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~Subject: TG Story: Belling The Cat, 1 of 6 (CD, Femdom)

~Date: Mon, 13 Jan 1997 03:39:39 -0800

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This story is intended for the enjoyment of adults over the age

of 18. It contains fantasy scenes of people engaged in graphic

sexual activity.

Please, if you are under the age of 18, or if you will be offended

by such material, read no further. God find something useful to do.

Thanks. LST

Belling The Cat

Part 1 of 6

by Little Sissy Tippytoes

* * * * *

He felt like the most powerful man on Earth, like Superman, maybe.

His cock seemed to stretch out before him like a foot-long hot dog,

as he pounded away in Miley's cunt. He entertained the thought that

he was so deep inside her he could feel all the way into her uterus.

He would draw his pecker out, almost to the very tip of the crown,

then plunge it in as forcefully as he could, causing her to gasp and

moan. Her eyes were closed, her body covered with a sheen of sweat,

her mouth open in a groan of lust. He was sweating too; he thought

he could last forever before climaxing. Never had he pumped away

in this delightful pussy as long and as hard as he was doing right

now. Their bodies were mashed together and squeaking because of

the sweat. His mouth was glued to her ear and he alternately

whispered, "Yes! Fuck! Oh, yes!" before gasping for more breath.

Her tits were pressed so tightly against him he thought for a

moment they might actually be attached to his own chest. And she

humped and thrashed against him as they both gasped and grunted,

nearing the inevitable conclusion of things. But he was Superman!

He could continue forever. He was absolutely certain of it.

She could feel him nearing the end too. She cried and began milking

his dick even before he exploded, which he did almost immediately,

in a great gusher of cum, pounding the bed with his fists, heaving

himself in an effort to be swallowed into her womb along with his

ejaculate, wanting to die and be transported into the heaven of

her womb. Oh, yes, he never, ever, wanted to see the light of day

again.

They lay still for several minutes, trying to regain control of

their breathing. Miley seemed to be humming in a low, throaty tone

as she absentmindedly stroked his hair with her fingers, waiting

for him to calm down. Gently, she milked the last drops of cum

from his penis, somehow squeezing him in a way that prevented him

from going soft on her. She had no intention of letting this one

get away. Finally he kissed her earlobe gently and whispered,

"You wanton slut. Goddamn, you're marvelous!"

She smiled the smile of a woman who has just been well-fucked,

a smile of eternal contentment, an unexpressed, mysterious joy

radiating out from her upcurved lips and her bright eyes. "Why

thank you, sir," she drawled. "You're not so bad, yourself."

Afterwards, they lay quietly in each other's arms, savoring

the touch of their bodies, the smell of their recent encounter.

His fingers gently massaged her face, his hand softly caressed her

breasts, her tummy, the fold of her pussy, her still hot inner

thighs. She sighed, then murmured, "Lover, we've got to break

up the party, I'm afraid. I've got to get back to work. A girl's

gotta feed herself, you know."

He groaned. "Oh, man, Miley, I'd give anything, anything,

to be able to take care of you so you wouldn't have to leave me

like this. I hate it when you get up and leave."

She said, "I know, lover, but I don't have a rich wife like you

who lets me lay around in bed all day screwing whoever he can get

his hands on. I have to work for a living."

He pouted. "Aw, Miley, you know there's no one else but you.

And I don't lay around in the sack all day, either. Just because

she's wealthy doesn't mean I'm allowed to be a lazy bum. I've

got all sorts of things I have to do."

She sat up and began to dress, starting with her bra. His face

looked pained as he watched her breasts disappear into the cups

of the lacy garment. Then, she pulled her panties up, after which

she rolled the legs of her pantyhose up her legs, standing up to finish

the job. His eyes were filled with fascination as he lay there

watching this reverse striptease. She stepped into her skirt, then

put her arms through the armholes of her sleeveless blouse, buttoning

it up and tucking it into the waistband of her skirt. Then she reached

into her purse to retrieve her hairbrush, dragging it purposefully

through the rich, thick waves of her light brown hair.

At last she turned to him, and reaching across to where he lay, gave

his penis a little pinch. "You know I love you, Phil. I wish you weren't

married to Ms. Warbucks, the millionairess. I wish you were married to

me. But I know you won't leave her, not as long as she's willing to

keep you in a manner you've grown accustomed to."

He smiled a rueful smile. "I guess so. It certainly is nice to drive

a Jag instead of a Yugo. But, lately, I've been getting really

frustrated. I want to see more of you, spend more time with you.

I don't know. Maybe I should ask for a divorce."

"Don't bother," she said. "Believe it or not, you're better off with

this arrangement."

"What makes you think that?" he asked.

"Because I know you love that money a hell of a lot more than you

love me." She placed her knee on the bed, bent over and kissed him

softly on the mouth. Before he could put his arms around her, she

stood up and backed away from the bed, then smiled and said, "Toodle-oo,

lover," and quickly left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

Philip lay there in the bed for a long while, savoring the still

present smell of their climax, smiling a little, then stretching his

arms, his legs, even his dick, and growling a tigerish growl. Then,

he climbed out of the bed, and went into the bathroom for a shower.

* * * * *

Victoria Broadburn leaned across the top of her huge dark maple

desk. She picked up the envelope the man had placed on the otherwise

clean surface. She fixed her eyes on his, a small, tight smile playing

at the edge of her thin mouth.

Feigning casualness, she slowly ran her long, sharp fingernail under

the flap, opening it carefully, and, without looking down, pulling the

contents out. She glanced at the photos, pretending not to be concerned

about what they revealed, but unable to hide entirely the hurt in her

eyes. She looked back at the man and said, "You got good ones this

time? Do they show everything?"

He smiled broadly, pleased with himself. "See for yourself, Ms.

Broadburn. These babies are so clear you can see the sweat beads

on their foreheads."

Her mouth tightened, and she furrowed her brow. She was pleased with

the quality of the man's work, but not with what that work entailed.

"I see," she said. She took a long look at the photo on top. It showed

her husband's head, his mouth glued to the nipple of a woman's breast.

She leaned back in her plush leather chair, made a tent of her joined

fingers, and stared intently at the pile of photographs which now

lay spread on the desk. "What do you think, Mr. Peterson? About this

bitch?"

The man formed a half-smile with his lips, his eyes also focused

on the photos, so he wouldn't have to look into hers. "I gotta tell ya,

Ms. Broadburn, I'd watch out for this one. She's hot. And he's hot

for her. The others, well, they were afternoon delights. But, this one.

Mmmph. This one's different."

A silence descended on the room as the two people sat across the

desk from one another, studiously avoiding each other's gaze. Finally,

Victoria broke the quiet: "All right, Mr. Peterson, you've done very

good work on this case, and I appreciate the quality of your effort.

Your check will contain a substantial bonus as an indication of just

how much I do appreciate all that you've done. As you can imagine,

it is quite embarrassing for me to have to see photos such as these,

to know what my husband has been doing behind my back, to know that

you know as well."

He shrugged his shoulders, an effort to dismiss her concern in as

casual a way as possible. He wanted her to know he was not letting

any of this embarrassing information go beyond this room. Discretion

was a hallmark of his profession, and he was as tight-lipped as the

best private investigator.

She made her hands into small fists, and looked at the wall beyond

Peterson. Her voice was almost a whisper. "I hate the humiliation he

subjects me to. I don't understand any of it."

Peterson shrugged again. "Some guys just can't sit still, Ms.

Broadburn," he said. "They got itchy powder on their dicks, if you'll

pardon my saying so."

She snorted. "Itching powder, indeed." She stood up and extended

her right hand. "Well, Mr. Peterson, again, thanks for your effort.

You've been reliable and honest all along. If you think this latest

flame bears watching, perhaps you should continue your surveillance

for a while longer."

"Sure thing, Ms. Broadburn," he replied. "Be happy to."

Victoria thought to herself, "Who wouldn't, when you get to see

a show like these two put on?" She said nothing, but only smiled

as the detective prepared to leave.

He took her hand in his, then turned, retrieved his hat from her

coat rack, and left the room. Victoria watched him as he quietly closed

the door. Then, she walked out from behind her desk and began pacing

her office, her brow knitted in deep thought.

* * * * *

When Philip Johnson returned to the swank townhome he and his wife

Victoria shared, he noticed a sheet of paper on the small table that

was placed just inside the front door for the newspaper, mail and

other packages. The sheet was a brief note from Victoria: "Philip.

Come at once to my office. Victoria"

"Jesus, what a cold bitch she is," he mumbled to himself. "No

'Dear Phil,' no indeed. 'Philip.' No 'Love, Victoria.' Just 'Victoria.'

What the fuck. And after that wonderful session with Miley. Ah, dear,

sweet, hothothot Miley."

He turned around, left the apartment, and hailed a cab which had

fortuitously rounded the corner. Soon, he was headed into the center

city, to the financial district where his wife's investment firm was

located. Within a few minutes, the cab pulled over to the curb and

deposited him in front of the towering, mirrored-glass fronted building.

He looked up to the vicinity where his wife's firm was located.

"Shit," he muttered, "the fucking building's as cold as she is. They

sure were meant for each other." Reluctantly, he crossed the sidewalk

and entered the building, acknowledging the security guard's greeting

as he pushed through the door.

He entered the firm's office, through a glass door which opened

into a large reception area decorated with a couple of sofas and

straight-backed chairs, and the receptionist's desk. The receptionist

looked up from her typing, smiled brightly and said, "Hi, Mr. Johnson!

Let me tell Ms. Broadburn you've arrived. I know she's expecting you."

She leaned forward, pushed a button on the intercom, and announced

Philip's arrival. He was thinking, "What a bitch! Wouldn't even take

my name when we got married. Said it complicated her financial

arrangements. Goddamn. Good thing I have access to her checking account."

Her door opened and Victoria stepped through. She nearly bumped

into Philip as he was preparing to grab the knob. "Oh," she exclaimed,

a bit startled. "There you are. Come on in, Philip." She held the

door open for him to enter. "Have a seat, Philip," she said, gesturing

to the seat the private investigator had recently sat in. Philip crossed

the floor of the huge office, and took the seat Victoria had

indicated. Almost immediately, his eye fell on the photos, which were

still spread out on the desk top. He could feel the heat of his

embarrassment beginning to crawl up his neck. "Oh, shit," he thought.

"Here we go."

Victoria passed behind him and seated herself in her large, plush

leather chair. Even though it was difficult to do so - she'd much

rather have broken down and cried - she fixed her eyes on his. After

a long moment's silence, she said, "I'll come right to the point,

Philip. I want to know what you would like to have happen now."

He avoided her gaze, instead pretending to study the pictures.

Actually, he couldn't bear to look at them. Spread out before him

in all their full-color glory, they seemed obscene. How dare she

invade his privacy this way? Who the fuck did she think - ? But

she was speaking, "... to have happen now?" He wasn't sure he

understood her. "Have happen? What? I'm not sure... What is it

you want?"

She answered, "It's not at all what I want, Philip. Not at all.

It's what you want that concerns me. Do you want a divorce?"

His eyes briefly gazed into hers. She seemed perfectly calm.

"Cold," he thought, and shivered inwardly. "Divorce?" he asked.

She looked at him sitting there, his hands nervously playing with

the edge of a photograph. Emily was straddling him in this picture.

You could see his cock disappearing into her pussy. His balls looked

like pink apples. She was lost in a world of lust. His face was hidden

behind her torso and breast. Philip was beginning to feel a little sick

to his stomach.

"Yes, divorce," she replied. "I'm asking you if that is what you

would like to have happen here. Certainly those photographs supply

ample reason for discussing divorce." She hesitated a moment, then

continued, "If that's what you want."

He looked down at his hands which were now resting in his lap.

"Umm, no, I don't want a divorce."

She was relentless. "Then, what do you want? I repeat: what would

you like to have happen now?"

Small beads of perspiration appeared on his brow. He could feel a

slight trickle of sweat slowly dripping down his spine. "I, umm, I

don't know," he murmured.

"Let me tell you this, Philip. If you want a divorce, you may have

one. But I can assure you that you will not profit from it. I have

already made the necessary arrangements to protect what is mine. In

fact, I have made all the arrangements to strip you of virtually

everything you think you own. Including the clothes you are currently

wearing. If you decide to seek a divorce, you better have a damn good

job waiting for you. Otherwise, you're going to be sleeping in the

park from now on."

He blanched at the fury of her words. He knew she was tough; and

he knew she would protect herself as much as possible. He hadn't

realized, however, how viciously she would attack him.

The silence between them grew. Finally, she broke it: "I'm not

asking you for a divorce, Philip. I want you to understand that. I

don't think it's necessary, really. But, if we decide to stay together,

I can assure you there are going to be some major changes in our

relationship. Now, I'll ask you again: what would you like to have

happen now?"

He knew he was too weak to fight. Financially, he didn't have a leg

to stand on. Legally, she was holding all the cards. If he accepted

the idea of a divorce, and asked for one, she would punish him severely.

He was too lazy to simply leave and go somewhere else to start over

again. He knew if he stayed, she would continue to take care of him,

to "keep" him. But he suspected he would pay a heavy price no matter

what he decided to do.

She sat in the plush leather executive chair, hands folded across

her stomach, patiently gazing at him, waiting for him to respond.

He continued to fidget uneasily with his hands, his eyes desperately

avoiding hers. There had been a time when he couldn't take his

eyes off her. She was extremely beautiful, and the fact that her

wealth could purchase the very best in health and beauty care allowed

her to maintain that aura. She was short, about 5 feet 4 inches tall,

and slender, with a perfect curve outward from waist to hips. Her

bottom was rounded just enough without being too prominent. And,

despite her shortness, her legs appeared long and perfectly tapered,

probably because of her slender frame. But it was her breasts that

were her greatest asset. They were perfection itself. They were large

without being overwhelming, firm and yet supple, and they attracted

the immediate attention of both men and women. She was well aware of

their attractiveness, and she dressed to accentuate them without

overemphasizing them. When they had first begun to date, Philip could

hardly take his eyes off them; he fantasized his hands kneading them

as though they were soft mounds of bread dough. He dreamed of those

gorgeous breasts.

Now, he could hardly lift his eyes to look at her. He wasn't aware

of feeling ashamed, in particular. Perhaps it was fear of her power,

especially now, when she so obviously had the advantage. He knew

she was in the driver's seat, and there was little he could do about

it. Maybe it was shame he was feeling; shame that she had defeated him.

Definitely not shame that he had made love to Emily Owens, his Miley,

his mistress. His mind wandered to thoughts of her, even as his wife

sat across the desk from him, her eyes fixed on him, waiting for his

decision.

Finally, he could no longer delay the inevitable. "Well, Vic," he

began, but quickly noticed her glowering at him, in no mood for little

tendernesses here. "I mean, Victoria. Sorry. Ok, here's the way I

see it. I definitely don't want a divorce. So I guess that means I

do want to stay married to you. And, I know I've hurt you, and I'd

like to do whatever I can to mend that hurt."

"Mend the hurt, hmmm?" she said. "What about loyalty? What about

fidelity? How can I trust you, knowing what I know about you and

your - how shall I put it - extracurricular activities? If I can't

trust you, how can any of my hurt be mended?"

He replied, "Well, it's true, of course, that my track record isn't

very good." He ignored her snort. "But I promise you, beyond a shadow

of a doubt, I'll change all that. No more, umm, extracurricular

activities. I mean that sincerely." Miley's face appeared before him,

her eyes dancing, her lips inviting. He shook his head, trying to

erase her image.

"So you really do want to remain with me." Her eyes were locked on

him, once again cold, unfeeling.

He looked at the floor. "Yes. Whatever it takes, Victoria. I'll do

whatever it takes."

The fog of silence settled between them once again. If there had been

an old-fashioned grandfather clock in the room, it would have sounded

louder than usual, annoyingly loud. As it was, the only sound was the

quiet whisper of the air-conditioner pushing cool air through the registers

in the floor.

Finally, Victoria reached forward and opened the center drawer of her

desk. She pulled out a sheaf of papers. "I'm going to insure your loyalty

this time, Philip. And your fidelity. I have several documents I want

you to sign. Later, at my convenience, I'll have them witnessed and then

my attorney will execute them. I know that's unconventional. But I don't

want anyone here seeing us together like this. You would agree with my

position on this, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, of course. I trust you to do the right thing, Victoria."

She pushed the small pile of papers over to him, along with a pen

which she had also taken from the desk drawer. "Very well. The document

on top is a quit-claim. It states that you relinquish all claims to

my estate, to my property and to my finances."

He signed. The next document transferred ownership of his Jaguar to

Victoria. He signed. Another document provided his agreement to accept

an allowance from a trust Victoria had established, but it was subject

to her approval. Each week she would verify his good behavior. Her

verification would permit the bank to place his allowance in a checking

account. If she refused to sign the verification form, no money would

be transferred to the account. In fact, the account would be frozen.

He signed.

Finally, it was done. He was broken. He now depended on Victoria for

his very existence. He wondered if Emily would continue to see him.

He sat in his chair waiting for Victoria to make her next move, whatever

it was. After several minutes, she said in a near-whisper, "Stand up."

He stood. "Remove your clothes."

"What?"

"You heard me. Remove your clothes." She glared at him. "Strip."

"But, why? What is that going to prove?"

Her answer was to reach again into the center drawer, this time removing

a lighter. She took the pile of paper in one hand, and prepared to set it

on fire. "If these documents burn, Philip, you'll have no choice but to

accept a divorce. Do you understand? No choice."

Grimly, he began to undo his belt. "All right, all right. You win."

Reluctantly, he removed his clothes, finally standing in front of his

chair completely naked. Victoria reached forward and pressed the intercom

switch. "Judith, I want you to come in here, please," she said into the

microphone. The receptionist replied, "Yes, ma'am. Right away."

Philip was aghast. "Wh- what's going on?"

Victoria glared at him again. "Silence. You'll speak when I want to

hear you."

The door opened, and the receptionist entered the room. She glanced at

Philip, and a small smile formed on her lips. Victoria said, "Judith,

I want you to take his undergarments and dispose of them, as we had

discussed. Then come back and bring your equipment."

The receptionist said, "Yes, ma'am," and began picking up Philip's

socks, drawers and t-shirt. She quickly left the office. Philip's

mouth started to open, but was stopped by Victoria's abruptly raised

hand. "I said, 'Silence.' I meant silence."

A moment later the door opened and Judith re-entered the room. She

was carrying a small case in one hand. She walked over to Victoria's

desk. Victoria turned to Philip who was standing red-faced and naked

in front of the young woman.

Victoria said, "Now, Philip, I don't think it's possible to trust

you to be faithful to me or to your marriage vows. You've violated that

trust so often and so regularly that I don't think you're capable of

behaving in a trustworthy way. So I've devised a little plan that I

hope will shame you into behaving yourself. Remember, your allowance

depends on my acceptance of your good behavior. Right?"

He was looking down, trying to avoid the receptionist's open stare.

He mumbled, "Yes. I guess so."

Victoria smiled slightly. "Very well. Here is what I propose. Judith

is going to give you a pedicure, after which she is going to paint

your toenails with a delightful red polish. I am assuming you would

never want one of your chippies to see you with painted toenails. So,

you'll keep your pants on to avoid such an eventuality. Of course, if

your pants are on, your dick most likely will be tucked away as well.

It's at least worth a try. Nothing else seems to have worked."

The receptionist giggled, clearly enjoying the scene. Victoria

gestured at the chair Philip had been sitting in. "Sit down, Philip.

And don't give Judith a hard time about this, either." She turned

to her receptionist. "I'm going out for coffee. Let me know when you're

done with him."

The receptionist, still giggling, said, "Yes, ma'am."

"And do a good job on him. I want those toenails looking absolutely

gorgeous."

The receptionist couldn't contain her laughter. "Oh, I'll do a good

job, Ms. Broadburn. You can rely on me."

And with that, she knelt down in front of Philip, opened her cosmetic

case, and went to work. With a smirk on her face, Victoria turned and

walked out the door.

Half an hour later, the receptionist opened the door of Victoria's

office. Victoria was sitting on one of the sofas, reading a magazine

and sipping a cup of coffee. "I'm all done, Ms. Broadburn."

The two women entered the office together. Philip was seated in his

chair, still naked, looking deeply embarrassed. Victoria crossed the

office and stood before him. "Let's see those toes, Philip," she

commanded. He lifted both feet so she could get a close look. Victoria

clapped her hands together. "Oh, look what Judith's done," she said.

"This is marvelous. What kind of flowers are those, Judith?"

"They're supposed to be carnations, Ms. Broadburn," Judith said.

On both of Philip's big toes, in addition to the bright red nail

polish, the receptionist had painted bright white carnations. Philip's

face turned a shade darker than the deep red polish that now decorated

his toenails.

Victoria's face wore a thoughtful expression. "Hmm. You know, Judith,

if he puts his socks back on over his toes, it might cause those

wonderful flowers to smear and ruin the effect. Don't you agree?"

Judith said, "Oh, yes, ma'am. Those socks Mr. Johnson was wearing

could definitely cause the polish to smear."

Victoria sighed. "I was afraid of that. Well, I guess we have no

alternative, Judith. Go and get me the razor and the rest of the things

I gave you this morning."

Philip was alarmed. "Razor?" he thought, suddenly afraid. "What the

fuck does she need with a razor?"

When the receptionist returned, she was carrying an electric razor

in one hand. In her other hand she had a small plastic bag with the

logo of a lingerie shop printed on it. Philip's eyes showed his concern.

Victoria said, "Philip, I was afraid that Judith's handiwork would be

too delicate for you. I know the quality of her artistic efforts.

So, I'm afraid we're going to have to cover your toes with the same kind

of material a woman would wear whose toenails were similarly decorated,

that is, with sheer nylon. However, nylon stockings would look just

awful on those shaggy, hairy legs of yours. So we're going to have

to remove the hair. I'm sure you don't mind, do you?"

Philip was almost crying in frustration. He waved his hand dismissively.

"No, of course not. Don't want to ruin the carnations, after all."

Victoria glared at him. "Well, you don't have to be so sarcastic, Philip.

Judith worked very hard on those nails of yours." She smiled sweetly at

her receptionist, then turned back to Philip. "Now, stand up so Judith

can shave your legs."

Red-faced with shame, Philip stood up. The razor Judith held in her

hand was portable, so all she had to do was kneel down at Philip's feet,

turn it on, and go to work. Victoria stood behind her, leaning her

delicately rounded bottom against the desk, watching Judith work with

the razor. The hair on Philip's legs was, of course, fairly long, too

long for an electric razor to shave neatly. Several times he cried out

when the razor became snagged in his hair. But, eventually, after several

repeated efforts by Judith, his legs were at last free of all their

hair and as white as a porcelain bowl. At Victoria's instructions, Judith

had also shaved off Philip's pubic hair as well, causing him even more

embarrassment than he already felt.

Victoria clapped her hands. "Oh, lovely, Judith. You've done a wonderful

job. Now, Philip, sit down so we can show you how to put on these nylons."

She reached into the plastic bag, and pulled out a pair of very sheer,

black nylon stockings, the kind with seams. She handed them to her husband.

"It's very important that you put them on as carefully as you can,

Philip. You want to avoid runs at all cost. And, you want your seams to

be perfectly straight, especially on those days when I inspect you in

order to verify your continuing good behavior."

He looked at the dainty handful of nylon. He had no idea how he had so

quickly been reduced to this situation. Judith took one of the stockings

from him, and showed him how it was to be folded so that he could slide

it up his leg after carefully covering his foot. She also instructed

him on keeping the seams straight as the stockings were gently pulled up

his leg. When the first stocking was in place, she handed him the other

one. He was expected to do this one on his own. His hands shaking somewhat,

he finally managed to pull the stocking up his leg, keeping the seam

relatively straight. Judith showed him how to adjust it. When he was done,

Victoria had him stand up. Immediately, the stockings began to slide back

down his legs.

"Obviously, you need something to hold your stockings in place,"

Victoria declared. She reached into the plastic bag and pulled out a

black garter belt covered with red lace. She handed it to Philip. "Go

ahead, put it on. Judith will show you how to attach the garters to your

stockings."

Visibly upset, but unable to counter this humiliation, Philip started

to put the belt on. He placed the hooks in front and attached them to

the eyes. Then, he began to reach for a garter strap.

"No, no, no, silly!" exclaimed Victoria. "Once you've got it all

snapped on, you have to slide it around your waist so the hooks are

in the rear. Silly boy."

Judith giggled as the red-faced Philip complied.

"All right," said Victoria. "Now, you can attach the garters."

Clumsily, Philip began to work on this task, finally figuring out

how to operate the snaps after Judith demonstrated the method a couple

of times. Finally, fully ashamed and humiliated, Philip stood before

his wife and her receptionist, his brightly polished toenails visible

through the sheer material of his stockings, which were attached to

the only other garment he wore, a garter belt.

Victoria's demeanor grew stern. "This is how you will dress each

day, Philip. And once a week, you will report to Judith for a pedicure.

You will wear no other undergarments, unless, of course, I permit

them. If you desire to wear panties, or a bra, or a camisole, or any

dainty feminine lingerie, why I'll be more than happy to approve

such apparel. But that's optional, for now. However, your stockings

and garter belt are not. Those you will wear every day, all day. Do

you understand?"

Philip stared at his legs and his freshly painted toes. "Yes,"

he mumbled.

"Good," said Victoria. "Then you may get dressed." She turned to

Judith. "Thanks so much, Judith. You do a wonderful pedicure. You

may go to lunch now, if you'd like." The receptionist smiled at

Victoria, gathered up her things, and left the office, but not before

giving Philip the once-over with her laughing eyes.

Victoria turned to Philip, who had finished dressing and was adjusting

his necktie. "You may go now, Philip. Remember, loyalty and fidelity."

She reached into her purse, pulling out her wallet. She removed two bills

from it and handed them to Philip. "Here's your first week's allowance,

two hundred dollars. You'll get your allowance after your inspection,

on whatever day I choose, here at the office. All right?"

Philip nodded.

"Oh, one more thing before you go. I want the keys to the Jaguar."

"But, but, how am I going to be able to get around?" he cried.

"This city has a perfectly marvelous public transportation system,

Philip. You can take the bus. We'll see how your little sluts like

being romanced on the metro." She snickered at the thought of Philip,

encased in nylon stockings, attempting to impress one of his girlfriends

as they rode through the city on a bus.

She took the car keys from Philip's outstretched hands, then waved

him away in dismissal.

* * * * *

Philip had hailed a cab to ride back to his - Victoria's - townhome.

"Take the bus," he muttered. "Fuck her, fuckin' bitch." After paying

the driver, he turned to go up the steps of the large brownstone

rowhouse. It was a three-story structure, and much wider than the

usual townhouse and very deep. In the back, there was a small yard, most

of which Victoria had turned into flower beds for her garden, which even

Philip had to admit was spectacular. Beneath the front porch, behind the

concrete steps, was a set of short steps leading down to a basement

entrance. At one time, a previous owner had converted the part of the

basement which was directly under the kitchen into a servant's apartment.

The front walk-down entrance opened into a narrow hallway, which led to

this apartment. The apartment itself consisted of a small bedroom/sitting

room, a tiny kitchenette, and a cramped shower/sink/toilet room. In the

bedroom/sitting room was a door which led directly up to the kitchen

situated at the rear of the first level of the house proper. The kitchen

also had a door which led to the laundry room. The servants would wash

the family laundry in this room, then fold and iron it in either the

kitchenette or the bedroom/sitting room. When Victoria and Philip had

moved into the townhome, they had built an enclosure behind the kitchen

and had turned it into a laundry room. So, during the years they had

lived in this townhouse, they had never had any need to use the

basement apartment. In fact, all they used the basement for was storage

space, and the entrance to the storeroom was reached separately from

the servants' apartment.

As Philip reached the landing, he took his key from his pocket and

attempted to slide it into the lock on the front door. It wouldn't fit.

"What the fuck?" he muttered. "What's happened to the lock?" It was

then he saw the envelope sticking out from the letter-drop in the

door. He reached down and retrieved it.

"Dear Philip," it read. "Until you have proven to me beyond any

reasonable doubt that your loyalty and fidelity can be trusted, I

am requiring you to move into the servants' apartment in the basement.

I have had the locks to the front entrance changed. Moreover, I have

also locked the door leading from the kitchen to the basement apartment.

When I have need of you in my quarters, I will permit you entry through

that door. I have installed an intercom in your new apartment for the

purpose of summoning you whenever I deem it necessary.

"You will find bed and bath linens in the bureau in the bedroom.

Your clothes have been moved into the bedroom also. There is

food in the refrigerator, and cooking utensils, plates, etc.

"Part of my weekly 'allowance approval' inspection will be to

examine the neatness and cleanness of your apartment. Please keep that

in mind.

"Your housekey should work in the basement door lock.

Victoria"

He wadded the note up in his fist and slammed his fist into the

palm of his other hand. "That fucking bitch!" he exclaimed. "Son-of-a-

mother-fucking-bitch!"

Slowly, he calmed down and, realizing the inevitability of his

situation, he decided to take a look in the basement at the apartment

which he hadn't seen since he, Victoria, and the real estate agent

had looked at it during their pre-settlement inspection tour. As he

descended the stairs, his eye happened to glance out to the street.

Something was wrong, he knew, but he just couldn't - "My Jag! Oh,

shit! The bitch has taken my Jag! Oh, nooo..." There was definitely

an empty space at the curbside, and there was no Jaguar in sight.

Muttering darkly to himself, he tried the key in the lock. Sure

enough, it worked. The door easily opened. Inside, the hallway was

dark, and he felt around the wall until he found a light switch.

He turned it on, and a low wattage bulb barely illuminated the

hallway. He could see the door at the other end, so he walked the

length of the narrow corridor. Once again, he tried what had once

been the front-door key, and discovered that it fit the lock on

this door. He pulled the door open and again had to grope for a

light switch to find his way into the darkened room. He found that

the entrance gave way into a bedroom/sitting room. Inside the tiny

room was a narrow, cot-like metal frame bed with a thin mattress

and box-spring. On the mattress was a pillow. There was a chair in

one corner, and a five-drawer bureau in the other. On top of the

bureau was a small, inexpensive clock/alarm radio and his razor,

toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream, deodorant and other cosmetics.

There was no closet. Next to the bureau, attached to the wall,

were some pegs with a few wire hangers suspended from them, which

would allow him to hang his clothes. There was a shelf attached to

the wall above the pegs. On it was an iron. Leaning against the

wall next to the pegs was an ironing board.

He went over to the bureau and opened the top drawer. In it

were several pairs of nylon stockings, all black, all sheer, all

with seams. There were also several garter belts in different colors,

but all with plenty of lace adorning them. In the next drawer he

found several nightgowns, all sheer, all baby-doll style, but with

no panties. The other three drawers contained bed linens, towels

and washcloths.

He went into the bathroom. There was toilet paper on top of the

toilet tank, and he realized the room was too small to accommodate

a toilet paper holder. Above the sink were two narrow shelves,

each attached separately to the wall. On these shelves were his

medicines - aspirin, bandaids, and other supplies. Above the top shelf

was a small mirror. Underneath the sink were cleaning supplies neatly

placed on the floor. In the cramped shower stall was a soap dish with

a bar of soap in it.

He next examined the kitchenette. It had a small range on top of

a small oven. There was no microwave oven, however. If he cooked,

he would have to cook in the old traditional way. Next to the oven/

range was a sink, and on the other side of the sink was a small

refrigerator. There was, of course, the narrow door leading up to

the kitchen above, and another narrow door which led to the laundry

room. That door had been removed so that the washer and dryer could

be clearly seen. There was a small table in the center of the room

with a chair neatly placed under it. Next to the opening into the

laundry room several shelves had been attached to the wall. On these

shelves were boxes of cereal, cans of soup, and other food. On the

bottom shelf was a pot and a frying pan. On the shelf above that

were a few plates, cups, and eating and cooking utensils.

Philip looked in the refrigerator. Inside were eggs, milk, some

ground beef, some fresh fruit and vegetables, cheese, and a small

freezer filled with ice cubes.

In the laundry room, beside the washer and dryer, were laundry

detergent, dryer anti-static tissues, dish detergent and other

cleaning supplies. Looking at the cleaning supplies, Philip suddenly

realized that the little apartment was immaculate. Obviously,

Victoria had gone to great trouble to prepare it for him. She'd been

planning this for a long time. His heart sank as he began to understand

that Victoria was going to be humiliating him far more severely than

he'd originally thought. "Damn," he said out loud. "Maybe I should

ask for a divorce. It can't possibly be any worse than this."

He went back into the bedroom and sat on the bed. The mattress

definitely wasn't firm like the mattress on his bed upstairs. But

it wasn't uncomfortable, either. He began contemplating his situation.

It was pretty obvious that Victoria had some kind of plan that she

wasn't revealing to him. It was also pretty obvious that she intended

to punish him for his womanizing. He considered simply removing

the garter belt and stockings and leaving, going ahead with a divorce -

no matter how painful it might be for him - and then starting over,

perhaps even moving from the city and relocating somewhere else.

But a voice inside his head continued whispering, "Stick around. See

what she's up to. Maybe you can come out ahead, after all."

* * * * *

Evidently, he had dozed off. A loud buzzing had startled him awake,

and as he sat up, groggily wiping his eyes and shaking his head to

clear the sleep away, he realized it was the buzzer on his clock radio.

The clock read 8:00, and the P.M. light-dot was lit. "Damn," he said,

"that is one loud alarm. I'll have to set it for a morning wakeup.

Like around 10:00, maybe." He stood up, looking around a little confused,

then realized he was in the apartment in the basement of his townhome.

He decided he would go out to get a bite to eat, maybe at the pub up

on the corner, Harry's Grill. They had good burgers, and he could

have a couple of brews while he sorted out his thoughts and feelings

on what was going on with Victoria.

As he stepped toward the door, suddenly a static roar emerged from

the intercom. Then, Victoria's voice boomed out, "Philip, I wish to

speak with you right away. Please come to the door in the kitchen.

There's a doorbell switch there. Just push it and I'll unlock the

door from up here." Evidently, she had installed an electronic lock

on that door. "Probably so I won't 'invade' her 'kingdom,'" he thought.

But how the hell had she known he was in the apartment? And getting

ready to go out? "She's got a camera hidden somewhere around here,

the fucking bitch." He groaned.

He walked into the kitchenette, and stepped over to the door. He

found the doorbell switch, and pushed it. Immediately, he heard a

buzz, not unlike the buzzer on his clock radio alarm, and then the

sound of the door unlocking. He pulled it open and climbed the stairs.

There was another door at the top of the stairs, which was unlocked.

He opened it and entered the kitchen. Just as he closed the door,

Victoria's voice sounded over another intercom, this one attached to

the wall next to the door. Victoria's voice commanded, "Come into

the study, Philip. I'll meet you there."

Slowly, he made his way through the kitchen and into the main hallway.

His frustration was growing, threatening to turn into real anger. He

was afraid he might say something which could cost him whatever benefit

he might have in this situation. He entered the study. Victoria was

seated in a wingback chair, facing a fireplace. There was a fire burning,

the flames dancing merrily above the large logs. She looked up and

watched Philip as he crossed the room to her, then indicated that he was

to sit down in another wingback chair facing her, his back to the fire.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Then Victoria said, "Well,

Philip, I trust your new accommodations are satisfactory."

"Smug bitch," he thought. But, he said, "They're all right, I guess.

But, why are you making me stay down there?"

She looked him straight in the eye. "Don't forget, Philip. You

violated our marriage vows. I'm not even sure I want to continue in

this marriage. But, I'm giving you a second chance. Another chance to

prove you really love me, and are willing to be a good and faithful

husband."

"So, why can't I live up here? With you? I mean if you're pissed off

at me, and don't want me sleeping with you for a while, well, ok, I can

understand that. And I'll be willing to sleep in another bedroom until

you do. You know. Want me to sleep with you again. When I have proved to

you that I am faithful and true, and you're happy to restore me into

your good graces."

Victoria contemplated him thoughtfully. "Well, Philip, I may decide

to do just that. But for the immediate moment, I prefer this arrangement."

Philip shrugged his shoulders. He was curious to see what other

conditions she was getting ready to impose on him, so he didn't feel like

arguing this point.

"Now, Philip, I like to think of these next few weeks as a sort of

trial period. Not just for you, but for me as well. So far, I've only

placed one condition upon you, that you report to my office every Friday

for a pedicure, and to have your toenails painted by Judith."

"What about this having to wear stockings and a garter belt? And no

other underwear?"

"Well, of course, that goes without saying. You have to protect your

toenail polish. But, it's all part of the same condition."

"Don't forget making me live downstairs in that little, whatever,

servants' quarters."

She smiled slightly and looked directly in his eyes. "Yes, Philip,

I guess that is a condition also. And, in fact, I am going to impose

one more condition as well. At least, for the time being. There may

be others, as time goes on."

"What is that?"

"Each morning, upon waking, you will place the clothes you wore the

previous day on hangers, and you will open the kitchen door, the one

leading to the stairs up to my kitchen, and you will place those

clothes on the peg nailed to the wall at the foot of the stairs. You'll

know what I'm talking about, because your clothes for the new day will

be hanging there already. So, it'll simply be a swap."

"That's it? That's all I have to do?"

"For now, yes. And, of course, you must show yourself to be a

faithful and loyal husband. I am hoping that the pedicure and the

stockings will remind you of that obligation. But, then, sooner or

later, and I hope sooner, you'll be a faithful and loyal husband simply

because you want to, and not because I've forced you to."

"Of course. Now, you said there may be further conditions imposed on

me as part of my, umm, probation, you might say?"

"It depends upon your progress, Philip. And whether your improvement

is genuine or not." She smiled at him. "So don't try to con me."

He looked at her, realizing that he wasn't sure he wanted this game

to continue. "Do I really love her?" he thought. "Enough to jump

through all these hoops?"

She continued to smile, and said, "You're probably wondering if it's

worth it to even try. I can't help you there, Philip. I will say this:

I had to move to protect myself and my wealth. So if you file for divorce,

there won't be any division of property, believe me. You will simply

lose what little you have left, which isn't much. But if you pass my

test, if I believe you really are in love with me, and really do wish

to be a good and faithful husband to me, then I can assure you I will

be exorbitantly generous in whatever I give you."

"Speaking of not having much left, what did you do with my Jaguar?"

he asked.

"I had it towed to a dealer and sold. The keys were yours, but the

title was mine."

"But, why?" Philip's frustration was threatening to get out of hand.

"You needed an object lesson, Philip. You needed to know that I'm

holding all the cards here."

His eyes were growing moist. He put his index finger in his mouth

and bit down on it. Hard. It was either that or start swearing at her.

"Now, don't forget. In the morning, you will find your outfit for

the day hanging by the kitchen door. And I want you to give me the

clothes you are now wearing, so I can have them cleaned. I want you

to be neat and presentable at all times. Speaking of which, from

time to time I will be inspecting your apartment, to be sure it is as

neat and clean as you found it today. Of course, I'm sure it will be."

"Yes, yes, of course," he replied, exasperated.

"Incidentally, don't forget to keep your legs shaved. It really will

help prevent runs in your stockings. Oh. One other thing. The nighties

were given to you for a reason. To enjoy. So enjoy them." She looked

him straight in the eye, and her mouth curled into a mocking grin.

"If you have no further questions, then, Philip, I'll say goodnight.

You may let yourself out the way you came in."

She stood up and walked out of the room, without looking back at

him. He sat there in stunned disbelief. Then, confused and shaken,

he stood up and began the long journey to his new home.

* * * * *

As he passed through the door at the head of the kitchen stairs,

it automatically locked behind him. Then, as he entered the apartment,

that door, too, swung shut automatically, and he heard the click of

the lock. "Damn," he thought. "That is some elaborate security system."

He looked around once again at the tiny rooms, then decided he wasn't

hungry, after all. "Might as well just take a shower and go to bed.

Get a good night's sleep," he thought. He entered the bedroom and

got some sheets and a pillowcase out of the bureau, and made up the

bed. Then, he pulled a towel and washcloth from another drawer.

He removed his clothes, being careful with the stockings. He wasn't

sure what Victoria might do if he damaged the filmy nylons.

He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower in the cramped

stall. "Damn!" he said out loud. "I don't even have room to bend over

to wash my feet!"

He managed to scrub himself off, however, and then toweled himself

dry. He had to carry the towel and washcloth back into the bedroom,

since there was nowhere in the tiny bathroom to hang them. He used one

of the pegs attached to the wall next to the bureau. He opened the

bureau drawer that contained the babydoll nighties and stood looking

at them, trying to decide whether to wear them, or just sleep naked.

He had decided to sleep in the raw, and was just closing the drawer

when the intercom came alive again. It was Victoria. "I told you,

Philip, that the nighties are for your pleasure. Go ahead and put

one on. I insist."

He looked around the room in wonder. "Motherfucker!" he exclaimed

under his breath. "The bitch does have a camera hidden in here!"

Victoria's voice broke the silence again. "Put a nighty on now,

Philip," she scolded. "Or else I'll think you don't love me anymore."

And she giggled.

"Shit," he muttered. "Bitch." But he reached in the drawer and

pulled one of the filmy nightgowns out, this one a transparent pink.

It had a silky feel to it, and it had lace edging around the deeply

scooped neckline and thin straps. He pulled it over his head and let

it drop over his body. The bottom hem of the gown, also trimmed in

lace, quit at just about his hips, leaving his hairless cock and

balls exposed.

"Cute," said Victoria's voice in the intercom. "Nighty-night,

Philip. Don't forget to put your dirty clothes on the stairs in the

morning."

Cursing and muttering darkly to himself, Philip finally crawled

into the narrow bed. He was so exhausted and shaken by his encounter

with Victoria, and the rest of the events of the day, he fell almost

immediately into a deep sleep. He had to admit that the feel of the

silky-softness of the nightgown was interesting. He'd felt such

material before, but then, of course from the outside in. Now he

was experiencing it from the inside out. He fell asleep then, and

dreamed the strangest, most vivid dream he could ever recall dreaming.

In the dream, his head was shaved completely bald, like Yul Brynner's,

and his body was wrapped in soft, transparent nylon. He was floating

in a pale-blue sky, it seemed, and just ahead of him was Victoria.

Only she seemed gigantic, and towered over him so that her face was

distant from him, hidden by her massive breasts. He floated closer

to her, so that his head came nearer and nearer to the triangular

patch of her pubic hair. Suddenly, she opened her legs and he could

feel this warm, comforting heat enveloping him like a luxurious cloak.

And he noticed an aroma that seemed to overwhelm him with desire.

He floated nearer and nearer to her open vagina, and suddenly his

head was lodged inside it. Gently, her huge hands held him at the

waist, and she pushed him further inside her opening. His head

entered her and was immediately surrounded by darkness as he moved

deep inside her vulva. It was dark; it was warm; it was moist.

As soon as he was lodged well inside her, she began to pull him back

out, until all but his face had slid back out of her pussy. He struggled

to crawl back in, and she obliged him, holding him still at the waist

and pushing him deep into her vagina once again. He had become like a

human dildo, and that is exactly how she used him. Back and forth he

floated, up and down her vaginal canal. Her breathing became heavier

and heavier, and from inside her womb, it sounded like the approach of

a thunderstorm. Her vaginal walls grew hotter and wetter, and he thought

of a tropical rainforest, hot, humid, sultry. Harder and harder she

pushed and pulled; deeper and deeper he sank into her interior; louder

and louder the roar of her breathing became, until he was completely

overwhelmed and powerless against the onslaught of this magnificent

female essence. Then everything became black and he lost all sense of

himself, indeed of any reality.

He awoke moaning, and could feel a sticky wetness on the sheets

near his pelvic region. He pulled the cover and top sheet back and

looked. He'd had a massive orgasm, evidently, because there was a

huge stain on the sheet and it was wet and cold. He shivered a little,

then sat up and placed his feet on the floor. He was still breathing

a bit hard, and he could feel his pulse racing. "Whew," he thought.

"That was one hell of a dream. I have never been through anything like

that."

He stripped the wet, cum-stained sheets from the bed and carried

them over to the laundry room, placing them on the washer lid. Then,

he went into the tiny bathroom to clean himself up. After his shower

and shave, he went over to the door in the kitchenette and pressed

the button on the jamb. Immediately he heard a buzz, followed by

the click of the lock and the door swinging slowly open. As he opened

the door, he looked at the wall next to the stairs. Sure enough, a

pair of slacks and a shirt were hanging there. He took them down,

replacing them with his soiled clothes from the day before.

He carried the clean clothes into the bedroom and hung them on one

of the pegs on the wall. It was then he noticed a piece of paper

pinned to the slacks. He took it off and unfolded it. It was a note

from Victoria:

"Dear Philip,

When you look in your underwear drawer you will notice that you

have nine identical pairs of stockings, one for each day of the week

plus a couple of spares in case you suffer a run. You should wear a

different pair each day, and wash them in the sink at night. You

also have seven garter belts, each of a different color. You should

wear a different one each day also, rotating through them in a

systematic fashion. These you can wash with your regular laundry.

Have fun!

Victoria"

Philip wadded the note up and tossed it aside. "What bullshit!"

he thought. "Why don't I just go up there and tell her to fuck off,

I'm outta here, she can have it all?" He stopped in the middle of

the room and stood stock still. Why, indeed, not go tell her off

and leave? What was keeping him here, after all? Her money? She

would dole it out only in small amounts, and he was too undisciplined

to hang on to any of it, spending it as fast as she gave it to him.

"Well, maybe this is just a whim of hers," he considered. "If I cool

it for awhile, pretend to toe the line, then she'll let me come back

into her good graces, and all of this will be just a dim memory."

He took out a pair of stockings and a clean garter belt. He attached

the belt, then sat on the bed to pull up the stockings. He did this

with great care, not wanting to tear them, and also to be sure the

seams were straight. The feel of the stockings on his hairless legs

certainly was pleasurable, and he enjoyed the sensation of coolness

and warmth simultaneously, and the tension of the garter straps holding

the stockings up high on his thighs. But it wasn't a particularly

erotic sensation; it didn't give him a hardon or anything like that.

He removed the slacks from the hanger and began to put them on.

"Hmmm," he thought, "these trousers seem a little snug. I don't

recall ever wearing them before, either. Oh, well." And he pulled them

up his legs, buttoning them at the waist and pulling up the zipper.

"Wow, they are snug!" He looked down and noticed that not only were

they a little snug, but they were also a little short. Not so short

that his stockings showed, but if he weren't careful, they certainly

would. "Fuckin' bitch!" he muttered.

He reached for the shirt, only to discover to his horror that it

was a woman's dress shirt. It wasn't frilly or overly feminine, but

it was clearly a woman's shirt. The buttons were on the left, and

the material was silky and almost transparent. He would have to wear

a sweater or jacket or something to disguise it.

"I don't know, Phil. Maybe now's the time to pull up stakes,"

he thought. But his own response was negative. "I'll just go along

for a while and see what happens."

Having decided that, he put on his sport coat (thank God it went

with almost any color) and left the apartment. His first stop was

Harry's Grill for some breakfast, and he went there immediately,

picking a seat in a booth at the back of the restaurant in order to

make himself less noticeable.

After he had eaten, he knew he needed to find a phone. No matter

what, he had to call Emily to tell her that Victoria knew of their

affair and had, in effect, called it off. He paid his bill and

located a public phone in a short hallway where the restaurant's

restrooms were located. He put in a quarter and dialed Emily's

office number. She picked up on the second ring. "Good," he thought.

"She's not too busy to talk."

"American Cardboard Association. This is Miss Owens. How may I

help you?"

"Miley, it's me, Phil."

"Phil! What's going on? You didn't call me last night. I was getting

worried."

"Listen, Miley. We've got to talk. Something really serious has

come up and I have to see you right away."

"Something serious? I hope it's not too bad, Sugar. Well, how about

lunch? We could meet at Antonio's."

"No, that's too public. Umm, how about the Savoy Bar and Grill, over on

Tenth?"

"Oh, that hole-in-the-wall. That place is always filled with cigarette

smoke and it takes me days to get the smell out of my hair."

"I know, I know. But it's also quiet and private. So meet me there

at about 12:30. Ok?"

"Well, I guess so. But you're going to have to pay to have my dress

fumigated." And she giggled in her delightfully sexy way.

Philip hung up and decided to go back to Harry's Grill for another

cup of coffee. He had a lot of time to kill, and nowhere in particular

to do it.

* * * * *

When Emily arrived at the Savoy, Philip was waiting outside for her.

He had a brown paper bag in his hand. Emily ran to where he was leaning

against the wall, and threw her arms around him, giving him a loud, wet

kiss on the lips. "Hello, my lover!" she happily exclaimed.

He looked nervously around, then said, "I decided you were right.

This place is the pits and there's no point in asking you to go in there

just to get your hair full of cigarette smoke. So what I did was I went

and got us a hotel room, and a bagful of sandwiches and a couple of sodas."

"Oh, you incurable romantic, you," she laughed. "How far is it? Will

we need a cab?"

Philip took her by the arm, and pointed to a hotel down the street.

"Right over there. It's not the Hilton, by any means. But we just need

a little privacy for a little while." He steered her along the sidewalk

until they arrived at the entrance to the hotel. It looked as though

at one time it had been a fairly classy place; but, that had probably

been more than forty years ago. It wasn't exactly rundown or seedy.

It just seemed a bit frayed at the edges. They moved through the

entrance and entered a spacious lobby, which they crossed to get

to the elevator on the other side.

Philip was holding her hand. "I already have the key. So all we have

to do is get on the elevator and go right on up."

Emily held his hand tightly. "Why all the mystery, Phil?"

The elevator door opened and they stepped inside. The door closed and

they began to climb. Philip looked her in the eye and said, "As soon as

we're in the room, I'll let you know what's going on."

Philip unlocked the door and gently nudged Emily inside. The room was

not small, but it was also not new, either. The bed's mattress was

high enough off the floor that a person felt the need to climb up

to get on top of it. There were a couple of slightly worn easy chairs,

a table for writing, a low chest of drawers, a small closet and a

small bathroom, with the counter and sink actually in the sleeping/sitting

room. Emily jumped onto the bed and rolled over on her back, raising

her arms toward Philip. He lay down beside her.

"Now, tell your darling Miley all about it. Why all this secrecy,

Sugar?"

In answer to her question, Philip slid off the bed, stood up, and

immediately lowered his trousers. Emily's eyes grew wide at the sight

of her lover standing there in a garter belt and stockings, his penis

half-erect. She began laughing loudly and rolling around on the mattress.

"Phil, ah, hahaha, oh, Phil," she roared. "I don't believe it.

Hahaha. What the hell are you doing?"

Philip stared glumly at the floor. "It's that bitch of a wife of mine.

She's making me do this."

Emily continued laughing for a few more moments, then realizing Philip

was not sharing the joke, she leaned up on her elbows and looked deeply

at him. "Victoria? She's making you wear this get-up?"

"Yes, yes," he cried. He sat down on the edge of the bed, holding his

face in his hands as he fought back the sobs which were choking him.

"She knows about us, Miley. She had me followed. She knows everything."

"And this is her punishment, eh?" Emily replied.

He brought his hands down to his lap and looked at them. "I guess

so. I don't know exactly what is on her mind. She told me if I didn't

wear this underwear, she would throw me out. And I wouldn't get a dime.

I'd be impoverished."

Emily was angry. "She can't do that, Phil. There are laws in this

State. She has to comply - "

He cut her off. "She doesn't have to do anything she doesn't want to.

Believe me. If I know anything at all, I know that."

"Ok. Suppose she does throw you out and takes all you have. So what?

We still have each other. And you can always find a job."

Philip actually blanched at that last sentence. He stood up and turned

to face her. "W-work?" he stammered. "M-me?"

"Of course you, silly," she said. "Why not? Millions of people do it

every day. It doesn't seem to be doing them any serious harm, as far as

I can tell."

"B-but..." He swallowed hard. "I-I don't...I don't have...umm..."

Emily looked hard at him. "What's the matter with you? Listen. All

you have to do is walk out of that house, walk away from that rotten

bitch, and come live with me. I don't see any huge problem here."

Philip glanced nervously around the room. "I, uhh, I think we should,

ummm, should think it over."

Emily looked up at him with a sly grin on her face. "You know what,

Sugar? You look kind of hot in those stockings. If you don't come over

here right away and kiss me, I'm going to die of horniness. And it'll

be all your fault."

She held out her hand, and he took it, then moved to the side of

the bed. She let go of his hand, and quickly grabbed his penis. He

gasped as she tugged on it, leading him to her. As he raised his leg

and knelt on the bed, she released his cock, reached behind him,

and gave him a loud smack on the ass.

"Get over here right now, you bad boy," she growled. "Miley needs

some goo-ood loving."

She pulled him across her body as she fell back on the bed, then

circled him with her arms as she drew him into a long, passionate

kiss. His right hand sought out her left breast, and he began tweaking

the nipple, causing Emily to groan in lust. Then, he covered her

entire breast with his cupped hand, and squeezed hard as her tongue

invaded his mouth, pushing as far as it could toward his throat.

His penis was now rock-hard and sticking straight out. She grabbed

it with one of her hands and began rubbing and stroking it, causing

him to begin moaning. They thrashed around on the bed, breathing heavily,

as though they had just finished sprinting a hundred-yard dash. Their

bodies were covered with a sheen of perspiration as they groaned and

grappled and panted and puffed. Finally, Emily could stand it no longer.

She took Philip's penis in her hand and guided it between her legs,

almost sucking it into her pussy like a vacuum cleaner sucking up

rug dirt. She gasped when he was fully encased in her steaming cunt,

and cried softly as he began a delightful, rhythmic pumping in and

out of her love tunnel. As he got closer and closer to his climax,

his pumping grew more frenzied, his hands, each clutching a breast,

squeezed until she cried out in orgasmic pain, his mouth pressed so

hard against hers he left teeth imprints on her lips. And then the

crisis was upon her, and she grabbed his ass cheeks, trying to pull

him even deeper into her. He lunged and pushed, grunting and panting

all the while. Then, with a sudden shout, he exploded, pouring his

hot seed into her hot hole. Her eyes rolled back into her head, her

legs, bent at the knees and spread wide apart, pumped back and forth

as his cum gushed into her, and she laughed and sobbed and pummeled

his ass with her fists. Then, too soon, it was over, and he lay

atop her, spent and gasping for breath. She crooned and hummed as

she let her hands softly caress his back, his neck, the hair on the

back of his head.

They slowly parted, and he rolled off her to rest at her side,

softly stroking her breasts, her tummy, the burning wetness of her

thighs where they joined her pussy. He softly kissed her lips, and

gazed dreamily at her face, her eyes closed in repose, as she let

herself relax and luxuriate in the pleasure of her own climax.

Finally, she opened her eyes and smiled up at him. "Mmmmm," she

cooed. "You oughta wear those stockings and garters all the time,

if they make you fuck that good."

He looked a little hurt. "Aw, Miley, c'mon. Don't even joke about

it. Ok?"

She continued smiling, then closed her eyes and let her head relax

on the pillow. "We'll see," was all she would say.

After awhile, she declared she had to get back to the office, and

she pushed him away from her as she rolled over to get off the bed

and step towards the bathroom. Philip watched her delightfully plump

ass gently jiggle as she crossed the room, then disappeared into

the shower. He lay on his back looking up at the ceiling and thinking

of her, conjuring an image of her as she showered, wishing it were his

hands softly scrubbing the sweat and semen of their lovemaking away.

He couldn't stand to let her go. He knew he didn't love her enough to

want to move in with her. But he loved loving her, and he hated to

have it end. It would have to, though. As much as he loved these

little trysts with Emily, he loved Victoria's money more. "Too bad,"

he thought. "We really did have a good thing going."

The shower had stopped, and Emily had finished toweling off. She

came back into the room, and began getting dressed. "Miley," Philip

spoke from the bed.

"Mmmmm," she dreamily replied.

"Miley, I'm sorry, baby. But this has to be it," he said, and there

was genuine anguish in his voice.

"Has to be what, Sugar?" she asked.

"I can't go on with this, Miley," he cried. "I'm telling you, Victoria

will cut my nuts off if she knows I even saw you today."

"So you leave her. What's so difficult about that?"

"It's impossible! That's how difficult!" He groaned and closed his

eyes, unable to look at this gorgeous woman whose body he so loved and

craved.

"You mean this is it? For us?" she said.

"Yes, that's what I'm trying to say," he moaned. "I don't want it

to end, ever. But, I can't go on. I'm telling you, Miley. The bitch

will bury me if I don't stop seeing you."

Emily turned toward him, her eyes narrow slits, her lips compressed

into a thin line drawn so tightly her face around them was ashen.

"Do you mean to tell me you brought me up here so you could get

one last fuck out of me, and then you were going to just kick me out?"

She glared at him, hatred beginning to shine in her eyes.

"I didn't intend to, no," he said. "It just happened. I wanted to

tell you before we came up here. Oh, Miley, I'm sorry. I'm sorry it

has to be like this. That it has to end..."

"You motherfucker!" she suddenly screamed. "You motherfucking son-of-a-

bitch!"

He literally backed away from the onslaught of her emotions.

Her voice dropped to an eerie, deadly softness. "You know what, asshole?

I don't care what she does to you anymore. In fact, I hope she does cut

your nuts off. It'd serve you right, you bastard."

Before he could reply, she turned and ran to the door, slamming it

loudly behind her as she left the room. The last sound he heard of her

was her heels clicking loudly and rapidly as she hurried down the hall

to the elevator.

* * * * *

When Philip entered his new apartment, he found a note waiting for

him on the small table in the kitchenette. It was from Victoria:

"Philip,

As soon as you have read this note, I want you to come immediately

to my office. This is an urgent matter. Please do not delay.

Victoria"

Philip held the note in his hand. "Hmmm. I wonder what the ice-queen

wants now," he thought. Then, sighing, he turned and left the apartment,

feeling in his pants pocket to see if he had enough change for the

bus.

A half-hour later, Philip was seated on one of the couches in the

receptionist's area, watching Judith as she worked her word-processor

and tried not to smirk at her employer's uncomfortable-looking husband.

She could clearly see his nylon stockings as his too-short pants hiked

several inches above his shoe-tops. Finally, the intercom buzzed, and

Judith looked over at Philip. "You may go in now," she said as gently

as possible without bursting into giggles.

Philip stood, smoothing his trousers down his legs (they seemed to

want to cling to the nylons), and crossed the floor, passing by the

secretary's desk to enter his wife's office. As he closed the door

behind him, he looked across the room to where Victoria sat, seemingly

engrossed in reading a report, or letter, or something. She looked up

at the sound of the latch clicking, and signaled him to join her.

He crossed the room and took a seat opposite her.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Your note said you had to see me

about an urgent matter. What's so urgent, anyway?"

She folded her hands and gazed at him across the desk. For several

seconds she simply studied him in silence. Then she said, "Philip,

it has come to my attention that you have again, even after all the

warnings and threats I issued, been unfaithful to me. Less than twenty-

four hours after all your solemn promises not to, there you were,

violating your word with that - that - whore!"

Philip was startled. "B-but, how, what, I --"

"Don't try to deny it, Philip," she said, "You know what you've done,

and so do I. How I came to know is none of your business. But I know."

She glared at him, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. Valiantly she

fought to maintain her composure. "How could you?" she moaned. "How

could you?"

Philip was defeated. He couldn't meet her eyes. Looking numbly at

his hands, he muttered, "I - it wasn't supposed to happen. I met her

to call it off. I - I'm sorry. It sort of got out of control."

Victoria looked at him with pity and disgust. "Oh, Philip. What

nonsense. What utter bullshit. Do you really expect me to believe that?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "No, I guess not," he mumbled.

She continued to study him, silently. The room became icily quiet.

Finally, breathing a sigh, she spoke: "There is no way I can allow this

marriage to continue. Without question I am going to divorce you. As

soon as possible."

She allowed Philip to absorb this information before she continued,

"As I told you when we first discussed this, you would be left with

nothing. I would insure that you would be lucky to have the clothes on

your back when I was finished with you. You do remember my saying that,

don't you? It was only one day ago, after all."

"Yes, yes, I remember," he said, half-whispering his reply.

"Well, Philip, perhaps I'm weak, or sentimental, or something," she

said, and Philip glanced up at her to be sure she wasn't smirking

sarcastically, "But I've decided that simply throwing you out, discarding

you like yesterday's leftover fish, isn't quite fair. To you or to me.

So, I am prepared to make you an offer that I believe is enormously

generous, given the present circumstances."

Philip's ears pricked up, and he listened carefully. "Yes, generous,"

she said. "In order to settle things between us, I am prepared to give

you one million dollars in return for your agreement to sever our marriage

bonds. And the money will be tax-free."

Philip's eyes widened in disbelief. His mouth was formed in a perfect O.

Victoria showed the slightest trace of a smile, but he couldn't see it.

"There is, however, a condition I am going to impose. And you will have

to fulfill this condition perfectly or you won't get a dime."

For a million bucks, Philip was prepared to do anything, except maybe

commit a major crime. "What's the condition?" he asked.

"For the next three months, you will submit without question entirely

to my will. Call it a time of indentured servitude if you'd like. You

will do everything I demand of you. Instantly. No questions, no complaints.

The first violation of the agreement will result in your being removed

from my house and sent away emptyhanded."

He studied her face, trying to see any sign of deceit. Her gaze was

steady, her eyes piercing his. He looked away again.

"You need not worry, Philip, I won't ask you to commit a murder, or

rob a bank, or anything of the sort. You will simply be my indentured

servant, subject to all my demands. Do you agree to do it?"

He looked up into her steady gaze. "Can I think about it?" he asked.

"No."

"Three months?"

"Three months."

"One million dollars?"

"Yes."

"Well, ok, I guess." He decided to sound certain. "Yeh. Ok."

"Very well." She reached into her center drawer and withdrew a form.

"Look this contract over carefully and sign and date it." She handed the

paper across the desk to him.

He looked at the form. It seemed like a standard employment contract,

specifying, instead of hourly or weekly wages, that at the end of three

months, he would be given one million dollars, with the income taxes to be

paid by his employer. It also specified all terms of the contract had

to be met unconditionally and satisfactorily or no payment would be

made. There seemed to be only one condition specified: "All requirements

of the employer, Victoria Broadburn, must be met without hesitation,

question, or complaint."

Philip took a pen out of his shirt pocket and signed at the bottom of

the contract. One million dollars! He smiled and handed the document back

to Victoria. She glanced at it thoughtfully, then returned it to her

center desk drawer. She leaned over and punched the intercom. "Judith,"

she said, "I have some chores to attend to at home with Philip. Please

reschedule all my appointments for the rest of the day, will you?"

Without waiting for the receptionist's response, she turned to

Philip and said, "Come along, Philip. We can get started right away."

He followed her through the private entrance of her office, which opened

into an elevator for her exclusive use. They descended to the garage in

silence, and he followed her to her limousine. The hired driver was

waiting, and he opened the door for her, seating her in the luxurious

rear seat. He held the front door open for Philip, indicating he should

ride up front with the driver. Philip sat quietly, wondering where all

this was going to lead.

The car seemed to glide noiselessly through the busy streets of the

city. But after a short time, Philip realized the driver was turning

into his street. Soon, very soon, Victoria's plans would be revealed.

He hoped they wouldn't be too difficult for him. A million dollars would

do very nicely for his future!

The car pulled to a stop before the entrance to the house, and the

driver quickly walked around to open the door for Victoria. Gently, he

took her hand, and carefully guided her from the seat to the sidewalk.

Philip, of course, was left to open his own door. Once the two passengers

were standing together on the curb, Victoria instructed the driver to wait

in the car; she might need a ride back to her office.

Turning to Philip she indicated he should follow her into the house.

She opened the door, and he reached out to hold it for her, then entered

the foyer himself. Perhaps because of their meeting in Victoria's office,

or because of the strange night he had spent in the servants' quarters

in the basement, the house now felt different to him. He no longer felt

like he was part of the household - of course, since Victoria now was

planning to end their marriage, he technically wasn't - but there was

just something odd about the atmosphere of the house, and it left him

feeling slightly uncomfortable.

Victoria motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen. When they

had both entered that room, she sat down at the table. He started to,

but she stopped him, saying, "Remember, Philip, you are no longer my

husband, you are my servant. You may stand over there," and she pointed

to a spot at the other end of the table. She studied him for what seemed

like several minutes, then said, "I've decided in your new role that

leaving you in the basement apartment is too complicated. I wish you to

be at my disposal at all times of the day, so I have arranged quarters

for you up here. Do you see that closet over there?" She pointed to

a pantry on the far wall. Philip turned to look. "Go over there and

open the door." Philip walked over to the pantry and opened the door.

On the floor beneath the shelves of canned goods, baking items and other

boxed foods was a thin mattress, tightly rolled, and a pillow and blanket.

There was also an old-fashioned tin wash tub with handles. He turned back

to face Victoria.

"When you have finished your duties for the day, you may unroll the

mattress and place it on the floor here in the kitchen. That shall be

your bed. The washbasin is for your bathing needs. You may fill it from

the kitchen sink. You will bathe each morning before beginning your

daily duties, and again at night before going to sleep. Now, go over

to the broom closet and look in there."

Philip walked across the kitchen to the door at which Victoria

pointed. He opened the door and found, besides a kitchen broom and an

ironing board, a maid's uniform hanging on a hanger. Above these, on

a shelf, was a wig box, and several packages of the sheer, black, seamed

stockings he had found in his basement apartment. Instead of several

garter belts, however, there was only a red waist-cincher, and it looked

too small to fit. He heard Victoria's voice behind him: "This is your

uniform. You will wear it every day. You will see to it that it is

kept in immaculate condition. Failure to do so will put the million

dollar settlement in serious jeopardy. Do you understand?"

He nodded dumbly. "Yes."

"By the way, from now on, you will address me as Madame. You shall

be known as Phyllis. Don't forget that."

Again he nodded. "Yes, Madame."

"Very good. Now, strip."

His fingers trembling slightly, he began to unbutton his shirt.

Suddenly, Victoria cut him off. "Stop! Aren't you forgetting something?"

His mind was racing. She had ordered him to strip and he was obeying

her order. What - ? Oh, of course. "Yes, Madame. I forgot to say, 'Yes,

Madame,' when you ordered me to strip."

"Correct. You may continue."

He bowed his head. "Yes, Madame." He resumed his task, slowly removing

his clothes. Victoria stood up and walked over to the kitchen sink. She

reached under it, opened the small door and pulled out a plastic garbage

bag. She then tossed it on the table, and told Philip - now Phyllis - to

put his clothes in the bag as he removed them. Soon, he was naked. He

turned and looked at her, awaiting further instructions.

"You may never, ever look me in the eyes that way again, Phyllis,"

she said in a cold, even tone. "When you are in my presence, your eyes

are always to be looking downwards. And you will speak only when spoken to.

Is that clear?"

"Yes, Madame." He lowered his eyes.

"Very good. Now, before you don your new uniform, I want to be sure

that all trace of filth has been removed from your body. I refer

specifically to the residue of your illicit coupling with that whore

earlier this afternoon. So, I wish you to bathe yourself thoroughly,

and remove all your leg, underarm and facial hair."

"Yes, Madame." Philip - Phyllis - retrieved the washtub from the

pantry and set it before the sink. He turned on the water, then, taking

a water pitcher, began to fill the tub as rapidly as he could. He felt

extremely vulnerable as his wife sat at the table watching him with

an expressionless face. Soon, he had enough water in the tub to step

into it, and, using a sponge he found under the sink, began to wet himself

so he could apply soap, which he also found under the sink. After a long

while he had finally succeeded in soaping himself. He stepped from the

tub onto a towel he had laid beside it, then emptied the soapy water from

the tub into the sink, and re-filled the tub with clear water to rinse

himself off. After this, he used a razor which she gave him to complete

the task of shaving.

He finished shaving and presented himself for "Madame's" inspection.

She nodded her approval, then ordered him to cross the room to get

his "uniform" down from the closet. Slowly, eyes aimed at the linoleum

tile covering the floor, he crossed to the broom closet and opened the

door.

"Take down the girdle first," said Victoria.

"Yes, Madame," he responded, and he pulled it down from the shelf.

Just as he imagined, it looked to be several sizes too small. It was

designed to cover the midriff completely from just above mid-hip at

the waist, to a few inches below the chest. A woman would wear a bra

with such a garment. Phyllis, of course, had no need of a bra. The

girdle was put on by stepping into it and tugging it up the legs and

over the hips. Phyllis strained and grunted as he struggled to pull

it into place, finally managing to do so after exerting enormous

effort. He was breathing hard, and shallowly - the garment put so much

pressure on his torso he couldn't take a deep breath. He pushed the

squeezed-up loose flesh of his chest over the top of the girdle, giving

himself the appearance of having tiny breasts.

Victoria spoke again. "You may not have noticed, Phyllis, while you

were putting on your foundation, that there is a little attachment in

the front of it, at the hem. Do you see it?"

Phyllis could hardly look down, but by straining, and also by feeling

with his hands, he located the attachment Victoria had mentioned.

"Yes, Madame," he replied.

"Good," she said. "This attachment is for your penis - you know, the

little devil that has caused you all this trouble. It will provide

support and protection for you." Here, she smirked a little. "Go on.

Put it on."

"Yes, Madame." Phyllis strained to look down. The apparatus was a

sleeve, a very narrow, stiff, vinyl cylinder about two inches long.

Attached to the sleeve by a short chain about an inch long was a

small bell, the clapper of which was taped to its inside. Phyllis

realized the only way he could fit this sleeve on was for his cock to be

absolutely soft. He also knew he would have to force the sleeve over

the head of his penis, and stretch his member so that it would be

sufficiently thinned-out enough for the sleeve to fit. It wasn't going to

be easy. But, a million bucks is a million bucks! He would make it fit!

After a struggle only slightly less vigorous than the one he'd engaged in

to put the girdle on, he finally succeeded in fitting the sleeve into place.

His cock felt like it was being mashed between two bricks. It now jutted

straight out from his pelvis. The bell hung in front of his balls, resting

against them.

With ice-cold eyes and a tight smile, Victoria said, "Now, Phyllis,

remove the tape from the bell's clapper."

"Yes, Madame," he replied. By feeling around with his fingers, he

managed to locate the end of the tape and to pull it off. Instantly,

the bell clanged, much louder than he had imagined it might. He

realized that with every step he took, this bell was going to

announce his presence. He also realized that it was going to bounce

continuously against his testicles, constantly irritating them.

"What a diabolical bitch!" he thought, but kept his mouth shut and

his eyes aimed at the floor.

"Now, Phyllis, you may put on your stockings and attach them to the

garters."

"Yes, Madame," he murmured. This task was going to be much easier

said than done. Because the girdle was so tight, he could barely bend

over to fit the stockings over his toes. But, again, with much sweat and

strain, he finally managed to complete the task, the bell clanging wildly

all the while. When he had finished, and the stockings were attached to

the girdle, seams perfectly straight, Victoria pointed to a pair of

black, patent-leather high heels in the closet. They had to be at least

three, if not four, inches high, and they had no ankle strap to hold

them on! Moreover, they were open-toed, and Phyllis's toes pushed

into the opening in such a way that they were severely pinched. These

things were going to be the worst agony he would ever experience!

"Now," said Victoria, "you may put on your dress."

"Yes, Madame," he said, and removed the dress from the closet. He

realized it was sleeveless and strapless, held up only by a zipper and

its own tightness around his middle. He also realized that it had no

skirt, but instead was constructed like a ballet tutu, with satin-covered

crinolines sticking straight out from his waist, leaving his ass and

his sheathed cock completely exposed.

"Very pretty," said Victoria. "Now, for the accessories." She reached

up and pulled down the wig box, setting it on the table. She opened the

box and pulled out a platinum blonde wig, which she handed over to him.

"You will wear this wig at all times, Phyllis, and you will keep it

immaculate and always perfectly arranged. While you are sleeping, you

will keep it on the wig form in the box."

She watched as he fitted it, somewhat clumsily, on his head. Next, she

removed an apron which was really little more than a lacy decoration to

fit around his waist, since an apron would hardly fit over the tutu-skirt.

She next pulled out a black satin ribbon with a lace-frilled white bow

attached. "This will be secured around your neck and you will wear it

at all times while you are on duty." She handed it to him and watched

as he struggled to fit it around his neck. It was obviously too small,

and he realized it would pinch constantly, making talking an uncomfortable

proposition. It attached by a hook-and-eye connection, which he finally

succeeded in closing by doing it in front, then sliding it around his

neck until the connector was in the rear and the bow was slightly

off-center, under the left side of his jaw. Finally, Victoria produced

two wristlets, each about three inches wide and covered with the same

frilly-lacy material that was used for the bow attached to his neck.

He noticed the wristlets were joined together by a thin, gold chain

about eighteen inches long. Silently, she handed the wristlets to

Phyllis, making no comment about the chain.

She pointed to the floor about two feet in front of where she sat.

"Stand here and let me get a good look at you," she said. Phyllis

tip-toed to the spot she indicated. His face was red with embarrassment

and the effects of his struggle to dress. She looked him directly in

the face. "I am going to give you some cosmetics, and I will expect you

to make yourself up each morning. This means painting your toenails as

well as your fingernails. You will fix your face, and, as I mentioned,

groom your wig. And you'd better be neat and feminine-looking when I

inspect you in the morning. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Do you have any questions about your attire or your appearance?"

"No, Madame."

"Very well. You will be required to have my breakfast prepared by

seven o'clock in the morning. Since it will take you at least an hour

and a half to prepare yourself, and another hour to prepare my meal,

and extra time to wake me, I would suggest you set your alarm for

four o'clock. At least until you become sufficiently skilled in these

duties. At night, you will attend me until I have turned off the lamp

beside my bed. This means you will often find yourself not going to

bed until midnight or later. You had better learn to content yourself

with three to four hours sleep a night."

"Yes, Madame."

"Of course, for an alleycat slut like you, that shouldn't be a

problem," she said with a smirk. She stood up and walked around him,

brushing him here, patting him there, making tiny adjustments to his

uniform. "When you enter into my presence, or whenever you are dismissed,

you will curtsy. Since the chain attached to your wristlets isn't long

enough for you to lift the sides of your skirt, you will curtsy

by grasping the front edge of your skirt between your index fingers and

thumbs. The chain between your wrists will be kept perfectly taut. Do

you understand?"

Having never curtsied before, Phyllis was at a total loss as to

how to respond. He shook his head, his face flushing, and said,

in a near whisper, "I'm sorry, Madame. I don't understand."

"Well, we'll practice. Then you'll know what I'm talking about.

Incidentally, you will never refer to yourself in the first person.

You will refer to yourself only by name. 'Phyllis' this, 'Phyllis'

that. Do you understand?"

Red-faced now with shame and frustration, Phyllis nodded, "Yes,

Madame."

"Try that sentence again, then."

"Yes, Madame." Then, haltingly, he said, "Phyllis is sorry, Madame.

Phyllis does not understand."

"Very well," said Victoria. "Don't ever forget. Forgetting could

cost you that million dollars."

"Yes, Madame."

For the next three-quarters of an hour, she made Phyllis practice

his curtsy. When they had finished, Phyllis was exhausted. His mind

kept repeating, "Is this shit really worth a million bucks? Fuck!"

Finally, Victoria stood up. "I'm going to attend to some business

now, Phyllis. You may rest for fifteen minutes. I will expect you to

bring me a hot, fresh cup of coffee when I call you."

He looked at the floor. "Yes, Madame," he murmured, and executed a

flawless curtsy, index fingers joined to thumbs at the front edge of

his skirt, chain perfectly straight between his wrists. With no further

comment, Victoria turned and left the room. Phyllis sagged with relief.

* * * * *

Later, after Phyllis had served Victoria her coffee, and been treated

to stinging criticism regarding its flavor and a promise of severe

punishment if the quality of his cooking didn't improve instantly,

Victoria called for her limousine as she had to return to her office for

an appointment. "A very critical meeting," she told Phyllis.

Phyllis was instructed to practice putting on makeup and styling his

wig, and to continue learning how to walk in his high-heeled shoes and

executing flawless curtsies. Once Victoria had left the house, however,

Phyllis found a chair in the kitchen, and sat relaxing, pouring himself

a cup of coffee, which, he had to admit, was pretty awful.

But, after a few minutes rest, he grew fidgety and, probably because

of the novelty of the extreme changes which had just taken place in his

life, he actually began fiddling with his hair. After trying different

ways of putting the wig up, he grew bored with that activity and decided

to practice walking in the spike-heeled, open-toed mules. He knew Victoria

would show no mercy in this area, so he would have to get used to wearing

them for long periods of time. He would have no one to complain to, in

any event.

For the next hour or so, he practiced walking back and forth in the

kitchen, curtsying as effeminately as he could before turning to retrace

his path. He discovered that, in order to look effeminate, he had to take

short, mincing steps, walking almost on tiptoe. To make any progress, he

had to step as quickly as possible, causing his feet and calves to begin

crying out in discomfort and exhaustion. Moreover, walking in this difficult

and unfamiliar way had another unforeseen consequence. The bell which had

been attached to the sleeve around his penis bounced constantly against

his balls and the underside of the head of his penis and rang and rang

until he thought he would go crazy from the irritating noise and the

even more irritating slapping of the brass object against his sensitive

organs. He reassured himself through all this by saying over and over,

almost as if he were chanting a mantra, "One million bucks...one million

bucks...only three months...only three months..."

Several hours later, he heard a buzzer sound in the kitchen. He wondered

what that was. Then, he heard the front door open and close. Almost

immediately, he heard Victoria call, "Phyllis! Where in hell are you?"

As quickly as he could, Phyllis scurried out to the front hall where

Victoria stood, impatiently tapping her foot on the hardwood floor.

"Well?" she demanded. "Where have you been? Taking a nap? You worthless

bitch. Come over here."

Phyllis minced over to stand in front of Victoria and executed a

well-practiced curtsy, all the while keeping his eyes locked on the

toes of Victoria's shoes.

Victoria glowered at her servant-husband. "Well? What's your excuse

for not being here to attend me?"

Phyllis, flustered from having to rush in from the kitchen using the

short, mincing steps he'd learned, was slightly out of breath and red

in the face. "Phyllis is sorry that Madame is inconvenienced," he said,

half-whispering his words. "Phyllis forgot his duties." Phyllis curtsied

again.

"His duties? His duties? Hah!" she sneered. "I don't see any him's

around here. All I see is a sissy slut. The appropriate response is:

'Phyllis forgot Phyllis's duties.' Do you understand, stupid?"

Phyllis's face grew even redder. "Yes, Madame," he mumbled. "One

million bucks," his mind chanted. "Only three months." He continued to

stare nervously at Victoria's toes.

"Go and make me some coffee, and it had better be good this time,

slut," she warned.

"Yes, Madame," Phyllis curtsied and hurried to carry out Victoria's

demand.

He poured the fresh coffee into a porcelain pot, and placed it and

a matching cup and saucer, plus a silver creamer and sugar bowl with

spoon on a tray and carried it into the living room. Carefully balancing

the tray as he tried to balance on the heels and bend his knees to set

the cup and saucer on the coffee table in front of the couch where

Victoria now sat silently, smirking at the spectacle before her, Phyllis

gently poured the coffee into the cup. He then poured cream and

spooned in some sugar before handing the cup and saucer to Victoria.

When he had finished that, he straightened up and stepped back from

the table.

Victoria glared up at him. "Aren't we forgetting something?" she

snarled. Phyllis seemed confused. Then, remembering her instructions,

he curtsied, "Phyllis forgot, Madame. Phyllis is sorry."

"Phyllis certainly is sorry," Victoria caustically replied. "Just

remember this, sissy-slut: it's better to curtsy than not to. Do you

understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, Madame," mumbled Phyllis, shamefaced.

"Now, go and prepare my dinner. By the way, your meal will always

be taken at the noon hour, when I'm not likely to be here. I don't

want you stuffing your face when I'm around, because I want you

concentrating on your service to me. Understand?"

"Yes, Madame." Curtsy.

"And you will eat the meals I specify. And only those meals. You

will not snack in between, either."

"Yes, Madame." Curtsy again.

Victoria glared angrily at the specimen before her. "Well, don't

just stand there with your cock dangling in the breeze, idiot,"

she said. "Get in the kitchen and make my dinner."

"Yes, Madame," said Phyllis. He curtsied and turned to leave.

"Wait a minute, slut," shouted Victoria. Phyllis came to an immediate

halt. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Phyllis wracked his brain. He'd remembered to curtsy. He'd addressed

her as Madame. What else was there?

"The tray, you worthless bitch. Do I have to sit here looking at

your equipment the rest of the day?"

"Shit," Phyllis thought to himself. "A million bucks...three months..."

He turned and curtsied. Then, head bowed, he said, "Phyllis is sorry,

Madame. Phyllis forgot Phyllis's tray." He crossed the room, picked up

the tray, curtsied again, then hurried into the kitchen before Victoria

dreamed up some other torment for him.

Once in the kitchen, he turned his attention to Victoria's dinner.

He knew she ate lightly, and didn't care for red meat at all. In the

refrigerator, he found some chicken breasts, and he decided to cut

one into strips, and bake it for a chicken salad. With a nice glass of

wine, this should be a dinner she would enjoy. And it wasn't too hard to

make. An hour later, he was finally finished with his masterpiece. He

had three different kinds of salad greens, some carrots, tomatoes and

broccoli cut up bite size, and several tender, nicely baked strips of

chicken breast. He went into the dining room, and carefully set a place

for Victoria. Then, he retrieved the salad from the kitchen, setting it

before her place. Finally, he opened a bottle of chilled white wine

which he set on the table near where he had set the salad bowl. He also

put a small loaf of French bread and some salad dressing on the table.

Then, as quietly and discreetly as he could, notwithstanding the

jangling of the bell as it bounced against his balls, Phyllis entered

the living room and curtsied before Victoria. "If Madame pleases," he

said, "Madame's dinner is served."

She glared up at him, but said nothing as she stood up and walked before

him into the dining room. Cautiously, he pulled her chair out and seated

her. Then, he stepped around her and picked up the wine bottle, which he

held before her so she could inspect the label. He then poured her a glass

of the wine, set it on the table, and, following a curtsy, stepped back

to await any further instructions or orders. Victoria ate silently for a

few minutes. She seemed satisfied with the dinner Phyllis had prepared, or

at least she found nothing particularly obvious to criticize. Finally, she

spoke to the silent husband-servant. "It has occurred to me, Phyllis," she

said, "that you are too clumsy and foolish to train yourself for your new

position. And so this afternoon, after I left you alone here, I returned to

my office to interview a person whom I feel would be an excellent trainer

for you. This person has accepted my offer and will be arriving sometime

after dinner."

"Yes, Madame," he murmured, and, though her back was to him, curtsied

anyway. Better to curtsy than not, as "Madame" had said.

Again silent, Victoria completed her meal, and signaled for Phyllis to

remove the used dishes. Phyllis stepped to the table, curtsied to Victoria,

and proceeded to clear away the dishes. On his first trip into the kitchen,

he turned the coffeemaker on. When he took the last load of dirty dishes into

the kitchen, the coffee was done, and he poured it into the porcelain coffee

pot, and filled the serving tray as he had done earlier in the afternoon.

He then brought the coffee out to Victoria, who watched him carefully as he

worked. He curtsied through every step of setting the tray down, pouring the

coffee, and removing the tray from the table. He was beginning to get an

ache in his lower back from all the bowing and scraping. "One million

bucks...only three months..."

Finally, the meal was complete, and Victoria excused him to go into the

kitchen and clean the dinner dishes. He was not allowed to use the dishwasher.

She told him where to find rubber gloves to protect his painted fingernails.

Then, glaring after his retreating form, she rose and went into the living

room.

A short time later, a knock sounded on the front door. Phyllis was busily

cleaning up in the kitchen, and didn't hear it. So Victoria had to get up,

cross to the kitchen door, and announce that her visitor had arrived. Phyllis,

flustered by not having been aware of this, quickly removed his rubber gloves,

curtsied to Victoria, and minced rapidly to the front door, his bell clanging

loudly and insistently. When he opened the door, he nearly fainted from the

shock. Standing in the entrance, a small cosmetics case firmly gripped in

her right hand, stood Emily Owens. His Miley!

Flabbergasted, and momentarily at a loss, he simply stood staring at her,

his mouth hanging wide open, his eyes registering his shock. For her part,

Emily stood glaring at him, her lips drawn tightly together in an angry

expression. Victoria, seated in a wingback chair in the middle of the

living room, was able to see the entire comedy being played out at the door.

Finally, she spoke, "Well, slut, don't just stand there staring like an

ignorant fool. Show my guest in. And don't forget your manners!"

Although deeply embarrassed, Phyllis still managed to perform a curtsy,

and to take the case from Emily's hand as he showed her into the room.

Emily, for her part, walked past him, nose in the air, and went to stand

before Victoria in the living room. Victoria let her stand there.

"So," she said. "You've decided."

Phyllis furrowed his brow and stared at the floor, not wanting to miss

any of the conversation, but knowing also he had better be ready to respond

to anything Victoria might require.

Emily looked at Victoria with no particular expression on her face.

"I have," she replied.

"Very well," said Victoria. "You accept all the conditions we discussed."

"I do."

"Are there any last questions?"

"No, I think I understand perfectly well what is required."

"Fine, fine," Victoria rubbed her hands together. "You may strip while

I explain what is going on to jingle-dick Phyllis here." Phyllis could

hardly believe his ears. He stood gaping as Emily, calm and assured,

began to remove her clothes. Victoria signaled him to step forward. He

was now positioned in front of Emily facing Victoria, making him unable

to continue watching Emily undress.

Victoria glared at Phyllis. "Forgetting your manners already?" she

sneered. Phyllis immediately curtsied.

Victoria continued to stare at Phyllis. "You're probably wondering what's

going on here," she said. "As you may recall, this afternoon I told you

that you were too foolish and clumsy to teach yourself to be my servant.

That you were going to need a trainer. Do you remember that?"

"Yes, Madame." Curtsy.

Victoria regarded him silently for several moments, long enough for him

to make the connection. Emily? Emily was going to be his trainer? Whatever

a trainer was? He was thoroughly confused, and a little apprehensive as

well.

Victoria looked over at Emily. "Come over here, Ms. Owens," she said in

a formal tone. "Stand where you can see the sissy-slut there." Emily

stepped over beside Victoria's seat. She was completely naked. Phyllis

noticed she had even shaved off all her pubic hair.

Victoria turned her attention back to Phyllis. "Ms. Owens here is going

to be your trainer, slut. You will follow her instructions and you will

be perfect. Every mistake you make will be severely punished. But not by

me. No. Ms. Owens will punish you. With my full approval. She has

complete authority over your training. However she chooses to accomplish

the task of teaching you to be my sissy servant is up to her. You will

consider her my voice. Do you understand?"

Phyllis had no idea what was going on. But he responded, "Yes, Madame."

And curtsied.

"You will address Ms. Owens as Mistress, just as you now address me

as Madame. Do you understand this?"

"Yes Madame." Curtsy.

Victoria turned to Emily. "Now, Ms. Owens, as per our agreement,

you will be in charge of this sissy's training. You will be accountable

for any success, and for any failure as well. I will not punish the slut

for his mistakes; you will. But, failure on your part to keep his mistakes

as non-existent as possible may result in your dismissal and the termination

of our contract. Agreed?"

Emily replied, "Agreed, Madame."

Victoria went on, "When I am home, you will remain out of sight in

your apartment." Phyllis frowned in bewilderment. "If I feel the need

for you to correct this slut's failures of performance, I will summon you

to do so. Are we agreed?"

"Agreed, Madame."

"When I am away from the house, of course, you are free to come up

and monitor the slut's performance, as you wish."

"Yes, Madame."

"Very well," said Victoria, and she reached down beside her chair to

pick something up. Phyllis trembled when he realized she was holding

a black-leather riding crop in her hand. She handed it to Emily, who took

it, and using the small sling on the end of the handle, placed it on her

wrist. "This shall be your badge of office. You may use it as you see fit."

"Yes, Madame."

"Very well," Victoria said, and a small smile played on her lips.

She stood up. "I have an appointment for this evening, so I shall leave

you here to brief the bitch about your requirements. You may retire to

your apartment whenever you wish. The slut is not permitted to visit

you there." She glared at Phyllis. "Remember, sissy, you do not retire

until the lamp beside my bed has been turned off. If Mistress Owens

decides to go to bed, that is no matter to you. You will await my return

and you will attend me until you are dismissed. Understood?"

Phyllis curtsied. "Yes, Madame."

Victoria glared at him for a few moments longer. Then she turned to

Emily and said, "The slut's all yours, Ms. Owens." And without further

word, she walked over to the closet by the door, put on a warm jacket,

and left the house.

* * * * *

Emily regarded Phyllis for a long time before she spoke. As she spoke,

she walked around him, as though inspecting him for any imperfections in

his attire, or his posture, or his demeanor. "So, to make yourself a

millionaire, you've agreed to become her servant, eh?"

Phyllis swallowed nervously. "Yes, Mistress," he mumbled.

She continued to walk slowly around him, like a shark circling a

shipwreck. "But you're such an ignorant piece of shit, she had to bring

in outside help."

Phyllis realized this was a statement, not a question. But, he responded,

anyway, "Yes, Mistress."

Suddenly, Emily stopped. "Keep those beady eyes of yours on the floor,

shithead," she said in a threatening tone.

Phyllis was beginning to perspire. He knew things had ended up badly

with Emily. He didn't realize just how angry he'd made her. "Yes, Mistress,"

he whispered.

Emily began circling again. "So, for the next three months, your ass is

mine. Oh, how delicious." She stopped directly in front of Phyllis, and

leaned her face toward his until they were separated by only an inch or two.

"Let me tell you what the deal between your former wife and me is," she

said. Her breath was warm against his face. "Every time you fuck up, I get

to use this on your ass." She waved the riding crop in his face. "And I get

to decide what constitutes a fuckup. After the way you dumped all over me,

you can imagine just how eager I am to use this on you. Can't you?"

Phyllis gulped. He could imagine. He nodded fearfully. "Yes, Mistress,"

he said.

Emily began pacing again. "So, there aren't going to be any mistakes,

are there?" She stuck her nose against his. "Are there?"

"No, Mistress. No mistakes."

"No foulups. No fuckups."

"No, Mistress." He was really sweating now.

"There better not be." She stopped in front of him again and raised

the crop to where his eyes could see it. "Turn around, slut," she said.

Phyllis turned around.

"Bend over and grab your ankles."

He did as she instructed.

"I'm going to give you a small taste of what's in store for you if

you screw up with Madame Victoria."

His lips began to quiver. The room became deathly quiet. Almost before

he heard the swish of the crop, he felt it explode against the cheek of

his bare ass. WHAP!!! He screamed and nearly fell to the floor. Again.

Swish. WHAP!!! Tears were pouring from his eyes. But Emily was far from

done. Eight more slaps of the crop, and his ass was blood-red. He was

sobbing and shaking all over.

After a minute or two, she commanded, "Straighten up, sissy. And quit

bawling." Phyllis straightened up, though his buttocks burned as if

Emily had poured gasoline on them and lit a match. He managed to stop

sobbing, and stood before her, shaking, silent tears running down his

cheeks.

She glared angrily at him. "Just remember, asshole. That was a small

taste. Try to imagine what you'll get if I decide you've really fucked

up."

He wondered if maybe he should back out of his agreement now. He

certainly hadn't considered this horrible pain as part of the bargain.

Almost as if she were reading his thoughts, Emily said in a low voice,

"One other thing. Don't even consider trying to back out of your agreement

with Madame Victoria. If you do, then my contract with her will be void,

and I won't get what she agreed to award me. I will kill you before I

will let that happen. Too bad, Phyllis. Phyllis, is it? Appropriate for

a sissy-slut like you. Understand this: You're in this thing for the

duration. So you'd better set your mind to doing it right. Like I said,

you just got a taste. I don't think you'll want to be present at the

banquet." She chuckled at her own angry humor.

She began circling Phyllis again, talking as she paced. "Madame is

going to give me your schedule, your work assignments, and your uniform

requirements. I am going to see to it that everything she requires is

done, and done perfectly. But more than that, you are my servant, too.

You will do my bidding as well as Madame's. Oh, yes, you're going to

be a busy little slut, you are. Very busy. This is going to be three

months you will never. Ever. Forget." Her last three words were

punctuated by slapping the crop hard against the palm of her hand.

Phyllis jumped at the sound of each slap.

* * * * *

Phyllis awoke from the first night of his new life stiff, sore and

still sleepy. Victoria had returned later that evening and had required

him to prepare her bath and to scrub her, dry her and dress her for bed.

By the time he had finished, and she had turned out the lamp on the

table beside her bed, he was already exhausted. But before he could

lie down himself, he had to take his own bath, a lengthy operation since

it required him to fill the metal washtub twice from a half-gallon water

pitcher, once to soap and once to rinse. Finally, however, he had pulled

the thin mattress from the supply closet, and had stretched out on it,

covering himself with the cheap, scratchy wool blanket. He was asleep

before his head hit the worn-out, uncomfortable pillow.

Soon, too soon, the cheap, tinny alarm rang, awakening him to a new

day. He quickly turned it off, not wanting to take a chance that

Victoria might hear it and be annoyed by being awakened at four o'clock

in the morning. He tiptoed through the dark house to the downstairs

powder room, where he relieved himself in the toilet. Then, he returned

to the kitchen, where he once again filled the washtub, this time for his

morning bath. Quickly, he soaped and rinsed himself, toweling off with

a thin cotton towel which had been provided for him. Next, he carefully

shaved, including his legs, underarms and pubic area, as well as his face,

as Victoria had ordered while he was getting her into bed the night

before. He managed to knick himself several times, and his legs felt

raw from the razor's scraping; but, when he put his stockings on, he

was amazed at how erotic the feeling of the smooth nylon against his

his bare legs was becoming. He worried that he might obtain an erection,

which would make fitting his penis into the narrow sleeve a hellish

proposition.

This morning's effort to dress was considerably easier than his

maiden effort had been, largely because he knew what he was doing, and

had a system of sorts for accomplishing it. Getting the girdle on was

still a struggle, since it really was one or two sizes too small, and

the elastic wanted to compress itself to severely snug him up. The

tutu-dress was difficult to manage, since it zipped in the back, and

he was unused to manipulating things with his hands when they were

reversed and hidden from view. But, despite all the obstacles, he

finally was fitted into his "uniform." He checked his stockings to be

sure the seams were absolutely straight. He put on his collar with the

large, lacy bow, and then proceeded to arrange his wig and make up

his face. Victoria had given him a makeup mirror that he could

use to do this. The mirror was small, making it difficult for Phyllis

to see himself entirely. But, after several tries with the lipstick

tube, he felt his lips looked sufficiently feminine to pass muster.

He next attacked the problem of making up his eyes. He obviously had

no familiarity whatever with mascara, eyeliner, or anything of the

sort. So, he more or less blindly experimented, hoping the result

wouldn't be too overdone. He didn't want to look like a parody of a

female, because he knew Victoria would be displeased, which would

mean Emily would be displeased, and he could still feel the bite of

the riding crop on his ass.

Finally, Phyllis was satisfied with his face, and he turned his

attention to placing his penis in the diabolical sleeve Victoria had

attached to the dress. He had to bunch the material up so he could

pass his penis through the least amount of it as possible. Then, he

had to force the head of his penis through the narrow opening. This

required much struggle and strain, and by the time he had managed

to slide his cockhead through the opening, it ached and burned from

his exertions. He next had to grasp the crown and stretch his prick

to its fullest extent, to make it as long and as thin as possible,

while, with his other hand, he attempted to smooth the sleeve out

to its fullest length. When he was done, once again he felt like

his penis was being mashed between two bricks. The crown glowed an

angry red and he hurt like hell.

At last he was able to turn his attention to preparing Victoria's

breakfast. She had ordered him to make her two eggs with toast, a

simple enough request. She also wanted juice and coffee. And it was

to be delivered to her bedroom. It was now five o'clock. It had taken

Phyllis only an hour to dress himself. "Thank goodness, he thought.

"I can sleep an extra hour." He picked up the alarm clock and reset

the alarm for five a.m. He didn't want to start Victoria's breakfast

too early. So, for the next hour he simply sat at the kitchen table,

sipping a glass of water and contemplating the trap he had let himself

fall into.

He had assumed that at any time he would be allowed to quit and

simply forfeit the money. But Emily's presence now complicated the

picture. Evidently, Victoria had set up a contract with her to be

Phyllis's trainer. If Phyllis quit, then Emily's contract would be

void as well. And Emily had made serious threats against him about

that very thing. He thought, "She must be getting as much as me

for this deal. Man, did I ever set myself up for a screwing. That

fucking bitch, Victoria. She knew all along that once I agreed to

this game, I was going to have to play it out to the end. Shit!"

Finally, the time came for Phyllis to prepare Victoria's breakfast.

He fried the eggs, breaking the yellows several times, and having to

start over, since Victoria had been very specific about wanting her

eggs over easy with the yellows intact. But, Phyllis did eventually

manage to produce two attractive-looking eggs. He made the toast

and placed everything on a plate which he then covered under glass.

He put this in the oven to keep warm while he waited for the

appropriate time to deliver Victoria's meal to her. At precisely

6:55, he put on his high-heels and his wristlets with the chain

attached, picked up the tray and headed for the stairs. As he passed

the front door, he set the tray down, opened the door, and retrieved

the morning newspaper. Then, he carried the tray up the stairs, wobbling

on the thin heels, terrified that he might trip and fall. The bell

attached to his penis sleeve jingled merrily away, and Phyllis was

certain the noise would wake Victoria up. If that happened, he knew

his ass would be in for one hell of a hiding. But, try as he might,

he couldn't stop the bell from bouncing wildly against his balls,

jangling loudly at each bounce. But what seemed loud to him must not

have been too loud, since the house remained quiet as he finally got

to the top of the stairs. He walked the few steps to Victoria's bedroom

door, where he stood quietly, waiting for the sound of her alarm.

As soon as it went off, he quickly opened the door and entered the

room, as Victoria had instructed him the night before. He crossed to

a small circular table set against a wall, and placed the tray on it.

Then, he stepped over to the table beside the bed and turned off the

alarm. He took a step back, and stood at attention, head bowed, eyes

on the floor, to await his first instructions of the day.

Drowsily, Victoria moaned, then began to sit up, stretching her arms

above her head and yawning loudly. Her eyes opened, and she saw her

husband-servant standing beside the bed. She looked him over critically;

then, her voice a bit raspy from just waking, she said, "You look

like shit, slut. Your trainer is going to hear from me about this.

Do you think I want to wake up and have to look at a worthless

slut who can't comb his own hair, and who makes himself up to look

like a downtown streetwalker?" She groaned again, while Phyllis stood

redfaced looking down at the floor.

She suddenly barked at him, "Turn around, bitch. Let me see what

you look like." He curtsied, and did as she instructed. He was

startled by the volume of her voice, "You worthless slut! Your stockings

are all crooked, and your zipper is off-center. Don't you know how to

dress yourself?" She sat up and placed her legs over the edge of the

bed, then stood up. "Turn around, bitch," she ordered. "If I weren't in

such a hurry, I'd make you go downstairs and dress all over again.

You are in serious trouble, believe me." She groaned again, then

muttered, "All right. Follow me. You have work to do."

Phyllis curtsied and followed Victoria into the bathroom. Victoria

turned to him and said, "Draw my bath, then help me off with my

nightgown." Phyllis curtsied, and knelt on the floor to place the

stopper in the tub drain and turn on the water. Then, he stood up,

and, as gently as he could, he lifted Victoria's nightgown over her

head, hanging it on a hook behind the door. Although he tried to avert

his eyes, he couldn't help seeing her naked, flawless body, her large,

firm breasts, her flat stomach, her strong supple thighs which

disappeared into her pubic bush. He could feel an erection beginning

to form, and he fought with all the strength of his mind to keep it

from happening. He could feel the sleeve tightening even more around

his poor, wounded dick. The bell vibrated and rang. Sweat drops had

formed on his upper lip.

Victoria glared at him and said, "You're looking at me, aren't you,

slut? You're getting turned on."

Phyllis's mouth felt drier than a desert. He mumbled and muttered

incoherently. Victoria's voice was sharp: "You were staring at me.

You useless bitch. Your trainer is really going to get an earful from

me. She hasn't done much of a job with you at all." Phyllis looked

like he was going to break down and cry.

Victoria stepped over to the toilet. She looked over at Phyllis.

"Come over here, slut. Kneel down beside me."

Phyllis quickly knelt on the floor beside the toilet, facing the

wall behind Victoria. Victoria sat down and proceeded to release a

long stream of pee into the bowl. When she had finished, she turned

to Phyllis and said, "You will wipe me without touching me. And you

had better be gentle and thorough. Do you understand me?"

Phyllis nervously replied in a whisper, "Yes, Madame." He took

several sheets of toilet paper in his hand and carefully reached

between Victoria's legs, nervous and fearful that he might accidentally

touch her legs with his arm. Finally, he could feel the paper against

her pussy, and he wiped, as gently as he could. Then, hoping she

was truly dry, he stopped wiping and dropped the paper into the bowl.

Very cautiously, he removed his hand from between her legs. He was

sweating and trembling.

Victoria looked at him with an annoyed expression. "You better become

expert at that duty, bitch," she said, then stood up and climbed into

the tub. Phyllis flushed the toilet, then immediately moved over beside

the tub, kneeling so he could reach her with the scrub brush, which he

soaped up before proceeding to scrub her clean. Afterwards, he dried

her with her large, fluffy towl, then followed her back into the

bedroom. She went over to the table where Phyllis had laid the breakfast

tray, and he pulled out the single chair for her to sit down. There used

to be two chairs, but evidently she had removed the one he had sat in

as her husband. He lifted the glass cover from her plate and poured her

a cup of coffee from the porcelain pot. He then stepped back, curtsied,

and waited as she ate her breakfast and read the morning's newspaper.

Her only comment during the meal was that the toast was too crispy,

and his trainer was going to get a full report of it. By now, Phyllis

figured that once Emily was finished with him, he wouldn't be sitting

down for a long time.

Finally, Victoria was done with her breakfast. She instructed him

to dress her, and he did so, curtsying at each article of clothing

he put on her, until his lower back and his calves began to ache the

way they had the day before. When she was satisfied he had performed

this task correctly - pulling her panties on without touching her skin,

rolling her pantyhose smoothly up her legs, securing her bra in place (his

hands trembled so much he could hardly hook it up), dropping her

dress over her head and zipping it up and smoothing it out, kneeling

before her to put her shoes on her feet - she instructed him to watch

carefully as she made up her face and arranged her hair. "You will

practice this task until you are perfect at it, because, beginning

tomorrow, you will perform it on me. And it had better be flawless."

He curtsied for the umpteenth time and murmured, "Yes, Madame."

Finally, she was ready to leave for the office. Phyllis gathered

the breakfast dishes onto the tray and followed Victoria into the

hall and down the stairs. She waited by the door while he set the

tray down on a table in the hallway, then went to the closet to

get her overcoat. When he had finished buttoning her coat, she opened

the door and left without a word or a backward glance.

Phyllis's body slumped as much as it could in the stiff, constricting

outfit he was made to wear. But, then, realizing he had to wake Emily

up and attend to her needs, he scurried back up the stairs to Victoria's

room to make the bed, clean the bathroom, and put away her nightgown.

Finally, satisfied that her room was presentable, he went down to the

kitchen, where he washed Victoria's breakfast dishes.

Now, he had to repeat the whole process for Emily. Since she herself

was an underling in Victoria's household, she didn't warrant the fancy

dishes and silver; but, as she was now Phyllis's superior, she did

get the same first-class treatment Victoria had. She had left instructions

that Phyllis was to wake her up as soon as Victoria had left the house.

Phyllis went to the door leading to the basement apartment and rang the

bell. Several seconds passed, and he heard a buzz, indicating she had

unlocked the door, and he could go downstairs to attend her.

Hurriedly, he went down the steps to the tiny apartment. Emily was

just getting out of bed, nude, of course, since her contract with

Victoria specified she would remain naked the entire three months.

Like Victoria, she glared at Phyllis as he stood before her, eyes

turned to the floor. She said, "Where'd you learn to put makeup on,

idiot? I didn't realize the whores had a beauty school." She glowered

angrily. "You look like a streetwalker. Did Madame say anything about

it?"

Phyllis curtsied. "Yes, Mistress," he said, nervously, "Madame said

the same thing about Phyllis's makeup."

"Shit," she muttered. "That means I'm going to get an earful of her

complaints. Well, you are in deep shit already, I see." Then, more to

herself than to Phyllis, she said, "How long am I going to have to put

up with this asshole's foulups?" She sighed, and pulled herself out of bed.

Even though her hair was tousled and her eyes were puffy from lack of

sleep, Emily was an extremely beautiful woman. She had breasts that Phyllis

yearned to touch, to kiss, to suck. Her body was stunning, and, just

as had happened with Victoria, he began to grow erect reacting to

Emily's sensuous beauty. He could feel the sleeve beginning to strangle

his penis, cutting off circulation. He moaned inwardly, trying to will

his erection away.

Emily looked at him, mildly puzzled by the strained expression on

his face. But, she decided to ignore it and went into the tiny bathroom

to begin getting ready for the day. The bathroom was too small for

Phyllis to attend to Emily's toilet, or her shower; but, he was required

to towel her dry afterwards, and then to make and serve her breakfast.

Finally, she was done eating and reading Victoria's morning newspaper.

While she had enjoyed a second cup of coffee, Phyllis had busied himself

straightening up the apartment and making Emily's bed.

Now Emily stood up and indicated Phyllis was to follow her upstairs.

They had just entered the kitchen when the phone rang. Emily took the

call. It was Victoria, Phyllis knew, because Emily simply stood there

with the phone to her ear, saying, "Yes, Madame," or "No, Madame," or

"I'll see that it's done, Madame." When Victoria had hung up, Emily

replaced the phone in its cradle, and turned to Phyllis. "Between

now and the time Madame comes home, you are going to become an artist

with makeup. Your face will be perfectly done when she gets here. So,

we are going to spend the day learning how to put you together."

Phyllis curtsied. "Yes, Mistress."

Emily fixed him with her gaze. "Come over here, idiot. Kneel down."

Phyllis minced over to where Emily stood, then, careful not to run

his stockings, he knelt before her. His face was even with the vee

between her legs.

"What do you see, slut?" Emily asked.

Phyllis said, somewhat nervously, "Phyllis sees Mistress's pussy,

Mistress."

"Wrong!" she snapped. "What you see is Goddess. She is the object

of your worship. Do you understand?"

Phyllis wasn't sure, but he answered, "Yes, Mistress."

"For the next three months, you will devote yourself to pleasing

and worshiping Goddess," she said. "Everything you do, you will

do for Goddess. Not for me. I'm only me. I'm only your Mistress."

She pointed her finger to her pussy. "But this, this is Goddess.

I am not Goddess. I am Mistress. This is Goddess. It is she you

will worship. It is she you must please. Now. Do you understand?"

Phyllis knew some line was being crossed. This wasn't in the

contract; but, of course, nothing he'd done in the past twenty-four

hours was in the contract, formally. He answered, "Yes, Mistress."

Emily went on. "When Goddess is pleased with you, she will permit

you to worship her. Your every action will be performed with one

objective in mind: pleasing Goddess so that you may be permitted

to worship her. Pleasing Madame is secondary. Of course, failure to

please Madame automatically means you will have failed to please

Goddess. So you will please Madame. Not for her sake, but so you

may worship Goddess in her temple. Do you understand that?"

His face was inches away from her vagina. He was beginning to

smell a musky aroma. He thought, "She's getting turned on by this

speech." He spoke to the shaven pubis in front of him, "Yes,

Mistress."

"When Goddess is unhappy with you, I, your Mistress, am obliged

by her to take measures to correct you so that you may be restored to

her favor and be able to worship her in her temple once again. Goddess

does not punish. Your Mistress does that. But Goddess does reward.

And her reward is to let you worship her in her temple. Do you

understand this?"

"Yes, Mistress." He wanted to taste the musk, to place his lips to

her labia, to drink the nectar from within. He felt faint.

"Now, even though Goddess is displeased with you because you have

shamed yourself with your ridiculous whore makeup, and she wishes you

to be punished for that transgression, she also wishes you to desire

to worship her in her temple, and to do so properly. But, before you may

worship her, you must pledge your love and your loyalty to her for all

time. Will you do so?"

Phyllis's head seemed light enough to float away like a helium-filled

balloon. He whispered, "Yes, Mistress."

"Then repeat after me: The center of my life is Goddess."

Phyllis said these words.

"Everything I do or say is for one purpose only: to please Goddess."

Phyllis repeated.

"I will devote my life to worshiping Goddess in her temple."

"Yes, yes," Phyllis thought. "Let's get on with it." He repeated the

statement aloud.

Emily stood before him, silent for a moment. Then she spoke, "Very

well. Goddess is pleased. You may enter her temple to worship."

Phyllis opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out. He leaned forward,

eager to taste the juices he could see dripping down Emily's inner thigh.

Suddenly, she grabbed his hair.

"What are you doing, you useless fool? I didn't say you could touch

Goddess. I said you could worship her in her temple." Immediately, she

turned around, bending over so her ass was directly in front of Phyllis's

face. She reached behind her, spreading her asscheeks and revealing

the little brown ring of her anus. "Well, slut? What are you waiting

for? Goddess wishes you to worship her in her temple. You don't want to

displease Goddess any more than you already have, do you?"

Phyllis knew he'd been tricked again. But he also knew that if he

refused to do as Emily had ordered, he would be severely punished.

Reluctantly, he pushed his face forward until he could feel her ass

pressing against his nose. Timidly, blindly, he sought out her opening

with his tongue. He nearly gagged when it came into contact with her

asshole, and he could vaguely taste the residue of her last bowel movement.

Above him, Emily spoke, "You may enter the temple of Goddess with your

tongue, slut. Show Goddess how eager you are to do so."

Trying to hold his breath, though he knew how impossible that would be,

he pushed against the opening with his tongue. By mashing his face hard

against her ass, he actually managed to insert his tongue a short way

into her asshole. He was nearly retching with the realization that he

was actually reaming her ass out with his tongue. But he knew if he balked

at this point, he would be severely punished. So, he continued to push his

tongue deeper inside her. "Make love to the temple of Goddess, slut,"

he heard Emily say. And so he began a back-and-forth rhythm with his tongue,

pushing it in as far as he could, then pulling it back until it was almost

all the way out, then ramming it back in again. Emily began swaying, and

he had to move his head to keep up with her. His neck and back were aching,

but he kept his tongue inside her. Then, after what seemed like an eternity,

he could feel her tensing, beginning to climax, moaning and pressing back

against his face. Then she cried out, and gave a mighty shove backwards,

nearly knocking him over.

Emily leaned forward, placing her hands on the kitchen table, breathing

hard, her large, soft breasts heaving. Finally, she gathered herself

together, and turned to face Phyllis, who was still kneeling on the floor,

his face red and sweaty from his exertions. She looked at him; then, her

voice stern, said, "Well, slut? Are you pleased that Goddess has allowed

you to worship her?"

Phyllis knew he had no alternative but to answer, "Yes, Mistress."

She grinned humorlessly. "And I am certain you will wish to carry the

reminder of your experience throughout the day. So enjoy the flavor, bitch.

And don't try to mask it with toothpaste or chewing gum. Got me?"

Phyllis replied, "Yes, Mistress."

Emily lifted his face with her hand until he was looking directly into

her eyes. "From now on, you will beg your Mistress to be allowed to

worship in the temple of Goddess. Won't you?"

Phyllis mumbled, "Yes, Mistress."

"Yes, you will beg and implore and cry to be allowed to taste the essence

of the temple sacrifice. But there is only one way you will be permitted to

worship Goddess. You must be perfect in all you do. Are you prepared to be

perfect?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"And why do you want to be perfect, slut?"

Phyllis closed his eyes and grimaced, "Because Phyllis wishes to worship

in the temple of Goddess, Mistress."

Emily sneered smugly at the thoroughly overpowered man who knelt before

her, defeated, tears in his eyes. "Yes, slut, you will beg. Over and over

you will beg. And you will worship there often. The essence of the temple

sacrifice will be always in your mouth and on your tongue. Worthless fool."

* * * * *

Phyllis's training began in earnest. Over and over through the long

morning, he was made to remove his makeup and reapply it, until, finally,

Emily began to make approving noises. But this was not all that Phyllis

did. Each time he would remove his makeup, before reapplying it, he would

spend anywhere from fifteen minutes to a half-hour "worshiping Goddess

in her temple." By the time Emily called a break for lunch, Phyllis

was thoroughly familiar with every every nuance of flavor in his Mistress's

asshole. Within a single morning, Emily had completely broken his will

and destroyed what little dignity he thought he had retained.

For lunch, she permitted him to eat a small salad, a piece of bread,

and a glass of water. She, in turn, had a thick sandwich of turkey, ham,

cheese, lettuce and tomato, prepared, of course, by the famished Phyllis.

Emily also enjoyed several cups of coffee, sitting at the kitchen table,

while Phyllis stood in his uncomfortable heels, broken and dejected, at

the counter next to the sink.

The afternoon's training was simply more of what had occurred in the

morning, though by now, having become used to the taste of Emily's shit,

Phyllis began to beg in a bit more spirited manner to be allowed to

worship Goddess in her temple.

In addition to continuing to learn how to apply makeup and to arrange

his hair in a style acceptable to Victoria, Phyllis also practiced

walking in as feminine a manner as possible. While he did this, Emily

had him walk from room to room, dusting and vacuuming as he went, so that

the entire downstairs fairly sparkled when he was done.

About five o'clock, Victoria called and spoke with Emily. When they had

concluded their conversation, Emily informed Phyllis that "Madame would

be home for dinner about seven, and desired lobster bisque." Phyllis would

have to work quickly to prepare such a meal. He also had to feed Emily,

who did not share the same one-meal-a-day restriction which had been

imposed on Phyllis. So, for the next two hours, Phyllis toiled in the

kitchen, feeding Emily and preparing Victoria's dinner. Emily, knowing

she had reduced him to a state of complete servitude, interrupted his

efforts several times so he could gain vital experience worshiping

in the temple of Goddess.

But, finally, a buzzer sounded in the kitchen, indicating Victoria was

at the front door. Emily disappeared to her apartment downstairs, and

Phyllis nervously rushed, mincing and swishing, to attend Victoria as

she entered the house. When the door opened, Victoria was pleased to see

Phyllis standing in the foyer, holding the front edge of his tutu, and

curtsying deeply and gracefully before her. Phyllis then removed Victoria's

coat and hung it in the closet before following her into the living room.

Curtsying again, Phyllis asked, "Would Madame care for a drink before

dinner?"

Victoria fixed Phyllis with a stare. She stood motionless for several

long seconds, then said, "I told you when we began this relationship that

you would speak only when spoken to. Do you remember that?"

Phyllis was taken aback, but answered, "Yes, Madame."

"Well, then, why did you speak just now?"

Phyllis just stood there, not knowing what to say.

"Let me tell you something, slut. If I want a drink, I'll tell you that.

You just keep your useless mouth shut unless I require you to speak."

Phyllis curtsied. "Yes, Madame."

Suddenly, Victoria grabbed his ear and yanked, nearly causing him to

topple over. "Did I ask you a question just then?"

Phyllis, in terrible pain, squealed, "No, Madame, no."

"Then keep your mouth shut!" And giving his ear one final twist, she

released her grip. He was nearly sobbing from the pain.

She continued to glare at him. "Your trainer, your Mistress, doesn't

seem to be making much progress with you. I'm going to have to have a

word with her after I've eaten."

Phyllis's ears were ringing so badly he could hardly hear Victoria.

But, he realized she had mentioned eating, so he curtsied once more

and scurried into the kitchen to finish preparing her dinner. He served

her in the dining room, remaining as discreet yet attentive as he could

as she ate in cold silence. Finally done, she turned to her hapless

servant-husband and said, "Go and call your Mistress. I wish to speak

with her. I will be in the living room waiting."

Phyllis curtsied, then rushed into the kitchen and over to the buzzer

at the door leading down to Emily's apartment. When she had unlocked it,

he descended the stairs and, entering the small kitchenette, curtsied

before her as she sat naked at the table relaxing.

"What is it, slut?" she demanded.

"Begging Mistress's pardon, Mistress, but Madame has directed Phyllis

to inform Phyllis's Mistress that Madame wishes a word with Mistress."

Trying to keep everything in the third person was clearly not going to be

an easy task for Phyllis.

"Is that so?" asked Emily. "And what does this pertain to?"

Phyllis curtsied again. "Phyllis does not know, Mistress." Curtsy.

Emily arose, her glorious breasts jiggling, causing Phyllis to nearly

gasp aloud. "Very well. I'll be right there." She wrapped the strap of

the riding crop around her wrist and climbed the stairs, Phyllis

following close behind. When they arrived in the kitchen, Emily continued

through the door into the living room, and Phyllis stayed behind, cleaning

up both Emily's and Victoria's dinner dishes. A very long time passed,

and Phyllis was growing quite concerned. He tried pressing his ear to the

closed door, but could only hear an indistinct murmur of voices. Finally,

he heard Victoria call, "Phyllis! Come in here at once!"

Quickly, nearly tripping in his haste, he scurried into the living room,

mincing in short steps, trying to look as feminine as possible, bell ringing

absurdly against his balls. He walked over to stand in front of Victoria,

before whom he executed a deep curtsy. He stood quietly, saying nothing.

He did not want to be punished for talking out of turn again. Emily was

standing a few feet away, looking somewhat agitated. As Phyllis waited,

mute before Victoria, Emily spoke, "Well, slut, just as I warned you.

Madame now knows the full story of your day and your many failures and

shortcomings. Of course, she already knew about your whorish makeup job.

And she knew about how you are prone to talk out of turn. As your Mistress,

I am now obliged to execute your punishment for all these infractions.

Before I do, however, Madame has a few words to say to you."

Phyllis was clearly worried. He remembered the previous night's "taste"

of punishment. How horrible was the real thing going to be? He was so

preoccupied with his worries over this, he almost missed what Victoria

was saying, "...worship Goddess." He stood dumbly, not knowing what to

say or do. Victoria tapped her hand on the arm of her chair. Finally,

she spoke in a low, cold, brutal tone, "Are you willfully refusing

to comply with my instructions?"

Phyllis curtsied, "N-no, Madame. Phyllis is sorry, Madame. Phyllis

doesn't know what Madame's instructions are."

Victoria appeared outraged. "What? Are you that stupid? Or were you

just not paying attention? Answer me."

Phyllis curtsied again. "Phyllis was, um, er, Phyllis is, um, just

stupid, Madame."

Victoria turned to Emily. "Add ten to the punishment."

"Yes, Madame."

Victoria then turned her attention back to Phyllis. "Just stupid,

eh? Just plain old stupid slut Phyllis." Her voice lowered to just above

an angry whisper, "Now you listen, and listen good, you worthless bitch.

I told you I wanted a demonstration of how you worship Goddess in her

temple. Can you understand me now?"

Curtsy. "Yes, Madame."

"Well?"

Phyllis was unsure as to how to proceed. Finally, fearing the worst,

he decided to take a chance and act on his own initiative. He turned

to Emily, curtsied to her, and sank to his knees before her, his nose

an inch away from her vagina. "Please, Mistress, Phyllis wishes to worship

Goddess."

Emily looked down at him with cold disdain. "Do you think after all

you've done wrong today Goddess will permit you to worship her?"

Phyllis pressed on, not knowing what else to do. "Please, Mistress,

Phyllis is sorry for all the wrong things Phyllis did. Please let

Phyllis worship Goddess."

"You aren't even worthy to lick your Mistress's toes. What makes you

think you are worthy to worship Goddess in her temple?"

Phyllis could smell the funky aroma of Emily's sexual heat. He was

beginning to feel a little lightheaded. "Oh, please, Mistress. Phyllis

will do anything if Mistress will let Phyllis worship Goddess." Tears

were forming in his eyes, and his lips had begun to tremble slightly.

"You miserable slut. You want to put your tongue into the temple of

Goddess and taste Goddess's essence. You don't even deserve to smell

that essence, let alone taste it."

Phyllis, becoming hysterical in his fear of what Victoria might do

to him if he failed to convince Emily to let him worship Goddess, was

sobbing, his voice breaking as tears freely flowed from his eyes. "Oh,

Mistress, please. Please. Phyllis will do anything. Anything!"

Emily smiled at him, a cold, ruthless, humorless smile. "Anything?"

Breaking down completely, Phyllis sobbed, "Yes, Mistress. Anything.

Just, please, please, let Phyllis worship Goddess."

"Then you'll sign over your million dollar payment to me, won't you,

slut?" said Emily, a note of triumph in her voice. Behind him, Phyllis

heard Victoria, surprised and delighted by Emily's shrewdness, laugh loudly.

He knew he had just been trapped and ruined at the same time. And all that

would result would be that he would be allowed to stick his tongue

into Emily's asshole and lick the shit inside. An asslicker. He had been

reduced to a penniless asslicker.

"Won't you, slave?" Emily demanded.

He wailed, "Yes, Mistress, yes. Yes, yes, yes."

He was crying openly, totally defeated, when Emily suddenly turned around,

thrust her ass into his face, and said in a sharp, angry tone, "Worship,

whore!" Still sobbing, he placed his hands on her asscheeks so he could

spread them apart, allowing his tongue free access to her asshole.

Evidently, she'd had a bowel movement down in her apartment, but hadn't

bothered to wipe herself afterwards. Flecks of dried shit were crusted

in the area around her asshole. Phyllis knew what was expected of him.

Nearly fainting from the odor, he pressed his lips against her flesh, and

began licking in long, rapid strokes. The shit tasted awful, and he nearly

passed out from it. In his mind, he saw his future, serving as a toilet

maid to these two revenge-maddened women. He continued to sob, the tears

running down his cheeks, ruining his carefully applied makeup.

His tongue now entered her asshole, and he knew this was truly his

place in this household. A nothing now, a complete zero, he gave in to

Emily's victory over him, and began fucking her ass with his tongue.

In and out, faster and faster, his tongue becoming raw from the effort,

he pushed and pulled and gasped and cried. His nose was filled with the

odor of shit, his mind cried, "Shit! Shit! Shit!" He was done for. All

had been lost. He wanted to laugh with Victoria.

Finally, Emily was done with him, and she stepped away, then turned

to face him. His face was covered in tears and sweat and wet mascara

which ran garishly down his cheeks. His lips were quivering as he sobbed,

his chest heaved, his head was bowed in defeat. Emily stepped forward

and bent over, then whispered to him, "It's time for your punishment now,

slave. Stand up."

Slowly, his knees nearly buckling, Phyllis struggled to stand. When

he was erect, standing at attention, Emily whispered, "Bend over and grasp

your ankles. Now." Blindly, automatically, Phyllis did as Emily had

commanded. The whipping began slowly, gradually picking up speed. It seemed

to last forever, and Phyllis was certain she'd broken the skin of his ass,

and that blood was pouring out of his cuts. His ass was most certainly a

deep, ugly, purplish hue; but, he was not bleeding. Finally, Victoria

called a halt to the punishment. Almost gently, she dismissed Phyllis,

telling him to go get a drink of water and to take a break to pull himself

together. She instructed him to repair his makeup and report back to her

when he had done so.

His ass burned so badly he could barely walk as far as the kitchen.

He took short, almost tiptoe steps, eventually reaching the relative

safety of the door which would separate him, however briefly, from his

two hell-sent tormentors. He stepped over to the kitchen sink and ran

cold water on a cloth which he then used to wipe his face to remove the

ruined makeup and his tears. After a few minutes, he had calmed down

enough to reapply his makeup, putting it on so that it looked much better

than his earlier efforts had been. Then, ass still burning, he returned

to the living room, where Victoria calmly sat talking to Emily, who

stood near the center of the room, riding crop still in hand.

When she saw Phyllis, Emily commanded, "Come over here, slave. Kneel."

Phyllis crossed the room and knelt before her, his nose once again

an inch from her pussy. Emily said in a cold, imperious voice, "I will

say this only once, and you had better never forget it. Goddess is

any woman's vagina. And the temple in which you worship Goddess is any

woman's rectum. If a woman ever says, 'Kiss my ass,' you will do so

without hesitation. And you will be glad for the honor she has bestowed

on you."

Phyllis could smell her devilish musk again.

"Do you understand, slave?"

"Yes, Mistress." It was over. Philip was nevermore. Phyllis was a

nothing, an asslicker, a slave.

"Now, I have something I wish you to sign." She handed him a sheet of

paper. His eyes were filmy with tears. He couldn't read a word of it.

She handed him a pen, and pointed to the place on the paper where he was

to sign. He did so.

Emily looked down at the top of Phyllis's head. "You just transferred

to me the one million dollars Madame promised you for carrying out your

three month's period of indentured servitude. But that contract no longer

applies, since you are now my slave. And there is no limit on your

servitude to me, is there? You do agree, don't you?"

Phyllis wasn't sure what she meant. He didn't know what to say. Instead,

he began to cry, knowing whatever he said would probably be wrong and he

would again be punished.

Emily, her voice sharp with anger, said, "You do agree don't you? That

you are now my slave?"

Phyllis, trembling, mumbled, "Yes, Mistress."

"And you are mine for as long as I wish?"

Phyllis, completely lost now, said, "Yes, Mistress."

"You just love sticking your tongue in my asshole, don't you, slave?"

Once again, his tears were ruining his makeup. "Yes, Mistress."

"It's worth a million dollars to you to stick your tongue in my asshole.

You'd give away a million dollars for the pleasure of licking my butt,

wouldn't you?"

His shoulders heaved as he sobbed, "Yes, Mistress."

"That's right. You just did. You dumb shiteater."

Behind him, Victoria was laughing loudly.

"Look at me, stupid." Phyllis turned his eyes to face Emily. "Although

you now belong to me, I desire you to continue to serve Madame, just as

you have agreed under the contract you entered into with her. You will

perform whatever tasks she requires of you, and you will be cheerful

and prompt in their execution. But, you will answer to me from now on.

Agreed?"

"Yes, Mistress," he whispered.

Emily leaned over so her face was directly in front of Phyllis's.

"Madame wishes to acknowledge this momentous occasion," she said quietly

to him. "She has some gifts which she wishes you to accept. But you

must look happy and grateful when you receive them. So I wish you to

go to the kitchen and strip naked and put on fresh makeup. And as soon

as you have done this, I wish you to return to this exact spot and

kneel as you are now doing."

"Yes, Mistress," he responded, then stood up, curtsied, and retreated

into the kitchen. As he undressed and washed the smeared makeup from his

face, Phyllis's mind was a whirlwind of emotions. How could this have

happened to him, and so quickly? In less than a day, these two women

had turned an agreement with him completely upside down. Not only was he

no longer in control of his own being, he had completely lost the million

dollars he had been expecting to get for playing this game in the first

place.

He was convinced Victoria and Emily had not originally conspired

to set him up like this. Probably, Victoria had simply wanted to shame

and embarrass them both with this bizarre arrangement. It had to have

been Emily who had turned the tables and taken control of the game.

Victoria had seemed as surprised as Phyllis by how swiftly Emily had acted.

Amazingly, Victoria didn't seem to mind. Probably, she recognized Emily's

shrewdness and appreciated the deft way in which Emily had taken the

initiative. But, the bottom line was that he, Philip Johnson, had, in

less than twenty-four hours, been reduced to a mere asslicking nothing,

a slave of these two vengeful women. He was sure this had to be a bad

dream. It couldn't really be happening.

Finally, his makeup freshly reapplied, Phyllis, now completely naked,

returned to the living room, and knelt on the floor before the two women.

Victoria was still seated in the wingback chair, and Emily was still

standing next to her, as naked as Phyllis now was. Neither woman spoke.

Both women were smiling, but their faces betrayed no particular thought

or emotion. Phyllis guessed maybe they had planned together to destroy

him. He shivered and wondered what awful degradation they would subject

him to next.

He didn't have long to wait. Emily stepped towards him. "As I said,

slave, Madame wishes to commemorate this occasion. She has some gifts

for you which she wishes you to accept. As your Mistress, I have accepted

them for you. You, of course, will be overjoyed to receive them. Am I

correct?"

Phyllis had no choice. "Yes, Mistress," he mumbled.

"Very well," said Emily. She reached behind Victoria's chair and

brought out a paper shopping bag, setting it down a couple feet in front

of Phyllis. She reached into it and withdrew a shiny, stainless steel object.

Phyllis glanced upwards and saw what appeared to be a tangled up chain.

Emily stood before him and unraveled the bundle.

"This gift is an acknowledgement of your continuing servitude, slut,"

Emily said, "both to your Mistress and to Madame." She stepped forward

and placed around his neck a chain-link collar, much like a training

collar a dog might wear. The collar fit snugly, but not uncomfortably.

It closed by means of a small padlock which rested against the back of

Phyllis's neck. Attached to the collar were two chains, each a little

more than a foot long with a handcuff attached to the end. Emily took

each of Phyllis's hands in turn and placed them in a cuff, which she

then proceeded to lock. Like the collar, the cuffs were snug, but not

uncomfortably so. Phyllis looked down at his imprisoned wrists and

saw that the cuffs were also linked together by a chain about ten inches

long. The effect of this arrangement was that his arms would always be

bent at the elbow so that, if he were standing straight up, his forearms

would be parallel to the floor. The chain binding his wrists close

together further restricted any mobility on his part.

Emily stood back and appraised him. She smiled broadly. "Well, slave?

Do you like them? They do suit you, you know."

Phyllis was about to start crying again.

Emily paid no attention, but went on, "Aren't you going to thank

Madame for her thoughtful gift?"

Phyllis said, "Thank you, Madame." But there was a lump in his

throat, and his words came out in a mumble.

Emily wasn't finished. She reached into the bag again, and produced

another set of tangled-up chains. She walked around the kneeling Phyllis

until she was standing behind him. Then, she stooped down and began

attaching the cuffs at the ends of this chain to his ankles. Again,

the cuffs were snug, but not uncomfortably so. Emily stood up and

said, "Spread your ankles, slave."

Phyllis began to spread his ankles, but was almost immediately halted

by the chain, which was only a little more than a foot long. Emily walked

around him so she was again facing him. "Because you won't be able to take

very long strides now, Madame has ordered that you learn a new way to go

up and down her stairs, so you won't trip and fall. You will be shown

this new method later. Isn't it nice that Madame is so thoughtful and

caring?"

Phyllis mumbled, "Yes, Mistress."

Emily waited a moment, then said, "Is that all you have to say?"

Phyllis, the lump still in his throat, said, "Thank you, Madame."

Tears had formed in his eyes, and the room was now a blur to him.

Emily wasn't done. She said, "Madame has also decided to honor

this moment by giving you a new uniform, one which I am sure you

will be delighted to wear." She reached into the bag again, and

pulled out what looked like a long-line corset, made of a very stiff

material and covered with black satin trimmed in red lace with

pretty red bows attached to the six garter straps. Emily handed

the garment to Phyllis. "Stand up and put it on," she ordered.

"Let's see how you look."

Phyllis struggled to his feet, nearly tripping over the short

chain joining his ankles. He knew he would have to be very careful

how he moved from now on. The corset wrapped around him and was

closed by a zipper in the front. It was designed to extend from

his waist to just below his nipples. This garment was even tighter

than the other one had been, and he struggled mightily to join the

zipper ends. By the time he had succeeded in closing the zipper

all the way, he was struggling to catch his breath. He felt as

though all his internal organs had been squeezed into his stomach.

The loose flesh from his midsection had been pushed up so that

the skin of his chest now spilled over the top of the foundation,

forming what looked like breasts. Emily had retrieved a full-length

mirror, which she now placed before him.

"Take a look," she said with a broad smile. "You look adorable."

Phyllis looked into the mirror. The corset had reduced his waist

by at least three inches, and pushed his hips out at one end, and

his chest out at the other, so he could see the breast-like protrusions.

Instead of a tutu-like skirt, there was a narrow skirt of red lace

which extended from the bottom of the corset to just above his groin,

leaving his penis fully exposed. Also attached to the front of the

corset by a short, delicate chain, was the same sleeve and bell which

had been on his other uniform. This sleeve, like the new corset, looked

even tighter and more difficult to fit over his cock than the other one

had been. By the time he had managed to get his penis into it, he felt

like he had been kicked in the balls by a gang of football punters.

His face was bathed in sweat, his makeup a smeary mess.

Emily paid no attention to that. She reached once more into the

bag and retrieved a pair of sheer, red nylon stockings, seamed like

all the other nylons Phyllis now owned. She handed them to him.

"Your ankle cuffs are just large enough so that, by being very careful,

you should be able to slip your stockings through the cuffs and then

attach them to your garters. So. Go on. Put them on."

Because of the way his arms were bent and his hands joined nearly

together, Phyllis knew the only way he could accomplish this task

would be to sit down and bend himself into a pretzel. The extremely

tight corset made it almost impossible to do this. But, by much

careful effort, and a great deal of perspiration, he finally succeeded

in slipping both stockings through his cuffs. He then stood up, nearly

tripping and falling again, and pulled the stockings the rest of the

way up his legs, carefully insuring the seams were as straight as he

could get them.

Emily left him standing there, contemplating his imprisonment in

the chains as he gazed at his image in the mirror. She disappeared

into the kitchen, returning a few seconds later with Phyllis's high-

heeled mules. "Put these on, then walk around the room for me,"

she ordered. Phyllis stepped into the mules, and began to walk.

Unfamiliar with the short length of chain joining his ankles, he took

too long a step and nearly toppled over. He realized instantly he was

going to have to take very short, tiptoe steps all the time. His

feet were going to be in a state of constant agony.

Emily said, "Walk over to the stairs, then turn and face me.

And be graceful and feminine, you clumsy slut."

Phyllis tiptoed across the room, trying to walk as gracefully

and swishily as he could. His hips rolled in an exaggerated way,

and he felt silly mincing across the room. When he got to the stairs,

he stopped and turned around to face his Mistress and Madame.

Emily said, "Sit down on a step as though you were sitting in

a chair."

Phyllis did as he was commanded.

Emily continued, "Now, lift your feet to the next higher step."

Phyllis did.

Emily said, "Now, stand up and repeat the process, going up a step

at a time."

Phyllis realized this was the only way he would be able to negotiate

the steps, since the length of chain separating his ankles was not

long enough for him to step up like a normal person would. He also knew

this procedure would be extremely uncomfortable to perform following

any kind of punishment with the riding crop. Furthermore, it would

present a nearly impossible situation if he were balancing a tray full

of dishes.

When he was about halfway up the staircase, Emily called out,

"That's enough. Now, you descend in the same manner. Let's see you

try it."

Slowly, carefully, Phyllis stretched his legs to lower his feet by

one step. Then, he stood up, sitting down again on the step below the

one he had just occupied. Coming down the stairs proved even slower

and more arduous than going up had been. By the time he reached the

bottom, he was exhausted and his legs ached terribly.

In his confusion, and because he was thinking only of how grateful

he was to have survived the journey without incident, he began to cross

the floor before he realized he hadn't been given permission to do so.

His face reddened instantly as Emily, pretending outrage, screamed,

"Who gave you permission to move, you worthless slave! Come over here

this instant, you ninny!"

As quickly as he could, Phyllis swished across the room, bell jangling

wildly, until he was standing before his Mistress, his face cast down.

He lifted the hem of the tiny skirt and curtsied as deeply as he could.

Emily spoke in a stern tone, "You will be punished instantly for

that breach of discipline, Miss sissy. Turn around. Bend over and

grab your ankles." Even before he felt the first stinging blow,

Phyllis was already crying. His ass was still sore from his previous

whipping, and now it felt like his skin was being stripped off his

buttocks. But, finally, it was over, and Emily ordered him to stand

up straight. He turned to face her, his lips quivering wildly as he

tried to stop his sobs. Emily placed the riding crop in his right

hand. "You will carry this with you at all times, slave. Do you

understand?"

He stammered out that he did. Emily went on, "This way you will

always be aware what the price of your foolish thoughtlessness

will be." She paused, and glared at the thoroughly cowed Phyllis.

"Well? Have you nothing to say to your Mistress?"

"Thank you, Mistress," he gasped.

"Kneel, slut." He knelt slowly and carefully, not wanting to

trip and fall.

Emily moved forward until her pussy was in his face. She said,

softly, "Goddess is pleased, slave. She wishes you to worship

in her temple."

Phyllis, his mouth nearly touching the soft place where Emily's

legs joined together, muttered, "Yes, Mistress."

Emily's voice grew sterner, "Aren't you forgetting something,

slut? Aren't you forgetting that you must beg to be allowed to worship

in Goddess's temple?"

Phyllis instantly responded, "Oh, please, Mistress. Phyllis wants

to worship Goddess. Phyllis needs to worship Goddess. Phyllis will

do anything to be allowed to worship Goddess, if only for a minute."

Emily, laughing at the abject figure before her, said, "Very well,

slave, you may enter the temple of Goddess." And she turned around,

once again presenting her ass to the kneeling Phyllis. Instantly, his

face was buried in her asscrack, his tongue probing the tiny cave

of her anus. As he buried himself in Emily's ass, Phyllis could hear

both women laughing loudly at his plight. He no longer cared. He was

in complete awe of them. They had so perfectly outmaneuvered him, had

so quickly reduced him to his present status, had so thoroughly destroyed

all he had been - and in less than a day! Truly, they were Goddesses!

Truly, he deserved no more than this, to have his nose and tongue buried

in their nether holes. They had won. He was theirs. And so it should be.

And so it was.

* * * * *

...He wasn't sure when his situation had become permanent. Perhaps it

had been the day Madame informed him his three-month period of indentured

servitude was concluded. He had already lost track of the passage of days

and months. Such matters were no longer of concern to him.

Madame had remained faithful to the agreement. He had been commanded

to appear before her, where she had told him his million dollars awaited

him. He had been brought over to a table in the living room on which was

stacked an enormous pile of cash. He had to assume it totaled a million

dollars.

Then Mistress had brought out two large suitcases and he was instructed

to fill them with the money stacked on the table. After he was finished

putting all the money in the containers, he was dismissed to serve

dessert to the two women. When he returned with a tray of dessert plates

and coffee cups, he noticed the two suitcases had been removed. He never

saw them again.

...Perhaps it was the day, a few weeks later, when he had returned to

the household after his convalescence following the breast augmentation

surgery. Before, his chest had measured 40 inches. He now measured a full

46 inches, and enough silicone had been inserted to expand his breasts

to a massive E-cup size. At the request of Mistress, the surgeon had

also pierced Phyllis's greatly enlarged nipples. Attached to them now

were shiny gold hoops. Mistress had also requested that a matching hoop

be attached to the loose fold of skin joining the back of his testicles

to his perineum. Accordingly, he had also been pierced there.

Once he had dressed in his uniform, a new one he was sure, since the

tight corset felt even more snug than he remembered from before his

trip to the private clinic for his breast surgery, he was summoned to

appear before Madame and Mistress.

As was now his automatic behavior, he stepped before Madame and

curtsied. Then, he turned to Mistress and curtsied again.

Madame said, "Well, Phyllis, are you all recovered from your surgery?"

Phyllis curtsied again. "Yes, Madame," he replied.

"And how do you like your new breasts?"

Because they were so large, they tended to wobble and flop wildly

whenever he walked, causing a great deal of stress and ache in his back.

Curtsying, he responded, "Phyllis loves Phyllis's new breasts, Madame."

What else could he say?

He wanted to cry.

Ever since he had entered the clinic for his surgery, he had been

receiving massive injections of female hormones on a daily basis. His

emotions had been overwhelmed by the huge shift in his hormonal balance.

He felt like crying all the time. To counter these outbursts, Madame

had also directed that he be given large doses of tranquilizers. So

now he was calm. He didn't cry, but his eyes were usually brimful of

tears wanting to spill out. Everything looked to him as though he were

seeing it from underwater.

It made him want to cry.

Mistress spoke next, "Well, slave, we are pleased that you are happy

with your new breasts. To celebrate this wonderful occasion, Madame

has some new gifts for you."

At some point while he had been in the clinic, Madame and Mistress had

become fast friends. Mistress no longer lived in the basement apartment,

but now shared the upstairs with Madame, sleeping in the bedroom adjoining

hers. Although they were obviously friends, Mistress still preferred to

remain naked while in the house. Perhaps this was her way of emphasizing

her superiority over Phyllis. He never would know. And it really didn't

matter.

Phyllis curtsied again. Mistress stepped forward and unlocked the

padlock holding Phyllis's collar in place. Then, she unlocked his

handcuffs. Finally, she bent down and unlocked the ankle cuffs. Phyllis's

chains now lay in a heap at his feet. Mistress bent over and picked up

the chains, tossing them aside. She then turned back to face Phyllis.

"Kneel, slave," she said.

Phyllis curtsied and knelt. Mistress continued, "Madame has directed

me to present you with the gifts she wishes to give you. You will remain

still and silent during the presentation."

She turned and retrieved a small shopping bag which was resting beside

Madame's chair. She reached into the bag and pulled out a short length

of gold chain, with gold-colored cuffs attached to the ends. She then

went behind Phyllis, and stooped to attach them to his ankles. She

directed him to spread his ankles apart. As he did so, he quickly realized

that this chain was shorter than his previous shackles had been. It would

be nearly impossible for him to get anywhere without shuffling on tiptoe.

The next object Mistress retrieved from the bag, however, was far

more significant than the ankle fetters; it was this object that would

forever seal his fate. Mistress held it up for Phyllis to see. Then,

she busied herself attaching it to him.

She first removed his nipple rings, inserting new ones which were

somewhat thicker and sturdier than the original rings had been. As she

clamped them on, Phyllis heard a distinctive "click," making him

realize that these rings were permanently locked in place. Attached

to the new gold rings were short lengths of gold chain identical to the

chain joining his ankle cuffs. These chains were only about eight inches

long. And attached to the ends of them were gold handcuffs, which

Mistress now fixed on Phyllis's wrists. The handcuffs were joined together

by another length of gold chain, itself also about eight inches long.

Despite the tranquilizers, Phyllis could not stop the tears. He knew

his condition was now irrevocable. He also knew his situation was all but

impossible. How was he to accomplish even the simplest tasks? He knew

Madame and Mistress were unconcerned about his dilemma. Their expectations

were that he would serve, and serve perfectly, without mistake. Failure

to do so would be punished. It was up to him to figure out how to avoid

that punishment.

Mistress looked down at her sobbing slave. "Madame has one other

gift for you, slave," she said, her tone smug and superior. She reached

again into the bag and brought out a riding crop made of stiff black

leather. It looked even more lethal than the crop Phyllis had been made

to endure during his period of indentured servitude. Attached to the end

of its handle was a thick gold hoop. Mistress also held a clamp, with a

spring-loaded insert. This clamp was attached to a gold hoop similar to

the one on the handle of the crop. Mistress, after commanding Phyllis to

stand, fed this hoop through his testicle piercing. It closed with the

same "click" of finality as the nipple rings had.

Next, she opened the clamp, feeding the small handle-loop into it.

Phyllis now carried, dangling from behind his testicles, the instrument

of his discipline. Mistress could simply unclamp the crop and it would

be available for her to whip his ass, or his breasts, or even his

penis, which stuck straight out in front of him, stretched painfully

through the tight sleeve attached to his corset.

* * * * *

Phyllis had eventually adapted to his new life. Even simple tasks

were made difficult, of course, because of the shortness of the

chains joining his wrists to his nipple rings. But he had taught himself,

encouraged by Mistress's frequent and vigorous floggings, to overcome

the limitations imposed by his restraints. These days, he moved with

a graceful dignity, slowly but efficiently performing his daily routine.

He was an accomplished toilet slave. He would gladly have eaten the women's

shit had they chosen to defecate in his mouth, which they never did.

But, frequently they would "forget" to wipe themselves, and then he would

be commanded to lick them clean. They referred to such times as "feast

days in the temple of Goddess."

But things weren't going well this morning, however. The trouble had

begun when his stockings had snagged on his ankle cuff while he was

trying to slip them through the tiny space between his ankle and the

cuff. He had wasted a pair of stockings and was growing impatient with

the effort, of course causing him even more delay.

Finally dressed, he realized that if he didn't hurry, he was going

to be late for Madame's alarm. But, in his haste to have her breakfast

prepared, he'd hurried so that he was now perspiring, and his mascara

was beginning to melt. He scurried down the hallway to the stairs as

quickly as he could, virtually running on tiptoe, taking teeny six-inch

steps. He balanced his serving tray above his breasts, which flopped

wildly about, banging the underside of the tray, nearly knocking it

loose from his shaking hands. No matter how much he worried, this journey,

short though it might be for unfettered people, always took him several

minutes and left him breathless and exhausted when he reached the stairs.

He carefully bent over, setting the tray on a step, then shuffled

to the front door to retrieve the morning newspaper. He never even

glanced at the headlines anymore. Such matters as what took place beyond

the doors of Madame's house no longer interested him. Serving Madame and

Mistress was his only concern. And avoiding the riding crop.

He placed the paper on the tray, then turned around to begin his

journey up the stairs. He sat down, then lifted his shackled feet up

a couple of steps. Carefully, he stood, positioning his bottom over

the next available higher step, then slowly sat down so the contents

of the tray would not spill. He repeated this maneuver several times

until at last he stood at the top of the stairs. Too late, he heard

the alarm sounding in Madame's room. Before he could reach her door,

he heard her speaking loudly, "Where is that slut? Must I do everything

myself?"

As he turned the knob, a difficult task requiring him to balance the

tray with one hand while grasping the knob with the other, all the while

unable to see what he was doing since the tray - and his breasts -

prevented a clear view, he could hear Madame continuing to mutter and

curse. Finally, he was able to open the door and shuffle into the room.

As he moved toward the table where he could set his tray down, Madame

shouted curses at him, and he attempted to curtsy as he continued toward

the table, nearly dumping the tray and its contents on the floor.

"You worthless fucking idiot!" she screamed at him. "You're late

again. Haven't I told you over and over to get up early enough to be

here when the alarm goes off? What have you been doing? Reading the

comics? Idiot! Fool!"

Madame's shouting finally awakened Mistress, who had been sleeping

soundly in her room next door to Madame's. Still yawning, she stepped

through the door which connected the two rooms. "What's going on?" she

asked.

"Look at this worthless piece of shit!" Madame cried. "He's late -

as usual - and his mascara is smeared all over his face."

Mistress looked angrily at the forlorn Phyllis. "You miserable slave,"

she said, in a tone which raised goosebumps on Phyllis's flesh. "Bend

over and grab your knees. Now!"

Phyllis bent over, his lips trembling. Mistress reached between his

legs to release the crop from the clamp, grabbing and squeezing his

balls as she did so. His little penis-sleeve bell jangled merrily away.

Mistress smacked his ass so hard he nearly toppled over. His breasts

were heaving, making it difficult for him to grip his knees. He stifled

a scream as she brought the crop down a second time. But by the tenth

stroke, he was openly sobbing and begging Mistress to stop the flogging.

He lost count as she continued to flail at his burning ass. But,

finally, she stopped, and ordered him to kneel before her. She placed

the crop in his trembling hand, and commanded him to return it to its

holder. Then she instructed him to beg Goddess for her forgiveness.

Mistress turned around, presenting her ass to the kneeling Phyllis,

who spread her asscheeks and buried his face in her crack. He began

begging Goddess for forgiveness, his mouth jammed up against her

anal opening, causing his words to be muffled. Mistress and Madame

didn't care. What he said meant nothing. The fact that he buried his

face in their asses is what mattered. Finally, Mistress shouted,

"Worship, slave!" Phyllis's tongue instantly shot out of his mouth

and entered her anus, where he began to lick frantically, his tears

pouring from his eyes and running down the space between Mistress's

asscheeks.

After Phyllis had cleaned out her asshole, Mistress ordered him

to stand and serve Madame her breakfast. "You've already missed your

morning toilet chores, you shiteating idiot," Madame complained.

She sat down to eat, the hapless Phyllis holding her chair for her

while Mistress stood a few feet away, watching his every move.

He poured coffee into Madame's cup, and removed the glass cover

from her plate. Madame took her fork in her hand, and cut into the

egg. She brought the fork up to her mouth, and took a bite.

"Agghh!" she cried. "This food is stone cold!"

Mistress screamed at Phyllis. "You useless piece of shit! How

dare you treat Madame this way? Bend over! Now!"

Again, the crop was brought down on his already reddened ass. It

began to turn purple, and tiny drops of blood ran down the backs of

his legs. He could barely stand as the whip sliced away. Mistress

was breathing hard as she finished, her naked breasts heaving as she

gasped air into her lungs. Phyllis sobbed and cried, begging for

mercy. Slowly, the beating tapered off, and Phyllis was told to

stand up.

Madame glared at him. "You have ruined my breakfast and you have

failed in all your other duties. You shall go hungry today, you

miserable slut. No lunch for you. Do you understand?"

Phyllis, barely able to speak above a whisper, curtsied and gasped,

"Yes, Madame."

Madame said, "Now, take this tray of wasted food away from me. This

instant! And get out of my sight!"

Phyllis curtsied, picked up the tray and shuffled as quickly as he

could to the door. He heard Mistress say, as he scurried into the

hallway, "When you've repaired your appearance, you may prepare my

breakfast and report to me with it immediately."

Phyllis turned so that he was facing back into the room. He curtsied

again. "Yes, Mistress," he whispered. Then he closed the door and

hurried to the stairs.

Behind him in the room, Madame and Mistress smiled broadly at each

other. Then Madame began to dress for the day, and Mistress returned

to her bedroom, humming happily to herself.

* * * * *

His ass on fire and hurting intolerably as he descended the stairs

in reverse fashion of the way he had ascended them, Phyllis finally

managed to get to the main floor. He shuffle-hobbled into the kitchen,

where, holding back his tears, he managed to wipe away his ruined

makeup with a damp cloth. He carefully dried his face, then reapplied

his foundation, eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick. Carefully, he

ran a brush through his hair so that each strand would be perfectly

in place.

Then, he set about preparing Mistress's breakfast. He could hear

Madame coming down the stairs, opening the closet in the foyer to

retrieve her coat, then opening and closing the front door.

Quickly, Phyllis prepared Mistress's tray, and began the long,

arduous journey back upstairs to serve Mistress her breakfast.

He arrived at her door, where, balancing the tray with one hand,

he gently knocked on her door. Mistress called out, "Enter!"

Carefully, Phyllis bent over to grasp the doorknob, balancing

the tray with his other hand. He succeeded in turning the knob

without spilling the tray's contents, and he entered Mistress's

room noiselessly, if one ignored the jangling of his penis-sleeve

bell. Like Madame, Mistress had a small circular table in her room

where Phyllis served her breakfast, as well as an occasional bedtime

cup of cocoa. Phyllis shuffled directly to the table and placed the

tray carefully down on it.

Then, pressing the palms of his hands together between his breasts,

fingers stretched out as though he were praying, and elbows held

tightly against his waist, he turned to face Mistress, his eyes drilled

into the floor.

"Go draw my bath," she muttered sleepily, "Then come here and help

me out of this fucking bed."

Curtsying deeply, Phyllis hurried to the bathroom. He knelt over

the tub as far as he could in order to be able to insert the drain

plug. Then, he turned on the water. As quickly as he could, he stood

up and shuffled back into the bedrooom. Mistress was still lying in it.

He walked over to her bed, assuming the praying position once again.

Mistress opened one eye and said, "Well, don't just stand there, you

ninny, help me up."

Phyllis bent over and took Mistress's hand in his and began to back

away from the bed, straightening up as he did so. Mistress reached her

fingers out until they grasped Phyllis's nipple, then gave a mighty

squeeze. Phyllis wanted to scream as the sudden pain shot through his

breast and straight to his brain. But he knew better than to do that.

Such behavior would leave him unable to sit down for several days.

Finally, Mistress was on her feet, and Phyllis guided her into the

bathroom, where he gently led her to the toilet. She sat down and

peed noisily, afterwards requiring Phyllis to clean her up. Phyllis

then helped her step into the tub, where she sank into the nearly

scalding water, slick from bath oil beads Phyllis had put in while

he was filling it. Mistress soaped herself, though Phyllis was

required to kneel beside her in case she might desire assistance of

some sort.

Her bath completed, Mistress stood in the tub while Phyllis carefully

and gently shaved first her legs, then her underarms. Mistress had begun

to let her pubic hair grow back, but it was still too short for Phyllis

to trim her there. She stepped out of the tub, allowing Phyllis to wrap

a towel around her and to rub her dry. She then brushed her teeth as

Phyllis stood beside her, a cup of cold water in his hand for when

Mistress needed to rinse the excess paste from her mouth.

Then Mistress returned to the bedroom, going directly to the table

where Phyllis had laid out the breakfast. She sat down, and waited

while Phyllis poured her coffee. Then, she opened the newspaper to

scan the front page, and took a sip from her cup. Suddenly, she spat

the coffee back into the cup. "Wshh! Shit! You idiot! What did you

make this coffee with? Dishwater? Aaaghh! This is awful!"

Phyllis couldn't comprehend. He had just made a fresh pot. Then -

oh, no, had he forgotten to rinse the pot out completely after he had

cleaned up Madame's dishes? - an awful realization crept upon him.

He had been in too big a hurry because his earlier punishments had left

him running behind in his chores.

Mistress glared angrily at the trembling slave. "Turn around, you

shithead," she growled. "This instant! Now, bend over!"

Phyllis, knowing what was in store for him, trembled greatly,

and could hardly bend over. Mistress snatched the crop from its

holder, scratching his balls with her nails, causing his penis-sleeve

bell to begin tinkling.

WHAP!! Instantly, Mistress connected with the thin, deadly leather.

Phyllis cried out in anguished pain. WHAP! WHAP! The blows rained down

on his already tormented ass. He could finally take no more, and he

sank to his knees, his head on the bedroom floor, sobbing and screaming

as Mistress continued to rain blow after blow upon him.

Then, all was still. Mistress stood there, the riding crop in her

hand, breathing hard from the exertion. Phyllis lay on the floor,

still sobbing in pain and humiliation. His ass was again a fiery red

color, mixed with nasty-looking purple stripes. He would have to rub

a lot of salve on this morning's wounds.

"Get up, you worthless slave," said Mistress. "Go make me a fresh pot

of coffee. And be quick about it."

Phyllis could barely stand up. But he managed to leave the room

without further incident, and to hobble down the hall, somehow managing

to negotiate the stairs and balance the tray with the porcelain coffeepot

on it. He scurried to the kitchen, where he started a new pot of coffee,

then carefully washed and rinsed the porcelain pot, drying it with a

fresh, clean dishtowel.

He hurried up the steps once again, and entered Mistress's room with

the coffeepot on his tray. Mistress had already finished her breakfast,

and she directed him to set the pot on the table and pour her a cup.

Phyllis did so, pouring in a little cream as well. The meal finished

without further incident.

Before Phyllis could dress Mistress, however, he had to worship in

the temple of Goddess, this time licking and reaming Mistress's asshole

until she climaxed in orgasmic release.

Finally, he had completed making her up, doing her hair, and helping

her get dressed. He gathered up the dirty dishes, and left the room,

hurrying back downstairs to deposit his tray in the kitchen. He shuffled

as quickly as he could to the coat closet, where he held Mistress's

coat in his hands, waiting for her to take it from him. Eventually, she

came down the stairs and took the coat Phyllis offered. She then gave

him instructions to clean the entire house and to have dinner prepared

for both her and Madame by six-thirty. Phyllis curtsied over and over

as Mistress issued her orders, his penis-sleeve bell bouncing and jangling,

his huge breasts wobbling furiously.

* * * * *

...He wasn't sure when his situation had become permanent. But as he

stood in the foyer, gazing at his shackled hands and feet; at his enormous

breasts with his hands chained forever to them; at his madeup face and

carefully combed, platinum wig; at his penis pointing straight at the

mirror, tightly encased in the vinyl sheath; at the bell resting softly

against his useless balls; at the riding crop dangling obscenely from

his testicles between his legs, Phyllis knew. He knew that for him, he'd

earned his million dollars. He was a millionaire for sure. And more.

He smiled softly, and shuffled off to clean the house.

The End