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.