Constant 3, Chapter 4-2 (Patreon)

The next all-but-complete scene in chapter four. At this point, we're nearly caught up with the leading edge of the story. This concludes the 'French Maid' arc. Originally, as with the Noir sequence it was one long scene, but the length became unwieldy: chapter 4, scenes 1+2 add up to nearly 20k words in length, too long for posting to TGStorytime and arguably too long for a single scene (or chapter, really!).

Warning: explicit details.

Enjoy, and as always, feel free to let me know what you think - feedback always appreciated!

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Two: Isn’t This Fun?

She was still in that position when I returned some twenty minutes later: slouched deep into the sofa, arm thrown across her face, eyes shut. Her breathing was shallow, and she cradled her glass with a limp hand. Julia was at that dozy threshold between wakefulness and sleep, and her wine glass dangled precariously. I rescued it to the counter before it fell, shattered and spilled across the floor: I’d only just mopped the damned thing, after all.

            Petticoats rustling, I then settled onto the sofa. I stretched my legs and flexed my ankle. It felt good to be out of those heels although—perversely—I also missed them, the curved arch, the sexy wiggle and meticulous step; and the height, of course, the tension between empowerment and vulnerability embodied by the stiletto.

            I’d given Julia a little space, a little recovery time to herself to deal with whatever was dragging her down. Time to ditch the shoes and take a piss—an involved process, dressed as I was—and freshen my makeup. Time to quickly pass through her condo and double-check the cleaning I’d done today. Time to peek into her office and see the chaotic jumble of dishes, cups and glasses, leftover food and general funk there, amongst the stacks of work and unsecured computers, screens filled with rows of data and code.

            Now, the swish of tulle made clear my decision. I sat still dressed in that maid’s uniform—minus apron and cap—fluffing out my skirts and petticoats into a more comfortable position.

            Julia cracked open an eye, saw what I was wearing, and released a fatalistic sigh. “Really?”

            “Really.”

            “Now you’re just fucking with me,” she said. “I told you to get changed.”

            “No.” I picked at a piece of dirt on the white trim of the skirt. “You said I should get changed. Maybe. You choose, you said.” I curled my legs up beneath me, hands resting lightly on my knee. The silk stockings beneath my touch felt cool and smooth. “I chose.”

            “Impertinent.”

            “It’s not my fault your instructions were unclear.”

            “I’m too tired for this shit.” Her eyes fluttered shut. “Believe it or not, I did my research before we started all this. A little light holiday reading.” She chuckled dryly. “How to be a dominant, how to train your sub, that kind of thing.”

            “How was it?”

            “A lot less titillating than you’d think.” She sighed deeply. “But nothing I read mentioned just how much goddam work it would be. I’m exhausted, David. Keeping you in line is like working a second job, and I’m barely keeping up with the one that pays the bills.”

            I didn’t feel particularly sympathetic. “This was your choice, Jules. You want to dominate my life? Fine, but you’ve got to keep your side of the bargain. Tell me what to do.”

            She lolled her head to one side and glared at me. “This isn’t a game.”

            I kept silent.

            She blew a raspberry at me. “You’re being mean.”

            “Mean? You had me tidy up after you and your lover.” I drew the pad of my index finger along the surface of an end table and noted with satisfaction how it came away clean—far cleaner than my own home, in fact. “You fucked my pussy over sheets you soiled with another man’s seed.”

            “Seed?” She blinked, and the first hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “How very… literary.”

            “I’m dressed like I escaped from the cover of some 19th century regency romance.” I tugged at my low-scooped neckline. “Or a porno.”

            “Fine. But if you’re going to stay dressed like that, the least you can do is pour me another glass of wine.”

            “That’s the spirit.” I hopped to my feet.

            “You might as well get yourself one as well.”

            “The service shouldn’t—”

            “You’re not the service,” she snapped, then saw my grin, and smiled wryly in return. “Just pour us some fucking wine, will you? And grab some nibbles while you’re at it, you must be starving.”

            I returned with two glasses, a plate of cheese (cave-aged cheddar, stilton, some brie) and water biscuits from England, and placed it on an end table. Sitting, we were a contrast in comfort: Julia in slim jeans and fitted long-sleeved black top, and me, snug yet oddly at ease in a cascade of petticoats, skirts and lace. She lounged; corseted, I sat stiffly. We clinked our glasses, sipped and nibbled as we sat together in momentarily silence. I crossed and uncrossed my legs at the knee with a sibilant whisper. It was dark out, and the condo gradually raised recessed lighting.

            Julia tapped at her phone. Music began to play, quiet and melancholy. “Do you know where this whole French maid kink comes from?”

            I shook my head no.

            “I went down a bit of a rabbit hole while you were cleaning,” she said. When she saw me open my mouth to protest, she glared. “And I was working, too, thank you very much, not that it’s any of your business, maid. But watching you in the kitchen, I got to thinking and did a bit of research.

            “You study any Moliere? Marivaux?”

            Again, I indicated I hadn’t; my fake education barely covered English-language classics, let alone the literature of other countries.

            The maid, she went on to explain over the length of polishing off a glass of wine, was a soubrette, a stock-character of 18th and 19th century French comedy, a house servant and foil to upper-class foibles. She was witty, sassy and above all else, attractive. Her lower status released her from the restrictive bindings of upper-class life; she was free to speak her mind, saucy, spicy and most of all, sexual. She enjoyed the liberated freedoms her upper-class mistress could only fantasize. She wasn’t a maid, specifically, though her costume was already salacious.

            This fictional stock character became conflated with real-life female domestics through to the early twentieth century. Young women entering domestic servitude were often precarious and easily exploited. Male servants and especially the masters of the house often took sexual advantage of these maids, and she was rarely in a position to refuse or resist their advances. Historical documents record many pregnancies, STDs, suicides and infanticides as a consequence of this exploitation. Many dismissed maids ended up in prostitution, and their sexual employment simply fed the image of sexual hunger.

            The reality of exploitation became a cliché, a stereotype of victim and temptress that became fodder for cheap comedy. This fueled the view that maids were sexually promiscuous and fair game, always eager for a good fuck if you asked them; not that a man needed to ask, obviously, as it was his gender-given right, especially for an upper-class ‘gentleman’.

            Unsurprisingly, it all led to a bit of a maid fetish, and by the twentieth century there were French brothels offering costume services where you could order a prostitute dressed a nun, schoolgirl, ballerina—or maid. The uniform itself remained ‘realistic’, functional and often blue or gray with few embellishments, until the early-to-mid twentieth century, where it evolved according to fashion and the influence of American burlesque: the skirts got shorter, and the heels taller, and the fetish soon crept out of the brothel and porno industry into mainstream Hollywood.

            I listened patiently and swirled the wine in my glass and took cautious sips as she spoke. When she was done, I stifled a yawn. “That’s… fascinating, Julia, really. But why—”

            “It was your stupid French accent that did it for me,” Julia said.

            “Sorry.” I shrugged. “I’ve always been shit at accents.”

            “No—it’s just that when you spoke French, suddenly—” She hesitated. “Watching you, it was a turn on, okay? And when I grabbed you from behind, felt your tiny waist, I wanted….” Julia looked at me, intently, and licked her lips and then blushed. “I wanted you.”

            “I was yours to have.”
            “I wanted to maul your tits and toss you over the edge of the sofa and spank that milky-white bottom,” she continued, fiercely, almost defiantly. “I wanted you on the floor with your little head and that silly lacy cap pinned between my knees eating me out until I screamed.”
            A little tremor went through me at her words. I blushed, too. “Why didn’t you, then?”
            “Because—” She took a nervous sip of wine, swirled the glass and seemed to consider. “Because when you said, ‘non’, when you called me ‘maîtress’ and when you put on that ridiculous accent and acted all demure like, suddenly, I felt like I was in one of those videos I’d put on for you. I felt like I was in a porno. It felt—kinky; no, not kinky—worse.”

            She took another sip, a long one.  “It wasn’t just the kink. It was—” She stared into her glass as thought seeking answers in ruby depths. “For a moment, I looked at you and suddenly felt like I was part of that whole lineage. Centuries of abuse and exploitation and rape of young women. Fetishizing working-class vulnerability. And there you were giggling like a soubrette from a French comedy and instead of being funny or titillating, it felt performative and…” Her mouth opened and closed a few times, fish-like, as she searched for a word.

            “Pervy?”

            She nodded. “And sordid? Yes. It felt perverted and sordid and it felt wrong.”

            I stared at her for a long moment, and then laughed.

            She frowned. “I’m being serious, David.”

            “Jules, a few hours ago you had me face down in your bed with a dildo up my pussy.” I ticked off a finger. “Last night you gave detailed instruction as I sucked on another man’s cock.” Another finger. “You had him jizz on my face.” I plucked at my uniform. “And this—you chose this.” I ticked off a third and fourth finger. “Let alone what you had me wear last night! I mean—yeah, sure, me prancing around like some fetish fantasy’s perverse, it’s sure as hell sordid, but…. isn’t that the point?”

            Again, a long pause before she answers. “I felt guilty.” She held my gaze until it felt uncomfortable. “I feel guilty.”

            As did I. We all have things to feel guilty about, the terrible things we’ve done and the secrets we keep.

            “Have you considered,” I said, somewhat contemplatively, “that what you’re feeling isn’t just guilt, but maybe just a touch of jealousy?”

            With narrowing eyes, she waited for me to continue.

            Twisting a little to show off my tightly enforced curves, I fluffed out my skirts and smiled. “I mean, it’s your bucket list, right, but I’m the one wearing all the fun clothes.” I fluttered my fingernails and held them against my chest in a display of breathlessness. “Like, oh la la, it’s all pervy fantasy, but whose fantasy is it? Aren’t you the least bit tempted to join me? You’d look—” I made a chef’s kiss gesture, “in this, believe me, I’d love to see in this.” I grinned. “Can you imagine Caleb’s reaction to being served by a pair of sexy maids?”

            “No.” Julia glared at me, unamused. “I’ve had my fill of being objectified, thank you very much.”

            “Your loss.” I shrugged. “But all that shit you just told me? Yeah, it sucks. History sucks. Especially for women. We’re all walking victims of a nightmare from which we can’t awaken, right? But this?” I stood and held my hands at my waist, arms akimbo, and gave a little twirl that set the skirts of my sexy maid’s uniform to fluttering. “This is so far detached from reality that I don’t know what the hell it is, but it’s got nothing to do with fucking Moliere.”

            From her seat on the sofa, she eyed me with amusement. “You know what really annoys me about that thing?” I shrugged, and she continued: “that there isn’t a male equivalent.”

            I thought for a second. “Butler?” I tapped my chin. “Sexy butler?”

            “Adding the adjective ‘sexy’ doesn’t make it the same,” she said. “There isn't nearly the same kind of fetishization of a butler. There’s prestige to the butler, a certain respect and authority the maid’s never had. Besides, ‘sexy’ butlers are all gleaming pecs, abs and biceps, basically strippers in uniform.”

            “They’re still objectified.” I settled back onto the sofa with another delicate rustle. “In fact, it’s playing off the whole power thing in a way a maid never could, right? These guys, they’ve got all that physical power but it’s meaningless, they’re still subordinate to whatever man or woman they’re serving.”

            She considered that, then shook her head. “No. Still not the same. Yes, they reinforce that power dynamic, but they also challenge it—implicitly—it’s like saying, ‘yeah, you’re in in charge, but I could physically dominate you in an instant.’ And it’s true; those men are like Grecians warrior painted on the side of an urn: idolized naked masculine strength. There might be all kinds of social and economic reasons that led to this guy oiling up and dressing in a g-string to serve some woman, but there’s always that frisson, for her, the knowledge that he could have her over his knee in a second. Her power’s an illusion; a social contract.” She looked at me with those dark, glittering eyes. “A fantasy.”

            The way she looked at me, then? Julia was clearly considering our contract, our shared fantasy: how far could she push the illusion before it broke? How long, I wondered, before she tried to put me over her knee—and what would I do if she did?

            “But the maid?” she continued, “Her outfit doesn’t just emphasise her vulnerability, it enhances it, those shoes, that skirt, the corset that restricts and steals her breath, leaves her flushed and faint. As if she wasn’t helpless enough to start with, her clothes lock way what little physical power she has beyond beauty.” She waved her hand at me. “I mean, how powerful are you feeling right now?”

            I make a show of flexing my biceps in a farcical strongman pose, then gave a rueful laugh. “Not very,” I admitted, though I felt she oversold the restrictions of the clothes. Even in this corset, I knew I could take Julia down in an instant, if I had to; or Caleb, were he here. But I get her point. “Though you shouldn’t underestimate that whole ‘beauty’ thing. The very fact it’s the only tool she’s left with makes it powerful. Still. I think you’re overlooking a key thing about this outfit, Jules.”

            “What?”

            “The fact that it’s—fun?” I shrugged. “I mean, yeah, obviously it’s got to do with power and control and all that other shit, but Julia… everything is about power and control and shit. Pop two people in a room together, one of them is going to try and take charge. Leave a guy alone in a room, five minutes and he’ll be trying to dominate four walls and a ceiling—or he’ll surrender to it.” I smiled and fiddled with the garter holding my stockings. “Think about it too much and you’ll go nuts.”

            She thought about what I said for a moment. “I still feel guilty.”

            With a rustle of skirts, I scooted a little closer. “Julia. Don’t.”

            She shook her head. “Last night, with Caleb….”

            “Was cruel,” I agreed. “But also….”

            She waited.

            “I—” My voice wavered. It was difficult to put into words how I felt. To find the balance between lie and truth. Julia assumed last night was my first, my first time fellating a man. She was wrong. Those times with Jonas hadn’t exactly made me a pro but did mitigate some of the shame of what I’d done with Caleb last night. Of course, Julia had introduced whole new layers of humiliation to the occasion. Watching. Taking charge. Knowing I was really a man. Not just a man, but the man who ruined her life. And Caleb himself—not some kid, but a man my age; somehow, that too made it worse.

            This disguise—this life—wasn’t one I’d have ever chosen but those weeks at the Clinic taught me I had to adjust, accept and live, rather than hide and wait. Waiting, I’d go mad—do something idiotic like explode violently, hurt myself or someone else, or drink myself stupid and reveal myself again, as I did to Julia all those months ago.

            Somehow, all this led to unwanted intimacy with—men: first Dan, then Chad and now Jonas, but also Caleb—four men in half as many months, and the most galling thing of all was the simple fact that with at least two of those, I’d enjoyed it, taken comfort from their attention and felt cared for, appreciated and safe in a way that I didn’t fully understand.

            With Chad, I felt—cherished and desired, not as a woman or a man, but simply as—Cindy; and whatever that meant, it felt good.

            And Jonas? He kept the nightmares away last night. The kid was clearly crushing on me, and who could blame him? I didn’t quite know what to make of his affection, but I was grateful for it—but also sad—because of how I’d hurt him, and probably would, again.

            It was all an exercise in compartmentalisation. I was learning to separate these lives, the Cindy-life and the David-life. Everything beyond Julia’s reach belonged to Cindy: the girls at work, clubbing and the boy I met there, and the late-night cuddle with him last night. The morning blow job. Or dancing on the dancefloor in a tight and sparkly dress. Sitting by the boss’s desk in a short skirt and licking my lips, waiting intently on his every word.

            Cindy did these things, and she did them guilt-free.

            But I couldn’t hand off to Cindy when I was with Julia, because it was David she wanted, and David she needed.

            Amidst all this confusion as to who the hell I was at any given moment, there was something else, too: jealousy. There was no other word for what I felt watching Caleb and Julia kiss. Watched him cup her gorgeous tits. Hearing the panting and moans and laughs last night, those bedroom sounds reaching me as I cleaned his cum from my face, washed in the bathroom mirror and fixed my lipstick.

            Julia wasn’t mine. But I wanted her and didn’t want to share.

            And then the anger—the fury—that she would do this to me. The way she treated me at Noir, like a child, like some fucking bimbo. That man and his cock pointed at my face, the cruelty of spraying his cum in my hair and eyes and nose. The taste of it. Even the fact that Caleb actually wasn’t a bad guy; he was kind and that, too made me angry.

            Then, the casting aside. My own hot and eager needs, ignored. See yourself out, she said.

            Left in a corridor at night, alone, in tears.

            And there was more, of course, seething and bubbling under the surface, a roiling witch’s cauldron of unresolved emotions set in motion by impulses I couldn’t share or didn’t fully understand. Stir the pot and who knew what might rise to the surface?

            This, all this—I wanted to share with Julia.

            “It was fine,” I said.

            Julia stared back at me. I wondered if she, too, had a whole churn of emotions for which she lacked the vocabulary, energy or courage to express.

            “Fine?”

            I ran the tip of my tongue across my lips. “Mostly fine?”

            “How very… blasé of you,” Julia said. “Your first ever blowjob was… mostly fine? I expected more.”

            “It wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be?” I relived the muscle memory of phantom jaw ache and a foreign pressure at my tongue or distending the inside of a cheek. “Like—yeah, ew, nasty. You know, the fact he pisses out of that thing. Although he’d obviously given himself a little wash when he popped into the bathroom, before.” Classy guy, that Caleb. “There’s just something a bit gross about a penis, you know?”

            “Do tell,” Julia said, with a smirk.

            I paused to remember. My stomach churned and I fought down disgust and shame. “It was uncomfortable. Being on my knees. The ache to the jaw.” I tapped my chin with a finger in recollection. “The cushion was a nice touch, so thanks for that. But—I didn’t gag—and he didn’t smell much—you chose a good guy, I think, and thank God he trimmed, right? I thought I’d be picking pubes from between my teeth—and he wasn’t too big—” and here I grinned at her, “and mostly I just licked and bobbed up and down a bit and he didn’t exactly last long, right? I’ve taken dumps that last longer.”

            “Thanks for that,” Julia said drily.

            “Wrapping my lips around his cock was humiliating, and knowing you were watching made it worse, and when he came….”

            Julia leaned a little closer. “Yes?”

            “It was gross. It felt gross and it tasted gross. And went everywhere, in my hair, ruined my makeup—that was nasty,” and here, some of the simmering anger overflowed. “What you did. You could have just let him—”

            “Cum in your mouth?” Her voice was a mix of anger and amusement. “Is that what you wanted?”

            I glared at her. “It wasn’t nice.”

            Her smile wavered. “No. It wasn’t.”

            “I never wanted any of this,” I said, indicating tits and hair and lips. “And it’s taken me nine months to come to terms with this… disguise. But I never expected it’d involve me, you know—doing guys.” I bring my glass to my lips, grimace and put the glass back down and realise my hand is trembling. “Feeling their hands on my tits or their cocks at my lips. Tasting cum.” I dropped my eyes and took a deep breath. “No. I never expected that.”

            She watched me the whole time. “What did you expect, then?”

            “I don’t know.” I smoothed down my skirts. “Not this.”

            “Would you have—” she hesitated, then continued, “Do you think it would’ve happened, without me forcing you into it? That date with Dan, kissing a man—going down on one?”

            “No,” I lied.

            Julia tilts her head to one side. “Why not?”

            “Christ, Jules, how many times do I have to tell you? I’m not fucking gay, okay? I’ve never—”

            “Fine, fine,” she interrupted, “But how long is this ‘disguise’”—and here she made air quotes, “supposed to last? Six months?  A year? Did you really think you’d go that long without at least kissing a guy? Or going further?”

            “Plenty of girls do.”

            “True.” She nodded. “But you’re not that kind of girl.”

            “No,” I muttered, voice sullen. “I suppose I’m not.”

            “I mean, for someone trying to not draw attention, you’re shit at it.”

            “It’s not my fault.” I plucked at my low bodice and blushed. “It’s… you, or the work dress code, of what people expect, making me dress like a—”

            “A slut?” Julia smiled, and her eyes were bright.

            “I’m not a slut.”

            Julia had perked up since we started talking. The early melancholy seemed behind her, and she was clearly enjoying the discussion, guilt and exhaustion pushed back by our girl talk. Fuck me: girl talk; wasn’t this on her bucket list?

            “Really?” She seems to consider this. “Tell me, David—how many girls have you fucked? You know, how many different sexual partners have you had?”

            “You don’t want to know that, Jules.”

            “Oh, I most certainly do,” she said, but to me her smile seemed forced and somewhat brittle.

            “Fine.” I took a moment to do the maths. Off the top of my head, I had no idea what the actual number was, but could estimate easily enough. Over the past fourteen years, most Fridays or Saturdays, hitting the bars with Tom and sometimes on my own, or with others from work; and workplace shit, conferences and workshops, or scoring with colleagues, a conveyor belt of interns, managers and administrative assistants, which is to say, sexy secretaries.

            Sexy secretaries, like me. Fuck.

            David didn’t go home on his own very often. Fourteen years of weekends, and the occasional mid-week pickup. Obviously, I didn’t always get the girl though I enjoyed far more hits than misses. On occasion, I dated the same girl for a few weeks or even longer, chicks like Akiko; and there were some repeats along the way, booty calls, date nights, events when I needed a partner I knew. And not every weekend, clearly: work got in the way sometimes, or I had something else on, or I just needed a break.

            “Ballpark figure? About two hundred.”

            Julia stared, wide-eyed, possibly horrified. “Fuck off.”

            “You want me to walk you through the maths?”

            “No. No, I believe you.” Julia shook her head. “Jesus. Can you even remember any of them?”

            Yes, I could, I wanted to tell her. Every last one, if I thought hard enough, even if I never knew their name, a line running from that first girl in Tahir’s club all the way to the present. Women and girls, young and old, fat and thin, of so many colours and creeds and beliefs, all beautiful in their own way and each and every one of them earning their pleasure with me. They might’ve hated me before, or afterwards; many or most did. That never made a difference. But in the time between they were mine: to fuck, finger or eat out until they came; and every goddamn one of them did. I remembered, all of them. Sometimes, I wondered whether they remembered me.

            I shrugged. “Some.”

            Her mouth moved in silent count. “I’m eleven—twelve now, including Caleb.”

            “What can I say, I was—”

            “A slut?”

            “Stud,” I said. “The word you’re looking for is stud.”

            “Yeah, those D-cups really say ‘stud’ to me.”

            “I keep telling you, they’re not—” I looked down at my cleavage, hefting a boob in each hand. “Shit. They really do look massive like this, don’t they?”

            Julia snorted.

            “This is what I’m talking about. As a guy, I wore a suit, I wore trousers and a shirt, I always looked—respectable. Girls dig respectable. But ever since I’ve had these things hanging off my chest, it’s been… well, you know. Short skirts and tight tops and everything’s just so goddamn revealing all the time.”

            I said this and thought of the similar discussion with Crystal a few months ago and realised that in the interim something has changed. Or rather, the clothing hadn’t changed but my relationship with these female fashions had. Maybe the prosthetic made the difference.

            Without the constant reminder of a cock between my legs—the fear of getting caught, the pinch and the pain, the difficulty in taping or the discomfort of a gaff, even the frequent challenge of simply going for a piss—the way I wore these clothes was altered. Less hostile, less resentful—still, on occasion, baffling and embarrassing but also, at times, enjoyable. After all, I looked fantastic in them and there wasn’t any point denying the thrill of my own beauty.

            “It’s amazing,” Julia said. “All this time, and you’re still an absolute chauvinist, aren’t you? I agree—you’re not a slut. Or at least, Cindy isn’t one.” Her smile was entirely too knowing. “But you? You think you dress like one. And thinking that, you worry that you act like one, too.”

            She held my hand in hers as she spoke, and her voice was contemplative. “It’s like, you know you shouldn’t judge a girl based on what’s she wearing. Not because you’re particular enlightened or anything, but because that girl is you, now. Nothing altruistic; just self-serving, as always.”

            She laughed. “And so, when you wear a short skirt or high heels, show off your tits or glossy lips, you know it isn’t an open invitation to any passing guy for a fuck. But—” and here, she shook her head in disbelief or disappointment, “there’s still this toxic little male brain staring out from behind those beautiful, long lashes, isn’t there? And this sexist little shit, he thinks a girl dressed like you can only want one thing, isn’t that right?

            “Tell me, when you look in the mirror—what do you see, David? I’m genuinely curious: when you see yourself all decked out in lingerie, or as a sexy secretary, or some club skank—do you turn yourself on? Do you see yourself as a bimbo? A slut? Some trophy girlfriend?”

            She held my gaze for a long time, until I blushed and looked away. “It’s not my fault I’m so damn sexy,” I muttered.

            Julia laughed. “Oh, you really are a fucked up horny little bundle, aren’t you? I mean, you’ve always been a bit of a man-whore, but you really can’t help yourself now, can you? You’d fuck yourself, right now if you could, wouldn’t you, you dirty little maid!”

            “It’s not my fault,” I insisted. “It’s—” and here, I waved at my groin, buried under all those layers of silk and satin. “It’s this goddamn prosthetic.”

            “Really?” Her eyes sparkled over the rim of her wine glass. “Do tell.”

            “Ever since I’ve woken up with this thing,” I explained. “I’ve been horny as hell. I don’t know, maybe they didn’t calibrate it properly or something. You have no idea, Jules. Every morning—every fucking morning, Jules!—I wake up horny. Morning glory, right? I’ve still got a cock under here, and I’m like, twenty again, so—I’m waking up with wood. It’s just blood flow or whatever. As a guy, if I couldn’t deal with it then and there, well, I’d get out of bed, it went away on its own. Usually.

            “But this prosthetic, I don’t know, it takes those impulses, that blue ball ache and those urges and—” And fuck me, just talking about it was getting me a little hot and bothered, and I could feel the prosthetic warming to the conversation.

            “This female arousal, it doesn’t just go away. I wake up, and I want to squeeze my thighs together, I want to—I’m wet, down there, I’ve got this itch and I can’t do anything about it.” I bit my lower lip and felt the blush lighting up my cheeks. “It’s fucking torture, Jules.”

            She seemed unimpressed by my plight. “You don’t think girls get horny? You’ve got fingers, you’ve got that dildo I gave you. Sort yourself out.”

            I shook my head, hair whipping around my face. “You think I haven’t tried? It doesn’t work. Okay, fine, before—I was scared. I was scared, okay? I admit it. After I woke up with this thing on, I didn’t want anything to do with it. Bad enough acknowledging it when I went for a piss, or pulled on panties, or whatever. But masturbating—fiddling with it?”

            “No. I couldn’t—it was a step too far, it meant accepting what they’d done and yeah, I’ll be honest, maybe I was worried about how it might feel, weird or even—too good, like I was betraying my sex or something. I spent those first weeks getting more and more horny and Jesus, people must’ve thought I was this fucking airheaded bimbo, because often, I could barely think straight.”

            I gnawed on my lip in frustration. “Thing is, sure, in a lot of way having this thing stuck on makes everything easier – you know—clothes fit better, and I’m not strapping my cock back and sitting on my nuts every day. But you have no idea, Jules—no idea!—how much I miss my cock and balls right now.”

            Julia gave a wry smile. “I’ve got some small idea.”

            “Then you came back. And ever since you—you know—with that thing—yeah, I’ve gotten over my… reluctance, and tried, I’ve used the dildo. I’ve sucked on that artificial cock and watched myself in the mirror, hopping it’d push me over the edge. I’ve played with my clit and fucked myself with my fingers. Fuck, I’d eat myself out if I could reach. And the thing is—”

            It felt good. Almost too good, sometimes, distracting in its pleasurableness.  Wonderfully sensuous, luxurious, especially when I wasn’t under pressure and could take my time to simply draw the pad of a finger slowly and gently back and forth across that prosthetic labia and feel that growing wetness, the rising heat. Sitting alone at home at night after work and staring out into the darkness, half-naked and with a hand laid flat against my groin, finger curling in to gently touch, other hand at my breasts. Soft music roiling in the background, and dim lights. A glass of wine. But…

            “It never works,” I wailed. “It builds and builds and—it builds, and nothing happens.” At worst, drunk and desperate and lying on my cheap bed in my little apartment, I’d pant and moan my frustration, scrabbling at my crotch, thrusting that toy into my snatch, and pinching and pulling at my nipples—fucking myself until I went dry and it started to hurt—before finally releasing a muffled scream into my pillow, frustrated and unsatisfied, and punching the mattress with impotent anger. “I can’t get myself off. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

            “But….” Julia leaned a little closer, laying one hand on my knee. “No offence, but you’re like the horniest girl I’ve ever been with. I’ve never known a girl easier to make cum.”

            “It’s you, Julia,” I said. “Only you.”

            “Fascinating,” she said, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

            For far too long, smiling silently to herself, she contemplated this revelation. Then she took a final sip of her wine and handed the empty glass to me. “Another one, maid.”

            “The maid’s off duty,” I grumbled, but hopped to my feet anyway. Truth be told, I was starting to regret my decision to stay in the maid’s outfit. Not that there’d been much choice, really. I needed help to get out of the damned thing. Probably, I could unfasten the buttons at the back of the bodice, wiggle out of the dress and then reach the tucked away corset laces—but it wouldn’t be easy.

            As it was, I was still tied into the restrictive uniform. I’d barely eaten anything today, only the occasional nibble as I cleaned, though the cheese and biscuits helped. The tightness around the belly had done a lot to suppress my hunger, but I really felt the booze hitting a mostly empty belly. The tips of my ears felt hot, and my stomach queasy.

            At the same time, I was also feeling turned on. Again. The very restrictiveness of the outfit and my inability to escape it; Julia’s presence, the sexy way she lounged on the sofa and the curve of her tits and her long, black hair. The smell of her, sitting so close. I crossed over to the kitchen counter to pour out two glasses of wine, and felt the heat below, the tightness in my tits and it was all I could to do to not squirm as I watched her silently watch me pour out two more glasses of wine.

            I padded back to her and with another gentle rustle, settled next to her, closer this time as I passed her a glass. It was easy to tell which glass was mine and which was hers, by the ring of pink lipstick prints at the rim. Sitting, I now envied Julia her relaxed slouch. She took a sip and seemed to consider her next words as I squirmed in discomfort.

            “Have you considered—” Then she stopped.

            “What?” I ran a fingernail along the lace trim of my panties. They were riding up my butt crack something awful.

            “A boyfriend?”

            I stopped mid-pluck. “Excuse me?”

            Julia held my gaze. “I’m serious. Find yourself a guy. Someone who can—you know—help with those needs.”

            Smoothing out my skirt over crossed legs, I glared at her even as a hot flush slowly traveled up my bosom and neck. “Fuck you, Jules.”

            She patted me on the knee, a patronising gesture no doubt meant to comfort. “Oh, relax, for Chrissake.”

            “I’m a man, remember? I don’t need a fucking boyfriend.”

            “That’s exactly what you need!” There was an unexpected earnestness to her voice, as though her intent were to help, not torture and humiliate me. “A boy—a man—for fucking.” Her hand at my knee gave a little reassuring squeeze. “You must’ve thought about it, David. Fucking a guy?”

            “No.”

            Julia gave my knee another squeeze. “Lying back, spreading your legs for him? Some man, rising above you; his weight, pinning you to the bed, pressing down—then into you—his hard cock sliding into your pussy, so easily, so slowly, filling you as he pushes in deep….”

            “Stop,” I said.

            She smiled: “pulling back, then thrusting, and thrusting again, and with each shove of his cock your tits bounce, he forces you deeper into the mattress, and staring at the ceiling you smell his sweat, feel his heavy breathing on your neck as he speeds up, and you’re wet—so fucking wet—and it feels so good being filled by a cock, a real cock, not some sex toy because this man, his presence, his warmth and strength—controls you—and you feel so… vulnerable, under him, at his mercy and weak as his balls slap against your pussy—”

            “Julia—”

            “Impaled to the bed and wanting more, rising to meet him, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him in as deep as you can, arms around his chest, nails clawing his back; you want him, all of him, to take his strength for yourself and so you wrap everything you are around this grunting, sweating man as he jerks, and thrusts, and plants his seed inside of you.”

            She grinned, red-faced and excited, eyes bright with wine and passion as she leans closer. Her hand at my knees grips it tightly and I can tell that for all the earlier guilt, she loves the idea of me squirming supine under some man’s rutting bulk.

            “Jesus, now you’re doing it, too,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Seed? What am I, some fucking garden? Just give it a rest, okay?”

            But she shook her head, leaning closer.

            “I’ve seen you with the dildo; you’ve got to have wondered what the real thing is like. Because David? The real thing is—oh my God, David, it’s just so much better.”

            “Not interested,” I said.

            A lie. Obviously, I’d thought about it. But I’d be damned if I was going to admit it to Julia.

            But how could I not wonder how it might feel, lying in bed with Jonas’ semi pushing into my bum, already horny, already damp and desperate?

            How could I not, sitting at the edge of my seat in Mr Connor’s office, wearing a tight pencil skirt with thighs clenched together, nipples so fucking hard it nearly hurt, biting down on my lip as his sonorous voice resonated down my spine and whimpering with silent desire I couldn’t understand, and didn’t dare acknowledge?

            So, yeah Julia, I’d though about sex with a man. But there was no way—no goddamn way—I was ever spreading these legs for another guy.

            “No,” I repeated. “That’s your fantasy, Jules, not mine.”

            “Damn right, it’s my fantasy.” Her voice was suddenly both angry and petulant. “And that’s what we had, you fucking idiot, until you sealed your prick away behind that—thing.” She reached out and stroked the side of my face, my hair and there’s now something sad and melancholy in the way she looked at me. “What we had, before you left me, before you went to that Clinic and messed everything up—it was good, wasn’t it, wasn’t it fun?”

            And Julia was open to me, then, in her drunkenness, exhaustion and need. Vulnerable and honest, seeking validation—maybe even forgiveness—for the way she’d treated me. Mixed in with all the anger and resentment there was guilt, and I could see how impossible this situation was for her.

            Julia wanted to punish me for the past. But she still loved me, and so punishment against me was visited on her in equal measure. She wanted to change the man from her past, but it was that past man that she loved. Yet she could not let me be, because to do so was to risk further hurt and loss. Leaving me unpunished for the pains of the past would make a mockery of her years of pain and suffering.

            The problem, obviously, was not with me but with Julia.

            She was the one who needed to change. Yet her single-minded focus on my improvement meant she could only conceive of changes to herself through changes to me.  And what better way to alleviate the guilt this brought than to conceive of her violence against me as—love, as nurturing, as inviting me into experiences denied most men, leavened by the belief that further feminising simply helped keep me safe?

            Yes, she wanted to embarrass me, of course, but my shame and debasement was merely a welcome byproduct of her efforts to keep me alive, to make me a better person. Her aim was not to hurt, but to teach; to reform the man I’d been.

            Julia refused to understand—or perhaps couldn’t—that everything she did to reform me was, quite literally, re-forming me into someone antithetical to my being. She was reshaping the man I’d been into—Cindy. And could she love Cindy? I did not think so.

            She was quite literally killing the man I’d once been. And yet—

            She wasn’t wrong.

            Wasn’t it fun? she asked, and how differently everything might have turned out between us if I’d only been as open and honest with her as she was with me.

            If I’d said, quite simply: yes. Yes, it was fun, then and now, maybe more so than ever. Shopping and trashy bar outfits and Caleb and a day spent mincing around her apartment in a pervy maid outfit, all of it—fun. Especially sex, before; and even now, the way she played me like a fine-tuned instrument and made the entirety of my being sing.

            I resented her for what she did to me, and that made it fun. I felt trapped by her and her authority and that, too made it fun. My life as Cindy felt poised on a knife’s edge and even that, especially that, added to the excitement of everything we did.

            I felt the word form on my lips: Yes.

            But what I said was: “Fuck you, Jules.”

            There was no way to know this would be the last real conversation we would have, at least until the funeral. And by then, it was too late. Maybe once, there’d been the potential for something—more—between us. A chance for—I don’t know. Something real.

            We could have made it work. Julia, and Cindy as her lover. A life in which by day she was the head of our little household and me her young partner, an ambiguous relationship in a time hostile to two women together, but we’d have made it work. My life subsumed into hers—during the day.

            But after, in the darkness? Reasserting my manhood, hidden from the prying eyes of the world. And those nights… oh, those evenings would have been filled with passion and the song of our bodies playing in unison.

            Yet I didn’t say, Yes, yes it was fun. And, I didn’t say the other thing that came to mind.

            Instead, I said: “Fun. Fun? For you, maybe, for fuck’s sake.”

            Because when I spoke, the anger and resentment of last night rose once again to the surface, the taste of Caleb’s cum burning my throat, and I felt male hands on my tits, the grip of the corset—the bustier—of every ridiculous outfit she’d had me wear this past week, and the months before. I felt the profound humiliation of her pleasure at seeming me transformed into a feminine caricature of the man I’d once been. Most of all, I felt the bitter tears that dug deep rivulets through foundation and ran mascara in dark streaks down my cheeks as I curled in a seething ball in the corridor outside her door last night and wept for my own needs, unmet.

            “Do you think it was fun for me to parade around in all those outfits you chose for me? Fun, always wearing tight and restrictive clothing? Fun, wasting hours every fucking day so my hair and nails and makeup meets your exacting standards? Fun, having my tits slapped and my nipples yanked every time we had sex?” In my anger, I swept her hand from my shoulder, from my knee, and flounced back to the far end of the sofa.

            “Was it fun, being forced on a date with Dan? To follow him up to his apartment—to feel pressured to strip naked and kneel between his legs?

            “Or was it meant to be fun, parading around the office all day without a bra, fat nipples poking through and everyone whispering behind my back like I’m some office slut?

            “Or fun, having Caleb’s dick in my mouth and his balls on my chin—was that mean to be fun?”

            I crossed my arms beneath my tits and glared at her. “Fuck you, Julia, and your fun,” I said.

            Julia jerked back as though slapped. Her eyes went dark, and just like that she was once again closed to me.

            “Want to know what I did after you kicked me out last night, Jules? I sat outside your door, alone in that corridor—and I cried. I cried, Jules, like a little girl.” Turning away from her, I glared at the opposing wall. “Maybe that was the most fun of all.”

            “I know,” she said, her voice behind me quiet. “I saw the security footage last night.”

            I stood and walked away from her then, hugging myself, the corset rigid and unyielding beneath the satin uniform. My footsteps were silent as I cross to the tall window and stared outside. I could see clearly into the night. Windows in buildings along her gated road cast their yellow squares of light, some broken by the passage of their occupants. There, a man in silhouette standing at a high floor, also staring out, hands behind his back; there, a woman sat at her windowsill, book in hand. What did they see, when they looked this way?

            “Do you remember?” Julia asked, now behind me. Her voice remained soft, that of a parent speaking to a child on the verge of tears. I bristled at her condescension and did not answer.

            “That first night” she continued. “When you first told me why you were like this, when you first shared your secret with me.” Julia stood close, and gently lay her hand on my shoulder. I resolutely continued to stare out the window. “You stripped for me, and showed me your body—this amazing, beautiful body free of scars and injury, free of the past.” 

            Her hand left my shoulder and for a moment I though she’d left, but then both arms snaked around my narrow waist and held me firmly from behind. Julia pressed up against me, and she nuzzled the back of my neck, burying her face in my hair.

            “Do you remember, David, how I shoved you up against this window? I ripped your bra off and your naked tits were flat against the glass for the world to see—remember?”

            I went to turn, and her arms around me tightened. 

            “Julia,” I started, and then suddenly I was up against the window, again, she pushed me hard up against the glass and my tits flattened against the cool surface, nearly bursting out of their bodice. And she was behind me, pressing me up against her window, only now her hands were scrabbling at my body, one hand sliding beneath my skirt, the other grabbing at my hair, curling fingers in deep and holding so tight it hurts.

            “And wasn’t that fun, David?” she spat, yanking me head to one side and her breath hot in my ear.

            I went to twist around, to face her, but she held me firmly. 

            “Here’s what I think, David. I think you’re lying to me. You’re lying to me, and you’re lying to yourself. You love this,” and she pulled back just enough for her hand to reach around and find my tits, sliding past bodice and cups to grope for the nipple. She pinched down, hard, and I gasped; and she held tight and twisted, and I went weak in the knees and sagged against the window.

            “You love all of this, you dirty bastard. You loved it, when you got to shove your dick in me every night, as though fucking me was some kind of reward for playing at being a girl. And even now, even without a prick to shove inside of me, you still love it, you love the way I make you feel.” And here, her hand beneath my skirt wormed its way past petticoats towards the smooth front of my panties and felt how wet and ready I was through that thin scrap of lace and silk. “You’re playing along because you need me, you need me, don’t you?

            “And here’s the thing, you little bitch,” she said, and she pressed down between my labia, and yanked the hot, hard point of my tits, “You’re going to love it even more when you finally give in, when you think you don’t have a choice and finally let some guy shove his cock into your pussy.”

            I shuddered and would’ve fallen to the floor without Julia to keep me standing. My chest burned and so did my pussy, and my whole body trembled with her words.

            “And this guy, he’s going to drill you hard, plough you so fucking hard you’ll see stars and you’re going to cry and whine and complain you don’t want it—that you were forced into it—that I made you do it; and maybe you’ll even believe your own lies, lying on your back with your knees in the air and your tits flopping around—but you’ll be wet, and you’ll love it, and when you cum you’ll cum so goddam hard you won’t walk right for a week.”

            Never, I wanted to say, but with my mouth a silent red oval pressed up against the glass, my protest went unheard.

            “But you’re free to leave, David, anytime you want. But you won’t leave. Because this is what you want. Because—” and her finger slipped past the final, soaked sliver of panty and plunged deep into my pussy, thumb pressing up against the clitoris, even as she bit down, now on my shoulder, and pulled brutally hard at my nipple. And—I moaned; my eyes rolled back up into my skull; and everything built up over last night and today swelled and rose over me like a wave of filthy light, grubby and wrong and unbelievably pleasurable.

            “Isn’t this fun?” she whispered.

            My fingers scrabbled at the windowpane.

            “They can see you, you know.” She thrust with her hips and pushed me up against the window. “Everyone can see the slutty maid with her tits out.” And it was true, God, the humiliation, anyone looking this way would see me, tits flattened against the glass, face a rictus of pleasure, lips parted with want.

            “What are you?” Julia said, and her finger at my labia slowed, her hand at my breast stilled.

            “Fuck—Jules—I don’t—” I panted. “Your maid?”
            “Slut,” she said. “Say it.”

            “No,” I groaned. “Fuck you, Jules.”

            Her finger flicked against my clitoris. My knees went weak. This time, she let me fall and followed me to the floor. “Say it.”

            “No.” I tossed my head and hair to glare up at her. “No!”

            She finger-fucked me once, twice and with that same finger, slick with pussy juice, indolently circled the clitoris once, twice—I gasped and felt that cresting wave of filthy pleasure—and then she stopped.

            “Last chance,” she whispered in my ear. “Say it. You’re a slut. A filthy, slutty maid. A whore—my whore.” A final touch, a flick of the finger; my hips bucked—I was close, so fucking close…. “Say it.”

            I thrashed and glared up at her through a tangled mess of hair, lips parted in a furious grimace, teeth gritted and—desperate—so hungry with desire—whole body tight and ready, the string waiting to be plucked, and it was just a word, just a goddamn word, right?

            “I’m a slut,” I said. “I’m your slut, your filthy dirty fucking whore maid.”

            An approving nod, and a cold smile. “Yes,” she said, and tapped me on the nose with her pussy-slick index finger. “You are, you naughty girl.”

            Julia stood and stepped away, leaving me a flustered mess of skirts and sexual frustration on the floor, and my eyes widened.

            “You can’t—” I reached for her. “That’s not how this works!”

            She stopped, turned and glared at me imperiously. “Excuse me?”

            “But—” I whined. “I need—”

            “Then do it yourself,” she said. “I give you permission.”

            “It’s not enough—”

            “Touch yourself!” she barked, and I did, and the instant my long, manicured finger brushed against my clitoris, I came, hard.

            So very, very hard.

            An indefinite time later, once I’d recovered somewhat, I sat primly at the edge of the sofa and finished tweaking and smoothing down my uniform. Julia reclaimed those dull metal bracelets and gave me a quick visual inspection. “Good. You still look very slightly freshly-fucked.”

            I touched up my lipstick and grimaced at her. “I can’t believe you’re sending me home in this.”

             “A reminder of your subservience.” Julia grinned. “You can think of me as some creep ogles you on the bus.”

            “You’re being mean again.”

            “The maid,” she said, supremely satisfied, “shouldn’t question her mistress.”

            I glanced up from my shoes. They gleamed in the dim light and restored my tip-toe perch. Getting home in these stilettos would be a nightmare. “I thought you didn’t like the whole ‘mistress’ thing?”

            “It’s growing on me.”

            Standing, I immediately felt the strain of fifteen centimeters of lift in my ankles, calves and the balls of my feet. “You could at least let me take a cab.”

            “No,” she said. “Maids use public transport. Send me photos along the way.”

            Cursing under my breath, I collected my bags, bulging with the purchases from our shopping trip. I’d be a tottering, short-skirted, bag-totting fetish feminine stereotype for the trip home. Still—what a weekend. Pushing aside the grim thought that tomorrow was a Monday, I made to leave. A tentative step towards the door, and I wobbled, reaching for the wall to steady myself.

            “You okay?” Julia was swiftly at my side, voice filled with concern.
            Rubbing the back of my head, I grinned sheepishly. “I hurt myself when I came,” I said. “Banged my head against the wall. Pulled a muscle in my thigh.” I held a hand to my side. “Maybe bruised a couple of ribs?” I could dimly remember deep, shuddering breaths and the sharp grip of an unyielding corset, and seeing stars. “I’ll be fine.”

            “Good.” She smiled. “Fun, don’t you think?”

            I stuck my tongue out at her. “Yeah,” I said, “fun.”