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.