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.

Male wife

This blog is about my daily life as Debbie, a
submissive male-housewife completely dominated by her beautiful female wife Sandra, and about our life-style which could only be referred to as "alternative". As you may already suppose, traditional gender roles are out of the question in our marriage. But we've gone far beyond a simple role-exchange agreement so common in couples nowadays: I have been slowly but progressively feminized by my wife over the years up to the point where I look like something like her androgynous alter-ego. I've made a sketch of myself just the way I looked before leaving to the market this morning so that you can make yourself an idea of what I mean:

In fact, Sandra dictates the way I am to dress each day and selects each outfit I am to wear. I have no saying when it comes to my clothing. Actually, my guardrobe replicates her's in almost every aspect, down to the underwear, so that whenever we go out, seen from a distance, we probably look more like two sisters than husband and wife. If you get closer, though, you'll notice my well-trimmed tiny beard. She instist that I keep it as a trace of my waning virility, so that people realize that I'm not really a female, or a crossdresser attempting to "pass" as a woman, but a male, a submissive feminized male subjected to the whims of her mistress.

Today, I was wearing denim skirts and those gorgeous cork-soled clogs Sandra bought for me at the art-fair last Spring.

Sandy believes that skirts and high heels, restricting in movement and at times painful to wear, have been symbols of masculine opression over females along the centuries, so now, as a token of her own emancipation, she is inflicting them upon me. And by now I love them! Apart from hobble skirts and other garments that shorten your stride, I've concluded that skirts are way more confortable to wear that pants. Now that I've worn them for several years, I don't understand why aren't they normal items for guys to wear (like fustnellas or kilts, if cross-dressing is not your thing).

I own, or, should I say, Sandra owns for me very few trousers. And those I've got are overtly feminine: all my jeans are embroidered with flower patterns. As for high-heels, I've discovered that I'm a shoe lover and can't have enough of them! The ones I love the most are clog like shoes, with a slip-in open back. Maybe because they showed up in those early difficult stages of our relationship.

If I had published this blog several years ago, it would have been a call for help. I would have been yearning for someone out there to take me out of the nightmare I was living through, with that crazy, maniac, domineering wife of mine. Not any more. As years went by, I ended up yielding to her in every way, or I should rather say, forced to give in by circumstances and by her stronger will power. I'm so glad I did... It was for the best. Today my life resembles a happy dream from which I wouldn't like to be awaken, ever.

Now that she's the income provider, and that I don't need to have a pay-job any more, I have finally been able to foster my long neglected talents, and I've started to paint again (I'll probably be posting some of my pictures here). And new stimulating interests have replaced the old silly ones. I can't even imagine how could I have ever been interested in sports, for example. What can be more silly than that, a bunch of guys throwing a ball from one place to the other? I'm into fashion now: not only do I enjoy shopping around with Sandra, but I'm taking sewing and dress-making lessons.

How did I get to this point? How did I become Debbie? How and why did I end up being Sandy's wife in stead of her husband? How does it feel for a male to stay home cooking, cleaning and doing house-work all day? To wear high-heels and skirts in public? What are people's reactions to that?

Tough questions for me, as I certainly don't know all the answers, and since the path that has taken us here has been a hard one. Anyways, I'll be posting my story whenever I have some time out of my slave-chores, as well as some snippets of my daily life experiences and also a reflection once in a while because house-wives can also think, you know?

My account will probably be a bit bizarre for some, you better be aware, but I also know many of you will certainly enjoy it. Most of you are probably already laughing at me as you read these lines, while some of you on the contrary overtly or secretly envy my lot. Whatever be the case, you are welcome to read on, and return frequently checking up for new postings and updates!