I got it bad

How long had I been kept there, prisoner in than small uncomfortable space?

Why was I locked up in a cupboard? This story atarts here.

I couldn’t tell… it was so dark… besides, I had fallen asleep.

As I woke up, I couldn’t feel my limbs anymore, but I could hear some music. There were people outside… I couldn’t believe it! Sandy had invited her friends over!
As I could hear voices in the kitchen, close to my confinement. I started bumping the door and shouting.

“What’s that?”
“Oh, nothing… It’s just Debbie”
“Debbie?”
“Yes… I had to punish her. I’ll keep her there until she atones for her behaviour.
“It sounds like a man…”
“I know. She has this strange voice…”
“But… is she all right? Doesn’t she need any help?”
“No… she’s OK… You’re OK, right Debbie?”
“Yes”, I muttered, “I’m fine…”
“But who’s this Debbie?”
“My wife”
“Your… you mean… I didn’t know you were married… I mean… are you a lesbian?”
“Something like that” she said, as her voice fainted away into the living room

I was starving. Besides, the whole cabinet was a mess: had peed all over the place, and I could feel the dried up cum on my skin. Oh well, who was going to clean up this filth after all?



I probably lost consciousness several times. As I woke up in the middle of the dark, I found myself in such distress that I… felt hot again!

All of the sudden, there was this sound… I couldn’t believe it… she had turned on the soccer game! I could hear the commentator’s voice, but I couldn’t understand the words. Just then I realized she had kept me there for a whole day and a half!

“Let me out, Sandy… please… it’s not fun anymore…”
“You'll have to wait till the game is over!”

Sophisticated... Lady?

People are not surprised any more by the role-exchange that has taken place in our marriage, with me doing all the housework and carrying out many activities traditionally taken on by women, while my (female) wife is the income-earner and therefore performs the “male” role in our relationship. What strikes people more as eccentric is the way I look. In fact, those of you who have read my previous postings know that my outwear (and underwear too, now that you ask) is what by tradition you would refer to as “feminine”. In fact, I even wear Sandy’s clothes regularily. I find it only natural, since I am the “wife”, to wear those garments worn by my equals, while Sandy wears… well, whatever she wants. Let me explain:

I’m usually labelled as a cross-dresser, while Sandy, even when she is in a mannish worker’s jean overall, is referred to as a "girl-in-an-overall". Isn’t that unfair? There’s no way a woman can cross-dress any more. Whatever she feels like wearing is accepted, no matter what shelf it comes from. Now, if a guy shows up wearing skirts and high heels, the way I do, he is instantly marked … for some, he’s not “normal”, he might even be a pervert; for most, he is definitely a cross-dresser (or at least a "metrosexual", whatever that means!)

In fact, I’m frequently asked, why don’t I shave that betraying beard from my face so that I can pass as a proper lady; whether I’m in hormone treatment or not; what am I waiting for to get a sex reassignment surgery...

The truth is that I don’t intend to “pass” as a woman, and I’ll probably never endure any such surgery, and the odds are that I’ll remain physiologically a man. A "new breed" of men, if you like, one that is not ashamed of being feminine. At least for as long as Sandy obtains some pleasure from my erect penis once in a while (your guess was correct: we use a dildo for most of our intercourses, so her dominance is enhanced). If I had to define myself, I would say that I’m an unconcealed submissive. I don’t “cross-dress”, I wear what I feel is appropriate for me and for the role I play in our relationship and in society. I conjecture that the day will come when doms and subs will dress in accordance with the role they perform, independently of their physiological sex, and even in spite of their sexual orientation.

Think about it: as women have rightfully come to perform tasks that require power, assertiveness, even sheer physical strength, it is only natural that their exterior looks more and more “masculine”. Envisage a lady executive in the corporate world… wouldn’t she have been regarded as a “male impersonator” by our great-grand parents? What about a female mechanic, a police woman, a cab driver?

Wouldn’t it be likewise fair for us males who perform duties that require docility, obedience, passivity or compliance, behaviors previously assigned to females only (or simply if we feel like displaying our creativity and sense of style) to have the freedom to dress the way women have used to dress so far?

The part dressed

If a female excecutive is expected to wear a suit,

couldn't her male crecretary dress accordingly?












We have female security guards...

























But male dressmakers shouldn't be expected to wear the same uniform

...and of course, we need to have female construction workers, truck drivers, warriors, body-builders...

... as well as male babysitters, cheerleaders...

Don't ask me where are we heading to in our society if we continue with this trend. I have very little answers. After all, I am nothing more than a humble house-wife, concerned only about her duties. All I can say is that, in my opinion, just as women have fought for their equality rights over the past decades, maybe it's time for us men to earn our right to show ourselves tender, fragile, weak, submissive, and why not... feminine.

Those foolish things

Whenever I recall those early years, I am amazed at my own immaturity and silliness. How could I have possibly behaved the way I did? I’ll tell you why: I was still what I call “a guy”. If you currently asked me about my identity, I certainly wouldn’t link myself with that term. I would admit that I’m a male, hormonally a “man” (I can’t help that). But for me a “guy” is something else, a result more of human culture than human physiology, and I certainly do not fit into that stereotype. Not anymore.

At that time, I basically enjoyed the happiness of being Sandra’s house-maid every weekend: as soon as I finished work on Fridays, I would rush home, get into my uniform, and start with my duties. I found that so thrilling! As Sandy got home, everything had to be ready. At the beginning, that was utterly impossible. The minute I leapt into my chores, the whole house was messy beyond imagination. But since I started to routinely keep up a few hours a day during weekdays also, the task was not so overwhelming for me once I became Debbie.

In spite of my toil, when Sandra arrived she was never pleased. She would find faults everywhere, criticize my work, and sometimes she would even beat me. That really turned me on!
But other than that, I was essentially an ordinary guy. Granted: a guy who wore clogs most of the time, but still in actual fact a run of the mill guy.

Girly shoes

Sandy had (well, she still has) a wonderful group of girl-friends, and I loved to join their parties (At the time they didn’t know about my weekend transformation. Nowadays they all seem to have forgotten that Debbie was once somebody else).
Apart from a gay friend of theirs, I was as a rule the only male in the group. One evening, we all took our shoes off in order to climb over the entertainer’s bed, so I simply kicked my clogs off… I recall that when I did that my footwear was praised by one of Sandra’s friends. I tried to support smy wearing them by claiming that they are “unisex”.
“C’mon!” she said, “those are so feminine! They are girl’s shoes! Now… if you like to wear them, there’s no problem with me!”
“She’s right” somebody else replied, “want to try on my shoes?”
Too bad I didn’t dare to do it. Sometime you regret what you didn’t do more than what you did…

I still enjoyed watching sports on TV, and all those activities guys get pleasure from. I must admit that I could feel many things changing dramatically within myself, though. On the exterior, some things changed too: my relationship with women, for instance. I used to be shy and awkward in front of girls. Now I was attentive, more sympathetic, and supportive. My male friends started to admire my “success” with girls, and couldn’t understand how could I “pick them up” so easily. I did not pretend to do anything like that. I just listened attentively, I empathized and started to identify with them. Little did I realize how close would I get in such identification!

Looking backwards, of the “manly” activities I used to like, the one I understand the least is soccer. How could I have ever loved that game? Don’t get me wrong: I could still appreciate a good match (I suppose), and I understand that it can be exciting and all… what I can’t grasp anymore is why it was so “important” for me… How critical can it be for a particular team to win a game? I see myself in front of the TV set, practically living and breathing through the movements of a bunch of guys kicking a ball around… and cannot understand it.
Anyways: there was a particular game I wanted to see with, and I humbly asked Sandra permission to get together with the guys that Sunday. As an exception, I emphasized, only that particular Sunday…

“I’ll make it up for you next weekend…”
“No way! Stay home and do something useful, something girly, like knitting ”
“I’ll be your maid after the office too, I’ll be your slave …”
“But you are my slave!”
“It’s not fair! I’ve worked hard for you, I’ve washed your panties by hand… who has done that for you before? Who would ever do that for you? Not even your mother! I’ve…"
“Stop ranting, Deborah! You’re driving me crazy! I said no, okay?”

Hearing her pronounce that name, my name, would normally turn me on… now it made me burn into flames… but the blaze was anger, not desire. A quarrel ensued, like no other we had ever had… and just because of a silly game.

“I’m not Deborah now!”
“Yes, you are! Yes, you are!”
“No!”
Her eyes started shedding heavy tears, as she continued in a muted tone:
“Yes you are…”
“OK, Sandy, calm down… stop crying… what can I do to make it up for you?
“Get into your uniform…”
“Now?”
“Yes… now… I am your mistress or what?”
“Y… yes, ma’am”
As I returned to the kitchen wearing my uniform, apron, and white clogs, she said, pointing to the broom closet:
“Now get in there”
“There?”
“Yes, there, you are being punished for all your rudeness”
“Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m not”
I got into that small, narrow, and quite cramped space. There was scarcely room for me among the broomsticks and cleaning products. She shut the door firmly, and I could hear her locking it up from outside. There was no way to open it from the inside. It didn’t even have a keyhole or anything. After all, it was designed for brooms, not people.
“You’ll stay there for as long as I say”
“Maybe I could knock the door down”, I said mockingly
“But you’re not doing that”
The room was dark as a cave. My shoulders were pressed between the walls and my head was bent down by the ceiling even though I was twisting my knees. Besides, when I tried to move, the broomsticks stroke against my bare ankles. How long could I bare that?
“Sandy… how long are you keeping me here?... Sandy!”
No answer. I was at her complete mercy. I felt a tremendous arousal… I was so hard on! I tried to preserve myself for her, like I always did, but to no avail... I just couldn't control myself. I eagerly rubbed against the broomsticks and, in the darkness, I cummed all over my uniform. After that, all the excitement was gone… I felt extremely uncomfortable, my knees, ankles and back aching and on the whole I was bored to death. I knocked the door. I took one of my clogs and knocked even harder…nothing

“Sandy!... I’m gonna brake the door open!... Sandy!... I need to go to the bathroom!”
I thrust against the door. I never thought that wood would be so solid. I gave up. Besides, I didn’t want to upset my mistress.

Day in the life 2

How exciting can a housewife’s life be? Just because the housekeeper happens to be a male, it doesn’t make it more thrilling than removing stains, vacuuming, dusting, sweeping, preparing the meals and so forth. Or maybe I should rather tell you about some recent sewing project, but for the majority of you out there that is probably not the most exhilarating subject in the world either. So, besides relating the story of my complete transformation over the years, which can be worthy of note, what can I post here when it comes to my daily life that could be appealing enough for you to keep on reading? Just wait and you’ll see…

I do find my life very gratifying, fulfilling, and yes… exciting too. I live through moving and even breathtaking experiences almost daily (that doesn't mean that they are always pleasant, I should admit). They range from a plain reaction to my attire, be it a compliment or a grunt of disapproval (the latter response, believe it or not, is much less frequent that the first), to what for me are spine-tingling adventures Sandy decides to embark me on.

I do get reactions to what some people perceive as “cross-dressing”, but not as often as you might expect. So, if any male out there is interested in wearing a flowered-skirt or high-heels in public, my suggestion would be: go right ahead, most people are too occupied minding their own business to care less about what you wear.

As for me, I’m simply wearing what housewives feel comfortable with and at the same time shows some sense of style. Now, I should admit that those garments are indeed feminine by conventional standards. Well, I guess it indicates that I’m playing a gender-role that has traditionally been assigned to females. On the other hand, of those not many comments, most are compliments (and most by ladies: on my nail-polish, or a particular garment). Off-putting remarks are rare: nasty teenager gangs can be enervating.




Apart from that, as I told you, Sandy loves to get me into exciting activities. For instance, she has had me temporarily hired as a secretary, waitress, or maid. Don’t get me wrong: those are hard work (I can tell!) and secretaries, waitresses or maids deserve all our respect. But there is something particularly appealing in those occupations to a submissive male like me: maybe the fact that you have to let go your assertiveness, or that you have to be under somebody else’s authority and control. And if your boss happens to be a woman… for some reason you feel so much more passive and compliant!



On a regular basis, though, if such thing exists, what I’m engaged into as soon as Sandy leaves for her studio, are the customary chores you expect from a housewife. I tidy up the kitchen after breakfast, I work past the “daily’s” (things you have to do every day, such as sweeping the floor, and cleaning the yard), and start with a “weekly”: each day of the week is devoted to the more detailed clean-up of a single room: on Mondays I clean the kitchen, on Tuesdays the living room, on Wednesdays my mistress’ room, and so forth. Meanwhile, I start cooking whatever has to be ready in advance: when Sandy gets back home, her dinner has to be served.

On week-days, Sandy grabs something to eat at a place close to her studio, so I usually have lunch by myself (and sometimes I even have time to take a nap) before embarking into my own activities: I’m always taking lessons of some kind. At first, my education had to do with my basic training: I took lessons on modeling, cooking, etiquette. Later on I could be taught on the new interests I had acquired: at first it was drawing, now it’s sewing. I’m looking forward to getting my dress-makers diploma some day. I have to practice, though, so I meet with my sewing circle or I simply stay home and work there. I have a small sewing room, close to the kitchen. The room serves several purposes: I have to sleep there during some weekends, when Sandy chooses to have me as her personal full-time French maid for a couple of days. Have you ever heard of any maid sleeping in her mistress’ room? (of course not!) I love it when she is throwing a party, something like twice a month. For those occasions, I wear one of my maid uniforms and, yes, I do so in public in front of all her guests. All of them know about our unusual relationship, and in fact, as part of those afore mentioned adventures, I’ve even been “borrowed” as a maid for periods of a week by some of her friends.

That room has also served as my “prison cell”, whenever I’ve been punished, bound and locked up inside. An unusual life, it’s true… but never boring! So… keep up with my postings!

I got shoes

As I stepped into my office wearing clogs for the first time, I felt my heart beating even louder than the noise my wooden-soled footwear produced as I strolled along the tiled floor.

Why was I wearing clogs at the office? Well, the story starts here

I worked for a extremely conservative attorney bureau, so you might understand that dress-codes were important issues. Although they were seldom (if ever) brought up, it was implicit that a very formal outfit was required.

Clog code

My conventional collar and tie suit definitively didn’t go with clogs, so I put together a less formal setup, with a fine jacket and matching pants of a different color, and a turtleneck instead of shirt. In my opinion, my new looks were sophisticate and “European”. Anyways, I hoped I could get away with my wearing clogs in that formal environment.

I tried to act as natural and casual as possible: I have to admit that, to my amazement, nobody mentioned or even seem to notice my clogs. As I encountered my supervisor, he did stare briefly at my feet. Then he gazed at me with a puzzled look. Immediately after that, as if he hadn’t seen anything strange, he plainly continued:
“Hey, what’s up! I need you to file all these papers, and then …”
I got some scant compliments from my female co-workers, of the sort of “nice clogs!”, and that was that. None of the taunts or mocks I was expecting… not even from the customary office-jester.

Oddly enough, it was one of the ladies who made fun of me: "Do you have the matching purse, dear?"

If they only knew that I was also wearing a bra and panties! Sandy insisted that feminine underwear would extend her control over me during my work-hours, and “by the way”, she said, “it will prevent you from attempting any away-from-home flirtation”
It worked all right, and it also made me feel quite self-conscious and consequently somewhat shy. I really felt ill at ease whenever I had to go to the men’s room. During coffee-breaks, when the chat with the guys took that archetypal sexist turn, I surprised myself feeling quite uncomfortable. I started spending my breaks with the girls.

But my shyness disappeared one day, somewhere during my second clog-week. I always tried to avoid the stairs, as my clogs made a hell of a noise in that staircase. But one day I had no option but to go down a couple of floors using the stairway. I was doing my best to walk quietly, as I was reached by a colleague clicking along in her heels.
“What’s the idea of walking carefully like that?” she asked, “if you are wearing clogs, you have to assume its consequences! You have to be assertive, proud, and say here I am, with my clogs!”
And she started stomping, making even more noise as she continued down the stairs. “She’s right!”, I thought to myself, “what is the whole idea of wearing clogs if I am not to enjoy them in whole, including that magnificent, “assertive” noise they produce?”

But work was not what it used to be. I had been the perfect employee, working overtime, even moonlighting, striving to get promoted. Not anymore: now I counted the hours anxiously before I could get back home, and become Debbie again.

A day in the life 1

Oh what a beautiful morning




It’s not always easy to be the wife of an artist. And my Sandra is indeed a great artist, at least to my eyes. And she surely meets other people’s high standards as well, since she has been the main provider at home for several years, paying off all the bills with the income resulting from selling her artwork.
It’s not simple, since artists can be unpredictable, temperamental, and difficult at times, and Sandra is all three indeed. On top of that, ours is a blatantly female lead relationship… you might expect her, as the dominant, to act at all times like the typical bossy, yelling dominatrix dressed always in black leather catsuits and high-heeled spike boots. Well, that is truly the case during our intimate role-playing sessions! She becomes demanding and domineering too, whenever she determines that I must stop being her wife, and become her house-maid for a day. But in “real life”, so to say, that is, when I’m not her domestic maid or her sex toy but her day-by-day wife, things are not like you might expect: she makes me yield to her authority more by teasing and manipulating me than by bullying me around. But she does have all those tantrums and outbursts you expect from artists once in a while.
Anyway, it has become my purpose in life not only to give up my career for hers, but to make things easy for her in every way, so she doesn’t have to worry about all those petty daily life affairs and can fully concentrate on her work. My daily routine is in fact arranged in order to accomplish that.
It’s no mean task, considering that, as I say, exceptionally creative people can be difficult to deal with, and, most of all, messy (very!), selfish, and inconsiderate.

My day starts very early (even before dawn, in winter), as I get out of bed in silence, being careful not to wake Sandy, who normally sleeps till noon.
On those weekends in which I’ve been serving as her French maid, I have to sleep in the kitchen. That way it’s easier to get up without disturbing her.

I prepare myself some tea, get into my sweat suit, and I’m off for the gym. Sandy wants me to stay always fit, so I work out every single day. I used to be a runner when I was younger. I was very skinny, so my coach assigned me to the marathon team. I was never an outstanding athlete, but jogging has kept me in shape along the years. Nowadays, just as you might imagine, Sandy has signed me up for more “girly” routines: aerobic dance and Pilates, which I discovered some three years ago. There are only girls in my training sessions… and I’m definitely the only one with a beard! Sandy wants me to keep it, since we’re not trying to make me “pass” as a woman, but I do trim it neatly and keep it short and thin, so that it looks good with lipstick and make-up. But at that early hour I haven’t shaved my face yet and I’m surely the oddest dancer in the class.

After having perspired for an hour, I get back home (fortunately, the gym is located literally across the street). I take a shower (downstairs, never in Sandy’s room, unless she invites me for some sex game), shave my beard and armpits, pluck my eyebrows, spray some mist all over my body, and get into a clean robe. Only then, spotless and perfumed, I’m in condition of presenting myself to my mistress.





I prepare breakfast, and serve her in bed. I carefully wake her up and we chat for a while as we eat. Then comes my favorite part of the day: we get dressed.

I’m always intrigued and exited by what she’ll decide I should wear that day. Many times she is not in a very creative mood, and just flings me over whatever she wore the day before. We are lucky enough to be more or less the same size, except for the shoes: but I’ve been blessed with small feet (women’s 8 ½, European 38). So, depending on the style, I can also wear some of her shoes: thongs and clogs, for example. It’s a lucky thing, since we encounter no trouble getting shoes in my size.

I must admit that dressing in those garments, often still scented with her smell, really turns me on, especially her underwear.
Then I help her with her toilette: I rub her with body-lotion, I dry her with a towel, and then help her get dressed. I’m often consulted about clothing, as she completely trusts my taste. I make careful choices, considering that I might be wearing those very same garments the next day! I make her up and then, being an artist, she seldom misses the chance of applying my makeup herself.

She is then ready to leave for the studio… and I’m ready to start dealing with all the housework.

Clippitty cloppity clog

“First times” are often disappointing, and frequently frustrating. Some of you may be recalling that very first time you had sex. You probably ended up asking yourselves, as so many of us have: What is all the big fuss about? As debutants we don’t realize that, as in any other human activity, complete mastery requires many hours of practice, preparation, and that stern word: discipline.

But I’m not talking about sex here. Or rather, yes, I am, but almost certainly not as you presume: I’ll never forget that very first time I ever wore a pair of clogs. I’m not talking about the all-wooden Dutch clogs here, but the Danish or Swedish style, with a leather upper and wooden sole, which had been so “in” during the 70’s and 80’s, and worn by both sexes.

I was madly in love with them from the day a fellow male student showed up at school wearing his pair with total naturalness… can guys wear those too? I wondered. I then became aware of Europeans boys, happily clogging along without any problem.

How, and why did clogs become my fetish? Maybe at a sub-conscious level, they meant for me some kind of transgression, the possibility of “crossing” that taboo line towards a femininity which I hadn’t explored yet at that time. Was it that wearing some “unisex” garment made it “socially acceptable” for a guy to cross that border? These considerations never crossed my head at the time. I simply loved their looks, loved the sound they produced when walking, and girls in clogs really turned me on (they still do). I loved to watch gals playing with them, sliding their feet out of them and putting them back on… As a true fetishist, even as a teenager I became obsessed about getting my own pair. But they were already going out of fashion, and it was not easy to come across them, unless, of course, I traveled to Sweden! (Today Sandra can get whatever she wants for me over the Internet)





So there I was that lazy afternoon, at a friend’s house, watching TV. Or should I rather say, she was watching TV, I was staring at the wonderful worn-out clogs she had just kicked off her feet and that were sitting there, on the floor. As we were both lying on her bed, I had taken my shoes off too.

“Are these any comfortable?” I asked, trying my best to sound as natural as possible.
“Sure”
“Some guys wear them too” I clarified
“Sure”, she said, without taking her eyes away from the TV set, “Try them on”

I slid my feet into them. I felt elated, and was probably blushing. Even if they were not my number (I blessed with small feet: women’s 8), the sensation of my feet in contact with the wood was something amazing, but then… comfortable? Not really! I couldn’t walk. I, who had barely worn anything other than sneakers during high school, tried some steps around the room, but they were as demanding as walking on the moon. Much more difficult to wear than I had ever imagined: they slipped off, bent my ankles, and so forth.

“You get used to them” she commented squarely, while still watching TV.

Had my love affair ended abruptly that day? Not indeed: I did get my own pair, in my number, but I stack them in my closet and wore them very seldom, mostly at home.





It was a Saturday morning and my second weekend as Debbie, Sandy’s maid. I had changed into my uniform, like the previous weekend, and was looking forward to a wonderful weekend of hard work as a submissive housekeeper, rounded off with a session of wild sex, hopefully stamped by Sandra’s muddy boots, and, if I was lucky enough, with a complete orgasm, which she had previously denied me.

“Those shoes are terrible”, she said as soon as she saw my sneakers, “we have to get you some new shoes… something like maryjanes or sandals”

“Why not…” I dared to say timidly, “why not…?”
“Why not what?” she asked inquisitively as though she had caught me into some secret of mine (she actually had)
“Why not clogs?”
“So you like clogs, naughty little girl, huh? Good. Granted: As Debbie, my own personal sissy-maid, from now on, you’ll always wear clogs”

I hastly went to her room, and took out of the closet my old, almost unworn, pair of clogs. I showed them to her for her approval.

“Cool! I love them! We’ll have to get a new pair, though, more feminine, with hand painted flowers or something… We can go to the art fair and see if…”

“There’s a problem, ma’am…. As you now know, I not only love clogs, but they are actually a fetish for me. But, on the other hand, they are not too comfortable for me to wear: I’m not sure if I’ll be able to do every single house chore wearing clogs… maybe I could wear them only for…”
“Stop it! I didn’t say you could speak! What do you mean they are not comfortable? All you need is some discipline! You won’t wear anything but clogs, all day long, seven days a week, during a complete month, starting today and that’s that”




Clog-discipline

For those early days as a sissy-maid, Sandy bought for me a a beautiful pair of white clogs. After the first couple of weeks in her "nothing but clogs" training, I found them not only confortable, but a real delight to wear. They are still my favorite footwear. Sandy has bought me more clogs that any other kind of shoes, including some with thick wedges and high heels. For house-work, I still prefer traditional Danish clogs

“But I can’t wear clogs to the office!”
“But you will!”
“Sandy, please!”… And the delightful answer, so longed for in my inside, came ringing out:
“You will do exactly what I say! Now go, start cleaning up, sissy-maid! Wearing your clogs… Or don’t you want an orgasm tomorrow night either?”

Debbie in Wonderland

Sandra and I are not yet married by the church. Not that we are nonbelievers or unconcerned about religion, on the contrary… we’d love to be united spiritually by a religious ceremony of some kind. But one has to admit that the priest should be quiet open minded to welcome two brides advancing down the aisle at the same time.

For now, while our marriage is not yet consecrated by any heavenly tie, it is bound by our unique lifestyle, not shared by many couples: I would divide my current conjugal status into three categories:







1. Sandra’s wife

That’s my condition most of the time: I do all the dusting, cleaning, and laundry that needs to be done at home. While I cannot say that I love each single activity involved in housekeeping, I do enjoy it, mainly because it makes me aware of my submissiveness and my place in our relationship. Besides, I really love most of my duties: cooking, decorating the house, shopping for groceries.



And I dress for the part: my clothing doesn’t differ at all from the garments worn by my female colleagues, down to the underwear. I don’t like the word “cross-dressing”, as I don’t fell I’m really “crossing over” any fashion limit. Just as women outfits designed for the corporate world look more and more masculine, to show their assertiveness and competitiveness, I find it only natural that the spouse performing the role of the wife should appear more passive, compliant, and sensitive, traits considered, well… feminine.

There is a major difference, though. While my fellow shoppers demonstrate their good taste (or lack of it) by the clothes they chose to wear, it is Sandra who dictates what I am to be dressed in each day. She starts by picking out the shoes, and then “builds me up” accordingly. Only when she is unable to do it, because she needs to leave early, or when if she is out of town, for example, I have a chance to “express myself”, but in those cases I often get all mixed-up.






2. Sissy maid





When Sandy is throwing a party or entertaining her friends, something like once a week, she loves me to serve as her maid. I stop being her equal, her loving and caring wife, and become a humble, gracious and well mannered servant. She becomes my bossy and demanding superior, and has even humiliated me in front of the guests.

In those happy occasions I wear one of the uniforms, chosen by my mistress, and matching Danish clogs. She loves to see me serving in clogs, and they are my favorite footwear.

Although I do my best effort to pass unnoticed, I can’t help enjoying the compliments my mistress gets on my perfect manners. They are no coincidence… I had to be trained, and it was hard, I should admit.

3. Slave

I become Sandy’s slave almost exclusively for our private sexual practices. As soon as she places my collar around my neck in the morning before I get dressed, I understand that she is in her kinky mood and we might be having one of our BDSM sessions that evening or in the following days. As her victim, I’ve been inflicted (and taken pleasure in) all sorts of torments: I’ve been bound, spanked, held in a cage… But I won’t get into details because, as I said, those are private practices.

Or are they?

According to our contract, I am to become Sandy’s slave at any time she pleases, even in a public setting if she so commands. She has made use of that privilege several times. Our favorite humiliation is when she hand-cuffs me on my back, and drags me from my collar with a dog chain. In that fashion, we go a restaurant or a café: I am to sit on the floor, at the side of her chair, while she chats with her friends. I can have only the leftovers, of course.

As her in-house victim, my favorite torture is to be into one of her “predicament bondages”: She puts me into an uncomfortable body position, from which I cannot move unless I get into a painful one: With my ankles tied spread to the floor, my hands tied on my back, I can’t sit down, because my nipples are clamped to the ceiling, nor can I stand erect, as my genitals are tied to the floor by a short string. She can keep me in those positions for hours.

Fly me to the moon

“I’m sorry, Debbie, I didn’t mean to embarrass you in public… It’s only that I was so pissed about the credit card thing. Besides, I’ll probably never see those gals again”, she said about the scene at the mall.

What had happened at the mall?

see my previous Posting

This story starts with Amazon at home

“I’m also sorry, Sandy, but I am concerned about our finances. We’ve spent in one day my savings for almost a semester of my tuition”
“But tell me, deep into your heart: Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could actually be my wife openly, in real life?” , she said, while caressing my face
I had been stur up most of the time, but these words turned me on even more.
“Oh, yes!… to be… your wife…” I said, reaching for her puss
“Debbie, Debbie”, she muttered, “You are Debbie, Sandra’s wife”
I started unbuttoning her blouse.
“What are you doing?”, she said in seriously… “you are not my wife now. At the moment you are my maid. And we had an agreement: no sex until you are done: and you still have to do the ironing, and cook for the whole week… I’m not cooking each single day while you’re at the office! You must cook all the meals in advance and keep them in the fridge. Go, slut, put on your uniform”
“Yes ma’am”, I say , scarcely being able to speak
“Tonight you’re also sleeping in the kitchen”
“Yes, ma’am”












Sunday night finally arrived: I was done with absolutely everything, or was I? I kept checking out in my mind everything in my to-do list… and yes, I thought I was. There she came. I adopted a submissive position, with my head down and my hands behind my back, and expected for her dictum.

“Good job!” she said, “you’ve finally earned it!... let’s go change for dinner”
I was allowed to take a long shower and to change in her room. We both got undressed, and ready to put on the beautiful dresses we had bought the previous day. Then she opened an elegant box and showed me it’s contents: a delicate piece of underwear.
“Have you ever worn panties?”

It was such a wonderful sensation! How could I have worn anything else but panties before! Why don’t we guys have the right to feel something as delicate and smooth over our crotch?
“And a bra?”
“A bra? But I don’t need bra”
“Yes, you do… all girly boys like you should wear a bra”, she said while she moved behind me and started putting it on.
“Listen, Debbie: from now on, you’re always going to wear both panties and bra, even when you go to work. Understand? Nobody will notice them under you regular clothes, but they’ll be reminding you at all times that I’m your owner”
We finally got into our dresses, and made ourselves up, or rather, she applied makeup on me, as I didn’t know yet how to do it. Then she polished my finger and toe nails.
I slid into my delicate open toe, high heel sandals and took a look at the final result in the mirror.
“I look like a goddess” I whispered
“Yes… we are two goddesses!”
“I wish I could wear this stuff all the time!”
“Why not?”, she said naturally
She helped me go down the stairs, as I was so clumsy with my heels, and took me by the hand to the dining room: As a maid, I had been instructed to prepare a special dinner, and serve it in a romantic setting, with candles. Now I was going to enjoy it as a goddess.

Suddenly, Sandy came up with a bouquet of flowers out of the blue:
“These are for you, goddess!”
“But… I… I don’t know what to say: no one has given me flowers before!”
“You deserve them.”
“I...Thank you!”
“Don’t cry, darling… your makeup will run”





We enjoyed a wonderful dinner, and she even served the dessert herself.
“Don’t mind about the dishes honey”, she said, “the maid will take care of them next weekend”
And then, she took out a small box, opened it, and presented me with a beautiful ring:
“Do you want to be my wife, Debbie?”
I couldn’t utter a word. I stared at her brilliant smile for what appeared to be ages until I could reply:
“Yes, Sandra, yes: I, Deborah, will be your wife”
She kissed me ardently. Our lipstick turned into a complete mess. We both laughed, as we rubbed each other’s lips.
“Wait!”, she said, “I have the matching bracelet… and the earrings… too bad you don’t have your ears pierced…”
"My ears pierced! I’d love to!" I thought. I imagined myself wearing that stunning pair of earrings!
She turned off the lights, put some soft music, and invited me to dance with her in the dark living room, illuminated by the moon.

Dancing in the moonlight

Sandra looked gorgeous in her long blue gown with sleeves (it was the 80's). She seemed to blend with the moon-lighted sky. My dress was much more simple, but still elegant, and made me feel wonderful.

"And there’s something else", she said in a grave tone, interrumpting our dance and searching in a drawer. "Look what I have here: It’s a contract".

A contract! What was she talking about, I wondered? How could she come up with legal issues just there and then…

“What kind of contract?”
“A contract between a mistress… and her… slave. I’m the mistress, and you, of course, are the slave. Would you sign it?”
“Yes”
“Don’t you want me to read to you first?”
“It’s OK: I’ll sign it”
“It does have legal value, you know?”

And she approached the window, and started reading out loud:
“Of my own free will, I offer myself in slavery to my Mistress, Sandra Lynn. I will devote myself completely and totally to the pleasure and desires of my Mistress, without hesitation or consideration of myself or others”.

I feel my heartbeats accelerating

“The slave agrees to obey her Mistress in all respects. her mind, body, heart and time belong to Her.
“The slave shall keep her body available for the use of her Mistress at all times in any manner She wishes… The Mistress possesses the right to determine whether others can use the slave’s body and what use they may put it to…”

She stops, and looks at me, perceives that my stimulation is increased by each word she pronounces

“Want to keep on reading it in my bedroom?”






She sits on her bed, holding the contract and reading from it, while she orders me to suck her puss as she reads on. I get my head under her dress, and start licking her clitoris.

She comes several times, shouting and moaning as she does, but she keeps on reading the contract:

“The slave will only wear whatever clothing is deemed appropriate by her Mistress…”

When she is done, both reading the contract and having her orgasms, I sign it anxiously.

“Good". She says, exhausted, “You are not only my maid, and my wife, but also my slave… Now stay here, lass, Ill be right back”

She leaves me there, still kneeling in front of the bed, and shortly after comes out of the bathroom, wearing nothing more tan her leather pants and boots

“Finally!” I say to my self. She ties me to the bed, and then possesses me, literally: I can feel her leather slacks rubbing against the thin silk of my dress, her dirty, heavy boots resting on my nearly naked feet dressed in nothing but my delicate sandals. I feel frail, weak, dominated. I sense her strong, commanding. I shout of pleasure, as I am about to cum. Suddenly, she gets off me, leaving me to ejaculate in the air, totally ruining my gratification.

“It’s called orgasm denial”, she says, “just so you know who is the boss around here. I’ll do that to you whenever you don’t behave yourself. Or simply when I feel like it,... slave”

Dress rehearsal

As Sandy called out my name for the first time, (When? See my previous posting) I felt I had been baptized. Or, at any rate, that I’ve been initiated into a whole new experience. As years went by, it turned out to be a completely new life. At the time, I could perceive that I had somehow been given a new identity, a “parallel” identity I thought at the time, a character to act in an exciting new game play. What I didn’t realize is that I had actually been reborn.




That strenuous Friday night, or should I say Saturday morning, after a whole day at the office, after some eight hours of hard work around house as a housemaid, and after all the sexual spur and deprivation I had been subjected to, I still couldn’t sleep.
I lay down on my mattress, over the kitchen floor, still dressed in Debbie’s clothes. My erection had lasted all day, and couldn’t be concealed under my uniform, to Sandra’s delight. But now, I hadn’t the least desire, even though I felt so sexy in my new outfit. Actually, I felt sexy for the first time in my life. Oh! If I could only wear it every day!

I woke up at dawn. I must have slept a couple of hours at the most.
I somehow have the energy to start working already: I separate by colors the clothes I am to wash later that day, and prepare Sandy’s breakfast which, of course, I am to serve to her in bed.
“Good morning ma’am” I greet her as graciously as possible
“Good morning… Debbie”, she pronounces my name with a muffled, alluring tone, grabbing my skirt and pulling me to her.

“You need lots of training, Debbie, you’re very clumsy, you act like a man”
“But I am a man!”
“Oh, sorry, I forgot that: look sweetie, your makeup is all run”
“Sorry, ma’am, there’s no mirror in the kitchen and I…”
“Go wash your face!... Wait, what are you doing?”
“I’m going to wash my face”
“But you can’t enter my bathroom, Deborah, go do it in the sink, in the kitchen”
“Yes, ma’am”
“You really need to be trained”

The large pile of clothes had finally been classified and waiting it’s turn to get into the washing machine, as Sandra came down. She had a camera in her hands, and had been taking pictures of me washing her panties by hand.
“Are you crazy!” I shouted
“How dare you speak to your mistress in that tone! I’ll have to spank you!”
“I’m sorry… but you can’t take pictures with me dressed like this!”
“But you look so cute! And besides this is a special occasion… the first time you become my sissy-maid. I’ll keep them, so you can see your progress when you’re finally completely trained”
“But nobody has to see them…”
“Only my friends…”
“What!”
“Just kidding… No. No one will see them, unless you don’t behave yourself… Smile!”

“Now you have to go for some groceries”
“You don’t mean that I’m going out like this!”
“Of course!”
“Look Sandy, I’m not going anywhere dressed like this. Do you understand? This is only a game, something between ourselves! I can’t risk it being seen by anyone… let alone someone from the office”
She laughed: “It was only a joke… We’ll keep it private… for now. Go change your clothes and we’ll both go shopping”

And there we were, arguing in the middle of the shopping mall. We were supposed to be shopping for groceries, and we had already squandered a large amount of money in useless extravagances. We had spent several hours just looking at show windows.




At first I was bored, as always, as all men are. But after a while, I started indulging into a new wonderful game she had invented:
“How would you look in that one?”, she asked, pointing at a beautiful gown
“Me?”
“Yeah, who else?”
“Well…”
“C’mon! Don’t be shy! Just fancy yourself wearing that dress!”
“Maybe I’ leave the lace out… It just doesn’t match”
“You do have a sense of style after all! And what about that one?”
“You mean the flashy strapless pink one?”
“Yeah, I can already imagine you wearing it! So hot!”
“Would you keep your voice down?”
“Sorry. Want to try it on?”
“Are you nuts?”
“Come on", she said, entering the store.

She tried on herself dozens of gowns, before she grabbed out one for me. It was a simple unornamented dress, very stylish… but still a dress.
“And this one’s for you!”
I didn’t answer. Deep into myself I was dying to try it on.
“Come on, I’ll help you”, she said, dragging me to the dressing room with one hand and holding the dress with the other.
As I came out of the room, blushing, I could only take small shy steps.
“You look so gorgeous” said the sales girl with a natural tone, as though she sold this stuff to guys all the time. I now know that she probably does.
“Want the same model in some other color?”
As I grew more confident, I ended up trying on several garments, much to the enjoyment of the customers, fortunately very few, until Sandra proclaimed:
“That’s the one”
“And I have the shoes to go with it”, said the girl, "can you handle high heels?"

My first dress

Much to the amusement of several passerbyers, there I was, in the middle of the store, wearing that simple yet elegant knee-length cocktail dress in silk synthetics . Just the feeling of the smooth fabric touching my skin is something I'll never forget. The matching open-toe sandals had moderate heels and open backs. That made it difficult enough for me to walk in them. Sandy also bought stockins and some bijouterie.

We had bought (women’s) clothes and shoes for both of us, as well as handbags, scarves and other complements for Sandra, everything on my credit card, and still no groceries. I was very upset, and would refuse to go on with this irresponsible diversion. As I kept on ranting about it, a group of girls approached.




“Look, those are some friends from high school! I haven’t seen them in ages!”
“Hey Sandy!” They all shouted in unison.
“Hey! What have you been up to all this years!”, “Are you married?”
“Oh, I’m sorry”, said Sandra, “I forgot to introduce you: this is Debbie”
“Debbie?” They asked back with a surprised look on their faces.
I promptly introduced myself with my real name. “I am Sandra’s husband”
”Oh! How wonderful! So you did get married!”
“Do you have any children?”
“She is Debbie”, interrupted Sandra. And then, looking at me straight in the eye: “Debbie, my wife”
My heart started beating wildly. I was supposed to be upset, and yet... it sounded so beautiful, so right. I just lifted all the bags and started heading towards the supermarket. As we walked, I could still hear the girls giggling at our backs.

All of Me...

“Listen, Sandy”, I said in stern tone, “we can’t go on like this”.
I had summoned her to the kitchen for a serious talk. I explained to her, again, all about my efforts to get promoted, about how much I had to work, and about the simple fact that we couldn’t keep on living is such a mess.

“One of us had to cook, do the laundry…” my sermon continued, while she kept still, staring at me with a childish face.
“I already missed a day’s work, because last night…”

(What had happened "last night"? See my previous posting)

Her expression grew naughty
I tried to compose myself and keep my grave discourse in spite of the playfulness of her look.
“I want to reach an agreement, here and now… There’s no way I can do all the housework, You’ll have to do at least part of it”.
“O yes you can: on weekends”
That really got me upset. Was she kidding me? I was discussing serious issue. I lifted up my voice, and ended up threatening her. Exhausted by my own outburst, I finally let myself fall back in a chair.
She hadn’t uttered a word. She just fell on her knees, reclined her head over my lap, took my hand into hers, and slowly reached into my ear. Then she whispered. I could perceive the warmth of her breath caressing my earlobes:
“I’ll wear my leather pants, I’ll take you for a ride in my bike…”
“Non, non, no, listen…”
“… and then I’ll step on your naked crotch with my muddy boots… I’ll dominate you, I’ll make you my slave”
I couldn’t help it: I could vividly imagine each word she was murmuring. She reached my crotch with her hand. I was already aroused. She rubbed it slowly, while she kept on mumbling into my ear.
“If you clean up this weekend, I might let you lick my boots”
“You promise?” I could barely talk.
“I don’t know”
“What do you mean? Promise me that if I clean up this weekend you’ll… you’ll do what you just said!”
“You said you wanted to reach an agreement”
“Is… is that our agreement?”
She nodded, looking me straight into my eyes.

I tried to haul her over to the bedroom. I was so turned on.
“No!” she said, “Not until the weekend”
“But it’s only Wednesday”
“I know”, she answered calmly.

“You OK?”, asked me one of the guys at the office, “you look distracted”
“Everything’s OK”, I replied
I couldn’t keep my thought into what I was doing. I counted the hours, even the minutes. All I could think about was Sandra in her leather pants walking all over me with her muddy boots. Was I OK? Should I visit a shrink?
Finally, it was Friday. End of my torment, I thought. There was a party at the office. Under normal cicumstances, I would have shown up, just to get noticed, and the get back to work until late. Not this time:
“I cannot stay”, I proclaimed loudly while rushing to the elevators: “I have to help my wife with the housework”

She was not at home. I frenzied around the house trying to put some order. As we had ran out of clean dishes, she had simply bought new ones, which were now piled over the old ones in the sink. Her friends had obviously paid her a visit, as there were empty beer bottles and turned over coffee cups all over the carpet.

I could finally hear her drawing her keys into the key hole. I straightened my dick that was bursting out of my underwear.
“Is my pretty maid home already?” She hailed.
She was stunning: she had had her hair done, was wearing makeup, and was not wearing her black leather slacks yet, but looked gorgeous all the same in her closefitting jeans and high heeled boots.
“Look what I’ve got for you!”
“What’s that!”
“You know very well what it is”
“A French maid’s uniform”
“That’s right, that’s what sissy maids like you are supposed to wear”
“I’m not wearing that!”
“No, uh?”, she asked as she kept it swinging in front of me holding it from it’s peg.
I kept on looking at it. My heart gave a leap. It was beautiful. Deep inside myself I had always wondered how would it feel to be wearing women clothes and has secretly had some naive experiences in crossdressing.
I smiled at her.
“Come on, do it!, wear it! I know you want to”
“I dunno”
“And then, it’ll be just for when you’re doing housework, for when you become my personal French maid. Nobody has to know”
I didn’t answer, but as she looked fixedly at my crotch, I couldn't conceal my exitement. she smiled back.
“OK”, I I had to admit

I felt my heart striking violently against my ribcage with each pulsation, as she helped me into the outfit. When we're done I take a look at myself in the mirror. I am surprised, and not at all displeased at all with the result. My body is slender enough to look good in a dress.

My very first house maid uniform, from a not very pretty square pattern cloth

My current ones are more stylish, most of them in pink, with frills and laces.

For a time, I wore those ugly sneakers, and I didn't even shave my legs, but I somehow found myself quite feminine-looking, and I enjoyed that more that I would ever had imagined.

The "piéce de resistance" was the apron. Even today, Sandra enjoys the moment when she ties my apron around me, as a symbol of her command.

I didn't realize I was entering a new life, nor did I know then to what extent we would arrive. How could I?

“You would be a beautiful woman”, Sandra said laughing “You only need some makeup”
“And a wig”
“Your hair will grow long enough”
“I don’t think I can have long hair in the office” I said, realizing that this was not going to be the only time we did this.
“We’ll see”, she said. She was already applying the makeup.
“Look!” she finally said.
I was gorgeous! I couldn’t believe how beautiful I looked. I could say that I almost fell in love with my own image as a "woman".
“Go to work now! Go slave!” she said, slapping my bottom.

A submissive maid should scale down her makeup to a bare minimum

Unless, of course, she is otherwise instructed by her mistress (or master). Even with the scant makeup I was wearing, I found myself quite feminine, and surpinsingly attractive.

House chores turned out to be a wonderful, exhilarating experience when they are related to a dominion-submission role-playing game. It was such a delight to feel like a humble servant, and to be under the orders of my mistress. I enjoyed our role-playing the remaining of the evening. I could finally deal with all that pile of dishes. Then I prepared something to eat, while Sandra was watching TV.
As I served her, I lighted some candles, waited on her, poured her some wine, and I ate later, standing alone in the kitchen.
I finally went nervously to our bedroom. She was already in bed, with the lights off.
“OK, what about the promise?
“What promise?”
“You said that if I cleaned up you would… remember? Remember our agreement?”
“But you’re not done yet, Deborah”
“Deborah?”
“Deborah, that’ll be your name whenever you become my own personal housekeeper”
"But I don't like that name!"

"You can't choose your name. Your parents, the priest, whoever choses your name. Now I, your owner, am naming you Deborah. Debbie, the maid"

It was as if it really was the first time I ever heard my own name in my life. After all the deprivement I had felt all those three days, I now underwent a completely different emotion: I felt I had been batized with my real name. Had I lived all my life with a false name, a false identity? Was I was finally discovering who I really was? Was I really Debbie, Sandra's maid? And then, how wonderful it sounded when she pronounced it. I was crying.
“OK, OK, It’s not that bad, Debbie, maybe we’ll do it tomorrow. I’m tired. Now go to sleep, there’s a mattress for you down in the kitchen. And then, you have to get up early tomorrow: you still have to do all the laundry. I want my undies washed by hand”

Amazon at home

Expectations in marriages have changed a lot over the years, especially since the women emancipation movement in the seventies. As they have progressed towards their rightful equity in many fields, men have taken duties traditionally assigned to women, especially at home. As a result, countless young couples don’t know what to expect from each other. They often feel disoriented since they don’t know how to divide responsibilities with their spouses. Gender roles have suffered a major transformation, and are frequently reversed. How’s one supposed to get to an agreement as to who does what and when?

When you get to the not very pleasant issue of housework, arguments and quarrels repeatedly arise.

During the early days of our marriage, I used to work for a law firm. My job was a quite lousy and not a very important one for the company, so, having recently got married, I felt that I really had to work hard in order to get a promotion. That seemed quite to unlikely to happen, as I had not yet graduated from College. I decided to enter back to school as soon as the next admission term was announced. Meanwhile, I tried to impress my supervisor, so I did my best to become the ideal employee. I took double shifts and I even moonlighted in order to make extra money I could put away for my upcoming tuition expenses and to support my wife and eventually our off-springs.

Now, going back to my expectations: what did I assume my wife’s role to be? I knew she would never be the “perfect household” of a TV show of the 50’s. Before we got married, I could notice that her place was always messy. But one tends to overlook those issues when one’s young and particularly when one’s in love. But I certainly supposed she would back my plan and do most of the housework. I was, on the other hand, eager to do my share, and inanely expected her to tell me what it was to be.

Well, reality couldn’t be further removed from my expectations: when I returned home, way after dusk, shattered after up to 16 hour of work, I entered our small department, and what did I find?

The passing of a hurricane wouldn’t be a misplaced metaphor. Dirty cups and dishes from our breakfast were still sitting on the dining table. Her clothes were scattered all over the place, and the leftovers of her lunch, a pizza or a Chinese meal she had ordered, could be found anywhere: in the living in front on the TV set, over the blankets of our undone bed… and she was not even at home.

Once as I entered the apartment, I felt something crushing under my feet: popcorn she had spilled and had not swept or vacuumed. I furiously started to tidy up, waiting for her to come. My anger gave me unexpected energies and I entered into a cleaning frenzy. My anger didn’t diminish with my exertion. On the contrary: as hours passed by, and as I encountered more and more mess, filthy stuff hidden under the bed, my favorite suit on lying on the floor, coffee stains on the couch, my irritation grew even bigger than before.

She finally showed up, displaying a beautiful smile on her face as she came in leaving marks on the floor with a pair of muddy boots and wearing dirty leather trousers:

“Hey! Look what I’ve got!”, she shouted, and before I could reply, she flung me over to the elevator, leaving the apartment door open.

She entered the house wearing a pair of dirty leather slacks and muddy boots.

I made a sketch from what I can recall. Sandy has changed a lot over the years (look who's talking!). She is now a body-builder and her shoulders have grown broader, but I still find her very feminine when she's in a dress. What really turns me on, though, are still her leather pants and her muddy motorcycle-riding boots

“I knew you were coming in late, so I went out with the boys”, she explained, adding jealousy to my distress. But the beauty of her smile and the glow in her mischievous green eyes finally melted all my anger away, all I could muster was “Look, sweetie, there’s something I’d like us to talk about”
“Later, later”, she interrupted, “now look!”, she said as the elevator door opened at the underground level:… there it was, all covered with mud, a second hand motorcycle.

“Want a ride?”
“No darling, not really, I’m so tired… besides I had to clean up and…”
“Oh, c’mon! Be a good sport”, she said, as she dragged over me to the vehicle, “Look, you wear the helmet”
“But we left the door open”
“Nothing’s gonna happen”, she said as she turned on the engine.

As she rode at high speed in the middle of the night, I had the weirdest feeling. I sensed that she was in command, while I was there, sitting behind her, clinging to her waist, sort of kidnapped by this beautiful Amazon, who could take me anywhere she wanted in her filthy motorcycle. I could feel the texture of her leather pants rubbing my crotch. I felt I would come at any moment.

“Hold on!”, she yelled, and there we were, leaping in the air I couldn’t say how. We landed with a violent bump
“We’re gonna kill ourselves!”
“Sure!”, she laughed, “we all are!”

We ended up somewhere in the countryside. I really had no idea were we could be: the night was dark and I couldn’t see a thing, sitting there in the back seat wearing her helmet, her hair blown over my face by the wind.

“Here we are”, she said, “this used to be my sanctuary back then when I was in High School”
In the dimness it gave the impression of a large abandoned barn.
“Come on in”, she said with a mock gesture of politeness.
I couldn’t see a thing, but I felt her hands. She hand taken her gloves off, and was unbuttoning my shirt.
“But, look, it’s cold, and I have to work tomorrow…”
“Today”, she pointed out.
“Today?”
“Yes, it’ll be dawn I a few hours”
“It’s chilly” I protested, as she laid me over a bunch of hay.
“I know”, she said, while unzipping her own jacket
“L.. l… leave your trousers on”
“Of course”, she said as she mounted me, sucking up my erect penis through the flies of her trousers, a conquering female warrior claiming her prey.

That day I didn't go to the office... there was so much housework to be done.

A housewife's work is never done

Housework is probably not a very interesting topic for most of you. What can be interesting about dusting, cleaning, sweeping the floor, cooking, doing the dishes, the laundry, and so forth? Now, what if the wife is a male? I mean, not that the “husband” has taken over the role traditionally assigned to the “wife”, but rather that she is actually a male-wife, or even a lowly servant fully acting her part and dressed up to it, with a French maid’s uniform and a frilly apron. I’ve noticed that in that case the whole affair grabs most people’s attention, if I am to judge from my wife’s girlfriends’ reaction when they first came over and were greeted by me wearing, I recall, a black short-skirted uniform with a white laced apron, a matching cap, and a cute petticoat that would be revealed whenever I curtsied.



Nowadays whenever I have to serve, that is, when my Mistress is entertaining and she orders me to be fully dressed as a sissy-maid, I prefer my pink uniform and my matching pink Danish clogs.

I know they are noisy, but I love how my Sandra is delighted by the attention I get whenever I enter the room. Her enjoyment is worth it all, even the piles of dishes I have to wash once the party is over.

I don't wear my beautiful servant's uniform on a daily basis, although I'd love to, and in fact I have done so for some period of time. I wear it only for those special occasions I'm always looking forward to: the frequent parties Sandy loves to throw in which she is delighted to show me off: how humbly I incline my head, how nicely I bow.

"I should definetively change my Rupert into a male wife!" I overheard one of her friends stating out loud.

I also wear it for several days in a row whenever I'm "borrowed" by one of Sandra's friends and of course I have to serve in her house properly attired.

Other than that, I do my housework in whatever clothes Sandy has chosen for me that day, which most of you would certainly consider "women clothes", as they include a bra, panties and skirts . I never wear pants for my house chores, and would definitively feel ill at ease if some day the decreeted I should wear them for that purpose. Not that they're uncomfortable, but trousers are reserved for when we go out with the girls, and they have to go with high heels, of course.

But my story as a house servant hasn't been a smooth one, as you will see in my upcoming postings.