Mrs. Graves

MRSGRAVES

By: counterparts199; part 1

“What’s up, Mister Askins?” I asked the barber.  He was sweeping the winter dirt off of the shop porch.

“Looks like you could still use a sit, Joe,” he teased back.  To Mister Askins I seemed a deserter, my hair having grown a little since the better economic conditions of fall.

“Hi there, Mrs. Graves,” I said after walking on a piece, and past the town’s cornerstone plantation house.  She didn’t answer.  Mrs. Graves was pruning her roses because she’d grumped at her gardener one too many times.  Her disposition was old money, and to her it only seemed natural to treat her help like her great grandma had treated the slaves.  All the Graves were gone now except for Helen, though she held fast to her Victorian sensibilities that the town had grown up on her former fields, and should thus be held ransom to some kind of reverence.  To be fair with her though, I had to admit that for a woman going on sixty she was aging with grace, and I kind of liked the idea that our impoverished burg had at least one icon of class.

My house was a block down.  It had been built by the mining company at roughly the same time Helen Graves was being born in her mansion.  I’d done a lot of work on it, but it was still one of twenty, each barely far enough apart to squeeze past.

“So where have you been?  I’m late for my aerobics class,” yelled my wife from the front door.

“I was doing some hire hand work at the mill,” I told Angie, walking inside.

“Bout time you earned something,” Angie said, brushing by me as she ran for the car.

Life had been like that for a few years.  We lived in a small town in Appalachia.  The employment prospects were primarily seasonal.  I’d had a good week, working three six hour shifts at the mill.  Harvest was the best time for work, but the mill was a good second.  Some months I did well to pull in substitute work at one of the stores in Fayette.  On the other hand, my wife was a teacher, and the fact was she paid most of the bills, not because they pay teachers well around here, but because it was steady.

She came home from her exercise class with a flair, “What’s for supper?”

“Uh, chicken.”

“Again.  You’re not very creative lately,” she ridiculed before sitting down to eat anyway.  I’d become the cook, partially because I had always cooked, but mostly because it was just one of a handful of things I felt I could do as my part.  Angie worked a lot more hours than I did.  At first I’d had ambitions, but in a place like this ambition usually means working the mines.  I didn’t have that much ambition, and besides, the mines were almost all closed because it cost more to clean the cheap coal than it paid to mine it.

We were in bed later, and in spite of the fact that Angie hadn’t said a nice thing to me all day, I was still plagued by a penis that didn’t have sense enough to realize it wanted a woman who’d been ugly.

“You don’t really think I’d want to have sex with you, do you?”  Spat Angie.

That did it.  I’d had enough! “What have I done to piss you off?  I worked today.  I cleaned up the place, and had dinner ready for you.  What do you want from me?”

“I want you to be a man.  I want you to go get a real job.  What you make isn’t worth the time you waste working; when you do; hell, half the jobs you piddle with aren’t even minimum wage.  You might as well be unemployed because I pay for everything as it is.  This is getting us nowhere.  I want a new house too.  I’ll never get one with you.  This place is like living in a trailer.  You can’t get from one room to other without going through every room in the house.  When I married you I thought things would be different,” she confided, rolling over.

I felt like shit.  Shoot, I always did, I realized.  My mission in life had boiled down to one thing lately: Making sure that Angie had at least a few things to think me useful about.  That’s why I did all the work in the house, but as I laid there reflecting, it was less than that, and more than that at the same time.  It was less than that because she’d stopped seeing it as meaningful, especially since she’d started dreaming about nicer houses, and I was only working at keeping the old place floating.  It was more than that because I had this submissive streak that was always there like a mole.

I had talked to her about it a few times.  I remember that when we’d dated we’d played around with it.  I’d gotten her to tie me to the bedposts and sit on my cock.  There was a time after we’d married that I’d told her how much I liked the idea of being humiliated in panties.  She’d gone all out then, helping me shave my legs, and scooting me around the house with a fly swatter.  It was fun and full of life, I’d thought.  She had me do the dishes, and then do things like kiss her feet.  That had lasted almost half a day, but she’d confessed to me later that all of it had made her feel uncomfortable.

She not only disliked it, but paid me no end to misery, letting me have pieces of the memory back every PMS.  In fact, I was kind of surprised that she didn’t use it as a bludgeon during her last tirade.  Women have a knack for digging into the treasure chest for just the right thing to hurt their guys with whenever they want to inflict a little pain.  I was hurting.  Hell, I’d been hurting for a long time.  In fact, there’d been days when I’d gotten downright suicidal over it - though I bit my tongue because I think pathetic people are ... well ... pathetic.

To be fair with myself, I’d gotten the hint, and not asked for any domination in years.  Once in awhile, whenever we made love, she’d gotten into sucking my nipples or play slapping my ass, or saying things like, “Give it up, slut,” so I knew she knew I still liked that sort of thing, but on just as many occasions I’d moved her hand away from my nipples, or shut up her insults with a kiss, trying my best to make her think I could get it up without all that fanfare.  I just couldn’t stand the way she used the idea of my submissive nature against me in her verbal tirades.  I wanted a little ammunition of my own, so I could say something like, “That’s not an issue.”  Well, anyway, that’s the complex world my mind was in while I laid there horny, but angry with my wife’s back.

“Do you remember when you shaved your legs, and I dressed you up?”  Asked my wife’s back, almost as if she’d been reading my mind.  She had the habit of brooding, and then just when any logical mate would have dozed off, start digging.  Still, this was a new tactic.  She was asking one of those loaded questions too.  If I said yes, and acted nice, she’d give me hell about being such a wuss.  If I said, no, she’d be pissed off because she’d know I was pissed off, and away we’d go.  Every woman should be a husband like for one day, just to get a feeling for how damned we are.

I chose the safer sailing because I was tired.  “I remember that WE shaved my legs, and that it was fun, but no big deal.”

“Oh, you didn’t like it?”

Oh god, I thought.  She’s taking it wrong.  “Yes.  I loved it.  I’ll admit it.  I love that kind of thing.  I always have.  I always will.  I’m cursed.  It’s like being gay; if you are you are.  Only god can fix you, cause only god messed you up.  Maybe I should go find a nut house.”

“I’m not being mean.  I just wanted to talk about it.  I wanted to know if you still liked that kind of thing,” she said, her voice sweeter than I’d heard it in a week.  Still, I knew the rule.  Anything said, will be filtered, edited, selectively processed, respun, and used against me later.

“I like that.  I like regular, passionate sex with my wife better, but I definitely have these times when I remember things like that fondly.”

I cringed, waiting for whatever!  Instead she said, “Do you want to do that again?  I mean, I know how you feel about it.  I’ve been unreasonable.  I was wondering if you wanted to do that again?”

My cock took over and said, “Oh yeah.  I definitely want to do that again.”

She turned over, and looked at me.  My face went red as she watched it turn.  “I’ve been thinking about it.  What if I did that for you again?  You’d owe me for that, wouldn’t you?  I mean, if I do something for you, then you could do something for me, right?”

I had no idea what she wanted, but I was more than willing to give it to her.  Shoot, I thought.  What do I have to give anyway?  “If you did that for me, I’d be so submissive that I’d have no choice but to let you do whatever you want.  That’s what makes me so turned on about being submissive.  The idea of the Mistress being in complete control,” I confessed.

“What if I liked it?  What if I wanted to keep you in women’s clothing all the time.  What then?  What if it was forever?”

“I ... I’d like that.  You don’t like that though.  You said it made you uncomfortable,” I told her.  I need to add the small disclaimer here that I felt I knew my wife well enough to know forever was a very relative term.

“Yes, but that was then.  I thought of you as my handsome prince, ready to take me away.  It didn’t turn out like that, and I feel like the frog most of the time.  If I stopped thinking of you as my prince, then it might not feel so awkward.  Would you do everything I asked, knowing that my feelings were like that?”

“Yes, Mistress Angie,” I said smiling, still waiting for the flip side of this.

“So you don’t mind if I stop thinking of you as my prince then?  It’s the only way this will work for me.  I am either going to have to think of you as my wench or as my man.  It’s kind of hard to think of you both ways while your legs are shaved and you’re dressed in some ridiculous dress.”

“What are you getting at?  Go ahead and tell me.  I can take it,” I said, a few rare words not from my dick.

“We should sit down, I think,” she asked.  I got out of bed and sat at her vanity chair.  She sat on the edge of the bed.  “OK.  I’ve had an affair.  There I’ve told you.  I didn’t want to, but I felt so alone.  You’re like making love to a stranger sometimes.  Not that you aren’t incredible in bed.  Nobody can do some of the things you do nearly as well as you do them because you are so attentive to everything I feel, but for most women it’s the intimacy they want.  I’d trade the fantastic sex for just a few nights with someone who I felt like really wanted me for who I am inside.  You want something I can’t be.  It’s very disheartening.  I feel guilty about the affair, but I want you to know that you pushed me into it.”

“How long have you been seeing this man?”  Was all I could ask.

“I saw him a year ago.  I went to bed with him a couple times at his place.  I don’t love him.  I’ve not seen him in almost a year.  He called a couple times, but I told him that I just think of him as a friend.  It’s over,” she confessed.

“I don’t know what to say.  I suppose that I can try to be more intimate ...” She cut me off.

“That’s not going to happen.  You and I both know that you’re addicted to this female domination thing.  Admit it.  Come on. Be honest,” she demanded.

“I admit that.  I can still be intimate though when ...”

“No you can’t.  I’m like living with a secret person.  I offered you a chance to be dominated.  Do you want me to do this for you or not?  I’m not negotiating with you any more Joe.  Do you want me to do this for you or not?  That’s the only question.”

I was in like multiple shocks, but I could since her sincerity, and there had been times in my life when I’d not taken the bait, and still fantasize about it.  I just said, “Yes,” maybe partially because it seemed easier than hours of talking over what no would mean.

“Then you have to do something for me, Joe.  I’ll make you into a slave, but you have to agree to let me do whatever I want with you.  There will be no limits.  If you are to be a slave, I insist that you be treated no better than property.  You have to put some things in writing.  I’ll have a belated prenuptial agreement, and I want an open relationship.  If I want to have sex with someone else again, it’s going to be without guilt.  I think that’s fair.  You’ve been having sex with someone other than me since we’ve been married, Joe.”

“I have not,” I protested.

“Oh yes you have.  You’re like fucking a zombie, Joe.  You’re a million miles away.  Now get off the chair and start taking off those pajamas.  I’m serious about this, and we might as well start right away!”

I was supposed to be pissed off.  The world is full of stories about men who’ve discovered their wives are having affairs.  Men have been known to rant and rave and even murder people over it.  Instead, I was taking my bottoms off for a wife who seemed upset with me because she’d had an affair.  Let there be no doubt that a submissive person is wacko.

“You can sleep on the floor in the living room.  Do you hear me, asshole?  Get out of here.  Don’t you dare masturbate either.  I don’t want you smelling up my house.  I’ll deal with you tomorrow!”

I was sure that she’d be in a different mood in the morning.  I mean, she was good at promising sexual favors and then forgetting about it, but I also knew that she was in a bad mood right then, and grabbed some pillows off the couch before trying to get comfortable on the floor.  The floor was hard, and it got harder the longer I tried to get to sleep.  The idea that she’d had sex with another man kept playing over and over in my mind.  I was hurt.  I was hurt as badly as any man would be about such a thing.  Unreasonably though, I was also turned on thinking about it.  Just another curse, I understood, as I defied her order and beat my meat until I spewed an unusually large dose of cum all over my hand.

MRSGRAVES

by: counterparts199

part 2

A foot nudged my head.  I rolled over.  A foot kicked my side.  I woke up with a start, rolling over on my knees, and looking up at my wife in her bathrobe.  I, of course, was naked as the day I was born.

“Get into the bathroom.  I’ve been up for ten minutes already, and that’s ten minutes longer than I want to be up while my lazy slave bitch sleeps.”

I almost ran into the bathroom, my cock hard from both the excitement of realizing she’s waken up in the same kinky mood, and from the more rational need to pee.  On the sink counter was a bottle of ‘nair’ and three razors.

“Don’t come out of there until you’re shaved.  I mean everything.  The only think I want you to leave unshaved is the hair on your head, and a little whore patch right over your pathetic wimp penis.  Do you understand me slave?”

“Uh ... yes, Mistress,” I said, not believing the way she’d managed to get up with such a lovely Mistress attitude instead of a more pedestrian bitch attitude.  My wife had never been very well adjusted in the mornings, but for the most part that had manifested itself into a quiet scowl.  The thought of her confession about having had an affair came to mind, and I guessed probably explained her willingness to play with me.  I turned on the water in the shower, and wet myself, all the while feeling fatal about how I knew I’d not have the will to resist shaving myself.  It was going to be hell growing back in, I thought, as I shaved my legs one at a time.  I went to the mirror when my legs were done, and did my face, then the back of my neck, letting the razor glide down until it had finished all the hair back there.  I did my chest next, remembering that scene in that Pink Floyd film.  Raising an arm, I almost passed out from the feeling of submission as I shaved my underarms.  I was on the second razor by then, discovering the complexity of shaving a concave surface.  There was a little hair here and there, and a patch near my butt, that I took out as best I could before lathering my whole body with ‘nair’.  It stung my newly shaved body, and in particular around the balls, as I let it do the detail work.  After rinsing it off, I gave myself a second coating just to make sure I was baby smooth except for the small patch suggested by my wife above the penis, and the hair that I’d washed on my head.

“All done, Mistress,” I said, presenting myself.  I was naked with my hands out.  I had this moronically innocent smile on my face.  She was sitting at the small kitchen table, drinking her morning coffee, only glancing at me briefly, as if I’d annoyed her.  I started to thinking that maybe it had all been a test to see how sick I was so she could have infinite ammunition for our next argument.

“You look like a sissy.  Is that what you want to be, Joe; a sissy?”

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling defensive, and not able to guess at her mood.

“Well then I’ll give you a choice.  You can go back in our room and put on some pants like a man, or you can bring me the papers out of my purse by the night stand and get back here as soon as your wimp legs can carry them.”  I ran to the bedroom.  “Oh, and bring a pen,” she added to my back.

I sat down with the papers, which she looked over and then put in front of me in the proper order.  She curled over the top half, and held her hand over the last of the text, handing me the pen.  “Sign these first few; on the X,” she directed.

“I can’t read it,” I told her.

“No.  You can’t.  Is that a problem, slave?”

I thought about it.  What did I have to lose, I wondered.  She made most of the money.  She’d already had an affair.  I had no steady income.  What was I protecting?  I signed it.  She shuffled another, and I signed it too.  Finally it was down to one last paper, not counting the carbon copy.

“You can read this one.  I think it’s cute,” she said, removing her hand.

It read, Contract of Service.  I, _______________________ (party one) do hereby offer to work as a domestic maid to ______________________ (party two) in exchange for food, proper clothing, basic needs, shelter, medical care and the consideration of three dollars per week.  Term of this contract will be for twenty years, after which time party one and two may resign for additional terms of twenty years.  All labor efforts will be to the best ability of _____________________ (party one).  Additional payment will be granted to Angie A. Warner for consideration, as specified in a separate contract.  Service will be rendered under the strict and rigid guidelines of party two, or her designate, after complete training by party two, without consideration for normal time off as granted by state and federal laws, due to the unusual nature of this properly excepted service work, unless granted by party two, as signed by, ____________________ (party one).  Since terms of employment are ‘in house’ domestic service, minimum wage laws will equally be waved by, ____________________ (party one).  Laws regarding standard breaks are being voluntarily negated at the request of, _________________ (party one).  The term of this employment will continue until declared null in void by ______________________ (party two), or until fulfillment of the original twenty year term.  In the event of early termination, which would constitute a breach of this contract, ______________________ (party one) will pay for an alternative servant at the rate of $750 per week, or revert back to the conditions of this employment if unable to meet the rate within two week, after which party one will remain responsible for any payments to Angie A. Warner outlined in separate contract.

Signed employer (party one):                _____________________ date ______

Singed employee (party two):        _____________________ date ______

Witness:                                _____________________ date ______

Notary:                                _____________________ date ______

“That’s cute, Mistress.  What additional payment to you did I already sign to make?  I mean, at three dollars a week, I don’t want to be unable to make my payment.  I only work an average of twenty hours, you know.  I don’t want to be found short,” I said, smiling.  I wanted to play along, and make it fun, hoping it would break her nasty mood.  She’d gone to a lot of trouble to make this seem real.  And, I was sure it was a game, because I knew Angie.  She had been very serious in the past about this kind of thing being not for her.  In time she would tire of it, but her scowl told me that being funny was a bad way to reward her efforts.  “OK.  I’m sorry.”  I signed the lines labeled party one.

“That’s good.  Now we can get on with your training as a new maid.  Your clothing is in my closet on the floor at the left.  Go put the uniform on, and you can begin doing a complete cleaning of the cupboards.  I want everything taken out, and a complete dusting.  No talking unless I grant permission.  You’ll do well to address me as Miss Call, my maiden name.  Is everything understood, slave?”

“Yes, Mistress ... or, excuse me.  Yes, Miss Call,” I said, my head down.

“I’ll be back in an hour or two.  I have to take these to a lawyer.  You be good, Jo.  Oh, and if anyone comes to the door, be a good girl and tell them I’ll be right back,” she said, going into the bedroom where she changed and quickly left me alone.

I walked into the room when she was gone, and got the clothing in her closet.  It was a plain drab grey maid uniform, complete with a bra, panties, panty hose, loafers, an apron and white lace hat.  I put the outfit on feeling silly.  On the other hand, I felt kind of giddy too, so I had the sexual energy to get on with my cleaning assignment.  She wasn’t kidding, I realized, when the time slipped by.  This was a class A act, I had to hand it to her.  When her car pulled up I felt relief, but then she just walked in, looked at the cabinets, and told me, “I’m taking a nap.  Be quiet.  In the mean time, you can have some time to yourself.  Just no ball games on TV.  If you wake me up, I’m not going to like it.”

“Yes, Miss Call,” I said, half curtseying.  She shook her head in disgust, and went to bed.

A half hour into it, I started to worry about the incriminating papers she’d apparently left in her car.  To be honest, I wanted to see them for more reasons than that.  I was kind of turned on about it.  I mean, what submissive man wouldn’t be?  I took off my hat, tucked my skirt into a pair of pants, and put on a long shirt.  Quietly, I crept to her car, soon looking over every inch of it, under the seats, in the glove compartment, in the trunk, even over the visors.  Nothing!  I crept back inside, and straightened my costume.  There in the hallway was her purse, hanging from a nail.  I looked inside, and checked in her change purse.  There was a new card, some lawyer.  Oh my god!  Was this part of the joke?  No, I understood, though finding it hard to face.  She wasn’t like that.  She’d not take a joke this far, and to be honest, the whole signing ritual had seemed well over her imagination threshold regarding this sort of thing.  I found myself sitting on the couch, the lawyer’s card still in my hand, looking off into space.

I had to know.  I picked up the phone, and hesitated.  No, I had to know.  I dialed the lawyer’s number.  Some secretary on the other side said, “Yes.  May I help you?”

“Uh.  I.  My wife came in this morning to talk to Mister Smithers.  May I speak with Mister Smithers?”  She told me to wait.  There I was, my wife’s purse in my lap, this card in my hand, not sure what to say, with my shaved body in a maid’s outfit.  Most of all, I was keeping one eye on the bedroom door, hoping she wouldn’t wake up and find out I was spying.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes.  I’m Mister Warner.  I don’t know how to say this, but you see, my wife came in to see you today.  Is that right?”

“I see.  Well, she is a client.  I’ve done some work for her regarding some contracts.”

“Would you mind telling me the nature of these contracts?”  I asked.

“I’d like to, Mister Warner, but there is a conflict of interest that might arise.  It would be unprofessional of me to divulge any details regarding interest of my clients,” said the lawyer.

“Clients?”

“Yes.  Mrs. Warner may be your wife, but I am still bound to an oath of confidentiality.  Perhaps if you were to ask her to call me.  If she is open to allowing you an interest, then I would be glad to schedule an appointment, but to be honest, I don’t think your wife will be open to that.  Have you considered another lawyer?” continued the man.

“Oh, no.  That’s OK.  I was just curious.  Don’t tell her I called.  I’m sorry I pried,” I backed off, hanging up the phone before he could answer.  I shoved the card back into her purse, and hung the purse back up on the wall a second before she walked out of her bedroom.

“What have you been up to,” she said offhandedly, going into the bathroom.

When she was ready she came into the living room, and turned off the television.  I felt kind of awkward, sitting on the couch in drag, realizing I’d been pretty much alone like that most of the day.

“I think it’s time you learned some etiquette.  A maid isn’t supposed to just sit on the couch watching television while the Mistress of the house is up and about.  Do you think that’s appropriate?”

“No, Madam. Oh god, I forgot,” I said, getting up.

“Miss Call.  What are you, stupid?  Now go stand by that wall.  Right over there.  I’ll have to teach you a few things, because it’s important that you learn how to do this right.  Come on.  I don’t have all day,” said my increasingly impatient wife.

I got up, and stood by the wall.

“Now, curtsey.  That’s nice.  Whenever I come into the room, you will have to wait until you see my eyes in a position where it is likely that I will see you, and then curtsey.  Use some of that second sense, so that the head of the house does not stumble in while you are doing something else.  I want to know that whenever I come into this room you are there, by that wall.  Since this dump is so small, I’ll only have to find a place for you to station yourself in here and in the kitchen.  If I come into the second bedroom, the bathroom or the utility room, then we’ll improvise.  Most times that means you’d do well just to get out and make some space I guess.”

“Yes, Miss Call.”

She went on.  “The proper position is head down, eyes away.  Stand up straight, but with a slight slump of the shoulders.  Put your feet a couple inches apart, and your hands folded lightly in your lap.  That’s nice.  If I choose to stay in the room, after a few minutes you might choose to bow, and ask if you may get me something.  I then will either tell you to stay, tell you to go get me something, or dismiss you.”

“Yes, Miss Call,” I said, really into it now, as I stood by the wall in my proper maid position, though I’ll admit I was getting a little bored, and was beginning to wonder if I was going to miss the last game on my Saturday TV.  What happened next was enough to make me weak.  My wife went to the television, turned it on to a garden show, sat down, and just plain ignored me for an hour.  I’d never had an experience like that, and it made me feeling so used.  At the same time, I realized I’d wasted nearly an entire day doing nothing but being used, and I wondered when the fun would be over.  I was tired, I knew that, and a part of me wanted it to be over so I could have wild sex with my wife.  God knows I had plenty of fuel for fantasy.  Another part of me though, never wanted it to end.  I felt somehow closer to my wife than ever before, though I doubted she felt any more than a sense of satisfaction knowing she’d given me a wonderful fantasy.

“May I get you something, Miss Call,” I finally asked.

“She glanced my way, and laughed under her breath.  Fuck you.  Stand there!”  She went on watching her shows.  That, “Fuck you,” stabbed me.  It was a very real fuck you.  She was being cruel, as if she meant for it to hurt.  I stood there though, not knowing what else to do under the circumstances.  Finally it got dark, and she got up, leaving me up against the wall.

I realized that I no longer had to stand there, so I moved to a stool, and sat down, my legs stiff from all that standing in one place.  It was tough being a maid, I realized, especially when I wasn’t doing anything.  I decided to go into the kitchen and fix my wife’s favorite fried rice meal.  I was halfway done when she came out of the bedroom.  I stepped to the side, and curtseyed, my back up against the counter.

“I’m going out.  Save that for tomorrow.  You can fix yourself some plain rice when it’s done.  A girl like you needs to work on her figure!”  Then she walked out the door, and was gone.  The smell of her perfume lingered behind her.  That little black dress that she thought so sexy was on her body.  I could only imagine what that all meant as I put away the sweet smelling rice, and started a pot of plain white.

When I was done I felt lost.  I sat down on the couch, feeling tired from a stressful day.  Where was I to sleep?  I guessed on the couch, or maybe the floor.  God forbid I should be in the wrong place when my wife came home, I thought, so I sat up and watched the tube mostly.  We only get two channels, and near one thirty the last of those played the national anthem, leaving snow.  I turned it off, and dozed in my chair, thinking it probable that my wife was over at a girlfriend’s house complaining about her worthless husband, and at the same time hoping I believed she was at some guy’s house in order to exact a revenge she’d convinced herself I deserved.

MRSGRAVES

by: counterparts199

part 3

“A maid is worthless without an understanding of etiquette.  I went to the library, and before I let you sit around and study this I wanted you to go through the table setting with me.  Now I’ve gone to the trouble to mark the utensils since we don’t have all the exact pieces so pay attention.”  Angie was still at it.

I was beginning to marvel at her stamina, after three days.  She’d had me dust, sweep, strip mop and vacuum the entire house while she’d been away at school.  Yesterday she’d come home with a pamphlet on manners.  I’d spent the evening reading it in the spare room while she watched television and talked on the phone.  Just before she’d gone to bed and told me I could sleep in the spare room, she’d given me a quiz.  Now it was table settings.  I had no idea why she was doing this, since we didn’t even have four pieces of anything that matched, but there was no denying that she was giving me the creeps the way she was going on.  I was beginning to yearn for some jeans and night at the bar with the boys.  No way was I going to back down first though; she was just being so damned serious, as if she had a mission in mind.  Still, I knew better than to interrupt her while she was playing with me, or else she’d never do it again, and then where would I be?

“The thing to remember is that only the utensils to be used for that meal should be on the table, and those utensils should be placed in an order that will allow the participants in the meal to work from the outside in.  This, of course, excludes any desert utensils, which are set when the table is cleared and the desert brought out.  Now, you have twelve silver pieces to consider in the setting; the following utensils are recommended: knife, fork for main course, soup spoon, shellfish fork and server, dessert knife and fork, salad or entrée knife and fork, and coffee or demitasse spoon. Serving utensils: sauce serving spoon, serving knife and fork, seafood serving fork and spoon, and cake server.  These things have been labeled, and as I said, do not necessarily all appear on the table if they do not apply to the meal.  Are you following me Miss Jo?”

I was trying, but it was taking me a  little time to read the labels taped to the odd assortment of silverware and plasticware to.  “I’ll have to study some, Mistress,” I told her, my head raised to show her my sincere confusion.

Out of the blue, her hand came up and slapped me across the cheek so hard that rang in my ear.  I brought up my hand to rub the lingering pink mark of four fingers.  An involuntary tear welled up in an eye.

“Take down that hand!”  She looked livid.  I was afraid to, but did, holding my hand down in front of me as I’d been instructed in my posture lessons, as if I had to hold it with the other hand to keep it still.  She reared back, and slapped me again, and then again, quitting only after she’d bruised my cheek good with five solid smacks.  Then she took her hands to my face, and moved my head so it leaned the other way, testing my submissiveness by doing it slowly.  She had me feeling like a child.  Taking aim, she whacked me five more times on the other cheek, adding a sixth blow to tell me how much she loved making me hurt.

“Please.  What did I do?” I protested, my face hot from the assault.

“You put me through all of this trouble, asshole.  Now maybe you can pay attention.  Just imagine for a minute, what shape makes sense for a soup spoon, and where it might go, considering when the guests have their soup.  Last time I checked, maid service wasn’t a degreed position, so try using some common sense; is that asking too much from a servant?”

“No, Miss Call,” I said, my attention peaked.  Like I said, my wife was a teacher, so by the end of the hour I knew more than I’d ever figured anyone would ever need to know about quite clothes, salad forks and placement spacing.  That night at dinner I had three setting labeled with tape, and spaced on our linoleum table, complete with three layers of tablecloth and five courses of meal.  I could tell my wife was pleased, but it all made me feel very wasteful, knowing that two of the meals were being served and then dismantled, only to go into the freezer.

The  was devoted to an endless stream of readings and lessons on etiquette.  I had long since gotten bored with the scene, but held on because she was obviously putting out so much to make a go of it.  I didn’t want her thinking that I didn’t appreciate her energy, and to be honest, I was worried about her consistently serious tact.  She never mentioned that lawyer, and I was hoping it had been nothing more than a preliminary inquiry about a divorce.  She’d been annoyed enough to want to end our marriage before, but in time she’d come around.  I was waiting for that moment when she’d weaken, and want some time in bed, hopefully making it a grand finally.  God knows I was ready for it, after so much teasing - even if that teasing had been full of what felt like constant loathing.

She’d come home half drunk on a Saturday, and again I’d been left to reading selected readings on domestic service.  I had no doubt that by then I knew ten times more than the average housewife about the fading arts of tending to the Hudson River crowd.  She’d left with a friend, and came back the same way, though Angie had been careful to hide me in the spare room until she’d been picked up because she’d said I was an embarrassment.  I could understand that, not having worn a thing but skirts and aprons since eight days prior.

“Here!  Put this on,” she said after I’d braced myself into the maid station, and she’d plopped her butt down on a plush living room chair.  Angie had a pair of handcuffs, and a thick black tie wrap.  I took them, curtseying politely first.  “Step out of your hose and panties.  Now tuck the front of your skirt into the top of your apron, so we can see what we’re doing.”

I felt awkward, my crotch bared at her mere suggestion.  I was starting to get a feeling that she was maybe drunk, and that had me scared.

“You put the middle of the chain over the tie wrap, and then put the tie wrap together just a little.  Go on.  My friend thought this up.  You’re going to like it, I promise.  Now, put your balls through the loop while it’s still wide.  That’s right.  Make sure the chain is in back.  Now, pull it tight a little.  There we go.  Come here, and let me see how it’s coming?”

I felt ridiculous, standing up to her while she turned me around, and inspected the crude device.  She pulled my balls down with her hand, clinching the scrotum tight above the balls and just below the tucked up tie wrap.  When I was positioned just right, she snipped the tie wrap one snip at a time until there was less than an inch of diameter left.  My balls were imprisoned, the pair of metal cuffs weighing them down like one of those weight parachutes I’d read about in a femdom magazine.

“Put your hands behind your back, slut.  Right up against your butt.  That’s a good girl.  That’s one hand.  There we go.  reach back a little more.  Nice.  Now you’re all cuffed up so I can play with you.  How does that feel?”  Asked my Mistress.

“It’s fine, Miss Call,” I said, my wrists now chained behind me, and restrained from moving far by the link to my balls.

“Good.  I’ll be right back.  You don’t go away, or you’ll miss all the fun,” she commanded before going into the utility room.  Yeah, like I was going somewhere like that!  To be honest, she both scared me, and intrigued me, realizing that this was something new, beyond the verbal, and Mistress/servant thing.  Bondage had always been a fantasy of mine.

She came back with some rope, and a pair of scissors.  “Lie down on the floor under the ceiling fan.  That’s right, but rotate so your feet are up against the chair.  There we go.  You really are eager, aren’t you slave?  Well, we’ll see how eager you are when I’m done.”  She tied my feet to each leg of the chair with a couple short pieces of rope.  Then she tossed the rope over the ceiling fan, taking time to run it around a few times so it would stay.  Two ends dangled near my chest.  Angie took both ends, and looped them through the chain near my nuts.  She set a loop half way up one of the ropes, and then fished the other end through the loop, pulling on that until my butt was with inches off the ground.  With one half bow, the knot was set.  Any straining would only set the knot tighter.  Angie tossed the loose ends into the fan blades so there was nothing to grab, as if I could.

“Please Miss Call,” I said, already feeling the strain on my back from having to arch and take the strain off my balls.

“I don’t think you appreciate this already.  What will you be like later at this rate?  We’ll have to see to that, I guess,” she mused, taking off her panties, and stuffing them into my mouth.  She took my own discarded pantyhose, and tied the panties in place.  There.  That should keep you quiet.  Now, where is that belt?  Oh yes.  In my bedroom.  I’ll be right back.”

Angie came back with the belt, looking over my body.  From the crotch down I was bare, baby smooth skin.  Without pausing, she started ripping into my legs with giant swipes of the belt.  By the third blow I was straining with pain.  At times I tried to back away, my balls stretching with every errant movement.  She had started at the top of one thigh, and had moved steadily down until she was beating my feet.  Then she moved up the other leg until she was dangerously close to my cock.  By that time I was trembling all over with shocking pain.  My legs seemed to shake two or three times a second, as if I was on slow vibrate.  I willed my body still, just to make sure it didn’t collapse, and rip my balls from my groin.  I focused on the middle of the fan, breathing as if delivering a child.  She had no mercy in her, striking the next blow across my penis.  I looked down, seeing it flop from side to side in response to her blows, as if a rag doll that I no longer controlled.  It had long since lost it’s erection, unable to respond to my voluntary twitching.  After a dozen or so strokes, her arm got tired, and she sat back on the couch, admiring her work.  Great red marks were all over my bottom half, lining me like tide marks.  In the silence I realized I was crying audibly, though muffled by the gag.

“You’re going to have to accept some things, Jo.  If your Mistress wants to hurt you, she can.  Do you know why I beat you?”  I didn’t answer, still fighting the sobs and the residual pain.  “I beat you because I wanted to.  I just felt like it.  Maybe it will be like that, and maybe it will just be when you deserve it.  What I want to reinforce is that this isn’t going to be just a game anymore.  It’s going to be real.  You are going to be abused, and worked, and even beaten, and it has nothing at all to do with whether you like it or not.  Do you understand me, slut?”

I could hear the threat in that last question, and shook my head vigorously up and down.  I realized that I could feel the floor barely touching my butt, and looked down to see that my balls had stretched under the strain of fighting the blows enough to almost make up the distance between the floor and my butt.  I tried to bend up, but the trembling increased, so I accepted the macabre stretching instead.

“Good.  Well then, I’d better get some sleep.  Tomorrow is a big day for us.  You get your ultimate fantasy fulfilled, and I get to start a new life.  Try to get some sleep yourself.  I don’t imagine things get any easier from now on.”  She got up, and left me there.  I listened intently, knowing that she had to be kidding.  She washed up in the bathroom.  I heard her brushing her teeth.  The toilet flushed.  I managed to take some strain off as the trembling subsided.  The bathroom like flashed as the door opened.  I looked over my head, and saw her walking from the bathroom to her bedroom, the light going off in one room, and on in the other.  The door was closed most of the way, leaving only a sliver of light along a wall in the hallway.  I swallowed around my gag, wondering if it was possible that she’d really leave me like that.  The light went off in her room, and the bed squeaked when she got on it.  I heard some more movement, pillows fluffing, and sheets being arranged.  She turned over.  There was a lot of silence.  I looked down at my balls, and they looked almost alien, held up in the air.  My shoulders hurt from straining to hold my hands so far down behind me that the fingers could be seen coming up from between my legs.  I got on a shoulder, and found that I could put all my weight on a hip, though my balls still were stretched hideously.  There were more minutes of silence from the room.  An occasional car dopplered by outside.  Then, after what seemed like forever, and after I’d gotten a hip pointer, and rolled over onto the other side,  there came a slow, rising snore from the direction of my Mistress’s bed.

MRSGRAVES

by: counterparts199

part 4

“Time to get up bitch, and start the first day of the rest of your miserable little life!”  Announced my Mistress after she’d visited the bathroom, and as if she were waking me.  I’d been awake ninety-five percent of the night, yet the intensity of her announcement still shook me, threatening to topple me from the position of a heavily arched back.  Her hand appeared above me, yanking the loop free with one deft pull.  I fell to the floor, never so thankful for anything in memory.  The tie-wrap was snipped with a pair of hand dikes that had me awfully worried for a second as she roughly tucked the one blade between my balls and the wrap.  I was left to manage untangling the rest with my chained hands and badly aching body.  Somehow I got it all in order before she announced my bathroom break.  I improvised in order to brush my teeth and wash enough to make myself feel half awake.  Needless to say it seemed easier than had keeping myself from rolling over and tearing my balls off, the previous night.  My testicles dangled incredibly low after the stretching, brushing up against my legs every time I moved, like some kind of strange new extension of my anatomy.  How I’d managed to keep from popping a hernia is beyond me.

She was waiting for me when I’d finished.  Angie never dressed within ten minutes of waking up, even on a weekend, but there she was, in a nice looking dress and heels too.  Her hair was under a scarf to hide the fact that she’d not bothered to brush it.  Something was up.

Angie put the front of my dress back down, and then had me sit on a chair so she could put some knee highs and two inch heels on my feet as well.  I got up awkwardly in the pumps, my hands still cuffed behind me, making balance difficult.  When she was done with that she brushed my cheeks with some rouge, and then painted my lips a deep red.  “I’m donating this to you.  I never really wore it much anyway, so you might as well take it with you,” she explained, coming back from the bedroom where she’d retrieved a shoulder length brunette wig.

“Going?  Please, Miss Call.  I don’t want to go anywhere?” I protested, as she fitted the wig, and turned her head as if inspecting it carefully.  Angie fluffed at it, and twirled a wave or two, seeking perfection and ignoring my protests.

“OK then.  You’re ready.  Mustn’t keep your new employer waiting.  I’ve done you a big favor, Jo.  I’ve found you a steady job.  One right up your alley too, if I say so myself.  Now get up, and let me put this old shawl over you so the neighbors don’t stare.  There we go, almost floor length.  I mean, it would look suspicious if the lady they see me getting into the car with is in a maid’s outfit, now wouldn’t it.  Come along,” she demanded, getting her purse, and opening the front door for me like I was some kind of date.

I looked out the door timidly, afraid to take that step.  A few houses over, on the other side of the road, I could see Mister Jamison mowing his lawn, and no doubt annoying everyone for both doing it so early in the morning and doing it so early in the season.  There was a real chill, as I wobbled on my heels at the threshold.  I remembered the first time I’d carried my wife over this very same threshold, and how happy she’d been.  She’d been very unhappy in more recent times, and to be honest, it hadn’t been a very different attitude from the demanding, almost vengeful personality she now was using to give this domination its very real tint.

“If you just stand there all day, someone is going to notice, and start to figure it out, Jo.  Might as well go on and get into the car before they out you.  You know this town.  One person starts up, and there’s no end to it,” teased my wife, instead of just smacking me, as I’d grown recently accustomed.

I stepped out the door, and lowered my head, nearly running to the passenger side, where I had to turn around to open the door with my cuffed hands, and then duck in.  Good thing we don’t need to lock our doors in this small town, I was thinking as I put my head down towards the dash to hide.  The handcuffs had been on too long; every movement was a chafe.  Angie took her time, locking the front door before coming to the car, and backing us out of the driveway.  “Don’t worry, Jo.  It’s not a long drive.”

I started to really get scared then because the fact that she had a destination in mind implied that someone else was about to see me like this.  Glancing out the bottom edge of the window, I saw us heading right towards the three block long business district. Mister Askins was sitting on his barber porch, up early and ready for hair a block and a half away at the business district’s edge.  “Oh god,” I moaned as we neared.  Then the car started to brake, and I realized she was turning.  I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking she’d changed her mind and was going back after only a couple blocks.  It had been an act all along, I told myself, feeling hope flood in.

Instead of turning around though, Angie drove right on down the gravel driveway of the old mansion until she stopped and parked in back of the house where Mrs. Graves had a five car garage and a turnaround.  I was about to suggest that we high tail it out of there before the old lady sicced her dogs on us, or had the butler into our business, or worse yet, came out herself.  I knew that Mrs. Graves didn’t necessarily like me, although she’d known me all of her life as, “one of those boys who live down the road.”  If she found me out, I’d never be able to walk to town again!

While all of this was flashing through my mind, I was assuming that Angie would also see the light, and take off, but she just got out, took the keys with her, pushed the door lock down and walked up the wide Victorian stairs to the back door.  Angie knocked, turning around briefly to flash me a sweet smile.  I ducked down in the car, barely able to hear a maid with a heavy Spanish accent greet my wife.

“Mrs. Graves is expecting me.  I thought it best to make the delivery around back,” I could hear Angie say.  What was going on?  Of course everyone in town knew Mrs. Graves, but nobody actually talks with her, I had always believed; in fact I’d always imagined myself a bit annoying by saying hello.  Now Angie was saying that she was expected, and worst of all, making a delivery.  I didn’t have to think too hard to understand what was being delivered, though it all seemed so impersonal, so surreal.

“Yes.  I’ve been expecting you.  Bring her right in.  I can’t wait to see what you’ve made,” said Mrs. Graves a minute later.  I’d not imagined she had a vocabulary until then.

My car door opened, and I had to look up, seeing my wife standing there with her hands on her hips.  “Well come on.  This is what you’ve wanted.  Let’s get to it, Jo!”

“I was just kidding.  I never meant for real.  Look.  It’s just a fantasy.  I never wanted anyone else but you to be in on it, “I protested, my head turned so nobody at the house could see me.

“She already knows all about it.  If you don’t come in, there will be difficult consequences.  I assure you that this is better.  Now get out of the car before I have to haul you out of there.”  She bent down, and grabbed one of my arms by the underarm.

I didn’t want to make a scene on top of a scene, so I stepped out of the car.  The act of rising to full height was one of the most difficult things I’d ever done.  She locked, then shut the door behind me.  I was stranded; instantly sorry I’d gotten out.

“This way,” she said, taking me under the arm, and leading me towards the house.  I couldn’t look up, my face full of shame, but when I managed to make it all the way up to the last step, I could bear to bring my face up enough to see the bottom part of the maid who’d answered the door, her feet off to the side on the porch.  Just inside the door, Mrs. Graves’s feet stood, waiting.  She stepped aside so Angie could lead me into the back coatroom.

Mrs. Graves walked through an entranceway, and I found myself being led through a kitchen, where a pair of chubby lady legs was apparently supporting the cook as she worked.  The house was huge, and the hallways long.  Finally we ended up in a library, where my wife had me stand while she dug into her purse.  She came out with a key for my handcuffs, and took them off, putting both the key and the cuffs on Mrs. Grave’s desk.  I rubbed my hands for a second to feel for numb spots and bloodless cuts, but then dropped them, folded, in front of me.  My wife nodded, sitting me in a chair.  She sat beside me, and after closing the door behind us, Mrs. Graves went behind a desk, as if sitting in judgment, I was imagining.

“I’ve brought a copy of the dissolution.  It will take another few weeks to be finally, but there is a restraining order as of three days ago, and as far as the judge knows, Joe deserted me six months ago.  His presence will not be needed at the final disposition; in fact it will be better if he has no official whereabouts.  I have the house, and he’s penniless,” announced my wife to the older lady, as she handed over some papers that she dug out of her purse.  I was in shock at the news, and finally lifted my head to look at my wife who’d just announced our divorce, doing so almost as if my participation hardly mattered.  She looked over at me, and tried to keep a straight face, but then broke out in a brief chuckle.  “Oh, Jo.  You look so ridiculous like this!”

“He looks fine to me.  I’ll make some corrections, of course, but if he works out, he’ll soon be just what I’m looking for.  Do you know how to maid, Mister Warner?”  It was Mrs. Grave’s voice.

“I did that for my wife. It was a game,” I told her, contradicting the way I looked, all made up like a maid.

Angie reached over and slapped me on the mouth, startling me from my arrogance.

“You will address Mrs. Graves as Madam or Mrs. Graves.  This is no game, Jo.  You’ve signed contracts.  For example, do you remember the contract for service that you signed.  Do you have a copy, Mrs. Graves?”

“Yes, certainly dear,” she said, the paper sat in my lap.  It was the one she’d let me see, only instead of Angie’s signature for party two, it was Mrs. Grave’s.  I’d apparently signed a contract of service to this older lady.  I suddenly remembered that Angie had never signed the party two sections in my presence.

Mrs. Graves instructed, “This is a legal contract of service.  If you are unable to provide these services, then you can always pay for the services at the rate of ... what is that number, Miss Call?”

“I believe it was settled at $750 per month.  That was my understanding too when I witnessed it,” said what I realized was now my separated wife.

“Contracts of service are binding in this State.  You can get out of the service in a court, but it would be most difficult to get out of the obligation for the weekly compensation.  And, as you can see by the sentence, “Additional payment will be granted to Angie A Warner for consideration, as specified in a separate contract,” I am also obliged to provide compensation to your soon to be ex-wife.  Believe me, I am amply motivated to follow through on any legal threat,” threatened Mrs. Graves.  I looked into her eyes for the first time, and saw the same, I’m all business, look in there.

“I do have to get along, Jo.  I mean, at three dollars a week, you’re not exactly going to be much good for alimony, which incidentally is half of your future earnings.  Don’t worry though; I’ll not bother you with the buck fifty, as long as you behave.  Mrs. Graves has seen to it that I have a little something equal to what she usually pays her servants.  It’s not much, but it’s no less than you brought in, considering I am not as inclined to spend as much without you.  I think it’s fair, don’t you?”

Angie was asking me a question.  What was fair?  I needed time to think.  Were they really suggesting that I was to become a real maid for three dollars a week?  That’s crazy?”  My mind was reeling.

“Don’t you think it is fair, slut?  The boys at the mill might think it’s fair,”  Repeated my wife.

“We could just drop him off by the mill.  Maybe they need some part time labor today, and he can do good by the $750 if they need him, say, sixty hours?” Offered Mrs. Graves.

I jumped.  “OK.  Yes, Miss Call.  It’s fair,” I said, thinking I could come up with something later.  I mean, after all, I was here already, and the whole household of servants had seen enough to make me the laughing stock.  If I had to leave, it should be on my own terms, maybe in some pants, and without makeup.  I had to play along, if for no other reason than to give myself some time to think.

“There you go, Jo.  I knew I could count on you.  When Mrs. Graves and I were first talking about your special sexual needs in aerobics class, I had my doubts, but you’re perfect for this, and Mrs. Graves has had so much trouble keeping help.  Everyone is going to be better off this way.  You’ll see.  I just know it,” said Angie.

“He’ll do just fine.  I know how to handle someone like this.  It’s those modern types that have given me all the fuss.  They just want the money, and to do whatever they want.  You’re not going to be like that, are you Jo?  You’re going to be a very good, traditional maid for me.  Isn’t that so?”  Tormented Mrs. Graves.

“Yes, Madam,” I said, looking down embarrassed.

“Well of course you are.  You’re going to be a good girl.  Otherwise everyone you’ve ever known is going to find out about you, and every dollar you ever make is going to be so garnished you’ll have trouble finding a place to sleep in the gutter.”  She turned her attention back to Angie.  “Here’s the first month’s check.  I almost made it out to your husband.  Even I get caught up in the male head of household mentality; I am old school they say.  Well then; I thank you for your efforts, Miss Call,” said Mrs. Graves, getting up and escorting my wife out of the house.  I just sat there, stunned, and then eventually thinking, she’d forgotten to kiss me good-bye.  The whole room seemed to spin.  Time seemed to slow.

“You will need to take up a station, Miss Jo,” said the lady’s voice at the library door.

I got up, my mind numb, and my body wracked with pain from the previous sleepless night.  Up by the wall was a break in the bookshelves, where I found what appeared to be an appropriate place for a maid to stand without intrusion.  My head was bowed, and my posture tall, though slightly slumped at the shoulders.  When I glanced over toward the door, Mrs. Graves was no longer there, apparently gone off, assured that her new maid was going to manage without too much of a fuss.

MRSGRAVES

by: counterparts199

part 5

I stood by the wall in Mrs. Grave’s library for almost an hour before Janis arrived.  Janis looked Italian, though there was a hint of an English accent when she spoke.  Her dark hair was up in a bun, protected by a fluffy white hat that nearly covered her whole head.  An attractive girl, I found myself instantly wondering why she’d not run off to the city and married well.  Then I remembered how rumor had it that Mrs. Graves had a hard time keeping servants, and it became even harder to imagine such a nice looking woman in her employ.  She had a black dress that was knee length, with white stockings and a lace trimmed apron, so I guessed she was a little on display.  Though I doubted she was more than twenty-five, I soon learned that she had more experience than the other maid that I’d seen by the back door.

“Madam Graves has told me that you have joined my staff.  I’d prefer that you just call me Janet.  I don’t want to be too formal, because there are just the three of us for the household, but it is important that you gain some insight into how we manage.  Consequently, madam has indicated to me that you are to follow my instruction; as she said, “to the letter,”” was her introduction.

“Yes, Janet.  This is embarrassing.  I’m sorry,” I said, feeling stupid in my outfit.

“I suppose so.  I have no idea why you’ve chosen this line of work, or why madam has decided to let you work here, but we are overworked, so I’m reserving my judgment.  I personally have no use for gay men.  I just thought you should know.  It’s just my point of view,” chaffed Janet.

“I’m not gay.  Really,” I told her.

“OK,” she said, as if she’d decided it was none of her business.  “There’s work in the kitchen.  That’s where it’s probably best to start.  You can get acquainted with our cook, Mrs. Cavindish.  You might already know her; she’s local,” explained Janet.  Madam met her at a church function, and sent her to cook school a couple years back.  She does an excellent job, and I might add that when in the kitchen, she has the last say; even to me, though the reverse is true in the main house.”

Cavindish?  I knew that name, I kept thinking as I was marched through the house behind Janet.  At one room, we passed the third maid as she stacked table linen in a closet area.  I recognized her legs from the back door, and then noticed her face.  She smiled acceptingly enough, but with a tooth crooked from an early lack of braces.  “Buenos dias,” she said quietly, indicating her origin.  Then I found myself back in the kitchen, near where I’d come into the house.  I’d not had the nerve to look up at the cook then, but now I felt I had to.

“Hi Joe,” said Mrs. Cavindish from the large cutting table where she was peeling shrimp.  I instantly recognized the middle aged lady’s face.  Her husband owned a small, but nearly customerless feed store near the other side of town.  I’d worked with him during harvest on a number of jobs too.  I doubted that he made much more money than I did, or had, I realized.  I was periodically imagining what three dollars a week felt like on payday.  Of course, the poverty was a fleeting side thought, my face going red, all the adjustment apparently reversed, knowing that by evening Mrs. Cavindish would have started the rumor mill that would ruin me in this town forever.

“Hi,” was all I could manage to say.

“Madam Graves has decided that ... Miss Jo ... is to help you when needed.  Otherwise ... she ... is to clean the garage.  Maria has been lent to help me on a more regular basis.  God knows the place needs a good thorough cleaning.  I’m sorry to dump him ... oh, for crying out loud ... her on you like this ....”

“It’s OK.  I can manage with him,” interrupted Mrs. Cavindish, trying to let Janet know she didn’t have to make an apology.  “Go take out the trash, Joe.  Be sure to hose and scrub it well back from the house.  The plastic bags are in the metal cabinet in the room just off from the entranceway.”

“Thanks.  And, Mrs. Graves was insistent that we call him a her,” added Janet, as she walked away.

“I’ll do no such thing.  I’m a religious woman, and she can’t make me a part of her monkey business,” said Mrs. Cavindish in Janet’s wake.  I doubted that Janet heard the last of her two sentences, but I was wondering if that meant I had an ally or an eye of disapproval in the cook.  I decided on maybe both, though at the time mostly I was just in the business of being embarrassed.  “Well go to it,” said Mrs. Cavindish, as I stood there frozen.  She pointed to a trash can.  “This first.  The household trash is in the same room as the bags.  Might as well tend to that while your at it,” she added, apparently used to having one of the maids at her beck and call.

I grabbed the kitchen trash container, and soon found myself out the back door.  The first thing I did was look around for someone who might see me.  The town was mostly a one street affair out on this end of it, and so Mrs. Grave’s house had a huge back yard with a garden for flowers and another for vegetables behind that.  I would guess it a good four acres, maybe half planted and the rest manicured to the point of resembling a decent golfing green.  Beyond was forest.  I had hunted in that forest a lot, it being the same one that backed my own house a couple blocks south.  It extended clear to the mines on the county line.  Mrs. Graves had a neat row of white painted garbage containers on the far side of that massive garage, which I timidly stepped towards with my load.

A perfectly trimmed set of stones led to the driveway, Ying off where it made a path around to the back of the garage; the steps on the house side of the garage.  That led to a small row of connected cottages that could only be seen from the woods.  I remember having seen them first as a child, at first imagining myself looking at a small motel, but then seeing them as the slave’s quarters.  Knowing my town history better with age, I’ve learned that, that is exactly what they’d been, though they’d been substantially upgraded since then with plank siding that sported thick layers of uneven, but bright white paint and an air conditioner leaning out of one, attesting to some improvements.

I poured the trash into the bigger container, being careful not to make too much noise, and draw attention, though the privacy fence separated me from view on that side of the house, and the driveway was almost a winding block long.  I followed the hose back to a spigot on the first slave apartment.  There was a plastic bucket with a brush, which I used to clean out the trash can, though it was hardly dirty, having been lined with a plastic bag.  I set the can upside down beside the house, and got the second one, finding a towel inside the little room where the liners were.

Things were falling into place as I worked, helping me lose a few butterflies, though I still glanced around every few seconds as I labored, afraid I’d draw an eye.  I was constantly aware of my dress and apron, the way they waved back and forth under my work, and how I had to keep them clear in order to avoid getting too wet.  My padded bra was also a distraction, and for a second I found myself getting an erection, remembering the fatal fantasy that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.

The best view to the back yard seemed to be from the direction of my own house, two blocks away; separated by a mere field.  I knew those people well down there.  The closest house was only a hundred yards away.  Occasionally I’d see someone moving in a back yard or on the street; always someone I recognized simply by the way they walked.  I could even see the back bumper of Angie’s car, the rest of it shielded by the houses between here and there.  I knew that if someone looked my way they’d not be close enough to tell much.  Strangely, knowing that I could still see home made me fell like all was not lost, like this was all temporary, and all I really needed to do was wait until dark, and sneak across the fence.  On the other hand, it made me constantly aware that any contact would prove very embarrassing.

The more I thought about it, the more I wondered how committed Angie was to this thing.  Maybe by tonight she would miss me, I was hoping.  The contracts were probably just some kind of joke, I thought, though the more I thought about that the more I couldn’t fit all the details together into a joke.  She was divorcing me.  I’d called that damned evasive lawyer myself.  Then there were the two contracts with Mrs. Graves, not the joking kind, from what I’d known of her, all of my life incidentally.  To make matters even less hopeful, everyone knew Mrs. Graves had, had trouble finding help that could stomach her demanding nature, and those contracts seemed a perfect remedy, strange as it all was.  Of course there was the issue of money in there too.  Mrs. Graves would never fool around when it came to financial arrangements; no rich bastard ever did, my poor boy training had always ‘learned’ me.  I stood up from bending over the last trash can, and rinsed, imagining that this was real, unending, my life from now on.  Again my cock started to rise, prompting me to say, “Fuck you,” to it, though I doubt it was listening to reason; it never had.

“You sure took long enough.  Go wash your hands, Joe.  I need you to peel some potatoes, and then clean up under the stove and refrigerator before you start in the garage.  It’s been awhile since Mister Beacon was here to help me move it so I could get under it,” said Mrs. Cavindish as soon as I walked in with the relined trash can.

“Mister Beacon?”

“The gardener.  He quit last month.  Mrs. Graves is fine to work for if you mind your business, but most men aren’t too good at taking direction from an older lady who’s been used to tellin.  Only been two men ever work here, from what I can tell.  Well, three now, I guess; sort a’.”

I took some ornaments off the refrigerator, moved it before getting on my knees and accepting a rag that Mrs. Cavindish held out for me.  “You mean there are no men working here, Mrs. Cavindish?”

“Just me, the two maids and that’s it.  Good thing Mrs. Graves is only one woman, or we’d be swamped.  This place has twenty-seven rooms.  Big rooms too, and the madam insists upon every one of them being at least dusted and swept twice a week.  She’s set in her ways, and ain’t none of my business anyway.  So, how did you manage to get all made up homosexual, Joe?”  Mrs. Cavindish finally got to.

I looked up at her legs, a bit taken back, and regaining my butterflies.  “My wife kind of plotted on me.  I was thinking kinky, and she was being serious.  Next thing you know, I’ve signed these contracts, divorce, real life service contract like a contractor signs, financial leans.  I’m stuck.”

“Is that legal?” Asked Mrs. Cavindish.

“Seems like it was, though hell if I know.  The basic bottom line doesn’t seem like it can be.  She had a lawyer writing it all up though; a Mister Smithers.”

“No cussing in my kitchen, OK Joe.  I heard of Mister Smithers.  Mrs. Graves uses him.  My sister did too; had a will done by him.  He’s over in Fayette.  Good enough man.  My sis said he had all kinds of degrees on his wall; even ran for office once.  I’d be guessing real bad it’s legal if he had his hands on it.  Too bad.  You’ll adjust though.  Just keep the Lord in your heart, Joe, and don’t let any of them gay thoughts out of your head.  It’s not so much what you’re thinking as it is what you do about it.  God can heal you from those thoughts, but the devil will always be itching on you.  Mrs. Graves has one foot in the din of iniquity for playing you this way, I’d say from the looks of it, though she has her reasons I guess.  Maybe it’s for the best that you got steered in here anyway, cause you’re safe from temptation in this house with all us women.  Can you get the stove next.  That’s a good help.”

I had this sinking feeling in my gut just listening to Mrs. Cavindish.  I mean, she was so Jesus plain and conservative, and somehow had lollygaged her way around to pegging my condition with nothing more than a few religious sidebars ripped out of a concordance.  Just don’t, “act,” gay, she kept harping, as if I were Jeremiad in the wilderness, and the only thing I really had to worry about was yielding to the devil over a detail - never mind the wilderness part; me out here without a canteen.  By the time I got to the garage with a handful of rags, cleaners and buckets, I was almost happy to be alone.  Mrs. Cavindish had nice talked me into a whole new kind of funk.

MRSGRAVES

by: counterparts199

part 6

By the time I was half done with the garage work my grey maid outfit was almost black.  I didn’t think it likely that my apron would be white again.  The fact that it was the only outfit I had was starting to worry me a bit.  I ached everywhere, inside, out, everywhere, not at all recovered from the horrible night before, and unused to the constant physical labor of maid duties.  They’d picked the hard jobs for me, probably because there had been no men around to get to certain things in some time, or maybe because Mrs. Graves wanted me to get a feel for what she expected.  There were three cars in the garage, one an old Bentley that still ran like 1930.  Mrs. Cavindish had come to the door and handed me the keys one at a time so I could back the cars out instead of working cleaning the rafters over them.

I doubt they keep cars as polished in the showroom as Mrs. Graves kept hers in her garage.  I remember sitting in that Bentley though, backing it out a few feet and looking up at the house windows to see if anyone was watching me.  The thought of taking off for Mexico did hit me hard.  Of course I’d have never made it; a Bentley does tend to stand out - almost as much as a man with pink cheeks, red lips and in a maid outfit.  Besides, the tank was only a quarter full, and Mexico was maybe twenty tank fulls away for this gas guzzler.  I was flat broke; the dress had one empty pocket, big enough for maybe a little change - should I be stupid enough to be able to steal some.  I could just see myself in Nogalas too, standing out on one of those dirt streets in front of a dollar a drink bar, starving, flat broke, and like I said, wearing a dress.  I’d been to Mexico once with buddies, and left the only one smart enough to not get the clap off a five dollar whore.  Clap or not, those whores had looked a lot better than I did.  I was thinking I’d be worth maybe a dime in a really dark room, and stopped the car in the driveway, my pantied ass going back to my work.

Mrs. Cavindish came out with some peanut butter sandwiches and milk.  Since my wife had started her dastardly scheme on me I’d lost thirty pounds.  I’d not eaten in over a day either, but had been too nervous to consider eating.  As soon as I started eating though, I remembered that I had an appetite.  My hands were dirty, but I didn’t mind.  Mrs. Cavindish had been making shrimp, maybe for later.  I’d die for a shrimp, I was thinking.  She’d been making the big ones, the kind they don’t put out in the store; the kind that took six bites to eat, almost like lobster tail.  My mind got lost thinking about expensive fish food.  I guess I’d been poor too long, and starved too much too, because it was all I could think about as I worked, imagining it would all be worth it for the feast Mrs. Cavindish was cooking up in that kitchen.

“yoo hoo!” said a woman’s voice that startled me.  I was up on a ladder, doing rafters, and had to bend down to see who it was.  Janet was sitting on the back porch step taking a break.  Maria was sitting beside her, smoking.  I stood up, somehow embarrassed to be seen by the women who’d already seen me.  I could hear them laughing as I buried my head in the rafters, continuing my work.  When I came down to move the ladder, Maria said, “you doing mucho buino,” with a heavy Latin accent, as I looked around.  They sat there for awhile, and then both broke down laughing after ten seconds of forced straight face.  I turned away, and felt the tears come, but managed to get back up to a new set of rafters before they could see me.  I took my time, so the next time I moved they were gone back inside.  I was a freak.  I was pathetic.  I hated myself.  God I was fucking miserable.  When I finished my job in the garage, I put the cars back, hosed myself off, and sat down on the steps, unable to move.  I could smell the smell of cooked shrimp fading, but had lost my appetite to depression.  The sun died, just like another wasted day in my life.  After that I sat like that for about an hour, staring into the woods, daring some imagined kid like my former self to come out of them and start laughing at me.

“Hey, we’re sorry,” said a voice just inside the door.  I could tell by the voice that it was Maria.  I looked around at her.  “Madam Graves say I should show you to your room.  She say you’re staying.  You no have to be so upset.  We were just playing.”

“It’s OK,” was all I could manage, well past realizing that I was laughable.  I was staying, she’d said; Maria must have been the last to know.  I got up and followed her through the back yard, my legs having grown stiff.  As I walked, I looked over at the houses across the field, feeling the pull of home.  Lights were going on, and I could even see the blue glow of the Wittiker’s television out of a side window.  No use tormenting myself, I kept saying over and over in my mind.  I looked back at Maria instead, finding myself admiring her butt as it swayed beautifully in her maid outfit, the seamed stockings and the white tie of the apron almost a classical wet dream.  It took me about a second to realize that she was leading me back to the slave quarters.  I suppose they call it servant’s quarters in modern times, but considering my predicament, and three bucks a week, I found the word slave more than proper.

From the front I could tell that the first room was biggest, maybe two rooms, and the second, second biggest.  The last two were a good two feet narrower than the second one.  Maria pointed to the second door.  “This my place.  Miss Janet has the one there, but she live in house some nights.  You stay here.  Not bad.  You like the night here.  Very quiet.  Lots of stars like Mexico.  Maybe we sit on lawn and talk some time.  I tell you about Mexico, and you feel better.”  I nodded as she let me into cabin three with a key that she put on the dresser as soon as we squeezed through the door.

She hit the light switch, illuminating a table lamp.  “Wow!”  She said, flying her hands at me, telling me I looked and smelled a mess.  I ignored her because it wasn’t news.  I’d been right to think of the place like a really cheap motel room.  There was a bed in the middle, a table with two chairs on the far side where the lamp was, a low dresser by the door, and another table with two small drawers up in front of the bed.  A walk in bathroom held a shower, toilet and sink.  I imagined cabin four was a duplicate of this one in reverse.  A radiator fed heat, though I remembered that air conditioner, my mind placing it at cabin one.  I had a twenty dollar radio which I hoped worked.  The best part of the room was the window that was aimed at the row of houses I’d spent the first three decades living in.  On second thought, maybe that wasn’t a good thing, I told myself, realizing that it would be a constant source of torment.  I pulled the slit between the curtains shut.

“You like?”  Maria needed some reassurance.  She’d been kind to me, and genuinely sorry for laughing at me, so I felt I owed her.

“I like.  Very nice.  I’d love to talk with you, on the lawn.  But, not tonight.  I don’t think I have enough energy or flexibility to get past the shower and bed.”

“OK then.  I have new uniforms for you in the morning.  Mrs. Graves say you can sleep until eight so I can get clothes ready for you.  She very happy you here to help.  I wake you up, and give uniforms, so you not worry about much.  You new here, so we help.  Janet sorry too, you know.  She not going to tell you that, but she not want Mrs. Graves to think she make you run away,” said Maria.

I was starting to see a whole new set of interactions; where everyone fit in.  Why was Mrs. Graves so worried that I’d run away?  Could I run away?  I mean, why not?  Slavery was illegal.  If a person called the cops and said, “Gee, my slave has run away, can you call out the bloodhounds and catch him,” what would the cops say?  They’d say, “Listen lady.  Slavery is illegal in America.  Maybe we should call you in for questioning?”

“Yeah.  That will be great.  I need new clothes.  This is filthy,” I told Maria.  Maria turned to leave, apparently pleased that I’d gotten over my deep depression caused by her and Janet’s teasing.  “Oh, one more thing.”  Maria turned around just outside the door.  “I was wondering if there was any of that shrimp left over from dinner?”

“Shrimp?  Oh, si.  Mrs. Graves have shrimp.  Sometime Mrs. Cavindish save some for us, but we not supposed to eat Mrs. Graves’s food.  She very rich woman.  Mrs. Cavindish not have any shrimp for us tonight though.  Mrs. Graves eat last one.  Maybe when she have big party.  I always like Mrs. Cavindish’s kitchen when big party over,” she said, walking away and leaving an open door.  I was stunned.  What had she said?  That Mrs. Graves ate the good food, and left us with peanut butter sandwiches?  That’s fucking crazy, I told myself, my stomach rumbling again.  I felt a headache coming on, and fumbled through the drawers, thankful for finding a bottle of aspirin.  Maybe I should take it all, I thought, before downing a couple and peeling the clothing off my back so I could lavish in a half hour shower.

MRSGRAVES

by: counterparts199

part 7

I wasn’t ready for the knock on the door at eight o’clock in the morning.  I’d hit the sack at maybe nine o’clock, and only had eleven hours of sleep.  Considering the way I’d gone without food, and missed a whole night of sleep the night before, my body told me I was at least half a day short.  I could feel my muscles unlocking one at a time as I got up, naked but clean.  I felt my cock, realizing I’d gone several days without Masturbating due to the exhaustion and the pain in my nuts from where they’d spent the night being stretched.  In fact was still hanging a couple inches low.

The small patch of hair that my wife had, had me keep just about the offending appendage reminded me that my body hair still was trimmed decidedly female.  More importantly  though, my head was pounding.  I opened the door wide, still naked as a jay bird, but not feeling the least bit less inhibited about it.  My mind was telling me, “Son, being naked is definitely less embarrassing than walking around dressed like a maid.”

Maria gasped.  “Mister Joe.”  She turned her head.  I felt guilty, and grabbed my fluffless pillow to cover the last vestige of manhood on my body.

“Sorry.  Come in.  I’ll keep covered,” I told her.

She came in with one arm full of underwear, still in wrappers and boxes.  The other arm was straining with three uniforms on hangers.  It seemed odd to me that everything was the same brand and version as my old outfit.  I’d have thought Mrs. Grave’s sources would have been different from Angie’s, or that she’d have had at least one outfit that was French and formal like the one Janet had been wearing the day before.  Obviously I was just a working maid, which when I thought of it wasn’t so bad.  I mean, why was I thinking jealous?  I certainly didn’t relish the idea of standing at station for some formal dinner party or, god forbid, a party.  She put the underwear on the dresser, and hang the dresses on an open rod in the corner.

“Madam Graves wants me help you fix face.  You can dress.  I wait outside.”  She stepped out.  I watched her go, noting what I guessed to be a cosmetic case on a yard table.

The first thing I did was down more aspirin.  Then I did my duties, finishing by lacing on the new bra, garters, hose, hat and panties.  I grabbed a dress off the rack, and found it to be loose until I pulled it tight with my apron.  My old one had been getting slack too, I realized, as my body started to take on a thin, distance runner appearance.  Maria had brought a laundry bag, where I threw my old clothing after using a dirty towel to wipe off my shoes, thankful that they had a high gloss finish that hid everything but the new scuffs.  Maria came in to humiliate me with some makeup, though she might have just thought of it as a service.

I sat in the chair while she painted.  She oooed and awed, and smiled at her handiwork while I sat there like a statue, doing my best to be stone inside.  When it came time to put on my wig, she fidgeted with the waves, and set a red ribbon in back so it would show just behind my white lace hat.  Then she got a hand mirror, and showed me myself.  I looked like a fifty year old hag, but Maria raved.  If I ever managed to smile again, I imagined my face would crack.  Still, I realized that she was just trying to make a bad situation fun, so I couldn’t get mad at her.  I thanked her instead, and just seethed at myself for allowing myself to be so gullible as to get into this mess.  We tidied up my slave hut, and walked to the second day of work.

Mrs. Cavindish took one look at me and said, “My God.  I’m praying for you, son,” as if Maria had done too good of a job on my face.  Apparently Mrs. Graves had already eaten, so Maria and I were sat at the kitchen counter to eat a piece of toast and a couple eggs.  Mine were gone before I could attest to have tasted them.  Mrs. Cavindish warned, “You’d best be on good behavior, ladi ... you people.  Mrs. Graves is in a studious mood today.”  We nodded, going into the hall.

Janet met us at the downstairs linen closet.  “She wants you to learn how to do the rooms upstairs.  I’m going to teach you, and then there is laundry.  Might as well give you a little bit of instruction with that as well.  Come with me.  Maria, you can do the main rooms.”  Like that I was off, and soon doing the domestic thing.  Mrs. Graves spent most of the day in her study, doing whatever rich, old widows do that looks like work, but doesn’t seem to be a part of the servant’s world.  I glanced in at her a few times as we passed, but she never looked up, our tasks in life just as unimportant to her, I imagined wrongly.

I got lunch, another peanut butter sandwich, with some raw vegetables, and I swear not as much as Janet or Maria.  Then after I’d hand washed my brutally filthy uniform, along with everyone else’s and two loads of Mrs. Grave’s laundry, I learned how hard it was to iron things without burning too many little rectangular holes in them.  Amazingly, I got supper, the first day in a long time that I’d eaten three meals.  It wasn’t much, a salad, with deviled ham sandwiches, but it seemed steady, and my headache was gone.  When I went to bed I was famished, but not as sore as before.  I locked myself into my room, and reveled in the fact that I could wipe off the makeup and be myself for a few minutes before falling to sleep.  I was horny as hell, opening up my curtains to look out at the houses beyond.  My wife’s car was either all the way up in the driveway or gone.  I saw a neighbor’s wife jogging, and imagined what it had felt like to have sex with a woman.  My cock had been neglected for what seemed like forever, as I stood there naked.  I felt my own body, a little stabled from several days without a shave.  I imagined it the woman jogging, and started to tug at my penis until it was hard.  Falling to my knees, I soon came all over my hand.  My balls ached as they gave up the sperm, still strained from being tormented two nights earlier.  After I’d cum, I yearned for the sexual tension that had made my kinky disposition half sane.

Another day came, and went, until I found myself into a seven day routine.  Mrs. Cavindish tried to talk me into going to some Baptist church on Sunday, telling me that Mrs. Graves probably wouldn’t mind.  I told her I didn’t have anything to wear, and then lied to her about being Catholic.  The look on her face had me thinking I’d have done better without the lie.  I lived in a small world now, and could ill afford to have an enemy in Mrs. Cavindish.  For the next three weeks I did my best to make it up to her, finally telling her that I’d lied about being Catholic because I’d not wanted to hurt her about the fact that Mrs. Graves would probably not like for me to leave the property.  Mrs. Cavindish seemed to accept that confession, symbolized by livable rations and a pamphlet with a picture of a lakes of fire and screaming sinners on the cover.

Janet came to me one night at eight.  We’d worked late because there’d been a major cleaning of the windows, and because as maids we didn’t seem to have days off or even rational hours.  “Mrs. Graves wants an appointment with you tonight.  I’m to make sure you are presentable by ten, and escort you to her library.”

I was thinking, good lord, I need an appointment to talk to this lady!  “Yes ma’am,” I answered formally, because Janet had insisted I practice my formalities on her in case I was ever present in company.  I went to my cottage to change.  I’d gotten into the habit of checking the houses down the road as I walked from or to my room.  Ten o’clock came, and freshened up, I walked back towards the house.  There, off in the distance, I could see the back of my wife’s car again.  Behind that was an old black Buick.  I squinted into the dark.  No, maybe it was the house in front that had the Buick, I thought, frozen, fighting with my depth perception.

“Get in here!  You’re late!”  Yelled Janet from the back porch.  I picked it up, and scrambled in the door.  “Mrs. Graves does not like for her girls to be late,” said Janet, as she led me through the halls.  I was maybe one minute late, I was thinking.  What did Mrs. Graves have to do anyway?  She never really did anything.  If I was her, I’d not own a clock.

“Oh there you are.  Janet, you can stay.  Well, come here, girl.  Let me see how you’ve progressed.  Oh lovely.  Yes.  I can see that you have come along.  Janet has been very flattering of you.”  She seemed to be going on, with her lavishing praise as she walked around her desk to just in front of me.

“Thank you, ma’am.  What did you want to see me for?” I asked, cutting her off.

She slapped me hard across the face, cutting me off.  I found myself wanting to hide my face from Janet, whom I had to work every day, now with the knowledge that I’d been bitch slapped.

“I just wanted to tell you that you’ve officially divorced.  The trial was this afternoon.  I can’t say that I’m sorry.  It would never do for my girls to marry.  It takes all the attention away from the work,” were the words that fell out of Mrs. Grave’s face.  No wonder so many people found it hard to work for her.  She seemed perfectly at home dictating lives.

My heart was broken.  It was hard to stand straight.  “Yes ma’am,” I said, not wanting a scene in front of this women.

“I suppose there will now be the issue of sex.  After all, you still have desires, and you are no longer provided for in that department.  What are your thoughts on that, Jo?”

“I don’t know?” I said, feeling deeply alone.  Under the circumstances, I was hardly dating material, so the whole line of questioning seemed absurd.

“Well I have some thoughts.  For one, I am forbidding you from having any sexual conduct with any of the help.  I understand that Maria has warmed to you.  It concerns me.  I know that if I just tell you not to go over a line, all that I am doing is giving you a goal.  You’re a man, after all.  That’s what men do.  I’m not being judgmental, just practical.  So, I have to ask you the question: Do you want to have sex in the future, or not?  Be realistic,” she said, as if I were a case in some clinic.

“Well, under the circumstances, madam, I’m not dating material.  That’s what I was thinking.  But, to be practical, I’m sure that I’ll want to have sex in the future.  I’m not an old man.  It’s just nature.  Just because I’ve been forced into this dress doesn’t mean I’m not still a man inside,” I said, waiting for a second slap.  It didn’t come.

“You’re baiting me.  It’s an honest answer though, Jo, so I’ll ignore the insolence.”  She sighed, and went to her desk, picking up a check.  She handed it to me, and I noticed it was made out to me, Jo Warner, without the e.  I had a check for nine dollars.

“How do I cash this, Mrs. Graves?  Where do I spend it?”

“I don’t really give a rats ass where you cash it, or where you spend it either, as long as you don’t do it on duty.”

Since I was always on duty, and since there was no way I was going out in public with what I had to wear, the nine dollar check seemed useless.  I put it down on the desk.  “What did I ever do to you?  Why are you so mean to me?” I asked, all protocol destroyed, and me no longer caring if she slapped me or not.

“I have few rules here.  One is that you address me properly, and another is that you do what you are told.  Ever since this conversation started, you’ve been talking to me with a voice that suggests you are on an equal footing with a person of my class.  I’ll have you know, Joe, that even when you were living in that miner’s house down the road you did that.  I don’t like it.  If you expect for me to accommodate your petty difficulties, then I expect some reverence.  I guess the answer to your question is that I don’t like you.  I don’t like your attitude, and I don’t like the fact that you are a man.  You don’t look like a man, but I am fully aware that as a man you are completely incapable of restraining your issue.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said, not wanting a scene.

She sighed again.  “I suppose we’ve gotten off track.  Do you want to have sex in the future?”

“Yes madam,” I confessed.

“Alright then.  If you are insistent upon sex, and I know you will be, I want it to be on my terms.  Is that acceptable?”

“I ... I don’t know ma’am.”

“It’s acceptable!  I assure you, Jo.  I have ways of making it acceptable.  Have I made myself clear?”

I had no idea what she was threatening, but the assurance in her voice scared me.  “Yes ma’am.  I’m sorry.  Of course that is clear,” I tried cowering.

“We’ll start tonight then.  Janet, take Miss Warner to my bedroom, and have her remove her dress and apron.  I’ll be up shortly.”

Janet took me by the arm.  I was a little startled.  Was she suggesting that I have sex with her?  First she hated me, and then she wanted to have sex with me?  It was very confusing, and to be frank about it, felt kind of like rape.  Mrs. Graves was in good shape, but she was old enough to be my mother, and she’d just been ugly.  I felt horrible, being led up to her bedroom like some kind of sex doll.  Janet stood behind me, untying my apron and unbuttoning my dress.  I felt them drop to the floor, and then being scarified up by Janet to hang on a hook by the door.  “Wait here.  Mrs. Graves will be up shortly.  And, Jo.  Be nice.  That’s not a request,” added Janet, just one more person in my life who’d found it perfectly reasonable to tell me what to do.

Of course it was sex, and I was a man.  It’s hard to rape a man, especially one who has gone without sex for going on two months.  Maybe she’d like me better and treat me better if I did this, I was thinking, as the door opened and shut behind me.  Mrs. Graves turned off the light.  I could see her taking off her clothing in the dim moonlight cast by one half opened window.  She laid back on the bed.  “OK.  You can come over here now!”

I walked over to the bed.  She made room, so I could lay down beside her.  “Kiss me like you care.  Make it good, or I’ll have you made so you’re safe around here,” said the least romantic woman I’d ever laid beside.  I kissed her lips, and she soon stuck out her tongue crudely.  Her body was fine, my hands were saying, as I got into it.  My cock was swelling in my panties, rubbing up against her leg.  “Now go down on me.  I want to have sex now,” she commanded, running her fingers through the hairs on my wig.  I thought she’d tear it off of me as I started to eat her pussy.

She rode my face.  I had to pause from time to time to get some air.  Still, I loved eating her.  I didn’t care if she was a bitch, and if she was one of the people responsible for my tumble in life.  I was eating pussy again.  My cock was waiting its turn like a trooper though, half out of the top of my panties.  She started moaning deep, and then started to cum.  Her clit had grown, as I teased it, and licked it lightly to prolong her orgasm.  I started to get up, pushing my panties to my ankles, wanting to hover over her, and penetrate her with my cock, but her hand stopped me, holding my face to her pussy.  “Don't you even think about moving, slave!”

For some reason, the idea of her treating me like a slave had my cock even harder, as I rubbed it against her leg.  “Yes, Mistress,” I said, humbling myself.

“That’s it, just stay there, and kiss my pussy, slave.  Rub your pathetic clit on my leg, bitch!” Said a suddenly nasty Mrs. Graves.  I did, soon ready to explode.  “That’s it, bitch, cum on my leg so you can lick it off!  Go on, you fucking lackey!”  I was thinking, Mrs. Cavindish would never approve, just before shooting cum all over Mrs. Grave’s leg.  She didn’t even let me finish cumming, before pushing my head down to her leg.  Raising, she pushed me further, until my face was right over the offending discharge.  “Now eat it.  God damn you, slut, eat it like the whore you are!”

Half of me wanted to, and the new, less excited part of me said, no way.  Still, I was in no position to anger Mrs. Graves, and was thinking that she’d maybe warm to me a little if I did, so I stuck my tongue into my mess and tasted it.  It wasn’t so bad, so I took some more, feeling the inside of my mouth start to get sticky.  “All of it, slut.  Go on. Eat it.  I want to see how much you’ve learned about being a woman!”  She was wicked, I realized.  Mrs. Graves was a natural born dominatrix.  I bowed my face to her leg, and licked up a stream of cum.  “All of it.  Every last drop.  I shouldn’t have to go get a wash rag when you’ve done it right, cunt!”

“Yes, Mistress Graves,” I whined, lapping up the rest.

“Now clean it.  I want my leg clean.  Lick it like a kitten, without the spit.  Nice and slowly, every last bit of where your filthy cum touched me!”

I licked, as Mrs. Graves laid back, enjoying her conquest like the pampered old woman she was.

“That will be enough.  I want you to go back to your hut.  If you tell anyone about this, I’ll cut you off.  Snip, snip.  I mean really cut you off.  And, remember, Jo.  You’re my girl now.  If you as much as touch any of the other women here, you will definitely regret it.  Now get out of here!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, grabbing my panties, stepping out of bed, and finding my dress.

I found my way back to my room, feeling like a delinquent teenager.  I remembered that I’d forgotten my check back in the library after I’d left the porch, feeling more loss than I knew it was worth.  Dogs were barking at me from across the field.  It as darker than the trip to the house, so I was even less sure about that Buick.  I looked away, thinking over more immediate problems.  No doubt, a hundred fifty years ago, some young black slave girl had done exactly as I was doing, after a night of sex with the Master that amounted to nothing less than a really nasty example of sexual assault, loosely connected to the job.  Mrs. Graves had not only raped me, but done so at the threat of dire employment consequences, or worse.  The fact that my submissive nature had allowed me to get off on some of it, only made me feel more violated. I was beginning to understand why women always say rape is an issue of power.  As for power, what was it to that threat of cutting something off?  Surely even Mrs. Graves couldn’t pull that off, I was denying, seconds before remembering she’d pulled off legal slavery.  What was the difference?  Maybe I shouldn’t tempt to cross that line?

As I opened the door to my miserable, lonely little room, it struck me that I’d been divorced now for almost half a day.  I’d stuck that into the back of my mind in the fray.  Maybe raping me had been Mrs. Graves odd way of helping me acclimate to the news.  I went back to the window, and tried to see plum through the first few houses.  What was my wife ... ex-wife ... doing with the driver of that Buick?  In some ways my life had become plain and boring, while in another vein, I was starting to appreciate the complex and more colored world that I’d left behind with renewed appreciation.

MRSGRAVES

by: counterparts199

part 8

The next day Mrs. Graves treated me like I barely existed, which was normal if a person can forget the sex.  I started feeling like one of those high school girls who was loose and had those mornings after when the guys were all worried that they’d gotten the girl pregnant, or that their steady girlfriends would find out.  It was fitting too, I realized, feeling increasingly controlled by a Mrs. Graves who insisted upon the masculine role as much as she insisted upon me becoming more feminine.

“The madam would like to see you in the dining room,” said Janet, rather coldly.  She’d been a little like that all morning.

I walked in, stopped several feet from the table, curtseyed and said, “You wanted to see me, madam?”

“Yes.  I was hoping to discuss your problem.  You’ve been here awhile, and up to now I have allowed you to get accustomed to the work.  To be honest, I was also appraising your abilities.  It seems that you’ve done as well as can be expected with the new job, so I feel a responsibility to maintain certain aspects of my implied obligations.”  She left that hanging, taking a sip from her morning coffee, and setting her paper a few inches further over fidgety.

“What obligation might that be, ma’am?”

“Well, when I met your ex-wife we discussed your interest in dominant women.  I think she was just looking for someone to talk to about it because she’d kept it bottled up so long.  Once she opened up, it became fairly apparent that she was not the woman for you.  My dead husband, on the other hand, was a worthless bastard.  I’ll confess a fault.  I’ve wanted to get even with him for his womanizing and abusive behavior since decades before he died on me.  I used to imagine him lying on some bed with a massive stroke, just so I could sit beside him and torment him with stories about long trips and grand balls.  Or maybe, I would go in and start beating him with a switch until my arm hurt.  I hated the man so much I’m afraid it has made me a bit overbearing.  That’s not attractive in a woman, particularly in a woman of age and station.  So I was, in a way of thinking, as removed from the things I needed as was your ex-wife.  Under the circumstances, I imagine even you can see the poetry in what has happened since then, and how you fit into the equation?”  She looked at me, the look telling me that her last sentence was a question.

“Uh.  Yes ma’am.  I suppose so.”

“You suppose so?  Alright.  Well then.  I have something for you.  I have gone to the trouble to impose upon my doctor.  He thinks I’m too old for birth control, but I convinced him that I will need the prescription anyway.  A very potent version in fact, and considering my age, one supplemented with a fair dose of estrogen.  Of course, both he and I are well aware of the fact that I am no longer able to bear children.  You see, he has been made aware of my project with you.  We’ve decided that some supplements might help you down the path I have decided for you, and that the birth control angle will help keep things quiet until you are further along.  We’ll start with these.  There will be prescriptions more impressive when you’ve been properly examined, and these are gone.”  She picked up her paper, and uncovered two circular dispensers of birth control pills.

I looking at the odd blue dispensers that were tossed across the table.  My wife had used similar dispensers for her pills, never willing to bear my child, and having grown less inclined to discuss it as things had gotten progressively less harmonious.  “Why, Mistress?”  I asked.

“It’s simple, slave.  I mean to abuse you.  You might as well get used to things like this.  I feel that it is my obligation, in any event, to torment you in as many ways as I have time to engage.  If I did anything less, I’d be unfaithful to my verbal commitment with Miss Call.  In the mean time, I would expect that you’d show some outward sign of thanks.”  She waited, expectantly.

“Thank you, Madam Graves,” I said, wondering how hostile her intentions were.  Did I hear her correctly?  Did she say that she intended to torment me?  Why had that appealed to me before?  Why was my cock hard, even as my stomach churned in fear?  I took the pills, and held them at my lap, hiding my erection because it terrified me as much as her words had.

“Give the pills to Janet, and tell her to regulate your daily dose.  Tell her that you need them because you want to be a better girl.  I’ll check with her later to make sure you were sufficiently humble while making the request.  That’s all, slave.  I’ll see you tonight,” said Mrs. Graves.

Tonight?  I curtseyed, and backed out of the room.  I found Janet two rooms away.  “Mrs. Graves said that I should give you these pills and have you make sure that I swallow one every day, because she wants me to be a better girl,” I told her, red faced.

“I see.  Well, if you want to be a better girl, then I have just the job for you.  There is laundry, and this evening Mrs. Graves is having company, so you can wait the table for service.  I’ve also made a decision that from now on you are responsible for insuring that the bathrooms are cleaned before eight.  I expect a periodic recleaning, as dictated, throughout the day.  Now it would be best if you got to work, don’t you think,” said a testy Janet, handing me a pill, and watching that I properly swallowed.  I again had the feeling that I’d done something wrong.  I was beginning to think that Janet was jealous because of Mrs. Grave’s attention.

The further the day went along the more I worried about that dinner.  Then I was in the kitchen, helping Mrs. Cavindish set the pans of food out under the red lights, staging them for the dinner.  Janet refused to help me set up the table, only bothering to tell me that it was a table for four.  I struggled to remember those lessons Angie had put me through, finally settling on my best guesses.  To be honest, the chores kept me from panicking over being outed to company.

“They’re ready to be seated,” announced Maria to me and Mrs. Cavindish as she came into the kitchen.  I swallowed, knowing that was my cue to walk out into the dining room, and help the guests with their chairs.  I walked out, passed my table setting, and stood by the room’s front door, ready to feel like a total fool in front of people I hoped I didn’t know.

Two ladies, a man and Mrs. Graves, all apparently in their fifties, walked in, chatting idly.  I helped the ladies with their chairs, and then helped Mrs. Graves with hers.  It seemed that I’d managed the first maneuvers without raising any interest, their conversations continuing uninterrupted.  It didn’t appear that anyone was having problems with the order of the silverware either, I noticed while bringing out the third and main course.

Clearing away the main course dishes, I fumbled with some silverware, banging a fork on a plate, and gaining an eye from Mrs. Graves.  “Sorry, madam,” I whispered, the rest of the guests apparently not party to her disapproval.  Then they were eating deserts, most of the hectic part over as they lingered over the dish.  As expected, I waited at my station beside the kitchen door, a little relieved that I’d raised so little interest, in fact imagining myself invisible.  From time to time the conversations shifted to interesting topics though, and I found myself repressing the urge to add my two cents worth.  I was guessing that I was invisible; irrelevant; in a way of thinking, no better than a robot in a room of pretentious geniuses.

I started thinking about that lapdog to the mining owners, State representative Campbell, an apparent good old boy puppet of the man Mrs. Graves addressed as Judge.  My mind wandered, wondering how it was that a politician who’s has nothing in common with the average constituent, gets elected anyway, just because a bunch of rich people who own everything in sight, pay for twice more bumper stickers than the next guy?

“I do recall Mrs. Steward asked for another tea, Miss Warner!”  Came an insistent voice that wasn’t shouting, but was obviously displeased.  I felt my stomach jump.  She’d called me Miss Warner instead of Jo, a breach of protocol meant to tell me my mind had wandered and I’d messed up.

“Sorry madam.  Right away,” I said, getting the judge’s wife’s cup, and bringing back a refill.

They were talking about me when I returned, my worst fear.

“Yes, she is coming along very well, Mildred, but I have high expectations.  You get what you expect with these people.  My mother taught me that, and I’ve never forgotten it,” was saying Mrs. Graves to the lady who’d come alone.

“If you ask me, she’s a he,” said the judge, at least consistent in his habit of being outspoken to the point of being rude.

“Henry!  Please,” deplored his wife.

“She didn’t hear me.  Besides, she does; it’s not meant to imply she isn’t giving quite wonderful service though, Mrs. Graves.  I always find your manor amazingly well managed,” he said, to his wife, and then to the host.  Why he’d thought I’d not heard, on the other hand, seemed only explainable by the delusion that we servants had bad hearing.  I suppose the way we were expected to listen to the masters and mistresses conversations so mutely might lead any person to suspect us unable of either hearing or thought.

“Thank you, Henry,” replied the, to them, always polite Mrs. Graves.  “To be honest, she is a he.”  Everyone but the single lady seemed shocked to hear that, Henry perhaps more than the rest, in spite of his observation.  For my part, my head bowed about as low as it could get as I realized everyone was looking at my deep red features.

“I’m sorry he brought that up,” the judge’s wife said, probably because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“It’s not what you might think,” added Mrs. Graves.  “We have no personal relationship, and she’s not gay, as best we can tell, more of a transvestite; you know, someone who enjoys dressing in female clothing.  I met her through a friend who knew of Jo’s unemployment, and her rather substantial ability to do domestic service.  As you know, good help is quite difficult to find.  One either learns to improvise, or one simply does without.”

“We would never have thought of it.  We lack your imagination,” complimented the judge’s wife, taking on a suddenly royal voice.

“Do they have any more where this one came from?” Asked the single lady.

“You’ll have to get your own, Mildred.  I can’t imagine having to go through that dreadful agency in Richmond again, trying to replace her.  Oh, and that reminds me.  Jo, I need a word with you!”

I jumped, not imagining she’d want me for anything other than the background of service.  “Yes, Madam Graves,” I said, stepping to her side, and doing my best to curtsey in a way that didn’t look like a curtsey to anyone other than her.

“I remember that earlier today you requested that Janet help you regulate your estrogen.  Is it possible that she misunderstood you to imply that I made the request that she should administer this medicine for you?”

It caught me by surprise.  I thought back, remembering how Mrs. Graves had told me to tell Janet that it was my idea.  How had I phrased it?  I suppose I might have phrased it wrong, perhaps in an attempt to save some face.  Everyone at the table was looking at me curiously, the word estrogen probably ringing in their ears.  The idea of saving face completely foreign under the circumstances.  The best thing I could do was get it over with fast:  “I must have made the wrong implication.  I’m sorry.  I’ll meet with Janet as soon as I am free, ma’am, and insure that she knows it was my idea.”

“Very good, girl.  You may go back to your station,” dismissed my Mistress.

I had to stand by the wall, enduring the occasional glance from the strangers.  Being humiliated in front of the man was bad enough, but Mildred had her own way of looking at me from my legs to my crotch, and then jumping right up to my face, that was borderline evil.  When Mrs. Graves offered to move the conversation back to the living room, it was all I could do to bring my pussy whipped body over to Mildred’s chair to help her up.  She brushed up beside me, as if feeling me up, and then disappeared just ahead of the Mistress, who turned and said, “You may clean this up now ... quietly Jo.”

I stood over the table a few minutes, waiting the shakes out of my knees, before clearing the dishes from dinner.  I felt so violated that I had to lash out, so I cheated and ate some of the royal food, stealing the last bite of cake from the judge’s wife’s plate.

MRSGRAVES

by: counterparts199

part 9

Mrs. Graves was still upset with me about not fibbing to Janet that the medicine was my idea, so after the guests left she had me up to her room where she bound my arms in front of me and bent me over a chair for a bare bottom strapping.  Those strappings became a common way for her to show her displeasure.  It seemed almost as if I’d gone back in history to an earlier day when such punishment was common for the servants in a household.  Servants were as if children, always in need of correction in the minds of the aristocracy.  For me, I might as well have been in the nineteenth century, and I had just enough masochist within me to endure the inequities of the century.  I sometimes found the whippings erotic, I was thinking maybe because Mrs. Graves had a way of making them seem normal business.

Then there was the matter of Maria’s closeness.  Maria was a good looking girl, and in spite of the fact that after two months I was changed from birth control pills to a more transsexual specific drug that laced my veins with both estrogen and female hormones that gave me hot flashes, I still thought of myself as a man.  One night out on the lawn, she and I got a little too close, and were touching skin to skin.  We retired to Maria’s room, where I tried to overcome the effects of the drug.  My cock was hard, but smaller than it used to be, rising to maybe a little under four inches.  I struggled to put it inside of her, but as I struggled it shrank until getting it inside of Maria was impossible.  She seemed to sympathize, stroking me with her hand as I masturbated her to orgasms.  Still, it was very embarrassing to me.

We kissed for several minutes, then she changed tactics, touching, and finally sucking at my budding breasts.  It was an odd sensation, the way my breasts moved, no longer tight to a chest of muscle, but rather loose and riding on what seemed like a new layer of fat.  My breasts were not yet a legitimate size A, but the changes to me seemed dramatic.  The nipples positively screamed, and because I was turned on, it was pleasurable.  Still, all her attention managed to do was make me more horny, and I felt it too much of an imposition upon Maria to ask her to stroke me as vigorously as I needed since the shrinkage caused by the medication.  Defeated, I shrank away to my room.  It had been months since a woman had touched me in an intimate way, to no satisfaction.  They had seemingly taken the last thing from me.

I grew distant.  Maria and I tried two more times, but without good result for me, each defeat building upon the other to make me feel less adequate as a man.  The pressure itself had become the issue.  I think she still liked me, but for a month we seemed to fall back into that ‘just friends’ sort of thing.  I can’t say I didn’t feel relief that the romance had cooled and I no longer felt so pressured to perform beyond my capabilities.

Every day I worked, endlessly.  Maria and Janet each had a day off, but I worked seven days a week, usually for fourteen hours.  Then, at the end the day, Mrs. Graves would occasionally use me for oral gratification, a whipping, or just plain mental anguish.  It seemed as if she had some kind of special psychological need to run me down with verbal tirades that only seemed civil because she rarely considered me worth the energy for a shout.  When she called me in the middle of the day it was always for some major complaint that I knew would cost me dearly later.  I’d been there almost five months, one day seemingly meeting the next head to head, when she called me about the toilet.

“How do you expect me to sit on this!”  Screamed Mrs. Graves.  Janet came running, soon standing in the doorway, watching Mrs. Graves lambaste me for what looked like a spot of urine and a pubic hair that had splashed up and landed in the inside edge.

“I did them this morning, madam,” I said.

“Don’t you imagine that I might have used it when I woke up, girl?”

“I’m sorry, Mistress,” I said, knowing she’d slipped into her more sadistic, Mistress mood.

“Get on your knees and lick it clean.  Maybe next time you’ll learn to pay better attention to your job,” she insisted, pointing at the bowl.

I got on my knees, and started to lick gingerly.

“The hair too.  Now swallow.  Put the lid up, and let me see what else is filthy.  Just as I suspected, there is more filth on the inside of the rim, and up on the top of the porcelain.  Lick every last drop of the bottom of that seat, and up around.  Maybe next time you’ll see these things.” She waited while I humiliated myself with my tongue all over the toilet.  It was really not dirty, except for where Mrs. Graves had splashed water and urine during her last toilet.  For the most part it didn’t even taste salty, the drops mostly water.

“Now get out and wait in the hallway.  Janet will make sure you stand properly for a girl in need of correction,” said the older lady, shutting the door behind me.  I stood against the wall in the hallway.

Janet turned me around, so I was facing the wall, and pushed my head down in an exaggerated bowing position.  “You’ve messed up again, Jo.  The mood in the house is going to be intolerable.  I sometimes think it would be better around here without your help,” whispered Janet, furthering my sense of lonely denial.

The bathroom door burst open.  “Now get in here!  On your knees.  Put the seat up and stick your face in the water.”  I bent down, as instructed, and was soon looking at a pool of yellowed water.  Did I hear her right?  I looked over at the madam of the house.

“You heard her!  Put your head in there, and while you’re at it, take a nice few swallows!”  Said a suddenly helpful Janet, reading my mental question, and coming around Mrs. Graves.  The head maid pushed my face down into the toilet.  I was soon underwater, as far as my face knew, my eyes shut.  Janet grabbed the back of my head, and pulled me up.

“Put a mirror in there so we can see that his eyes are open and he’s swallowing,” said an approving Mrs. Graves.  Janet had never been an active participant before, and was probably trying to save face for the whole staff by being so abusive, but Mrs. Graves had obviously not only approved, but taken an active hand in assisting.  The mirror was dropped into the bowl, and my head suddenly back under.

“Open your eyes and swallow some, or I’ll drown you,” said Janet, her knee over the back of my neck.

I opened my eyes, seeing my watery self in the mirror, and then, almost as if drowning, swallowed a small amount of the water.  A few seconds later my head was pulled up.

Janet took a mouthwash cup from the dispenser, and dipped it in the pool.  “Drink this.  You’ll not embarrass the staff by doing bad work again, Jo”  I took the cup, and drank the slightly salty water and urine mixture.  “Now put your head back in.  Do it yourself, so I can flush you,” said a very sadistic Janet.  I looked over at the approval on Mrs. Grave’s face, and then dropped my head back into the water.  Janet flushed the commode, and the water whirled down in a spiral.  I watched the water drip from my face as the seat refilled.  The commode water slowly came up to meet my face again, resubmerging me.  After a minute of holding my breath I got up.  Both women were gone, apparently satisfied with my humiliation, and gone off to more pressing matters.  There were drops of water everywhere, so I went to the linen closet, and found my cleaning supplies.

Janet came for me that night in my room.  I walked by Maria’s room, seeing her light on, and knowing she’d not know a thing about the way I was probably about to be abused.  Just inside the door, Janet picked up some leather cuffs, buckled and then padlocked them onto my wrists.  I was in for it, and now Janet was going to be an assistant.  The prospects that I was to have one less ally in the house won at first, but as I was led through the house by the short chain between my wrists, I started to get a little turned on by the whole affair.  I used to show that with a hard cock, but my cock never seemed to get very hard anymore.  We went up the stairs, but then, just as I expected we’d turn towards Mrs. Grave’s room, Janet instead directed me up into the attic.

Mrs. Graves was up there already, waiting in an old, high armed, purple chair that had been uncovered, unlike the other formless things covered by white sheets.  The wooden floor was dark from decades of waxed in dust, the old, forgotten furnishings ghosts under their sheets, the ceiling a gothic array of joists and dormer windows.  In all of that, a rope dangled inside of a roughly circular clearing where to one edge Mrs. Graves sat wearing a red satin blouse, black stockings, heels and a very black leather skirt.  The colorlessness surrounding her made her seem awesome.

I was shoved forward, nearly to the point of stumbling, by the hand of Janet at my back.

“You are here to pay for your infractions over the past month.  We have listed twenty-three demerits in only thirty days of service.  We ... are certainly aware of your personal preference for strong, authoritative women.  So, in light of our understanding of what motivates you, we have decided to do the best we can to use that for both your and our benefit.  Janet, please position the offending maid for her punishment,” proclaimed Mrs. Graves from her seat.  I saw her lift what looked to me like a leather swivel stick, like the kind old generals used to carry under their underarms when they wanted to look pretentious.

Janet guided me under the rope, and then tied the rope to the chain connecting my leather wrist cuffs.  Then she went over to the wall where the other end of the rope dropped out of the rafters, and looped that end under a leg of a huge oak dresser.  She pulled me up until I was on my toes, and then tied it off.

“The panties, and then the bar, Janet; if you don’t mind,” said Mrs. Graves.  I looked around, feeling very vulnerable, my eyes twitching from one woman to the next.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Janet.  Had I heard that right?  Janet had called Mrs. Graves Mistress?  What had Maria said about Janet sometimes spending the night in the house?  I’d not imagined this kind of connection, but stretched like that, it all came together.  Janet and Mrs. Graves were lovers!  No wonder Janet had cooled to me after that first night when I’d been used by Mrs. Graves for oral satisfaction.

For her part, Janet simply came over and pulled my panties down to the floor.  Then she went over to the bottom drawer of a covered dresser, extracting a three foot long bar with a few feet of rope tied to eyelets embedded into each end.  She knelt down in front of me, and tied one of my ankles to one end of the bar.  I found myself standing on one set of toes, but then she pushed my tied leg out even further with the bar, and tied the other end to the ankle supporting my weight.  I lost my balance, and found myself hanging by my wrists, my outstretched legs now at an angle that made my overall height insufficient to keep me from swinging.  the fact that I occasionally touched the ground with a big toe seemed incidental to the idea of control.  When she was done, she went over to her Mistress, and sat at her legs, holding one leg in both arms lovingly.  They sat there together, admiring me as I swung in a slow circle, until I finally slowing.  I became a dead weight, the women off to my left side.

“We’re going to administer twenty-one corrective blows.  Do you approve, slave?”  Asked Mistress Graves.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said, mainly because I knew better than to pick another answer.

“Good.  Now we advise that you refrain from screaming, though we do expect that you will make some moans.  You may feel sick to your stomach, so it’s best that we not gag you.  If we have to we will.  Is that understood, slut?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said, tears already in my eyes.

“Very good then.  You may proceed, Janet,” said Mrs. Graves.  The Mistress crossed her legs as her head maid got up and took the crop from her hand.  Janet walked in front of me, and grabbed the hem of my dress.  She lifted it until it was brought over my head where the dress was left as if a pillow, bunched up around my shoulders and behind my neck.  I looked down at my garters, full size A bra, and white stockings.  My shoes had long dropped in the space just below my dangling, little, drug neutralized penis.  I realizing how ridiculous I must have looked to Janet.  For her part, she stared at me wickedly, smacking the crop against her palm.

When I saw her hand drop back, as if about to bowl, I tried to bring my legs together defensively, managing to roll in my knees some, but not avoiding the first vicious delivery into my nuts.  I felt the dull pain bite, and then felt my stomach churn.  I wanted to double over, but I was too stretched, my legs coming up and my back arching instead.  I groaned, “Please.  No.  Not this.  I can’t take this!”

“We’ll wait for you to stop swinging,” was all I got from Mrs. Graves.  Janet waited in front of me patiently.  I couldn’t believe what was happening.  They were just waiting for me to stop struggling so they could do it again.  The pain in my wrists was going to be a factor, I understood, motivating me to let myself get still so it could be over, while at the same time, I needed to struggle to put some time between the sickening deliveries.  I brought my knees down, and felt myself slowing, closing my eyes in the hope I’d not see what was inevitable.

“When you open your eyes we can start again,” said the sadistic Mrs. Graves.  I slowly opened them, knowing I was again hanging still and long, another perfect target.  Janet’s hand came down again, and my knees instinctively pulled up, this time covering me completely.  Janet stayed her hand, and then went over to Mrs. Graves to sit down at her feet.  “We have all night.  Let us know when you are ready, slut Jo.”

I was openly crying, all sense of pride completely gone.  Minutes ticked by.  My hands felt as if they were going numb.  I had to make some choices.  “OK, Mistress.  I can do another now,” I said, feeling like my own mouth had committed treason.

Janet came in front again, and quickly did a back swing, and then a delivery, my knees flinching up, but I somehow found the will to make it not enough to keep the blow from landing uncontested.  Again the agony in my groin, and the lurching feeling in my stomach that receded slowly.  I cried out an intense, “Ohhhh!”

Over and over again the cycle continued.  The brutal thuds into my testicles had made the whole of my lower body into one digestive contraction.  Suddenly one vicious blow overpowered my system, and I found myself unable to catch the bile that filled my throat.

“Oh, and you were doing so well,” said Mrs. Graves from her seat.  She motioned for Janet to come sit at her feet while I choked for control.  The front of my body was covered with the vomit.  The smell made it harder to recover, and I let my newly clammy body swing until I stilled, unable to volunteer for another blow.

“Please, Mistress Graves; no more,” I begged.

“You have eight more to go.  You will take every single stroke, because you have earned them.  We have all night.  I have already made that clear.”  She looked down at Janet, and stroking her hair, said, “Go get a pail of soap and water.  There’s no need to leave a mess that will spoil the rest of our lesson.”

“Yes, madam,” said Janet, leaving us alone.  I was starting to recover enough to hold my stomach, and realized that Janet’s chore would leave me hanging by my wrists several times longer than I might have preferred.  After all of the heaving, my breathing had started to become an issue due to the strain upon my chest muscles.  To ease the strain I hang my head back, opening up the airway as far as I could.  Up above me the rope twisted slowly between my wrists.  By sheer weight, the buckles on my leather wrist cuffs were forced together, digging into the opposing hand.

Janet left us both to our thoughts, Mrs. Graves apparently intent upon proving her patience with the chore of waiting me done.  “Mistress!  I don’t even know all of the infractions.  I thought I’d only made a few mistakes,” I said, trying an argument in my defense.

“The issue I am teaching here is decision making, Jo.  We all have to make decisions throughout our daily affairs; don’t you think?  For example, two weeks ago you were assigned the duty of cleaning a guest room at the end of the hall.  You failed to take things off of the shelf over the fireplace before dusting.  You could have considered the fact that the room had gone undusted for two weeks, and that it is impossible to get at all of the dust without moving and dusting the items on the shelf.  It was a decision poorly made.  Things like that might not be mentioned as they occur because I’m a busy woman, so I just keep a book.  Considering the long list of demerits, I have decided to give you some motivation, while at the same time displaying the importance of making the hard decision.”

“Hard decisions?”

“Yes, hard decision.  Thinking about the weight on your arms, you have to make a simple choice; keep hanging until your arms stretch out of your sockets, or move forward with the beating, right up to the edge of endurance.  I imagine that right about now you are regretting your loss of stomach control.  I am guessing that you can hardly wait until Janet gets back, so she can crush your testicles with one more blow.  Is that right, slave?”

“Yes, Mistress Graves,” I said, rolling my head around in a losing attempt to ease the cramping that had moved into my shoulders.

“Decisions, decisions.  Sometimes they’re made for you, and at other times you get to make them yourself.  Oh, here she is.  Tell Janet how much you have missed her, slut!”  Commanded Mrs. Graves.

“I’ve missed you, Janet.  Please, hit me again,” I begged, needing to take the count down to seven.

She looked at Mrs. Graves, who nodded.  Janet picked up the crop, and aimed.  I put my head back, and let my body hang limp, my knees not even attempting to come up.  The blow tore into me, and my knees came up almost to my waist, where they waited out the pain, before slowly moving back down.  I could feel Janet cleaning my body off as the swinging of the rope eased.  Water was splashed into the bucket from the rag.  When Janet was done cleaning up, she ripped into me again, each blow now being delivered into swollen tissue.  I could feel my scrotum stretching from the torment, making the target area easier to hit.  My muscles racked with exhaustion, I realized that my knees no longer came up between blows, and the wait had similarly been reduced since I no longer had the strength nor will to resist.

I’m not sure if I passed out or not, but I found out I was done when Mrs. Graves whispered into my ear, “That’s twenty-one, maid boy.  Do a better job next month, and it won’t go so hard!”

Janet dropped me to the floor where I fell into a heap.  I think I passed out again, but when I woke up the cuffs were gone, and Janet was in the chair watching me.  “You can take your panties and shoes and go back to your room now.  We’ve decided to let you sleep until ten.  Besides, it’s Sunday, and the madam will be at services.”  I got to my feet, and walked bent over due to the strain from the attack upon my groin.  Just outside the house I puked into the bushes for a second time, hoping like all hell that nobody had seen me do it and checked it off as blow number one for next month.

MRSGRAVES

by: counterparts199

part 10

At times during the next few days I literally couldn’t move my legs.  I went to work, as was always expected, but I found myself propping myself up by the wall or some piece of furniture.  Slowly my legs came back though, so that by Wednesday I was recovered enough to spend a few late night hours out on a lawn chair by my room door.  Over across that now mythical field, my old life still called to me.  I sat entranced by the lights of the houses.  All I had to do was get up and walk over there.  It wasn’t that hard to do, I told myself.  The fence was mainly rail, and easily hopped.  I could take the road or the field, either was easily traveled.  All I had to do was get up, I repeatedly told myself.  Angie was over there.  Surely by this time, she’d have had time to think it over and feel lonely.  All I had to do was just get up!

I got up out of the chair.  Something like a veil ripped away, giving me courage.  I found myself at the fence, and then over it.  My dress snagged on some briars, but I kept on going, preferring the half hidden field to the fully exposed road that would leave me vulnerable if someone drove by.  It seemed like only seconds before I stood in the back yard of the closest house.  Mrs. Meijer had left some wash out on the clothesline.  I grabbed a pair of pants and a checkered shirt, quickly discarding my dress, and changing.  I crossed the second back yard, making a circle around towards the woods in order to avoid Benji, the neighbor’s dog who was on a leash yelping at me as if I were a stranger.

Then I was standing in my own back yard.  I could tell by the feeling of the grass under my feminine black work shoes.  I walked up to the back door, and looked in the back window.  The room was dim, but the door at the other side of the room was slightly ajar, yielding some light, but little else.  Benji was having a fit, and I noticed Mr. Anderson glancing out the window towards me.  I waved, thinking that even in the late evening gloom he’d recognize my outline.  Stepping around the side of the house, only Angie’s car was in the driveway.  I grabbed the front door, finding it unlocked, and stepped into the house.  There was a new couch, and the walls had been painted, but enough of the place looked familiar to put a tear into my eye.  I was home!

“Honey, I’ll be ready in just a momen ....”  Angie came out of the bathroom talking, and then saw me, stopping mid-sentence; frozen in place, matter of fact.  “Uh.  Hi.  What are  you doing here?”  She asked, nervously, as if she’d seen a dead relative that she was afraid might bite.

“I wanted to talk to you,” I said, trying not to seem threatening.  Then I froze.  Angie was pregnant.  Not just pregnant, but very pregnant.  It took me no time at all to see that she was at least seven months along, maybe eight or nine.  Judging from what I was looking at, no doubt she’d been a little pregnant even while we’d been together, though I couldn’t remember her having allowed me to have vaginal sex with her for at least three months prior to our split.

“I see.”  She stood there a minute, the tension building.  She dropped her hands over her huge belly.  “So, have you taken a good look at yourself?  I mean, this is so spur of the moment, the way you’ve dropped in.  Maybe you should go back home, and think about doing this when you’re not, you know, like that,” she said, stumbling over the words.

“Me?  Like what?”  I asked, still shocked over the way she looked.  I was thinking it a diversion to take the attention away from her condition.

“Your face.  It’s ... different,” she said.

I turned to a glass covered picture on the wall, and squinted at my fully made up face, wavy hair and all.  Even the maid cap was still held in place by a half dozen bobby pins.  I might as well have kept the dress, I was thinking, as I turned back to face my prego ex-wife.

“I’m sorry for the way I look.  I just wanted to tell you that I love you, and didn’t want things to go this far.”  I took a step towards her, and she almost leapt back.

“No.  Please,” she said, holding her hand up, as if shielding herself from me.  “Ron will be here any minute.  You should leave.  I have a restraining order,” she said.

Back behind me I could hear a car motor pulling up the driveway.  It might as well have been a million miles away though.  “A restraining order?  What have I ever done to require a restraining order?”

“You live right over there.  I didn’t want to take any chances.  I don’t know what crazy thing you might decide to do; I mean, look at what you’re already done to yourself.  Just look at you,” she explained.

“But don’t you know what you’ve done to me?  Don’t you care?  This isn’t me; this is your work,” I took a step closer.

“Just stay away from me!” She said, louder than she needed to be, and seemingly ducking.  I backed a step myself, repulsed by what I could hardly interpret as anything other than an act of fear; an act for whom, I wondered?  The door behind me cracked shut about half a second before I felt a boot smash into my backside.  I fell over the coffee table, smashing two legs in such a way as to send me sliding over the far edge face first.  Someone sat on me, mindless of the damage to the furniture.  I looked around just in time to see Ron’s fist say hello to the top of my head.  My head bounced off of the floor.  I woke up a few seconds later to the sound of sirens racing onto my lawn.  Obviously someone had tipped off the cops, but at the moment I was thinking of them as saviors.

“He just barged in here.  I have a restraining order.  Look at my table!”  Said a mother-to-be whom I’d once called my wife.  She stood by the front door, now acting for the sheriff deputies as they raced past her, and planted knees into my kidneys.  My hands were pulled behind me, and I was cuffed.  I wondered about a country that calls itself the land of the free, handcuffing and arresting a man for asking a woman who’d sold him into slavery, why; not to mention the fact that I imagined a rib broken in back, and could barely see for the blood dripping off of my forehead.  I’d been assaulted for Christ’s sake!  Then I looked at the ‘innocent’ pregnant lady as she stood crying by the door, her hands over her baby protectively, and realized how important it was for the cops to make an example of the pervert in their hands.

“Please, don’t let him come back here.  Let me know if you let him out,” said an obviously over-acting Angie as I was pushed into the back seat of a patrol car.  They talked to Angie and Ron for awhile, I was thinking, just to make sure everyone in the neighborhood could get a good look at me in my glass zoo.  A seriously concerned Mr. Meijers and Mr. Anderson joined in the official conversation as the officers took notes on a metal clipboard.  I just decided then and there that the entire concept of dignity no longer applied to me, burying my head in my arms like some kind of famous criminal.

Finally the cops got in the car and we took off for the station in Fayette.  I looked up at Mrs. Grave’s house as we drove by, seeing a light come on in the front room.  The cops were talking to one another about me, occasionally looking over a shoulder, or into a rear view to see if any of it was sinking in.  It was, but not like they thought, because I was dead.  I’d decided that way back there.  I was just dead, and they were hauling around a corpse.  More than anything else though, I wanted my corpse to get as far away from everyone as I could.  Or, at least to Fayette.

Going to jail was tough.  They marched me into a relatively quiet sheriff’s station, but there was nothing tender about the way the officers handled my body.  It was obvious that they thought me no better than some kind of sick, gay stalker.  In these parts, gay is a very bad thing to be; better I’d have been perceived as a murderer.  It’s a religious bias that drives these rednecks, and thus a deep seated thing that dredges up anger against those who represent behaviors for which they’ve been constantly brainwashed to detest.  Make no mistake about it, half the cops in even more enlightened communities are one step away from KKK members - though they will be quick to inform a person that there is no resemblance, simply hijacking the excuse that they’d not applied for membership cards.

I was jammed into a holding cell while every dick in the force walked by on the other side of my one way mirror for a peak at the freak.  I didn’t have to see through the glass to know that.  Then I was paraded down a row of cells, where all the cons got a nice floor show of drag hanging out of my stolen jeans and shirt.  My cell had two other inmates, both of whom thankfully shunned me.  It could have been worse, but even the cops knew better than to push the luck of inhospitality and thus stuck me with relatively sensible inmates.  After two hours of holy hell, the jailer got tired of the heckling, and escorted me to solitary where I could nurse my hastily bandaged head with a bloody towel without worrying about which con or cop was going to rape me first.  I laid on the unbroken rib side, enjoying the wooden cot.  I thought about bail, and the thought wasn’t hopeful.  Where would I go anyway?  The best place on the planet for me, the past five months, seemed to be solitary confinement.

Three days of solitary confinement had me thinking otherwise.

MRSGRAVES

by: counterparts199

part 11

“Your honor, the Sheriff has put in a special request that we expedite this case, and the defendant has not made an objection,” said an official on the other side of the aisle.  I’d been paraded into the room in a ridiculous belt cuff and ankle chains, as if I were Dillenger.  I’d sat in back room waiting for my trial long enough to know everyone was brought in like that, but it seemed excessive.  I mean, after all, all I did was talk to my ex-wife.

“What’s the rush,” said the judge.  I recognized the voice, and for the first time, raised my face to see into the eyes of the man I’d served dinner for a week before.

“It’s the transsexual person.  There’s an issue of safety,” said the administrator.  I thought, oh god!

“OK.  What’s the charge?”  Said the man, as he reread my case.  I had no doubt he knew every single detail of the charge.  I gathered a little courage, and glanced at the gallery, seeing my ex-wife, Ron, Mrs. Graves, Janet, and Mrs. Cavindish.  In back, a bunch of reporters were taking notes.  I turned back to listen to my charge, thinking, I’m not Dillenger, I’m Lee Harvey Oswald.

“The defendant is charged with assault, breaking and entry, disregarding a restraining order, theft of a set of clothing, and resisting arrest, your honor.”

“What is your plea, uh, Mister Warner?” Said the judge, a serious look on his face.

“I just went to talk to my wife.  I didn’t break anything, I didn’t know about a restraining order, I was the one assaulted, and the officers just cuffed me while I was unconscious on the floor, so I guess the only honest thing to plea is not guilty; though I doubt it will do me much good, your honor,” I spat back.

“These are serious charged, young man,” answered the judge, implying that he regarded my statement as frivolous.

The trial went smoothly for the prosecution, everyone exaggerating to the point of bald faced lying.  I appeared to have a court appointed lawyer, though I’d met her after I’d entered my plea, as she hastily ran up to the desk, and hurriedly looked over my charges.  Then she introduced herself, calling me Mister Warner.  I was impressed by how quickly she said, “No questions, your honor.”  The sum total of my defense lawyer’s questioning amounted to her asking me, “Could you give your account of the events on the night in question.”  I gave my interpretation of the events, while the judge looked like he was grading papers.

“Is that your case?”  Asked the judge, ready to hang me.  I was doing calculus:  Let’s see, six months for assault, three months for breaking and entry, three months for stealing five bucks worth of clothing, three months for violating a court order, maybe six months for being in a position that required the sheriffs to get down on their knees to handcuff me.  By the time I got out I’d have an asshole the size of a basketball hoop.  On the bright side, I was betting they paid more in jail than they did at Mrs. Grave’s mansion.

“I have a statement, if the court doesn’t mind,” said Mrs. Graves, standing up.

“Who, might I ask, is requesting to be recognized?” Said the judge, obviously wishing to maintain the illusion that his biggest campaign contributor was an unknown.

“My name is Mrs. Graves, and I am owner of the Graves properties.”

“Please proceed.”

“Thank you, your honor.  For the past six or so months, Mister Warner has been in my employment.  I felt it was a community duty for me to provide a place of employment for him, as well as an environment within which he will be of no communal threat.  I doubt, quite seriously, that Mister Warner had bad intentions, and had he been aware of the court restraint, would have surely avoided this unfortunate mess entirely.  In all of my time as his employer, none in my staff have ever noticed a moment within which Mister Warner has shown anything but the most passive of attitudes.  In fact, in its own perverse way, it is his very docility that may have led him to his sexual orientation.  I make no excuses for that, nor do I necessarily approve.  However, he is not a violent person, and I seriously doubt, not the general nature of the testimony you have heard today, but the excessive nature of the claims.  If in fact, Mister Graves assaulted anybody, it would have been completely out of character.  I have brought Mrs. Cavindish, a leading member in good standing with our local Baptist Church, and a member of my staff, as a witness to his peaceful nature.

In addition, I have brought Mister Warner’s doctor, Doctor Elder Smith, so that he might make a statement regarding Mister Warner’s medication, which may be a factor, bringing on unusual emotional swings.  As I understand it, these medications can be changed, with better result.  I wanted to address this court, and assure it that in our care, Mister Warner is no threat to the community,” said Mrs. Graves.  And, I’d always though her a bitch?  I looked around the audience for my doctor, but it could have been anybody.

“Could we take this into conference,” suggested the judge.  The judge, prosecutor, Mrs. Graves, a man whom I realized was my doctor and the thing I was supposed to think of as my lawyer, disappeared behind a door.  I was beginning to realize how blind justice can be, given nothing vaguely ‘me’ was in there to argue my case.  In a way, the US justice system was no better than the good-old-boy slavery system of old.  I imagined them all slave dealers, in there deciding which party was going to get what payment in capital or flesh, in exchange for the ‘boy’ on the block.

The doctor and lawyers came out, looking at me as they sat down, as if they’d found out something colorful to tell their kids over dinner that night, or maybe to put in the book, I was thinking, the way the reporters got busy writing in back.  My lawyer tapped me on the shoulder, and said, “The judge wants you to speak with him in chambers.”

I got up, and escaped into the sacred room, my chains dangling like a scarlet letter.  I was sat in a chair, me on one side, and Mrs. Graves on the other, facing the judge’s desk.

“Mrs. Graves has offered to remain your employer and guardian.  She and I have agreed to this upon the understanding that your transsexual process is to be accelerated, so that your dosage of estrogen can be reduced.  The doctor seems to believe that it was the strong medication that set you off, and that the castration will go a long way towards both allowing for a reduction of medication, along with the calming effect of the accompanying reduction in testrone.  Did I get that right, Mrs. Graves?”  The judge actually deferred to the woman, and I quickly understood who was calling the shots.  It was as double revelation, feeling the word castration in the bottom of my gut, and knowing who owned this proceeding.

“Yes, that’s exactly correct.  Are you open to this solution, Mister Warner?”  She looked at me as if I had a choice.

“Not exactly.  I never told anyone that I wanted to be castrated, for crying out loud.  This has gone too far,” I protested.

“Well, if that’s what you want.  I can see that I’ve overstated my thoughts regarding Mister Warner’s intentions.  I withdraw my offer,” said Mrs. Graves’ getting up to leave.  She shook the judge’s hand, and turned to go.

“Wait a minute!”  I shouted.  Mrs. Graves stopped and looked at me curiously.

“Where does this leave me?  I want to know my options before everyone just runs out and burns bridges behind them,” I protested.

“Fair enough, Mister Warner,” said the judge, waving his hand, and offering Mrs. Graves her seat back.  “The assault charge, coupled with the resisting arrest issue, is likely to land you in jail for three years.  I could be lenient with you, but I’m not inclined.  This case has gained a lot of local publicity.  I’ll be frank about it; it’s your first run-in with the law, but the public is going to vote for me a lot faster if I put you in jail than if I let you off easy.  I know that, and so do you.  It’s an issue with, you know, some homosexual pervert, running into a pregnant lady’s house.  Think of it like some guy coaxing a child into a car, and you’ll get a feeling for how most people in these parts are thinking about your situation, Mister Warner.  I know better, and so does Mrs. Graves.  I’ve seen you at work.  I know you just visited, and got caught up in the ordeal, but it doesn’t do any of us much good under the circumstances to know that, now does it?  So, once I tuck in all the other charges, you’re five years from the outside, and if I might add some insight, you’re hardly be better off then than you are now.”

“So you’re going along with this,” I said, though he took it as a question, and shrugged.

“It’s not what you think, judge.  I’ve been held a virtual slave by Mrs. Graves.  She has a contract that she holds over me.  I don’t think it’s legal, but I’ve been afraid to test it out.  In the mean time, my conniving ex-wife has left me penniless, so I don’t even have the money to buy a decent set of clothing.  The best I can do is three dollars a week, and Mrs. Graves makes that out in a check.  I never get off of work in time to cash a check, and I’m sure as hell not going to the bank to cash one dressed like a maid.  Don’t you see how I’m trapped by these circumstances?  It’s slavery, I tell you, and it’s illegal,” I said.

“Are you talking about this contract, Mister Warner?”  The judge handed me a copy of the contract, which, suspiciously, he had right on top of a small stack of papers.  I read it, much more carefully than I had when I was thinking I was playing Mistress and servant with my wife months earlier:

Contract of Service.

I, Joe Warner (party one) do hereby offer to work as a domestic maid to Mrs. Helen Graves (party two) in exchange for food, proper clothing, basic needs, shelter, medical care and the consideration of three dollars per week.  Term of this contract will be for twenty years, after which time party one and two may resign for additional terms of twenty years.  All labor efforts will be to the best ability of Joe Warner (party one).  Additional payment will be granted to Angie A. Warner for consideration, as specified in a separate contract.  Service will be rendered under the strict and rigid guidelines of party two, or her designate, after complete training by party two, without consideration for normal time off as granted by state and federal laws, due to the unusual nature of this properly excepted service work, unless granted by party two, as signed by, Joe Warner (party one).  Since terms of employment are ‘in house’ domestic service, minimum wage laws will equally be waved by, Joe Warner (party one).  Laws regarding standard breaks are being voluntarily negated at the request of, Joe Warner (party one).  The term of this employment will continue until declared null in void by Mrs. Helen Graves (party two), or until fulfillment of the original twenty year term.  In the event of early termination, which would constitute a breach of this contract, Joe Warner (party one) will pay for an alternative servant at the rate of $750 per week, or revert back to the conditions of this employment if unable to meet the rate within two week, after which party one will remain responsible for any payments to Angie A. Warner outlined in separate contract.

Signed employer (party one):                Joe Warner                        date 01/10/99

Singed employee (party two):        Mrs. Helen Graves             date 01/10/99

Witness:                                Antonio Fernandez            date 01/10/99

Notary:                                Becky Bendner                  date 01/10/99

“Yes.  That’s the contract.  As you can see, it constitutes a virtual state of slavery,” I told him.

“Well, I’m not here to dispute a contract today.  This would be a civil matter, but then again, in the interest of expediting the case that is before us, I will give you a professional opinion, one not tainted with any bias that I am sure you are imagining I hold, Mister Warner.  This contract specifies compensation for work.  Contracts of service are well founded, as long as both sides of that agreement meet certain conditions.  For example, comparing it to the alimony settlement in your divorce, Mrs. Graves is in essence paying your alimony payments for you.  Any court of law would consider that to be substantial compensation.  That separate contract, alluded to in the service contract, amounts to six hundred dollars a month.  She also has kept to the provisions in the contract that specify she maintain all your needs, clothing food, shelter, etceteras.  As far as I can tell, this is a perfectly valid contract of labor.  In fact, I know of a similar case, that was ruled in favor of the employer, so there is even case law.  To be fair, I also know of a case which was ruled in favor of the defendant, but that was an example where both compensation and a time frame were lacking.  In this case, we have a very clear time frame, defined by weekly checks, and the entire contract extends to a clearly defined twenty years; additionally, I have no doubt that Mrs. Graves can show that she has met the other demands of compensation.  I myself have been witness to your health, proper clothing, and apparent willingness.  In fact, Mrs. Graves was concerned enough to bring your doctor to this court room today.  This, Mister Warner, hardly supports your claim of enslavement, though it does testify to a certain indigence.  Sir, indigence will not help you in these criminal proceedings.”

“I have the checks in question, your honor.  I have them in my bag in fact,” said Mrs. Graves, producing the checks.  “I have always been more than willing to cash these myself, but Mister Warner seemed disinterested in the money and never asked that I cash them for him, choosing instead to leave them on my desk.  I felt that it would be in his interest for me to hold onto them until he felt it necessary for the money.”  I was thinking, this is going too smoothly; they’d thought of everything.

I signed.  “Can I speak with Mrs. Graves alone for a minute?”

“Seems like a good idea,” said the man, leaving the room.

“You’ve been insolent, Mister Warner,” said Mrs. Graves, breaking the silence.

“I’m sorry.  It was just getting to me.  There was so much I didn’t know.  I had to go see her.  It’s over now.  Of fuck!”  I said, wondering why I was acting like a run-away child to his mother.

“That’s two demerits, slave.  I’m adding it to the two hundred I’ve put in the book for this whole mess.  We’re going to have quite a time three weeks from now on those balls of  yours.  But then again, we won’t be there, will we, slave.  We’ll be in a place where we’ll get a nice, close-up look at everyone else’s nasty, hairy balls.”

“You can’t be serious about castration.  There has to be some limit, Mrs. Graves,” I said, trying reasoning.

“I have limits, Mister Warner.  Really, I do.  This just isn’t it.  Besides, you want me to do this to you.  You’re a submissive man.  I’ve read all about your kind of man.  This is your opportunity.  I’ve only transgressed to the degree that I’ve recognized that men like you exist, and that I can take advantage of that.  That makes me a very honest person, Mister Warner.  What does that make you?”  She asked, shaking me to my core.

“What do you mean,” was all I could say, feeling the quivering of my soul.

“I mean that you are a naturally submissive person.  You could have walked away at any time.  It’s a civil case, the judge said.  Do you honestly think I could have sent the police after you for a civil matter?  Of course not!  You stayed because you liked it.  You could have gone over to that yard quietly, and snuck some clothing, hopped a train, and spent a day doing dishes in some diner a hundred miles away where nobody has ever heard of Mrs. Graves.  Before you knew it, you’d be a new person in a new town; maybe even a city where there are jobs for men like you.  But no, Mister Warner, you stayed ... what, over five months.”

“Yes,” I said, as if hypnotized by the truth in her words.

“All you lacked was one thing, Mister Warner.  You lacked that final moment of surrender.  Just like one big exhale, Mister Warner.  The simple internal act of saying, I give up; this is me!  Now you’re in here, making up excuses to the judge; pretending I’ve done something to you, Mister Warner.  All I’ve done is give you a job, and your life’s dream, Mister Warner.  Instead of fighting me, you should be worshipping me.  Isn’t that what your kind do ... Mister ... Warner?  Worship women, Mister Warner?”  She said, striking nerve after nerve.

“Yes,” I said, feeling a stirring in my loins.

“I have plans for you, Mister Warner.  I need you castrated in order to see them through.  Besides, if you do this, I’ll delay your punishment until you heal.  Think of it this way; it will seem much less painful without the balls.  Watching you in pain never did much for me anyway.  I’d far prefer to see you without those balls and I might even finally feel some comfort for how much I’d like to see my dead husband that way.  You have no idea how often I’ve dreamed of cutting his off and feeding them to the dogs, the filthy two timing bastard!  I’ll see you without your precious jewelry, and imagine him there.  Oh yes, I certainly will think that.  Every day you will remind me of my revenge, and every day I will remind you that you’ve finally arrived in your little world of total submission.  We were made for one another, Mister Warner.  You understand that now, don’t you?”

I slumped in my chair, defeated.  “Yes, I see that now, madam.”

“Shall we call the judge in, and tell him that we’ve reached an agreement then?”

“Yes, Madam Graves,” I said, completely at her mercy.

Ironically, it was my balls that were doing the talking, as I internalized the subsequent act of surrender.  I was put on two years of house arrest, a thick electronic transmitter bolted to my ankle like I was some kind of deer being studied by the University.  Mrs. Graves drove me to the clinic, where I was put under.  By the end of the day I was resting my banded ankle and bandaged crotch on the bed in my room, Maria caring for me like some kind of nurse.  She did her best to be loving, but I was finally too removed from maledom for either of us to again mistaken each other for a lover.  When the bandages came off, I sat looking at the mirror, unable to come to terms with the fact that I’d had my last ejaculation.  Sticking out like a foreign growth, my penis was the size of a peanut.  I had overwhelming desires to fuck something, just to prove to myself that I could, even though I knew damned well I couldn’t.  I started to appreciate my morning pees most of all, because it was the only time I saw anything close to an erection, though those were both brief and seldom and not all that impressive by most standards.  After a week of lying about, I went back to my chores.  In time I remembered what Mrs. Graves had said to me about just submitting.  She’d been right.  Things were better when I came to understand not just that I was a slave, but that this was what I deserved to be.  I started to cherish the moments in her presence, so that I could revel in the submissive joy of knowing she’d done this to me, and that I reminded her so purely of her own dominance.  I was a thing she’d created, for my total demotion, as well as for her own secretly sadistic thrill.  It was all head game, but it was all that I had, and in a way, all that I needed.  After all, I’d given all I had to it, so it had to be enough.

MRSGRAVES

by: counterparts199

part 12

“We’ll need to take you off of that estrogen for awhile, Jo.  In a week or two I’ll put you on a much smaller dosage.  You’re a nice size B, and your face and body are getting quite a bit nicer.  You’ve put on some nice fat in just the right places, and I don’t think we’re going to need any cosmetic work since I hear you’re not all that interested in dating anyway.  How do you feel about coming off of the saturated estrogen, Jo?”  Asked the doctor.  I’d been ordered by Mrs. Graves to act like it was my biggest dream on the planet to be female.  It had been a fantasy, I now felt more comfortable admitting, and since my surrender, I took it all in, knowing Mrs. Graves enjoyed each of these little surrenders so.

“I hope it doesn’t cause me new difficulties, doctor,” I said, playing along.

“Well, we have other medication for what is needed right now.  Mrs. Graves has filled me in on what you want.  I’ll admit that I had to do some research on her request.  Very unusual; in fact, I’m not sure if anyone’s ever done this.  I do admire her interest though; I’m considering writing a paper if it works.  A lot of women I know could care less about this, so I kind of admire her commitment.  Oh, here we are.  This will require a daily shot.  Maria, I am told, will be doing this for you.  She apparently had a diabetic aunt.  Oh, here she is.  Maria!  I’d like to watch the first one, and see that all is going to be done well,” said Doctor Smith.  Maria sat down, damped my arm with some alcohol and stuck me with the first dose of new medication.

I though about asking what it was for, but then remembered the doctor had said that she’d wanted to tell me herself, and to be honest, I needed the domination of being left out of the decision to keep me into it.  Mrs. Graves would tell me in time, and not knowing made me feel so much more used.  I had grown to cherish the mental aspects of submission quite a bit, given that I no longer could ejaculate, and therefore enjoy the more physical connections.

Four days later I could feel my breasts go from tingling to plain sore.  I was getting a little worried when I examined them, and saw how swelled both the breasts and aureoles were getting to be.  I went to the refrigerator in Mrs. Cavindish’s kitchen, and pulled out the case of serum.  Prolactin and Oxytocin seemed to be the main ingredients.  I’d never heard of them, but they were listed under pituitary hormones on the box.  I set the serum back, and then looked up in time to see Janet standing in the hallway, looking at me.

“Mrs. Graves wants me to start you with the pump,” she said, leading me into a greenhouse room attached to the far back corner of the house.  There on a table was an electric motor with some valves, tubing and cups attached to them.

“What is this about pumps, Mistress Janet,” I said, curtseying, as was the new protocol.  I had become officially under both Janet and Mrs. Graves since returning, and not just as a third maid in the pecking order.

“These are for your breasts.  Mistress Graves has said that she feels it would be amusing for you to pump yourself three times daily.  Maybe you’ll develop a pair of those puffy nipples.  Wouldn’t you like that?  Frankly, I don’t like the idea that you’re going to get to sit back here in the sun three hours a day diddling yourself, but it’s the Mistress’s wish, so I’m here to make sure we do this by the instructions,” she said.

Janet continued, “Unbutton yourself in back, and pull your arms out the dress.  There we go.  Now unhook your bra, and lay out your breasts.”

While I undid my top, I could feel her eyes running over my upper body.  There was little doubt that Janet was a natural lesbian, but I’d not been entirely sure until I’d seen that look a few times.

I hesitantly sat down in front of the contraption, my breast jiggling with new heaviness as I sat.  She read from a sheet of paper, and then took an empty bottle out of a box, and screwed it into a lid that had a tube running into it.  Then she attached the tubing into the pump assembly.  Two other tubes were put onto the motor assembly, and then the electrical cord was plugged into an outlet.  “OK.  put some of this lubricant on the cups, and hold them up against your nipples,” said Janet.

My face squinted up, “What!?”

“You’re nipples.  Look, it’s obvious.  This is a pump for your nipples, stupid.  Put the things on, and I’ll turn it on,” said Janet, insistently.

“This is so ridiculous,” I said, picking up the cups.  They looked like little glass half globes.  Each was maybe three inches in diameter.  On the ends, orange rubber tubes were attached to the motor assembly.  Around the circular edge of each glass globe was a thin rubber gasket to keep the glass from actually touching the skin.  “Oh god,” I moaned, putting the lubricant on the rubber gaskets.  “Oh!”  I cried in my increasingly soprano voice, and holding the offending devices up to my breasts so they were firm against my skin.

“OK.  Well, here goes the switch,” said Janet, turning on the motor.  It instantly started to whine, and the suction instantly pulled my aureoles and nipples into the cup with enough force to scare me.  I could see breast half fill the three inch diameter globes, the newly fat nipples almost into the tubing.

“Oh, that’s delicious.  I take it all back.  I’m going to love making you do this,” said Janet, standing up and watching over my shoulder as my nipples were tugged by what felt like a little oscillation in the suction.

“This is ridiculous,” I repeated, feeling stupid as I held the cups up to my nipples.

“Well of course it is, slave.  That’s probably why Mrs. Graves wants you to make sure you do this three times a day.  I’ll make out a schedule so you can humiliate yourself by the clock.”

“Oh god,” I said, as Janet turned to leave me pumping myself for an hour.

“Don't you cheat now.  I already have you down for a demerit for complaining at first,” she said, leaving me to my self torment.  I cringed at the thought of another demerit; I had those two hundred, and at least eight more in the past month, my stitches still not healed enough for me to pay any of it back.

After awhile I realized that I didn’t have to hold the cups all of the time because the suction kept them in place all by themselves.  Maria walked by the back window, doing some lawn work, and she took one look at me and starting laughing, which hurt because she’d been the one person I’d always been able to count on as a friend.  Of course, it was funny.  What a stupid thing, I thought, though I let it into my brain so I could appreciate its submissive qualities and experience this as one of the little mental torments that I’d come to associate with sex.  I looked down at my ankle transmitter, and realized that it was a good thing I was starting to mentally adjust to my submission, because for all intents and purposes, the outer perimeter of my enslavement was the law.

When I was done, my breasts hurt from the pulling.  I cleaned the new machine of torment, and went back to my maid duties, though I was soon led back by Janet for rounds two and three that day.  It seemed that Mrs. Graves, for all of her trouble, didn’t feel the need to actually be involved, which surprised me.  I was even beginning to think that Janet had set this thing up by herself, for her own thrill of humiliating me.

The next day we were back at it.  Mrs. Cavindish walked by, and shook her head at my perdition.  By the fourth morning I was in intense pain.  The combination of the new medicine and the hours of tugging at my nipples was starting to give me a constant ache.  I was half an hour into the torture when I realized I had developed an infection, and was leaking a clear, thin puss out of my left breast.  I stopped the machine, put myself back together, and went to see Mrs. Graves.

“Come in, slut,” said Mrs. Graves who’d not called me Mister Warner or Jo since she’d driven me home from court.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mistress,” I began, curtseying.

“Nonsense, maid.  I know you wouldn’t interrupt me without an excellent reason,” she responded, walking around, and sitting on the edge of her desk.

“I was pumping my breasts, as you instructed, and I’ve seemed to have developed an infection, so I thought it best to stop and let you know,” I said, holding my head low so all I could see was her feet.

“Let me see,” she said.  I pulled my dress loose, and guided the swollen breast that had leaked out for her inspection.  She grabbed it in both hands, and ran her finger over the wet nipple.  After running the liquid between two fingers, she tasted her finger.

“It’s milk, silly.  It tastes like sugar water.  You’re lactating.  I suggest you go back to the pump and add another half hour to this session,” she went back to her desk, and sat down.

“Lactating Mistress?”

“Do you want a full explanation?” She asked.

“Yes, please Mistress,” I confessed.

“You’ve been on hormones designed to promote both the development of milk and the development of the delivery mechanisms in the breast.  Surrogate motherhood helped create the domestic need for better drugs in this area, though some women are capable of lactating with simple, though repeated stimulation.  As for men, it’s probably never been tried.  The first thing we had to do was stop your estrogen, which simulates what happens after the delivery of a baby.  Estrogen, it seems,  actually inhibits milk development,” explained Mrs. Graves.

“So you want me to be milked then?”

“Well, it is a cute way of humbling my slave, now isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course, Mistress Graves.”

“Actually though I’ve had a more practical reason.  In fact I’ve been planning this for a long time.  Your ex-wife and I were talking and I believe it was Angie who said it would be nice if you were to volunteer to baby-sit after the deliver, when she and Ron went out, and later when she goes back to work at the school.  I offered your services for half of her monthly stipend.  She said that was very reasonable, and we struck a deal.  But then she said, “Too bad he can’t nurse too.  I imagine it is a pain, pumping and storing bottles.”  Apparently Angie is interested in nurse feeding her baby.  We laughed it off.  Then I read about surrogate mothers in a Ladies Journal, and the idea dawned upon me that it might be possible.  Of course, the idea of stopping estrogen would immediately present a problem if you still were producing testrone, so of course the testicles needed to be attended to.  Your trouble with the law provided us with precisely the leverage we needed to see to that difficulty.”

“Difficulty?  Yes, of course, Mistress Graves,” I said, seeing how outclassed I’d been all along by a much greater master plan.  What good would it do to argue at this point, my testicles were probably trophies in some nurse’s jar by now anyway.

Mrs. Graves went on, “Imagine how pleased I was just now, to discover your lactation.  You’re going to make a wonderful part time mother to the baby.  I can’t say I’m not excited about having a little one around myself, though I intend to open up the last quarters next to yours, and putting in a nice rocker, with all of those baby things; maybe a little fence with some of those things young ones climb on.  Mister Graves and I never had one of our own, and I was not inclined to present him with one from adoption, given how much of a prick he was.”

“I see, Madam Graves,” I said, feeling defeated.

“Well that will be all, slut.  I believe you still have another half hour of pumping.  If you get any in the bottle, feel free to dispose of it.  Angie’s baby is due, but I imagine she will be several weeks before she’ll need your assistance,” dismissed Mrs. Graves.  She walked back to her seat, a smile of satisfaction upon her face that I don’t believe I’d ever seen before.  It must have been the thought of a baby on the grounds, or maybe it was just the thought of how total and permanent a thing like that would mean towards my surrender.

I curtseyed, and walked to the door.  Half way to the door I turned, and asked, “Madam Graves?”

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering.  Do you know whose baby it is?  Maybe it would be best that I didn’t know, but I doubt I can keep it from troubling me to distraction.”

“I see.  Well, I’ve discussed that with Angie myself, and it seems she’s still a bit unsure herself.  Perhaps you can ask her that someday when she brings the baby over.  I can see a certain titillation - if you don’t mind me using that word - in either situation, can’t you slave?  In a funny little way it’s reminiscent of when we bred our own labor on the plantation, and at fifteen the little darlings often became property for sale.  Who did the breeding hardly mattered when it became time for the transaction.  Oh, excuse me, of course this hardly bears a resemblance.  Is that all, slut?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, going back to my pump where I sat dutifully pumping with a completely new perspective upon the humiliation.  As I pumped my nipples, I thought back upon Mrs. Grave’s reference to the horrible practice of selling a slave’s children, and understood, perhaps better than she, the emotional similarity, though no doubt to a much less dramatic degree.  By the next day I was beginning to show several ounces of milk in the bottle at each pumping. 

MRSGRAVES

by: counterparts199

part 13

“Isn’t the baby delightful!” squealed Janet, grabbing the baby from Angie’s arms.  Up on the porch, Mrs. Graves waved towards the driveway.  Ron was in the car, checking his watch impatiently.  It was nearly seven thirty, and I imagine they were going to the movies in Fayette, which as I recalled from a distant life, started at assorted times near eight.

I did my best to keep myself turned so that Ron couldn’t see my face.  Janet handed the baby to me, and I took it, surprised at how little it weighed.

“Now you be careful with her, Jo.  She needs to be checked for diapers every half hour, and she’s probably going to get fussy in a few minutes, because she needs to be fed every three hours.  Try to keep her up as much as you can, because I want to get some sleep tonight,” instructed Angie, looking at the side of my face.

I turned, and said, “Yes ma’am,” before looking away again in utter humiliation.  I wanted to ask her whose baby it was, but quickly realized I’d never have the nerve to ask her.  If it was mine, I’d feel like Ron had not only stolen my wife, but also my child.  If it wasn’t mine, then I was going to be getting sucked dry by the baby of a man who’d cuckolded me.  In a funny sort of way, not knowing was better than either option.  Maybe while I fed it I could think of it as mine, and while it was gone, I’d think of it as his, and be able to manage with that sort of complex psychology.

“I don’t know about this,” said Angie, fidgeting.

“Oh, don’t you worry about a thing.  Mrs. Graves has had our new maid reading every baby book in the library.  She’ll do fine, I promise you.  If she doesn’t, you just let me know, and she will be substantially reminded of her responsibility,” reassured Janet.  I knew exactly what she meant, and so did Angie, smiling a wicked little smile.

“Well fine then.  We’ll be back at around eleven thirty,” she said, opening up the car door.

“Don’t hurry.  Just tap the horn when you come in, and I’m sure Jo will bundle up the baby and bring her right out to you,” said Janet, poking a finger into the bundle and coochi cooing the child.

Angie left, and I was left with her baby.  I walked the bundle back to the new nursery, and sat with her in the rocker, uncovering her head.  She looked so vulnerable and trusting.  I immediately realized that whatever was nuts about my life, had nothing to do with this little one.  To my horror, I understood that I had new mothering instincts, having instantly fallen in love with the infant.

She had dark hair.  Sometimes that changes, I understood from my reading.  As far as I remembered, both my parents had, had blonde hair like I did.  Of course, she did have Angie’s eyes, except for the blue part, which the baby and I shared.  She definitely had Ron’s chin, but maybe all babies had that Neanderthal chin thing, I was thinking.  Those wrinkles under the eyes, and that nose were mine, I was betting.  I noticed that her skin was a bit dark.  Ron looked Sicilian.  I was getting nowhere.

Then she started to fuss.  I checked her diaper, but it was dry.  I tried rocking her, and then walking her, but it got worse.  Way back in the back of my mind I was thinking, I’m running out of options.  Then the baby turned her head, and put her face to my breast, sucking and making my dress and bra wet.  Inside, I was leaking too, and she sensed the lactose, finding my nipple.  My breasts were full, and had been left that way in anticipation.  The proximity of the baby’s mouth seemed to make my breasts ache even more, me thinking it likely that the reaction was something like a Pavlovian response.  What was I going to do, I fretted?  I sat in the chair, understanding the moment of truth had come.

I pulled down the front of my new, looser uniform, and opened up a cup on my new nursing bra.  The baby had her own mind, her head shifting in jerks before finding my nipple.  Her lips fumbled for a seal on the unfamiliar tit.  For something as small as it was, the baby put up one hell of a suction, easily rivaling the action of the pump.  Her gums, though toothless, tended to bite fiercely on occasion.  I held the baby closer to hold off the biting, and started to rock, accepting Angie’s baby to my chest as she started to suck her nanny’s first breast dry.

THE END