[Vernon]
I confess that, as I watched the carriages from just beyond the hedge, I too was surprised by the well of emotions that stirred within me. I found myself standing there, empty eyed, staring as the long train of horse drawn buggies pulled out off the courtyard, filled with excited servants and their luggage. All of them tailed after the most elegant, ivory white, freight which led the procession.
Within, I imagined my parents; their eyes not glued back at home, at me, but their minds no doubt. One could almost chuckle as they pictured Mother biting her thin nails, anguished to leave me behind, while father, ever stoic, privately revealed her anxious maternal worries – which he found so very cute in his beloved. They were nothing more than empty anxieties after all. There wasn’t any real worry in leaving their 19 year old son behind after all. He was far more a man than boy any longer (as far as they knew).
Inside, I was ecstatic. Though, also, very anxious. And, just a tad bit sorry to my sister – who’s housewarming I’d chosen to neglect. Frankly, I was a lot of things.
But, not for the typical reasons you’d expect. I wasn’t some hungry, sheltered child – desperate to be left to his own devices. Nor was I happy to finally be alone – our palace-like home all to myself. And, I was certainly not scared to be left for the coming week – until the maids and servants returned – to defend myself, to feed myself, for the very first time (though maybe just a bit).
No, I was a mess of fidgety feelings because of what I could finally do – now with this precious time I was alone. Something I hadn’t gotten the chance to do in a very, very long time. Something that both plagued my mind, a deep desire for it, but also overwhelmed me with a sort of giddy fear. The fear of, somehow, getting caught, I suppose.
I had waited long enough to see them – my family – drift beyond the foreseeable horizon. For the air to grow quiet and still with the empty echo of horses’ hooves.
I had a week now. At first, I thought I might wait a day or two to undergo my plan. No reason in particular – maybe I’d get used to the silence in the house by then. But, I realized very soon that the desires inside me – the lust, frankly – would be too much to bear.
I gulped, and, with courage, entered the empty house. I walked through the ornate and gilded halls, which seemed almost fake when so devoid of life, towards my destination. I could picture it in my mind now, and wondered if it’d be all I thought it could be.
It wasn’t a long walk; though, I made it longer by pacing slowly like a timid sheep. It was just beyond the kitchen – behind a nice brown door with a golden handle. There were many days, trying to hide my hunger, I carefully watched the servants and maids dip in and out of this room with carts and bags. It was the laundry room. And, as my mother always insisted, I knew a fresh bounty of clean clothes lay carefully folded just beyond the closed door.
As I approached the gateway, I suddenly felt very ashamed of all this. The scandal of it all seemed to hit me in an abrupt wave. Yet still, I was dead set to continue. You probably know men and their ways. As soon as they let their … you know … begin to guide them, it is very hard for them to change directions.
I reached for the door handle, the seconds becoming hours. I wavered there, as I glanced back and forth down the two sides of the hallway. As expected, they were as empty as could be. I almost laughed aloud at my own cautiousness. Of course, they were all gone; there was no way that anyone was still here after all this time.
That confidence quickly came back to bite me, as the door before me swung upon with unexpected force. I dodged backwards, and, to my embarrassment, shrieked.
Beyond the precipice, a rather busty girl – about two or three inches taller than me, though I’d never admit – stepped forward into the warm glow of the hallway – adjusting the petite apron across her belly. She too seemed quite a bit startled by an (my) undisclosed presence, but was quickly heartened, giggling at me, as I squealed and fled backwards.
I quickly adjusted myself, put on my most stoic of looks, and rigidly greeted the woman with a stern, “Ah, hello!”
Still rather taken aback and confounded, I study who’s before me in search of a name. Blond, thick locked, spiraled hair. Rosy skin and freckled cheeks. Pale, sage eyes, like the color of a steamed cup of green tea. And, of course, the aforementioned height difference and chest that bursts nearly outwards through her buttoned dress coat.
“Christina?” I blurted out, far more in the tone of a question than I would have liked.
She chuckled, and, in her eternally cheery voice, hummed, “Hello there young Master! I apologize for almost slamming the door into you; though, I must admit your reaction was quite amusing …”
I felt myself growing red, which was surely what she sought with her teasing. Such a reaction also, clearly, piqued her curiosity.
“If I may ask, what are you doing on this side of the manor?” she raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Uh, ahhhh…” I stumbled over myself, as whatever drawn up confidence I had gathered faded.
“Were you looking for me perhaps?” she pointed to herself with a long, slender finger.
“Oh, no!” I said a bit too loudly. I carefully quieted myself, “Actually, I wasn’t aware anyone other than myself was still here.”
I mumbled afterwards, “Mother and Father said I’d have the place for my lonesome…”
“Well,” she began, “I apologize, young Master, but the plans changed rather at the last minute. Your mother was very worried about you, so I volunteered to stay back and keep an eye on you while the rest of the staff were gone.”
“Your father approved of the idea…” she continued, approaching me, and gently palming my cheek in her warm hand, “He thought that you’d find it splendid to have your very favorite maid at home with you!”
Such an action, for most, would be rather intimate, but Christina seemed to give away such loving acts without a thought.
Her beaming smile, as she looked down at me, forced me to look away and mutter, “How do you know you’re my favorite maid?”
“Oh come on!” she put her hands on her sides, the ruffles of her dress swaying slightly, with a faux sort of anger, “I’ve clearly been your favorite since we were young; God knows you used to follow me everywhere when you were kid – like horse to hay.”
I laughed a bit, “That’s all rather arrogant of you, don’t you think?”
She then wore a gratuitous pout, “Am I really not your favorite, Master Sutherland?”
I squirmed at the last bit. She had begun calling me that, occasionally, of late, knowing how much I hated it.
“Okay, okay,” I relented, “Perhaps you are my favorite…”
She pumped her fist in stoic celebration, and we both laughed. The atmosphere suddenly warmed, we exchanged a few pleasantries about our days and plans for the coming week.
Christina then asked, “Since you’re here Vernon, would you like me to whip you something up in the kitchen?”
“Oh,” I reacted, “I was actually looking forward to feeding myself while the servants were gone.”
“Oh God no!” she gasped, “You can’t do that! Your parents would kill us if you burnt the manor down whilst they were away – if we even survived your first encounter with a stove top!”
“Oh, shut up!”
I scratched the back of my neck in embarrassment, and we both laughed.
Eventually, I accepted her offer, and we turned about to head towards the kitchens.
Along the way, Christina began to have a ponderous look, and at which point turned to me and asked, “What did you need from the laundry room if it wasn’t me anyway?”
I drew up a ruse as fast as I could, “I was looking for a shirt of mine I had cleaned.”
“Really?” she turned away, not completely satisfied with my answer, “I told all the maids to distribute the clean clothes before they left … all that was left in there, as far as I could see, were a couple suits and socks … oh, and the extra maid dresses of course”
I gulped by insticit, and hoped to God she didn’t hear me.
She didn’t, if you worried, and conversation quickly recovered to our usual playful attitude. And, I was glad things weren’t awkward between us too.
Christina was one of, if not, my oldest friends. A mere 3 years my senior, her mother was a maid much like herself now, so we grew up together in the household.
My father had always detested how his sire (as he insisted dad called him) always othered the staff who lived but a hallway away from us Sutherlands. So, when he came of age and the old coot died, leaving the home and titles to him, Father insisted that all children – Sutherland, those of guests or staff – be treated no differently from each other. They were to play together, dine together, and school together.
Despite the large group of potential playmates, I often found myself alone as a kid. That was until Christina, always quite popular, pulled me along, sometimes literally, to mingle with her group. Despite the moans of the other servant’s children, who did not at first like me one bit, she always found a way to include me – especially when I looked my most dejected.
At first, I was confused by the kindness. Later, as I grew older, I resented it – thought it was pity. After that, I came to accept her almost motherly friendship, and, since, we have been closer than anyone else in the manor.
Recent years had been a bit weird though. As we both came of age, and she took over the role of head maid after the former Mistress followed my sister out to her new abode, things have been odd. We haven’t spoken any less, nor ignored each other in any way, but strange changes have poked through.
She began to call me “Master Vernon” or “young Master” soon after I turned 18 – a formality she’d all but ignored beforehand. I for one had taken to watching her more closely when she worked in uniform. The sway of her gentle hips cloaked by the black, smooth, silky cloth. The leggings that she wore up to her thighs that clung to her skin. Unlike her new odd qualities, I knew the reason for this, as I’ll explain later.
As for now, we had arrived at the kitchen. Well, *a* kitchen would be more appropriate. The house had many for the chiefs to work in – whipping up dishes and drinks for the many party goers that guested here all summer in past years. This one was more folkish than the rest – which were rather industrial.
Stowed away in a corner of the building, it’s a warm, orange colored room with bright windows overlooking the garden in the backyard. There is both a table, topped with a small candelabra, chairs, and the usual kitchen affairs (stove, sink, etc.) in the den. It’s designed to be more cozy, the cooker and the diners together, than anywhere else in the house – almost to the point that it seems like an diorama of a more typical family’s home. It was a favorite of our family nonetheless for our personal dinners together.
Christina retrieved the ingredients she wanted from the coolers and cabinets around her: eggs, butter, sugar, and thick, cakey bread, among other things. My mouth salivated a bit, as I could already tell what she was making for me. My favorite – french toast.
“I see you intend to spoil me,” I remarked.
“I did give you quite the fright early,” she said whilst whipping up the eggs, “So, I thought it was only right…”
“Really now?” I laughed a bit.
She turned back, “What’s so funny?”
“It’s just …” I looked for the words, “That’s an excuse; you know this is just what you’re like. You can’t help yourself!”
“Oh really?” she enunciated, long and dry, “What is that; you call it?”
I thought for a moment only to come to a purposely bad answer, “Sisterly.”
She chuckled and turned back to her work, “Sister, huh? Exactly what every woman likes to be compared to…”
“You’re welcome.”
She tore a bit of crumb off the bread, and threw it at me, a smirk on her face, “If you keep being sassy, I’ll just hand you a plate of burnt scrambled eggs!”
I quickly shut my mouth.
Silence befell us two as she toiled away at our meal, and I found my eyes carefully watching her as described before. I trailed up from the purse flatfooted shoes she wear, up her silky stockings, across her petite, arched back where the straps of her apron – tied into a careful knot – mingled amongst the fluffy floofs of the dress, and finally all the way up to atop her flowing, blond hair where a cute little bow was tied on top.
One would be forgiven to think I was simply ogling her – though I certainly did find her attractive! And, one other might yet realize why I watched her so.
When we were young, I no more than 9 and her, thus, no more than 12, Christina and I would play a game to the great amusement of my parents and all our visitors. With great access to all the household’s dresses and makeup – along with a growing fondness for beauty and fashion – Christina would often secret me away to dressing rooms, style me up in one of the guests’ daughter’s dresses, throw a dash of blush on me, and braid my hair. After this work, she and I would parade myself amongst the lounges to entertain the household. They would laugh, joke, and congratulate my parents on finally having a “girly daughter” – a jest at my older sister who was more tomboyish from youth.
What I found I would savor most were the times the ladies would call me “cute”, or the confused, blushy glances the boys my age would make at me.
But, those times came to an end of course, as I grew older. Whether it was too strange to see an older boy parading around in women’s clothes, or simply people guessed I’d have no interest in being “embarrassed” so, these games ceased altogether.
Though, as you very well may have guessed, a growing fascination with this dressup continued to fester in me, even after the games were all but forgotten. This fascination, fueled as I grew into a man of more feminine attributes (shorter than my peers, leaner than them, etc.), grew into that very desire that fueled the start of this story. These feelings had finally begun to boil over, and, at the slightest glimpse of privacy, I had taken to the laundry room to steal some clothes, and finally dressup once again.
But, this was no childish musing any longer. It was a temptation. Even now, as I watched Christina, only really seeing the dress draped across her, I felt a stirring down below.
She turned, finished with cooking, and I made sure to conceal myself.
“Two slices of french toast for each of us,” she remarked, placing a plate in front of me and one for herself across the table.
“Ah, finally!” I blurted, and automatically dug in.
Conversation drifted in and out of focus as we ate. Once we’d cleaned our plates, we lingered in the pleasant den for a while – talking and joking and laughing. After about an hour, Christina cleaned our plates, and we went our separate ways for the day. Despite the house being unusually empty, we were both still rather busy. Christina had to make sure the place was clean, as always, and meet with some landscapers – work was being done in the gardens whilst father and mother were away. I, on the other hand, unable to act on my desires with another roaming the halls, took to study – might as well have something to show I’ve done when everyone gets back.
Yet, I still held out hope. Or, to rephrase it, my yearnings still needed to be satiated, as I had already bridged the point of no return within myself. I formulated a new plan. As Christina lay down for the night, I would creep down from my bedroom by soft candle light, and head once again to the laundry room. From there, I considered taking some apparel back to my room to try on, and perhaps keep it there for further use. But, I quickly dismissed this idea. However tempting, it carried too much risk: Christina could notice some clothes were missing tomorrow morning, or wake up and see me creeping through the hall with stockings draped over my shoulders, or, God forbid, parge into my room to clean and find them at the scene of the crime.
No, I simply must put out my desires there, in the laundry room, tonight. It was safest that way, I thought.
The rest of the day dragged on once this plan entrapped my mind. Every tick on the clock seemed to take longer than the rest, and each time I passed Christina’s chamber door, still open, it pained me. I shall save you from the delirium.
The sun had descended into the sky, and soft moonlight began to pierce through my windows when a pleasant knock rapted at my door. I answered it to an already bowed over Christina.
“My deepest apologies young Master,” she said, prostrating, “I got caught up in my duties for the day and neglected to make you anything for dinner!”
She was already dressed down in her sleeping gown, her hair tied into a bun with a black ribbon.
“Christina …” I mumble, embarrassed by her show of atonement, “Come on! You’re my friend; there’s no need to make such a big deal out of this…”
She automatically cheered up. Comically, she literally hopped back upwards, “Great! I was worried I was going to have to share some of that leftover steak I made myself for dinner; it was amazing!”
She laughed at her own joke, as I shook my head, exacerbated.
“Though seriously,” she said, leaning on the door frame in front of me, “I can go back down and make you something if you’re hungry?”
“I already ate,” I blurted out.
“Really,” she looked at me with great ponder, “When? How, I should ask as well?”
“Ah…” I fumbled for an answer to my misstep, “I found something to snack on in one of the kitchens…”
She bent her head to the side analytically.
“Anyway, I’m fine!” I said, holding back my want to push her towards her own room, “You should just go ahead and head to bed for the night; I know that’s what I’m going to do!”
I added a yawn for extra measure.
“Okay?” she said, perplexed no doubt. She did head off after that, and I watched her. She turned back a few times with a questioning look, and then simply shook her head and turned off down some new hallway.
I waited from that point another painful hour before I quietly exited my room, carrying a black candle in a hand held base. At first, I had to practice great stealth, worried Christina might still be wandering the halls. As I turned the corner I knew lay before her chambers, I held my breath, but was gladened to see it lay closed, no light creeping out from under the doorway.
From there, I walked rather leisurely, though silently, across a few halls, down a set of stairs, and towards the laundry room once again. As I approached it for a second time, the excitement and drive overtook me, and I nearly found myself storming towards the door. However, I made a point to be careful, and slowly opened it to peer in – protruding my light inwards to grant myself the ability to see.
I, nonetheless, saw nothing, but for clothing hampers and bags.
Now more skittish, I slowly entered, and closed the door behind me. I felt a chill in the near totally dark room overcome me, and clutched my sides with my free arm in a warming embrace. But, I quickly wouldn’t need that, as my eyes landed on a cart – containing piles upon piles of carefully folded dresses – and my entire body heated in reaction.
By candle light, I rushed over and examined the clothes. I felt a dress between my fingers and a shiver went across my body, as I touched the velvety material. Without another thought, I placed my candle nearby, began tossing away garment upon garment till I found one, which, held up to my thin body, seemed like it would fit. As I held up the perfect match, I could feel myself shake behind it; the moment had seemed to become surreal in a way.
I carefully placed my dress (how those words paired felt so strange at the time!) to the side, and moved over to the lockers in the back, beyond the hampers of folded garments. I located one filled to the brim with extra, black stockings, of all sizes, and clips to attach them, via garter, to your waist. Though the mechanism confused me, I was caught up, in heat one could say, and thought little of it.
I grabbed a pair that seemed like they’d fit, and was about to return to my dress when I noticed something in the corner of my eye – laying down, abandoned in a nearby cart. Amongst a group of socks and men’s undergarments was a single pair of … cotton panties. Back in the day, Christina and I obviously hadn’t gone that far in our little dressups. Something about the new territory excited me. Timidly, as if someone was watching, I leaned over and grabbed them.
I also found a pair of long, white gloves, which I grabbed up without a thought.
I returned to where I placed the garment, and feverishly began to undress – slipping my pajama pants and sleep shirt off with haste. When at last my undergarments came off, I stood before my collection of stolen clothes with, no doubt, a hungry and embarrassingly lustful look on my face. A part of me still begged inside that I might abandon these yearnings, look back, redress, and leave out the same door I’d entered. But, an overwhelming part of me knew, and preached, that I was just too far gone.
I slipped the panties on first – savoring the creamy feel as they rubbed up my bare legs. To save myself the embarrassment, let’s just say I have neither been very gifted nor too very lacking in the category of “manhood.” So, when the underwear came to meet with my nethers, I simply tucked my shaft to the side, and comfortably cradled it all. I apologize for my crudeness, but my descriptions will only get more graphic from here.
I went for the stockings next. I took a seat in a nearby chair and relished, as they were leisurely lifted and stretched across my slim legs, until they lay taut against me. After both were on, I looked down at myself, flickering beneath the faint candle light, and felt so strange, so very womanly, as I saw a pair of long legs cradled in dainty hosiery. I reached down, grabbed hold of both legs by the ankles, and stroked upwards, sampling the smooth texture, and all the way across until I met with the end of the stockings. I felt my cock quiver where it was hidden and threaten to burst out.
Continuing, I affixed the garter, and tried my best to belt it right to my waist. Then, I stretched the clasps, and attached them to the stockings below – tightening them, clumsily, how I thought fit.
Finally, having donned everything else, I hastily grabbed my chosen dress, placed it near the floor, and stepped into it. As I drew it up my sides, the sensation fed my arousal, and I feared I may be brought over the edge by this alone. But, I got it to its proper place – at least somewhat left with my dignity – and slipped my arms through their proper places. I reached around my back to button the silk buds that would hold the dress closed, but was unable to reach them all. It would be fine, right?
Lastly, I slipped the two long, silver gloves up my arms – loving how they felt pressed against my fingers and wondering how it might feel against my most sensitive digit.
By now, I was bursting with excitement – both of the timid and erotic kind – and felt somewhere close to how I was sure a belle with a new ball dress felt trying it on. Somewhere somehow, I got the idea to close my eyes, as I approached the mirror in the corner of the room. Yearning for the awe of a surprise?
I grabbed my candle, and stumbled over my own feet across the panel floors, feeling out in front of me with my empty hand. Eventually, I felt the frosty touch of the mirror, and took a step back for good measure.
With fear, and great excitement, I popped open my eyes and to see … a bit of a disappointment.
Don’t get me wrong, after all this time, I was still quite aroused by what I saw – a figure that both looked like me and some unrecognizable girl – but a part of me expected to be astonished – as if I’d suddenly transformed into some new person.
Yet, all I saw was, well, a bit of a mess.
My stockings, improperly fastened, were both too loose in places and too strung up – not to mention uneven in height. My gloves were wrinkled and not very fit to my skin – too baggy. My dress, worst of all, was slumped, constantly falling down my shoulders without the last buttons done. A well formed tent also had risen through my panties and through the dress, poking out in front of me.
All in all, it was a bit embarrassing. Nonetheless, it would work to satisfy my lust.
I had just begun to feel myself up – hands wandering up my sides and turning around and around for the mirror to witness my every side (and those beloved, tempting, wafts of the skirt as they drifted up in the air!) – when I heard the croak of an old board.
I froze, and hoped to dear God, if they were up there, I wouldn’t hear another one. Perhaps it was just the sounds of an aging house?
Another creak.
Not sure what to do, I silently ran for cover behind a nearby hamper. Breathing heavily and panicking, I only now remembered the lit, black candle which I clung to. A dead give away to my presence. Unsure of what to do, I overreacted, and threw the candle … over the hamper towards the door. The last thing I saw, before I ducked behind my hiding place, was it fall to the ground mere feet from the door – the wax spilling out and putting out its own flame.
The metal clink of the holder crashing at the ground was quite louder than I would have ever wanted. I heard a gasp from beyond the door.
“Oh no,” I thought.
My worst fears were soon confirmed; the door creaked open, and a voice drifted inwards, “Hello? Is anyone here?”
“Christina…” I thought, flushed with fear, and covered my mouth, biting down on my middle finger, to steady my breathing, “Please, please! Don’t see the candle!”
A minute of agonizing silence. Did she see it? Surely, if she did, she knows who it belongs to. If yes, then what is she thinking? I pray to anything out there that she would simply say nothing and go away.
“I know you’re in here…” her voice trips a bit, but remains firm and confident, “Come on out … Vernon”
My breath stops. A moment that must have been so small, infinitesimal, in reality goes on, frozen, in my mind for what feels like hours, as I sit there paralized. I consider every option – every method of escape. Trust me, none of them would have worked. When the moment is up, I stand, my head bowed in shame, eyes boring holes into the floorboards, and walk around the hamper to present myself to Christina.
She doesn’t make a sound, and, painfully, I can’t bring myself to look up and study her reaction. We must have been there for a long minute before she approached me. She stepped until she was no more than a foot away between us. I could feel her looking me up and down, and wanted desperately to claim some explanation, but could neither find one nor find the strength to even mutter words.
Then, she leaned downwards, so that her face was below mine. Forced me to look at her … and her gentle smile.
“Oh!” she said to me, “You just wanted to play dressup?”
Shocked, I looked back up, and she straightened her back to meet my glare.
Casually, she continued, “Look at you, you’re no good all by yourself! If you wanted to dress up like we used to, you should have just asked!”
I was stunned, and, naturally, without words.
“Would you like some help?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.
I barely registered the question, and must have blinked back at her like some clueless child.
To my astonishment, she grabbed me by my collar, and whispered into my ear a command, “Nod, please…”
She backed away, and I nodded, timidly, at her. She smirked, clearly proud of my submissiveness.
Automatically, she took to her work. Guiding me back before the mirror, she placed me there and studied the problem areas – attacking them with procision. She redid the disorderly buttons, and the dress fit quite nicely rather suddenly. She took a knee before me – which sent certain feelings coursing through me – and adjusted the claspes of the garter. Soon, my stockings were laid perfectly against my skin, and were level as could be. The gloves, she swapped for another pair which fit perfectly after she guided my hands lightly within.
“Hmm…” she hummed, looking at me in the mirror from behind myself, “Nope, this just won’t do. We’re missing a few things, aren’t we?”
She didn’t want, nor need, an answer. She took off, towards a nearby cupboard, and began to scour it.
“Where were they?” she muttered to herself, “I know Rose left a pair before … ah!”
She collected a pair of slipper-like shoes, black as midnight with little bows in place of laces, and brought them to me.
“I think she’s about your size…” she said more to my feet than to me. I reached out to take them from her, but she pulled back, thought for a moment, and shook her head “no”.
She crouched before me, and gracefully, one after the other, took my feet in her hands, and slipped the flats overtop them. When she arose, she told me that she was to be dressing me, so I better not intrude. I was finding myself enjoying this, secretly, so I gave no argument.
Christina left me a moment, and tossed piles of clothes around until she found a pristine white apron, and brought it to me. From behind, she passed it around me, pulled it tight (though not too so) across my waist, and tied it in place.
She studied me once again, and remarked, “Oh! One last touch!”
She took a ribbon, which held her hair up, untied it, and grasped hold of the locks of my hair. She took them, and tied them into a small but pretty ponytail with the ribbon.
“Now,” she grinned, happy with herself, “Give us a spin!”
This is what we’d always do, upon a successful childhood makeover. I was still rather skittish now, so my body simply refused.
“Come now,” she whispered into my ear, “You know you want to…”
Overwhelmed, I shyly twirled a bit, back and forth, in place.
“A real one!” she chuckled.
A sudden wave of determination overtook me, and I fully spun in place, feeling the skirt around me pick up and drift in the wind. I felt very elegant, and very desirable (the maids were always a fashionation of the visiting boys my age growing up), and also at the same time very, very silly.
As I stumbled the landing, nearly falling over, Christina reached out and grasped me, holding me up in place. We both laughed, heartily; the tension finally, even if it were just for a moment, lifting out from between us.
After the laughter ran its course, Christina turned me back by my shoulders towards the mirror to face myself.
“Why, don’t you look cute Master Vernon?” she purred.
She wasn’t wrong. My more womanly figure shone when she properly fixed my clothing. I did look positively cute, dressed up as a feminine maid. And, more than anything, I enjoyed that someone – that she – was calling me that.
“Or, should I…” she considered whatever she meant to say, and decided it was worth it, “Or, should I say … Mistress?”
Instantly, I turned a hundred shades pinker than I was already, and felt my trapped cock throb beneath me. My eyes landed down to where it still tented beneath my dress, and noticed a small sticky, splotch gathering, as precum bleed through the dress.
She giggled, but then noticed where I gazed and followed my eyes down to my crotch. Then, she considered. And, considered some more. This was the only time her confidence wavered, but, soon, she found it once again.
“Oh no,” she said with drama, “That just won’t do! You’ll ruin your new dress!”
I could see her in the mirror, searching the room with a wandering gaze for something. At the time I had no possible idea what she was looking for, but very soon I would find out. Her eyes landed on something to our left, and I trailed her sight line to fall upon the same chair I had used to dress myself (poorly) not too long ago.
Before I had time to consider what her intentions may be, I found her hand roaming down to mine. By an instinct I yet didn’t quite understand, I comfortably interlocked my fingers with hers, and she guided me towards the seat, placing me down there. My mind was a fog by then (of horniness, frankly), so I still didn’t quite understand what she was doing – even as she got down on her knees. This was until her hands, drifting slightly above a touch, followed the path up my legs to grab fistfulls of my dress, lifting it slightly upwards.
Instantly, I recognized what was happening, and exclaimed, “What are you doing?!”
She looked up at me with a calm smile, “I’m helping you! That is my job after all … as your favorite maid.”
I tried to retort, but she shushed me. Like literally, finger to the mouth shushing. I felt at once offended and charmed.
The line we were about to cross, I had plied with very few before – certainly, not anyone so dear to me. I was nervous – no, terrified – but something about her confidence, and that every steady smile of warmth, reassured me. So, I merely laid back in the wooden chair, and let her do as she would.
And, she did.
Christina continued to lift my dress, picking up the many ruffles and pushing them aside. From underneath a pile of cloth, my cock emerged, no longer tucked aside, but standing full mast – protruding from my body. Shamed, I looked away from her and it, but this did not deter her. Exploring with her hands, she groped me, teasing my member with small strokes around its head, and tousled my balls around in her other hand. After so much time leaving myself untreated in such respect – waiting since this morning, sneaking down here, and getting dressed twice – I found myself thoroughly edged, and incredibly sensitive to her touch. It throbbed in her hands, a massive pulse, that made her gasp.
Then, she giggled, and I found the will to look back down at her. She opened her eyes mid-laugh, and they met with mine. We gazed back and forth into each other. And, in a moment I shall never forget, she took my cock, never breaking our gaze, and pressed her lips to its head – a tender kiss. Then, she steadily worked her way down my shaft, until she met with the trimmed hair at its base, and began to pump up and down across it. Inside, I could feel her tongue lapping at the underside of my cock, as she went.
She pumped constantly – neither slow nor fast – and stared into my eyes, upwards at me, as she did so. Now, I would like to say that this went on for long – I certainly wanted the moment to last forever at the time – but I quickly, after she pumped and pumped up and down upon me, found myself falling apart.
After a minute or two of her attack, between my moans and desperate breaths, I said, “Christina-”
I tried to warn her, and failed. I found the time to say the one, solitary word before the first rope of my seed burst out from me. My breaths quickened, and I felt the spasms of my orgasm all throughout my aching body. After the second rope, Christina descended as far as she could upon my shaft, and watched me – swallowing it all. Rope after rope of my cum.
After one of the longest orgasms of my life, my breath began to slow, and she allowed my member to flop out of her mouth. While it was half-hard, she was careful to clean it off any of my seed she’d missed. She then draped the dress back over my loins, and stood up, taking me into her arms. She held me, as the last of my air caught up with me – stroking my back.
The minute I calmed down, it suddenly struck me what we’d just done. I pulled away, and looked her up and down. She had a concerned look on her face. I gathered my clothes – the one’s I’d entered with – and quietly retreated to the laundry room door. I wanted to look back, perhaps go back even, but I simply opened it and stepped out into the hallway.
As I closed it however, something took me, and I, being careful not to peer in, whispered through the cracked door to her, “Thank you … Christina.”
I heard a barely audible, “You’re welcome … my Mistress,” before I shut the door.
I returned to my room that night, and collapsed on my bed.
Trapped in my own thoughts, I was barely able to fall asleep that night.
And, it wasn’t till the morning after that I remembered I forgot to ever change back into my normal attire.
And thus, began the story of how a young Master became the maids’ new Mistress.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/qbu77w/confessions_of_a_mistress_and_her_maids_chapter_1