

            He deserved better. Better than a basket case at his door at midnight, desperate for company and dissolving into tears the moment he got her through the door. He took me in his arms and held me. Bruno, his roommate, rolled his eyes and shook his head with silent disapproval as Jonas led me to his room.

            But to me, last night Jonas looked as he did that first night at Tartarus when he allowed me to sit with him: transfigured by kindness into someone truly beautiful. When the crying eased, I kissed him, at first very tenderly but then with increasing passion. He kissed me in return, and he held me through the night.

            Nothing else happened, and he kept the nightmares at bay.

            “Thank you.” I sat up in his bed, the sheets pooling around my waist, and stretched. He blushed at the rise and fall of my tits.

            I smiled. Or rather, I performed a smile; inside, I still felt empty and removed from the events happening around me. Was this me, in some college-kid’s bed? And was this really me, slowly crawling across the bed towards him, tits swaying with my approach?

             “You like these?” not-me said, one hand cupping a dangling breast.

            He nodded, transfixed.

            And because I knew it’s what he expected, or at least hoped for, even though he was too kind or afraid or weak to ask, I reached for and found the pole tenting his sheets.

             “You don’t have to—” he started, but I silenced him with a kiss.

            I pushed him down onto the bed. Still distant from these things my body did, I straddled the boy’s thighs. Leaned forward over him and with a hand at either side pressed my tits around his cock, feeling the smooth warmth between my soft flesh. I held him there and smiled and then rubbed up and down a few times. He grew harder, and I licked the tip and he groaned and looked at me with such hopefully anticipation I couldn’t help but grin. I took him in mouth. I did this without hesitation but began to hear Julia’s voice: lick the shaft. Open your mouth. Once, twice, slowly now. That’s right. Not with your mouth full.

            For the first time that morning I felt—something; an acorn of sentiment nurtured by Jonas’ kindness and Julia’s cruelty. This seed grew and blossomed and shot out vibrant branches. I stopped, with Jonas’s cock still in my mouth, and shuddered.

            You do look adorable like that, trilled her voice.

            “You okay?” his voice both distant and near.

            And the tremor that ran down my body was hot and angry—a sudden, wrenching fury at last night’s events; but also gratitude and warmth, for this ridiculous boy who held me when I needed him.

            Pulling back, I smiled and it was me smiling, and I felt within myself again. Determinedly, I pushed Julia’s voice out of my head. I would enjoy this boy. His pleasure was mine to give or deny. This moment together would be fun and deliberate and above all else kind, untainted by cruelty.

            Long blonde hair tickled his chest and waist and cock as I slid backwards. Then I slowly, gently kissed my way back up his leg, starting from the ankle all the way up to his thighs, dancing around his erect penis, over his abdomen, a lick around the bellybutton, a wicked flash of the eyes as I kissed and licked his nipples and briefly sucked—he jerked and laughed uncertainly and then—a final kiss on the lips before diving back down on him.

            It didn’t take long. Jonas gasped and grunted, and his fingers curled into the bedsheets, and I felt fiercely proud at how easily I could bring him to climax, now. This was my fourth time going down on him, and I knew his cock. His hips bucked once, twice and I felt his cum at the back of my throat. Holding his jizz on my tongue, I padded out of his bedroom and spat it out in the sink and rinsed and when I returned, he smiled at me, and I smiled at him.

            He went to speak.

            “Don’t you fucking dare thank me,” I said.

            What I’d just done made this guy happy, and it’d been done on my terms. I didn’t need Julia’s instructions. This boy wasn’t part of her plans to humiliate me. He was mine, and what I did this morning was my choice. Julia didn’t need to know about this boy or this part of my life.

            Jonas watched as I dressed, unwrapping one of the cheap-and-cheerful bra-and-panty sets from yesterday, a fire-hydrant red balconette and thong. With few other options, I pulled the sparkly miniskirt back on but stared balefully at the bustier. No fucking way. Instead, I picked up Jonas’s t-shirt from where he’d tossed it on the floor last night. It was black; on it, in red silhouette, a man with shotgun and chainsaw standing on the roof of a car as a crimson horde of zombies closed in. It fit, though tight around the boobs and too long. I tied it off beneath my bra, exposing a well-toned midriff.

            “How do I look?”

            He opened his mouth to speak.

            “And if you give me some bullshit about patriarchal corporate oppression manufacturing feminine insecurities pushing me to seek validation, I’ll—"

            “You look really great,” he interrupted.

            “Thank you.” I smiled. “You mind?” I indicated his t-shirt.

            “I don’t know.” He tore his eyes away from my tits. “I like that shirt. Will I see you again?”

            I sat next to him on the bed. “Maybe? Probably.”

            “As a girlfriend?”

            “Probably not.” I stroked his chin with the back of my hand and kissed him gently on the lips. "No."

            “Why not?” he asked after we were done.

            And because I couldn’t tell him the actual truth, I told him something else that was equally true and easier to accept. “Because I’m too fucked up, Jonas,” I said. “And you’re too nice. There’s bad shit going on in my life right now. And you don’t deserve it. I wouldn’t wish that on you. I’ll use you.” I already had. “And I’ll hurt you.” I held my hand over his chest. “Here,” I said. And then I kissed his temple. “And here.”

            He considered my words. “Then why call me last night?”

            “Because I’m weak.” My laugh was small and a little sad. “Because sometimes, a girl really just needs a cuddle from a nice boy.”

            After, I did my makeup in his little bathroom and did a passable job of it. At first, I struggled to look at myself in the mirror. Mirrors were one of those things I’d discovered about living as a girl. You couldn’t escape them; they were everywhere. I carried a little compact mirror in my purse. My phone doubled as one. Every reflective surface acted as a mirror, too: windows, doors, the shiny side of a kettle, concave surface of a spoon, the glass over a picture hanging on the wall presenting my face, framed and in reflection. Each one more than an invitation, but reminder: of standards, expectations, to self-scrutiny.

            It was a pressure scarcely felt as a male, now vivid and pervasive as a girl: to constantly inspect myself and not just fix imperfections, but to actively hunt for them—manufacture them, even. Find flaws, identify weaknesses and always remain open to the potential for improvement. And the tension to both check the mirror and shy away from it concerned not just beauty. Instructed to dress a certain way, paint ourselves, scrupulously maintain appearances—and then feel ashamed for this very same superficiality.

            After all, as some feminist once said, one is not born woman but becomes one—and how painfully difficult to stifle a bitter laugh at those too-true words as they came to mind as I inspected myself in Jonas’s little bathroom. The mirror was my constant reminder of “becoming.” It told me to judge and see myself judged by others.

            No wonder that some mornings, holding my gaze in the mirror felt so goddam difficult.

            But you couldn’t fix your makeup without a mirror, and so I stared, and lay a foundation for the day, and concealed the evidence of last night, and painted an illusion to hold up to a new day’s scrutiny. Along the way, something happened. The process became the outcome, the trick into truth. Blusher to create the cheeks of a cheerful girl, lipliner and lipstick and gloss for a happy smile; but by the time the work was done, the happiness I radiated was genuine. Mostly.

            And when Jonas saw, and kissed me on the cheek, the blush that brightened my face was genuine, too.

            It was Bruno, his roommate and bouncer at the club, who saw me to the door. His expression was grave, and he towered over me. “Don’t fuck around with my boy,” he grumbled, waving a finger at me. He always did that. It was kind of cute. “Don’t be—”

            “A bitch?” I finished, strapping myself into last night’s heels. I’d hate to fight this guy. He was like, two meters tall and pure muscle, and even in heels I strained to reach his cheek as he bent down to my height. He moved with graceful confidence at work, and I’d toss out some nasty customers. I mean, I’d still take him, sure, but he was a nice guy.

            I gave Bruno a gentle peck on the cheek, and he reddened a little. He always did that, too and it was also kind of cute.

            He frowned at me. “Treat him good.”

            “You know I’m not girlfriend material,” I said.

            “He deserves better than a booty call, Cindy.”

            I wrapped my arms around his waist, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt. “You’re too good, Bruno,” I said.

            “See you at the club?”

            “You know it, big man.”

            After that, there wasn’t much time left for any of the things I wanted or needed to get done that day. I made a few necessary stops, and then straight to Julia’s. Riding the elevator to hers, I tried to understand how I was feeling. That hot, earlier anger had faded and as I reflected on last night, my feelings were profoundly confused. The person I saw in the elevator mirror seemed strained, yes and a touch apprehensive—but also content. I gave my makeup another quick touch-up, brushed out my hair and looked myself over, and—much to my surprise—liked the person smiling back.

            I reached Julia’s door at precisely two o’clock.

            “You’re on time,” she said as she let me in. “Good.”

            Her condo was a mess, yesterday’s events manifest in the array of open bottles and glasses, crusted with dried wine at their bottom, lipstick prints at their rim. Dirty plates and open containers of noodles were scattered here and there, and shopping bags half-spilled glittery garments across chairs and sofa. Makeup and bottles of nail polish dotted the counter. The remains of a fry-up breakfast lay on the stovetop, and the scent of bacon and grease hung heavily in the air.

            I undid my shoes and listened for a moment. “Is—”

            “Caleb left an hour ago,” Julia said. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”

            I nodded.

            “You look good,” she said. There was a hint of surprise to her voice. She must’ve wondered where the t-shirt came from. It wasn’t exactly my style—neither Cindy nor David’s—and she’d never seen it in my wardrobe.

            “Thank you?”

            “How are you feeling?”

            Her eyes bore into me with such expectations that I couldn’t keep her gaze. I looked away and went to answer—but honestly had no idea how to answer that question—and so shut my mouth and simply shrugged. “Fine.”

            For a moment, she appeared to waver. Her eyes and her voice softened. “David—”

            “So,” I interrupted. “What’s the plan for today?”

            She flinched, recovered. “Guest bedroom,” she snapped. “There’s an outfit laid out on the bed for you. Get changed. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

            Dutifully, I plodded to the bedroom, wondering what I’d find for today. Looking at the garments laid out, I though—yeah, of course. It was bound to happen eventually.

            Then I thought: no fucking way. I’m out of here. I’m still a man, for fuck’s sake—even with tits and a pussy, I’m too much a man to put up with this bullshit. Most women wouldn’t wear this fucking thing, how can she expect me to?

            Yet almost immediately after, an insidious whisper and tempting shiver down the spine: why not? Like, really, why the hell not? It might be fun.

            Reality intruded, and I returned to Julia with one of the items she expected me to wear.

            She took one look at me and read the expression on my face. I’m not sure what she thought she saw there, but she—

            She took me by surprise.

            “I’m sorry,” Julia said, looking crestfallen. She held my gaze for a moment, mouth opening to say something that died on the tongue. Instead, she turned away and stared out the window looking towards the city centre. It was an unusually sunny and bright day, with clouds scudding across the sky casting fleeting shadows across the glittering cityscape. “I’m—it’s too much, isn’t it? I thought it might be fun, but after last night—I don’t know what I was thinking.”

            “Jules.”

            She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Just—forget it. You get a pass, a free pass today. Go home, or whatever. You don’t have to do what I say today. You’re not off the hook but it can wait until tomorrow.”

            “Julia.”

            She walked towards the window, and her steps were slightly unsteady. Her steps were those of a well-fucked woman. Huh. I wouldn’t have thought humble-dick Caleb had it in him. He hadn’t exactly been a big boy—even my prosthetic could’ve handled him.

            Well, good for her—she needed a good fuck, and I certainly couldn’t provide. Watching her, I could also see just how tired she was. Hungover as well, pale and drawn. Funny. I’d drunk more than her, mixing my booze, and capped the night off by knocking back a few beers with Jonas before cuddling to sleep. And with his prick prodding my ass all night, and his hands cupping my tits, and my mind a cesspool of dark thoughts—yeah, I hadn’t slept much, either.

            Yet I felt fine. Great, even. One of the perks of being twenty again, I guess.

            “Go,” she said.  “Please.”

            “Julia!”

            She turned to face me, eyes flashing with annoyance. “What?”

            “I can’t get into this thing on my own,” I said, holding up the corset, the words as surprising to me as much as they were to her. I had an opportunity to leave—and didn’t. That meant something, though I didn’t know what. “Lace me in?”

            Fifteen minutes later I stood before her, unsteady in what surely had to be the highest heels I’d ever worn, resplendent in a ridiculously gorgeous and revealing French maid’s uniform. I say uniform instead of costume, because there was nothing of Halloween crassness or cheapness to it. It was lewd, and it was tight, and I jiggled up top and flashed petticoats and bum below—but it was a quality bit of bespoke fashion, cut perfectly to fit my tightly corseted frame. It felt somehow both intensely sexual and strangely functional—gleaming satin and delicate lace, bows and stockings and a little apron and cap—fashioned to last for longer than a single costume party. It must’ve cost Julia a fortune, especially factoring in the undergarments, shoes and accessories. Fitted corsets don't come cheap, nor quality fetishistic 15cm stilettos.

            “How do I look?” I seemed to ask that a lot these days. The corset was as tight a thing as I’d ever worn, a match for Clinic bridal bondage wear—a beautiful piece of work in midnight black with delicate white brocade, with a shining steel busk beneath its panel and six robust garter straps softened by decorative bows. A hint of the fear—and breathlessness—of that photoshoot insanity nipped at my confidence, that sense of vulnerability and helplessness brought on by being strapped into restrictive clothing from which I couldn’t release myself. These shoes were beautiful, shiny and surprisingly comfortable—but also a lesson in learned helplessness. There was no running in these things, or even walking quickly. I’d be taking tiny, mincing steps, enforcing the caricature of flouncy femininity to which I’d consented.

            Julia stepped back and looked me over. Her eyes shone brightly with pleasure. “Oh my God,” she said, and gave a little clap of glee. “You look—amazing, David.”

            I craned to see my rear beyond the flounce of lacy petticoats and black skirt. “How are my stockings?” I stretched out a leg, checking the seams. They were quality stockings, fully-fashioned silk with a wonderfully deep and decorative welt. They felt a dream against my skin, and I wished I’d shaved and moisturised my legs this morning.

            In a corset this restrictive, though, those stockings were a nightmare to secure, especially the garter clasps at the rear. I’d needed Julia’s help for this as well as lacing the corset, and to do up the row of tiny buttons at my back that sealed the bodice tight around my frame. Now, I felt the tug at my thigh and the way the straps went taut across the curve of my bum. “Are they straight?”

            Julia held her fingers to her lips to hide a little laugh. “Yes. They’re straight.”

            I raised one heel off the floor, turning the shoe this way and that. The black leather caught the sun, and the top piece glinted in the light. “I don’t know if I can actually walk in these things.”

            “I can’t even imagine.” She shook her head. “I’m impressed you’re even able to stand.”

            I took a tentative step, and another, and swiveled. They didn’t pinch, but almost immediately I felt the strain on ankle, heel and at ball of the foot. Still, I could manage—if I took it slow.

            “Not bad,” Julia said. “How’s the corset?”

            I held my hands at my reduced waist. Fierce boning and tight fabric held me in tightly—again, a brief tremor of fear—and I smiled weakly. “It’s… tight.” I tried to take a deep breath and couldn’t, and I swear my tits nearly swelled out of the scooped neckline.

            “Good.” Julia stepped closer, her hands over mine at my waist. I stood taller than her in those towering shoes but felt smaller and weak. “I reckon we can take it in another centimeter or two once you’ve gotten used to it.”

            “Ha ha.” I tried to take a deeper breath and failed. “Please. No.”

            Ignoring my protest, she pulled me back towards the guest bedroom and its ensuite bathroom. “Let’s finish you off,” she said, and got to work on my hair, makeup and nails.

            By the time she was done, it was three o’clock and I looked devastatingly sexy. My hair was brushed out and fairly glowed, pinned into an updo beneath a ridiculous little maid’s cap. My makeup was very dark and sultry, heavy on the bronzer and contouring that gave me an almost unnatural glow. Last night’s cheap press-on nails were gone, so back to my natural nails—already long enough on their own to not be entirely sensible, frankly—painted a pale pink. Then a spritz of her favourite perfume, dark and mature with black pepper and patchouli notes, to help keep her in mind as I worked, she said. She applied it my neck and the vastness of my exposed bosom and a little dab to the inside of each thigh.

            “And these,” clipping a pair of dull metal bracelets to each wrist. They were at odds with the very pretty nature of everything else I wore and reminded me of the one I’d worn at the Clinic. She concealed them beneath decorative little cuffs in delicate lace. “And this, of course,” she said, affixing a slender silk choker in black around my neck. “Perfect.”

            “So—now what?” I swept my hand across the expanse of my squeezed and coddled body, from upthrust jiggling tits to tensed calves shadowed in smoky stockings. “I mean it’s fun and all, but not very practical.”

            Julia raised an eyebrow. “You’re a maid.”

            “Yeah, I get that.”

            “So, get to work.”

            I stared at her. “You’re joking.”

            “Not even a little.”

            First, she introduced me to the storage cupboard where her usual cleaner kept everything, the mop and rags, gloves and sprays and everything else. “I expect this place to be spotless,” Julia told me. “And I expect you to play the part.”

            Then, she presented the videos queued up and cast to the tv screen on the wall, ready to play on demand. I don’t know where she found these things—a fetish porn site, or an archive for the upper-classes, or maybe she’d paid to have an AI generate them for her—but it was clip after clip of deportment videos, prescriptive instruction for both master and servant. How to curtsy; what to expect from your maid; approaches to cleaning; punishment and training; how to please your master; how to keep your maid in line. Mixed in were clips from movies of questionable quality, both old and new, featuring beautiful young women in scanty maid outfits scampering about in heels much like mine.

            Julia indicated the shoes, gleaming like obsidian in the late afternoon light. “You’ll have to take it easy with those, I think,” she mused. “You can take a five-minute break every twenty or so.”

            “Thanks.”

            “But you’re either working,” Julia added, “or learning how to be a better maid.”

            On screen, a pretty girl dressed very similarly to me pranced down the stairs of some wealthy home, delicately holding the banister as her tits wobbled with each step.

            She grinned. “Have fun.” Then she waited expectantly.

            Rolling my eyes, I gave my best approximation of a curtsy.

            “That was shit. Practice; I expect the next one to be better.”

            I blew a stray band of hair from my face. “Fine.”

            Her hand caught me across the face. “Excuse me?”

            Still smarting from the slap, I started at the anger, the steel to her voice. “Julia….”

            Again, the slap. “Are you stupid? You’re a maid! What do you say?”

            I was slow, but finally I got what she meant. “Ma’am. Er, Miss. Madame.”

            “Ma’am will do.”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            She glared at me, and I dropped my gaze.

            “I could get used to that,” she said. “Now I’ve got work to do, so just get on with it,” and she gave me a sharp slap to the bottom to get me started. “I’ll be checking in, so no laying about, you lazy girl.” She indicated one of the many integrated smart-condo sensors dotted around the condo. “You’re working until 7 o’clock, and I expect this place to be spotless by the time you’re done,” she added, before disappearing into her office and closing the door.

            Well, what could I do? Fuck, but this certainly wasn’t how I wanted to spend my Sunday. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, but it wasn’t this. For a moment I just stood there, gently massaging my cheek, mindful to not ruin my makeup but feeling the heat of her slap. A few minutes ago, this uniform felt fun—kinky and weird, and uncomfortable, but fun. Now?

            I resented the unpaid labour, her exploitation of my circumstances. It made me angry, the injustice—forced to clean up her mess; no, the mess her and her lover made last night. It wasn’t fair. It was mean. She wanted to punish me, but surely this was going too far.

            But I couldn’t leave—not dressed like this, in an outfit I’m not sure I could remove without help. More to the point—I didn’t want to leave. The same impulse that led me to put the damned outfit on in the first place also insisted I stay and do what Julia wanted. And I knew she meant it—proper cleaning—not just fluttering about with a feather duster bending over salaciously and holding a finger to my lips in mock surprise, like the girl in the video playing on the tv behind me was doing.

            I started in the kitchen. That went well, at first.  It was easy enough to tidy things away, empty and rinse out the bottles, and toss them in the recycling. Scrape plates clean and arrange in the dishwasher. I envied Julia her kitchen and smart appliances and wished my little apartment was so well appointed. My own home needed a good clean, but here I was cleaning this highly paid bitch’s kitchen.

            Last night’s cold noodles in the trash. Leftovers from breakfast sat in a pair of frying pan on the stovetop: a few stray strips of real bacon, some home fries that reeked of too much garlic, and a cold and rubbery egg, sunny side up. Briefly tempted by the bacon, I realised the steady grip at my belly robbed me of hunger. I found some gloves to protect my nails and skin and got to work scrubbing the pans.

            Who cooked the meal—Caleb? He seemed the type. I could imagine him standing here, at the stove, just as I was—but cooking, not spraying it down and wiping it clean of grease. He was a messy cook, leaving fat spattered everywhere, and hardened yellow streaks stained the cooker. But then, maybe he got distracted. Julia, silently sliding up behind him, delicate negligee fluttering around her frame. Julia, reaching around his waist to fondle his crotch as he flipped an egg. Nibbling at his ear. The moment when he turned off the heat and chuckled in that way of his, picked her up by the waist and carried her back to the bedroom.

            And just like that, last night’s dormant heat blossomed in my groin once more—one of the reasons I was here, I realised, if not the only one. I paused and gripped the countertop and took a deep calming breath—tried to—and found my breath arrested by the firm caress of the corset. I tried again, and couldn’t again, and suddenly felt all flustered and dizzy and had to sit down for a moment.

            Biting down on my lower lip, I got back to cleaning. I focused on the work. At least, I tried to. Distractions came frequently. It wasn’t easy. Everything I did reminded me of the ridiculousness of my uniform. Every time I knelt, bent or reached, I felt those garter straps pull taut or tug at my stockings. Every move was accompanied by the swish of petticoats. Up close against a table or counter, they bunched up with a delicate rustle of silk tulle that tickled my thighs. Standing still, the taste of lipstick, the gentle squeeze of the choker at my neck and the persistent press of the corset at waist and abdomen. Always, the peripheral glimpse of breasts pushed high, nearly spilling out of their tight lace-trimmed décolletage. Moving, the sharp click of heels against hardwood, the sway of my hips and the gentle rolling gait forced by these shoes. And of course I couldn’t move quickly, nor work too hard, not without running short of breath and having to sit, fanning myself, ribcage straining against their restraint until recovery.

            Every single thing I did that afternoon brought to attention the enforced femininity of the role dictated by Julia, with a vividness unfelt since the earliest days of playing Cindy. Worst of all, it was… arousing, so fucking sexy being wrapped in this whisper of skirts and petticoats from which I couldn’t escape. I’d never worn something so intensely designed to arouse—not just others, though doubtless it’d be very successful at that—but rather the wearer, me, wrapped in these layers of silk and satin.

            Somehow, the very forcefulness of it all, this prison of perfume and petticoats, and the taste of my own girlishness, made it even more erotic. And of course, the mirrors: and every glimpse of this fetishistic punishment added to my growing arousal.

            At some point, I simply surrendered to the sensations. I didn’t so much check-out as subsume myself to the erotic haze suffusing every motion, and as I tidied and cleaned and washed, I paused frequently to squeeze my thighs together, or surreptitiously grab my own tit, or blank out briefly in a sexually distracted fog. More than once, I found myself rubbing up against the countertop, or gently bumping into a table, rounded wooden edge slipping beneath petticoat ruffles to fleetingly and accidentally rub up against the delicate front of lacy panties to scratch the itch I didn’t dare touch.

            Julia, meanwhile, worked. For the first two hours of cleaning, she remained behind the closed door of the office. Was she watching? I assumed so. Those security cameras dotted around her condo blinked their little red light, and presumably followed my movement around her home.

            Panties and bras, swimwear and lingerie, a few dresses, some skirts: yesterday’s shopping, carefully unpacked and carried to her bedroom and neatly arranged for her to put away. I held up the bikini Julia bought for me. It was a shimmering gold thing comprising a pair of triangles surely too small to cover my tits, and an equally small scrap of fabric down below. Yesterday, I couldn’t have imagined wearing it, breasts so prominently on display, pert bum and soft skin.

            Well, look at me now. Yesterday, I hadn’t imagined dressing as though I’d escaped a Parisian brothel. How could a bikini be any worse?

            Now in the main bedroom, I focused on the next task: the bed. Rumpled bedsheets glowed in the late afternoon sun cast through balcony doors, curtains thrown wide. Once, not so long ago I’d shared that bed with her. Our limbs intertwined, drenched in sweat and bathed in moonlight. Breast to breast softness, my weight pressing down on her, my cock pushing into her.

            Stripping the rich cotton sheets from the bed, I saw the stains of her lovemaking. An intense jealously gripped me as I seized the sheets. It wasn’t—right, or fair. Julia wasn’t mine; she was her own woman and could do whatever, or whomever, she wanted. But it still wasn’t right. It should be me, fucking her on this bed. Me, staining these sheets with sweat and semen.

            They’d started before I even left last night. I heard them from the living room as I put on my shoes. Naked, I imagined, over the sheets. Caleb’s hands at her breast, her thigh, her snatch, fingers dancing along labia and clitoris—did he excite her, touch her, make her wet, like I could? And once ready, did he rise over her before burying himself deep, before beginning the slow, languorous thrusts inexorably driving her to climax, weathering the hissed curses of her hated consent to this pleasure? Or was it fierce and brutal, the wet smack of flesh on flesh as he pounded her cunt until she screamed her passionate submission, legs raised high on his shoulder, bent nearly in half under his weight? Did he take her roughly or gently, on her back or on all fours, did he—

            He—

            Christ. How long had I been standing vacantly staring at the wall, with one hand at my throat and the other gently kneading my breast, before she found me standing there?

            “Caleb was a good fuck,” Julia whispered in my ear, coming silently up behind me. Her arms encircled my tiny waist and I started at her touch. She held me close, and I felt the press of her breasts against my back and the tickle of her voice at my ear. “Surprisingly good. We went at it all night. He fucked me again and again and I came—oh, so many times I lost count.” Her hands at my waist drifted, one up and one down, the first gently curling fingers over mine at my neck, the other burrowing through layers of petticoat to find the treasure buried beneath.

            She found what she was looking for. “Of course, watching you blow him….” Her grip at my neck tightened and she held me closer. I leaned back into her, mouth opening in a silent sigh. “I was already wet—so fucking wet—by the time Caleb got to me.” A finger slipped past the waistband of my panties and found I was wet, too.

            I gasped and my knees went weak. Her fingers moved around, and her grip at my neck tightened, and I tried to draw in a shuddering breath and couldn’t because of the corset. I felt light- headed, delightfully so, weak in her embrace as she guided me to the unmade bed.

            “Has my maid been working hard?”

            Petticoats rustled with the movement of her fingers.

            I gasped and swayed under her touch. “Yes. So—,” her finger drifted across a special place, “Oh! Yes, so hard…..”

            “Yes, what?” The finger stopped.

            “Yes, ma’am,” I moaned. “Ma’am, miss, boss—yes—God, please don’t stop….”

            My skirts rustled once more. The heat grew—I was close, so fucking close, but….

            “Has she earned a reward?”

            Biting my lower lip, I nodded.

            She stopped. I gasped, hair whipping around my face as I turned to her.

            “Curtsy,” she ordered.

            On wobbly legs, I tried my best. Fortunately, I’d practiced over the past few hours. My legs trembled as I dipped a knee and held up the hem of the dress. Julia smiled, a mix of cruel satisfaction and clear joy at the sight of me.

            “Good. And what’s an appropriate reward for a maid?”

            Even as I went to answer, I saw the narrowing of the eyes and the beginning of a frown. Instead, I demurely dropped my eyes to the floor. “You should decide, Ma’am.”

            “And what if I decide you don’t deserve a reward?”

            Fuck Julia and fuck her games, but most of all: fuck me—please. Instead, I gazed at her with the cutest desperate eyes I could muster. I whimpered.

            “Get on the bed, you slut,” she instructed. “Face down, ass up.”

            I did as she demanded: face down in bedsheets recently soiled by another lover, ass up in the air in an explosion of petticoats and satin skirts.

            “Wait here, like that,” she said. “Don’t move. I’m going to inspect your work. It had better be good, or else—” and here, she gave my ass a sharp smack.

            I waited.

            There was just enough time to wonder, again, how the fuck I came to be here: ass in the cooling air, tightly corseted, garters and stockings, tightly wrapped in the fetishistic satins of a fantasy maid, waiting—for my ex-girlfriend—to return and either fuck me silly or deny me release or possibly, even, spank me for my poor performance. The shame—the cognitive dissonance between who I’d been and where I now was—was exquisitely painful: I nearly cried, quivering in anticipation as she returned to the room.

            “You’ve done good work,” Julia said, sounding both surprised and a little disappointed.

            I tried to speak—to breathe—nothing came out.

            “Here’s your reward,” she said, yanking my panties down to my ankles. The front was already soaked through. “Look.” Julia had returned prepared—holding another life-like dildo, larger than the one she’d gifted me.

            I watched, as it disappeared between stocking-shadowed knees beneath quivering petticoats. Her hand at my tight little waist tightened as she braced herself—a moment of held breath and anxious trembling—the subtle movement—then that awful, awesome sensation of being filled as Julia buried that cock in one, smooth motion balls deep in my prosthetic pussy.

            Some small part of my brain again curled up in utter confusion as to what the hell was happening, the assault of impossible sensations on erogenous zones I shouldn’t possess. Another part of me raised a faint protest that this was wrong, so wrong, I was a man, a man squeezed into a corset with his ass in the air and his tits flattened beneath him as he writhed around that terrible, wonderful invader, my whole being coiling around this singular point—though quickly expanding—reports of pleasure flying in from everywhere—from clitoris and nipples and lips and the behind of my knees—like, really, behind the fucking knees?—suddenly tight and hot and desperate to be touched despite some sad, little voice insisting no, no no.

            But the rest of my brain and whole goddamn body cried out yes, goddamn it, and yes! again, and loved every fucking moment.

            After I came, my cries muffled by the mattress, and my breathing calmed enough that I no longer felt faint, and the room stopped spinning, Julia gave me a sharp slap across the ass. “Lazy slutty maid!”

            I could only groan in response, legs vaguely scrabbling for purchase like a heat-baked crab on its back on some tropical beach. I wanted more; I felt somewhat satiated but wanted more. Even just that simple slap to the bum left me wanting more.

            “Get your ass out of the air, you stupid girl.” But Julia laughed as she said it. I heard her leave the room, calling over her shoulder. “Have some dignity.”

            My breathing was slow, shallow and shuddering as I melted into the bed.

            “And get back to work!”

            This was—what?—the third time she’d fucked me like this? Or the fourth? I ran a quick mental tally: that first night, after I got back from the Clinic, though that time was just with her finger. The night she came back after Paris—yes, that was the first time, me all wrapped up like a gift in exotic blue lingerie and her edging me to climax before finishing me off with a dildo up my twat, my first time properly penetrated. Then, the very next evening, confirming her dominance over me—kneeling face down, ass up in her living room as Julia plunged her toy deep into my prosthetic. Did that count as two or three?

            Who the fuck cares?

            The erotic brain fog of earlier eventually dissipated and left me languid. Vague reports of pain came from my ribs and thighs—the tenseness of release, the bite of the corset as I strained against unyielding boning at climax. Eventually, digging deep, I found the strength to stand—wobbled slightly, like a girl freshly fucked—and tottered back into the living room, and got back to work.

            I got back to work and to my surprise, this time around, enjoyed the labour. I honestly did. For the rest of that afternoon and into early evening, I swanned around her apartment in this beautiful, sexy, stupid uniform. Heels clicked with every step as I pranced and minced and shimmied around Julia’s flat. Post-nut clarity brought an unexpected peace—not guilt, not consternation, just a simple emptiness as I continued the mundane act of cleaning Julia’s apartment.

            Gradually, my mind turned to the conflicted feelings I’d carried with me into Julia’s apartment that day. Last night left me—angry, but also feeling wretched, as though my insides had been ripped out. Tears, but what I’d really wanted to do was punch the walls until my knuckles bled. But I couldn’t do that, a girl like Cindy doesn’t get to express her anger so openly and so instead I—

            Spent the night with Jonas, and—

            Now I was back here.

            On my knees, I attacked the toilet with determination. Julia needed to have a word with her regular cleaner. There was a buildup of limescale and filth under the inner rim of the toilet bowl. Armed with bleach and toothbrush, I attacked the dirt. Strong antiseptic detergent warred with perfume and the taste and scent of makeup as I worked. As yellowed and brown grit fell away, I contemplated Caleb. His annoying little laugh and flabby paunch. The dusting of grey at his temples and the smoothness of a circumcised dick. The unexpected kindness behind pale blue eyes. The spatter of jizz against my face, catching on nose and lips and chin, dribbling between my tits.

            After, I gave the guest bedroom and en-suite a quick survey, tidying away a few items but more meticulous in wiping down those harder to reach places cleaners usually can’t be bothered to clean. My mind continued to churn over the events of the past two days. A delicious mellowness infused everything I did, as though swimming through gentle sunlight. In repetitive, simple work I felt able to confront the emotions that plagued me. Despite the tight bind of restrictive clothing and hobbling shoes, freedom: and by degrees the anger and resentment and loss and shame drained away until I was left feeling… content.

            By the time I returned to the living room, it was getting late. Approaching six o’clock, and outside it was growing dark. Julia sat in the chair in the corner by the bookshelf. There was a bottle of wine breathing on the counter, and a single glass waiting. She raised her eyes from a book she was reading at the sound of my clicking steps.

            She made eye contact and raised an eyebrow.

            Blushing, I curtseyed. Compared to my first effort earlier today, it was much better: graceful, a little deeper, and I remembered to lightly hold the hem between finger and thumb. Then I stood, eyes downcast, waiting.

            “Well done, maid,” she said. When I looked up, she was smiling. Her eyes held a delighted twinkle. “Wine,” she commanded.

            I trotted over to the counter and poured out a glass of red and carried it back to her. Then, I stood a respectful distance away, hands folded daintily over each other and eyes downcast, as one of the videos had instructed. Inside, I felt—nothing, really. Pleased, maybe, at how good the place looked.

            “You’ve done good work today,” Julia said.

            I accepted her compliment silently and felt an unexpected flush of pleasure that brought a faint spot of pink to my cheeks.

            “A little more, and we’ll call it a day.” She indicated the living room. “Finish off in here. Tidy, organize, dust—” she waved her hand in an idle circle—“Whatever. You’re the maid. Make it spotless. It’s nearly seven.”

            I nodded and returned to work. Truthfully, there wasn’t much left to do in this room. I’d already been through here, dusted and cleaned and sent out the vacuum and mopped the floors. Surely, Julia knew this. Nevertheless, I fluttered around as instructed.

            My heels tapped out an irregular rhythm as I passed a cloth or duster over every surface. Gradually, I became aware of her eyes on me. She tracked my every movement, eyes dark over the rim of her wine glass. Under her gaze, I grew hot and saw myself as she must see me: the mincing steps, the floating skirts. Long hair over slender shoulders and the slim frame bound in black satin reaching, bending, moving with delicate concentration. Julia looked at me and couldn’t see a man but rather this small girl with big tits fluttering around her apartment

            Yet instead of humiliation, I felt—sexy. Exciting, and excited. I added a fun little flounce to my step. Stuck my bum out as I cleaned low places; kicked a leg up as I strained to reach higher places. Every now and then I’d gasp or hold my hand to my chest or fan myself daintily and take careful little breaths as my cleavage flushed red. Frequently, I sent searching little glances her way, coquettish smiles and half-lidded eyes hidden behind painted nails or the feathers of a duster.

            It was in just such a moment, bending at the waist as I attacked a pernicious stain on a low shelf, a semi-circle shadow of wine dried into polished wood, that she came up behind me. Suddenly, Julia’s hands were at my waist, a strong grip felt through the bodice and corset beneath. I gave a start, a cute little yelp of surprise.

            “You little minx,” she growled in my ear.

            “Ma’am!” I protested.

            She spun me around. I saw the hunger in her eyes, but also something more. “You little tease, flashing your ass like that,” and her hand groped my bum beneath its cloud of petticoats.

            I gasped. “Mais non, maîtress!” I held my hands up between us, my weak push ineffectual versus her size and the purchase of her shoes.

            “Non?” Julia stopped. “Maîtress?

            I blinked. “Yeah, as in, French?” I plucked at my apron and pantomimed the domestic servant resisting the advances of the cruel lord or lady. “Oh, no, mistress! Sacre Bleu!” I paused. “I am a French maid, right?”

            She stared at me for a long moment. The lust evident in her eyes faded. It occurred to me then just how tired she looked—worse than when I’d arrived—genuinely exhausted even, the strain evident in the pallor of her face. Julia fell back. Earlier, as she sat under soft light in her chair I hadn’t noticed, not as glittering eyes tracked me with erotic intensity over the rim of her glass. But up close, it was obvious: Julia was barely holding her shit together.

            “What the fuck am I doing?” she muttered as she let go of me. She dropped heavily into her sofa. A moment of staring blankly into space, and then she focused on me. “I think we’re done here,” she said and then sat there, elbows on knees with her head between her hands.

            I hovered uncertainly. “Ma’am?”

            Blearily, she looked up. “I said we’re done. No more maid, okay? No more—anything. Please.”

            “Jules?”

            She glanced up, then away. “You should get changed.”

            I gnawed on my lower lip for a moment, and then with a rustle of petticoats crossed the room to stand over her. “What if I don’t want to?”
            She rolled her eyes. “Sure. Whatever.”

            “I mean it, Jules. What if I’m enjoying this?”
            She groaned. “You, David Saunders, are enjoying prancing around in—” her hand waved at my ridiculous outfit. “In all this?”

            I shrugged, bare shoulders rising and dropping in a delicate display of admission. “Not at first,” I said. “I’ll be honest. When I saw these clothes out on the bed, I nearly made a break for the door. And those videos? Ridiculous. Fucked up, too, but mostly ridiculous. And, yes, it’s embarrassing standing here in this getup.

            “But—what can I say? I got used to it. It’s not how I would’ve chosen to spend my Sunday afternoon, cleaning your apartment but… I don’t know. It did a lot to clear my head.

            She looked askance at me. “Sure.”

            “It did.” I smiled. “I was—angry, Julia, when I got here. Very, very angry: with you, with Caleb; mostly with myself. And confused.”

            Arms crossed beneath my impressive decolletage, I leaned against the kitchen countertop. “I’m still confused,” I said. “But I’m not angry anymore.”

            It took some time, but she eventually dragged her eyes from the floor to look at me. She sighed. “Why don’t you get a glass of wine,” she said. “And—sit. With me, please. I need—I think I need a friend. Not a maid, not a lover, and especially not someone under my thumb, just… another girl I can talk to.”

            “I’d like that,” I said.

            “And even if you’re fine with it—maybe you should change? Keep the corset on if you like, but maybe we’re done with the maid, okay?”

            The dark satin felt slick and cool under my palm. I tugged my little apron into place and felt the garter tabs at my thighs. “Then what should I wear, Julia?”

            She sighed. “I don’t—I don’t know. Don’t care. You choose.”

            “That’s not how this works, Jules.”
            “Who’s in charge here?” Anger flared in her eyes. “That’s how it is tonight, got it?” Almost instantly, though, she fell back into the sofa with a groan. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, as though fighting back tears “Just—” With an arm thrown across her face, she turned away from me. “Do whatever the hell you want. Leave. Stay. Change. Don’t. I don’t care.”

            The sharp tap of my heels followed me out the room.