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!