Second part of a long chapter
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Anna then commanded Chrissy to bring me a small tub filled with warm water and epsom salts. When they returned with it and set it down on the floor, I picked up Paul’s feet and placed them into the foot bath. They felt and looked a bit dry, but my own feet used to get a lot worse during the long winter months before Brooke started making me give myself regular pedicures (although, sometimes we would give them to each other).
What wildly strange, even surreal situations in which I now increasingly found myself. Here I was giving a pedicure to a man half my age, my former student no less, while dressed in nothing but a pair of tights as, not two feet away, his girlfriend was being given a pedicure by another former student of my college, while a transgender female in a maid’s uniform swept the floor around us. How unthinkable this bizarre situation would have been not even a year ago!
And yet…I can’t deny that I felt alive. Alive and excited in ways that I never did in my old life, pre Brooke, pre Luke. While Brooke’s presence alone provided that level of vitality and excitement, I had now largely accepted the reality that Brooke alone in my life was not a viable option. And while my domination by Paul and Anna was an offshoot of Luke’s, I can’t deny that I was profoundly stimulated by it, intellectually as well as physically. Whereas Luke is unquestionably the most naturally dominant individual, male or female, who I had ever met – a true force of nature – Paul and Anna were something different, and if not equally fascinating to me as Luke, pretty damn close to it. Luke’s dominance is organic; it’s fundamentally who he is. By contrast, Paul and Anna (while intrinsically dominant personalities) had made a conscious decision to be part of the BDSM scene. I’m not suggesting by any means that they are inauthentic; they clearly are very serious about the scene and, I strongly suspect, will be long-term players in it. Still, they are “players;” they have embraced this subculture and its trappings (e.g., a stable of slaves, the mini dungeon in their condo, their way of communicating with their submissives, even their way of targeting and ensnaring me to add to their stable) in a way that has almost a quality of theater or performance art about it. And if “the game” is what makes life interesting, as Brooke was so convinced, then there probably is something to be said for playing with the serious players.
But that wasn’t the only compelling thing about my submission to Paul and Anna. In my book, I was writing about different kinds of cuckold relationships, and variations of them. As I explained previously, the cuckquean, friendzone and alpha couple elements of Paul’s and Anna’s relationships with Chrissy, Cindy and Isaac all are related to the cuckold phenomenon in my mind, and all were fair game for what seemed to be my ever expanding study. I was aware of the danger of my book becoming too unfocused and too long; at the same time, I was beginning to think that, if I could really pull it off, it had the potential to be brilliant. It could be my magnum opus (and ensure my achieving full professor status on a fast track). Who knows, a book of this kind might even have some mainstream appeal (sex sells, after all, even unconventional sex). I was fascinated by Paul’s and Anna’s interactions with their other three submissives, and was incredibly curious to see what they had in store for me, how far they would push the envelope. They were offering me unique, up close insight into the dynamics of these kinds of power lopsided relationships. I guess it was another example of the benefits of firsthand research that I had heard so much about from Luke, Neil and Brooke.
As much as I would like to say that my interest was all academic, however, that was belied by the stiffness of my cock as I knelt before Paul trimming his toenails. After that, I began the part of a pedicure – not always necessary, thank goodness – that I found the most distasteful: using a pumice stone to rub down callouses. While Paul’s feet weren’t too bad overall, he had formed a fairly large, very dry callous on the ball of his left foot. I could tell he was not enjoying the sensation of me rubbing hard on it, causing the flakes to fall on the towel beneath his feet on the coffee table. Meanwhile, Cindy had finished Anna’s pedicure and was now massaging her feet, looking the most contented I had yet seen her. In contrast, Chrissy was making an inordinate amount of noise moving pieces of furniture, potted plants and so forth to sweep under, still seemingly in a fit of pique due to not having me at their disposal as their assistant.
Anna joked, “Babe, your callous is so bad, professor pedicurist may have to get the cheese grater out of the kitchen to rub it off.”
Paul responded, “If Chrissy doesn’t stop throwing a little hissy fit, she’s going to be eating my grated callous on top of pasta.” Paul, I was to learn, was less careful about using Chrissy’s preferred pronouns than Anna, especially when annoyed with them (which seemed like most of the time – Paul’s default mode).
“They can it eat it along with the corn out of our shit in their side salad,” Anna said with a laugh.
“Disgusting,” Paul replied.
“Yes, but funny,” Anna said.
While not appearing to see the humor in it, Chrissy did become noticeably more quiet following this exchange, as they continued to clean.
After the ball of Paul’s foot felt sufficiently smooth, I went to work on cleaning his cuticles and then filling his toenails. I then applied moisturizer to his feet and toes and gave him a thorough foot massage before finally applying a clear coat of nail polish to his toes (the latter at Anna’s request).
When I was finished, Anna looked down at Paul’s feet and said, “Much improved. Good to know that we have two competent pedicurists in our stable. Now, I think we should have a contest. Professor, you’ll learn that Prince Paul and I are fond of setting up little competitions between our slaves. We find it keeps you all on your toes. Speaking of which, I propose we have a toe sucking competition between our two pedicurists. We can start by Cindy piggy sucking the toes of my right foot and you, professor, sucking the toes of Paul’s right foot. And then we’ll switch it up and you’ll do my left foot and Cindy will do Paul’s left foot. The winner will get cummies and the loser will get a strapping. What do you think, Paul?”
“We just got our feet cleaned. Why would we want them to get dirty again with the slaves’ saliva?”
“First of all, getting your toes sucked feels good. You’ve said so yourself, on more than one occasion. Second, it’ll be fun; I’m eager to see who will win, although I’m pretty sure I already know. Third, we’ll just make them wash our feet again after the contest. Fourth, it will piss Chrissy off more, because they’re gonna have to wait longer for the professor to help them clean. That’s an added bonus.”
“Very well. Let’s get on with it,” Paul proclaimed.
Watching the abandon with which this reserved appearing (and, heretofore, behaving) young woman orally assaulted Anna’s toes, her entire foot really, was something to behold. Cindy removed her glasses, and went to work with a single-minded focus and fervor, starting by vigorously sucking Anna’s big toe, bobbing her head up and down as she sucked it repeatedly from top to bottom. She was able to generate a substantial amount of lubrication, so that Anna’s big toe was very moist by the time she moved on to the next toe. She used a similar technique with each toe, making loud slurping noise or noises reminiscent of a suction cup being removed from a hard surface as she brought her mouth up and off the toe. She then licked greedily between each toe and finally ran her tongue up and down the length of the bottoms and sides of Anna’s entire foot, so that it was thoroughly bathed with her saliva. Interestingly, in the midst of this degrading act, Cindy seemed to me to be more physically attractive (an observation which probably does not reflect well on me).
I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I worked Paul’s foot. I was no novice at toe sucking, having had plenty of practice on both Brooke’s and Luke’s feet. So the contest was not a total blowout. I did many of the same things to Paul’s foot that Cindy did to Anna’s – there is, after all, only so many things you can do in sucking someone’s toes – but it was really a question of level of intensity. I didn’t lick the bottoms and sides of either Paul’s or Anna’s feet for fear that I would have points deducted for not sticking strictly to “toe sucking” – a tactical error. Cindy was probably only a little bit ahead of me when we switched places. However, if anything, she was even more zealous in her oral worship of Paul’s toes than she had been with Anna’s; I was more consistent, and so was unable to make up for lost ground even during what was for me the far more pleasant task of sucking Anna’s toes. Whereas Anna’s expression while being so slavishly worshiped was one of glorious imperiousness and entitlement, Paul looked mostly bored.
When Cindy and I finished, after spending about five minutes on each foot, Anna said, “Well, I think we have a pretty obvious winner, just as I expected. Do you agree, Paul?”
“No contest. Cindy blew him away.”
“Professor, your punishment will be delivered after you help Chrissy clean. Make sure you are an obedient junior maid, or you’ll get extra strokes. The strap won’t leave lasting marks, will it, babe?”
“No, his ass will just be very red for a few hours. I can make it sting plenty without leaving bruises. I’ve been refining my technique, just for Rollins.”
“Good. How many strokes are you thinking?”
“Ten. Unless he gets a bad report from Chrissy. Then I’ll add more.”
“You better work your ass off, professor. We’re having a big party here tomorrow night and we expect the condo to be spotless. Unfortunately, there are going to be several people there tomorrow who might recognize you, so you can’t be one of our serving maids,” Anna explained. It was at least some mild consolation to me that keeping my servitude to them from being widely known was a promise they still intended to respect (for the time being, at least).
“Now, it’s time for your present. It’s in the dungeon. Chrissy will give it to you,” Anna added.
Chrissy took me upstairs to the dungeon and handed me a bag with two gift boxes wrapped neatly in red and green colored paper. In the larger of the two boxes was a complete maid’s uniform and an expensive pair of seamed black stockings. The uniform was classic black-and-white, made of satin with white lace petticoats, apron and trim. Feeling the fabric with my fingers, I could tell it was of fairly high quality – probably more appropriate for serving than cleaning. In the smaller box was a pair of black high heels.
“I’m never happy when Master and Mistress add a new slave to their stable. It means more competition for their attention, positive or negative. So, I don’t like you and will do everything I can to screw you. Not literally, of course; that would be disgusting. Not get dressed in your pretty new uniform and report to me in the kitchen,” Chrissy announced.
“Yes….um, what should I call you?”
“Today, since you are my junior maid, you should call me ma’am. Unless, Master or Mistress say otherwise. Hurry up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After Chrissy left the room, I put on the uniform, stockings and high heels and looked at myself in the large mirror hanging on the back of the door. At home and during prior visits to Paul’s and Anna‘s condo, I had of course dressed at different times in aprons, a maid’s cap, stockings, and high heels. But this was the first time that I had ever seen myself in a full maid’s uniform. The effect on me was immediate and profound. I was a “sissy maid.” One would think that with all of the emasculation that I had already endured– the effeminate articles of clothing in public, the panties and tights in private, the pink speedo in my driveway, my Little Foot Page costume, etc. – one would think that a maid’s uniform would be no big deal. That it would simply be another incremental step on the long and winding road of my emasculation. However, being a mature man, a purported figure of respect and intellectual authority, socially downgraded to this archetypal female servant, the feeling of shame and humiliation was…overpowering. It was a submissive epiphany, a game changer of sorts. I felt like such an object of ridicule. So weak, so inadequate. So inferior. And SO aroused, my cock as hard as I could ever recall. The uniform only came down to my mid thigh. Although my belly protruded out somewhat – which only added to my shame – I actually found myself admiring the appearance of my legs in the black stockings. I actually felt – dare I say it? – somewhat sexy. There were many times when I had felt sexually aroused, of course, but rarely had I ever felt sexy – as in potentially sexually appealing to anyone else. It was the combination, I believe, of being at once repelled and attracted by my appearance that produced such a powerful effect on me. Was I looking at “the real me” for the first time in my life? An absurd thought, yes, but one that truly occurred to me. And it disgusted, frightened and excited me all at once.
I instinctively curtsied in front of the mirror. A regular curtsy, followed by a deep one. I wondered to myself what Brooke would think seeing me attired thus. She probably would say, “What’s the big deal, Walter? Think of all the ridiculous ways that I’ve seen you dressed.” And she would be right. And yet….there was no denying the unique power of what I was experiencing at that moment.
My ruminations were interrupted when Chrissy stuck her head back through the door and said, “What the hell is taking you so long? Stop admiring yourself in the mirror, princess. Although, I will say, you don’t look as bad in that uniform as I would’ve expected. But now it’s time to get your ass in gear! We have a ton of work to do.”
I worked hard over the next two hours. Chrissy gave me all of the the most unpleasant tasks, including cleaning the bathrooms from top to bottom and mopping the kitchen floor. I tried my best to keep my beautiful new uniform clean, but my stockings still got quite wet when I was kneeling on the bathroom floors scrubbing. The effect of wearing the uniform stayed with me for the rest of my time at the condo, until I somewhat reluctantly took it off before returning home. I remained in a state of giddiness and constant titillation as I cleaned and took orders from Chrissy, as I curtsied to Anna and Paul, and even as I bent over a dining room chair in front of everyone to take my strapping from Paul. Chrissy was able to convince Paul that I deserved three additional strokes, for having not worked quickly enough.
Typically, I’m aroused in anticipation of a punishment, but my erection quickly subsides – shrivels up, even – under the pain of the punishment itself. However, that did not happen when Paul punished me that day; quite the opposite, in fact. While Paul’s strapping did not hurt nearly as much as being caned or even as much as many of the strappings, paddlings and spankings Luke has dished out, it still hurt plenty. Nevertheless, not only did I remain hard the entire time, I actually ejaculated midway through the punishment. On the eighth stroke, to be precise. This had happened to me a couple of times before, but only when I was over someone’s knees, with my cock pressed up against my punisher’s thigh or leg; this is the first time I had ever ejaculated from a standing position during chastisement. Although I had felt my arousal increasing with each crack of the leather against my flesh – hyper conscious of the eight eyes watching it all unfold – I nonetheless gasped in surprise and shameful pleasure when it happened.
“Oh, my god,” I heard Cindy say. “Look, at his stockings. They’re wet.”
“You didn’t pee in your pants, professor, did you?” asked Anna.
“That’s not pee, Mistress,” said Chrissy.
“Gross,” said Cindy.
“Unbelievable. You’re fucking pathetic, Rollins,” said Paul.
“Haha. This was supposed to be a punishment not a reward, professor pantywaist,” Anna said. “I guess you must really like your new maid’s uniform.”
She was right. It was the maid’s uniform that pushed me over the edge. What else could it be? I was a sissy maid ostensibly being punished for failing to clean as required, but fundamentally, for being such a preposterous parody of a man. These were thoughts than ran through my head as Paul’s blows caused the blood to rush to my bottom and groin, and caused the endorphins and dopamine to spike wildly in my submissive brain. Perhaps more the brain of a bimbo than a scholar, I thought to myself, as I felt the liquid stream down the front of my leg
“This is awesome! I can’t wait to tell Kelly and Archer!” There was at least genuine joy in Anna’s domination of her submissives, quite a contrast to Paul. Still, I felt so unspeakably ashamed.
After Paul delivered the final three strokes – these with extra force, no doubt to convey his disgust at my unauthorized emission – I was sent home with 500 punishment lines (“Tubby maids will not be tolerated; I promise to lose 15 pounds.”) and the promise of a dry cleaning bill for my soiled uniform.
Brooke still had another hour of work at the restaurant when I got home, so I used the time to pull out some cookbooks to start preparing some of the hors d’oeuvres and dishes that Brooke and I would be serving at Luke’s dinner party the next evening. We had already chosen the dishes we wanted to make and had done all the shopping, so that we could devote all day tomorrow to cooking the dishes, transporting them over to Luke’s and getting ourselves ready for a night of being run ragged waiting hand and foot on Luke and his guests. The stakes were high. If Brooke and I disappointed him, the best case scenario was a punishment that would make my strapping by Paul look like a stroll through the park on a sunny spring day. The worst case scenario was that he would change his mind about coming back into our lives. As I noted before, failure was not an option.
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