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.