Get Out of My House

Today - Sunday, 4:22 PM

He clicked into the kitchen. The tears on his cheeks were no longer streaming, but he wiped the remaining watery trails away.

She was peering into the refrigerator, her back to him.

He did not know what to say. He just knew he was done.

Whatever game she was playing, she had taken it too far. Mark could not do this anymore. It was just...

...too much...

She pulled another bottle of wine from the fridge and placed it onto the counter. Without a word, she turned to look at him.

He felt uneasy. He had just exposed himself to a stranger. Exposed himself not once, but twice. He had been on the floor, crying like a little girl. He had let himself be lifted to his feet by HIM.

How could she ever see me as a real man again?

This dress-up game had always been a fantasy, but the reality...

I really feel like a sissy.

This was not the fantasy that aroused him. This was no longer pretend. He felt like a real, honest-to-God sissy.

She did not speak for a long time. When the words came, her voice did not break the tension he felt.

"You called me Ma'am."

"Tricia..."

"You called me Ma'am and NOW we're on a first name basis?"

"Please..."

"I believe you were told multiple times how to address me, maid."

"Tricia. Please. This has to stop. I don't want to do this anymore."

There. I said it.

For some reason just getting the words out felt like a major accomplishment. He wished it had sounded more forceful and less like he was begging. Even in his normal voice, there was a soft, submissive femininity to his words.

She stared at him. Her eyes were dangerously angry. He tried to maintain eye-contact, but after an uncomfortable silence, he dropped his gaze to the ground. He found himself staring at the tips of his tiny boots.

"I will not tolerate a disobedient maid. Get out of my house."

"What!?!?"

His head whipped up to gape at her.

"Please leave my house immediately. If you don't, then I'll have Charles escort you from the property."

"This is my house too!"

"Charles!" Her voice rang out through the house.

"No! No... please, Tricia..."

Her eyes flared even more even as a smile crept onto her face.

"Miss Sellers. Please! Miss Sellers. Please... Don't call him in here."

His heart was pounding out of his chest.

She's serious.

She was going to have that huge man in the other room, escort him from the property.

I have no keys... no ID, not even my underwear.

Where will I go? What will I do?

"Please... Tricia... Miss Sellers... please... I'll be good. I'll do whatever you say. Whatever you say. I'll clean up the mess. I'll go out on the patio. I'll be the perfect maid!"

He made his voice switch to Lacy's. Anything to reason with her.

"I'll be the perfect maid, Miss Sellers. Please. Just please don't... Oh, God! Please don't..."

The door behind him opened, hitting his backside. He stumbled forward in his heels into the center of the room, frantically waving his arms to regain his balance. Behind him, the tall man entered.

"Did you call me, Tricia? Anything I can help with?"

Oh, God! She's going to do it. He's going to throw me out! He's going to put me out of the house in this outfit.

His overly wide eyes locked onto the stranger that used to be his wife.

...eyes begging... eyes pleading...

"Lacy wants to apologize to you, Mr. Goodwin."

Her eyes never left his. There was fire in them, intense and serious. The words dripped with unspoken threat.

There was no hesitation from Mark.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I'm so very, very, very sorry, Mr. Goodwin."

Mark never looked at the man, but the words flowed out of him in Lacy's soft, submissive voice.

"Sorry for what?" the stranger asked with an amused smile.

Mark's eyes darted to his wife who only cocked her head curiously at him as is asking him the same question.

What am I sorry for? Is the man daft? I just apologized, do I have to spell it out?

"I'm ... "

Words left him.

What am I sorry for? Oh, god! I don't know!

"I'm... um... sorry for spilling the wine... and for making a spectacle of myself..."

The words were even less forceful now, trailing down to a soft mumble.

"And?" Tricia's voice made it very clear that the danger still loomed for him if he did not find the right apology.

"... and I'm sorry for ... being disobedient. I'm very, very sorry."

Tricia laughed. It was not exactly a pleasant laugh.

"You just can't get good help these days, can you?"

Mr. Goodwin smiled and shook his head.

"Normally..." Tricia said, pushing past Mark towards the door to the hall, "...normally, I'd spank her for her behavior this afternoon."

Mark was mortified.

She won't! She can't!

"But since you're the guest, I think you should have the honors."

Mark's mouth dropped open, his eyes widening in horror.

"After we eat, though. Our lunch is going to be stone cold. Lacy! Clean up the mess you made in the hall and then go eat your lunch on the patio. We will discuss this further after lunch."

With a twirl, Miss Sellers strode from the kitchen and made her way to the dining room. Mark stared after her, mouth open, with a brain that seemed to have stopped functioning. It was only as Mr. Goodwin stepped closer to him that he suddenly snapped back into this strange, new reality.

"Don't worry, babe," he said, snaking an arm around her waist and forcing her into a half hug. "I'll be gentle."

His hand darted beneath her skirt and gave a short, sharp smack on her bare bottom. Deep in his brain, Lacy's Bimbo-Slut squealed with girlish delight.

Mark did not move or make a sound.

He could not move.

Something in his brain had just short-circuited.

Here he was in the middle of his own kitchen, dressed as the most sexualized and submissively sissied maid ever. A strange man was holding him close and groping his bare ass.

Mark could not even comprehend this situation.

Lacy, on the other hand, knew just how to handle things.

The Bimbo oozed into Mark's body like she was dipping her foot into a comfortable bath. SHE spoke the words that came out of Mark's pretty, pink lips.

"Thank you, sir."

She felt Mr. Goodwin's rough fingers on her chin. They pulled her face up to look at his own. He was holding her so close. His arm was around her waist, trapping her against his maleness. Without a word, he leaned forward and gently kissed her on the tip of her nose. Lacy stared at him cross-eyed as he did it, the expression of a complete and total air-head.

"Besides," he said, giving her ass another squeeze. "You might just like my spankings."

Then he was gone, heading back to the dining room.

Lacy found herself pushing her very erect cock down between her smooth legs.

A man just kissed my nose.

A man is going to spank me for being naughty.

A man just pressed... something very, very hard... against my belly.

Oh, God.

The final thought was shared between Mark's male brain and Lacy's bimbo one. The connotations were very different.

Mark could not get his erection to go away. He tried. He tried really hard to think of something non-erotic. He tried to think of anything else. He tried to focus on his fear, on his humiliation.

It did not help.

The Bimbo in his brain had returned and she kept focusing on the fact that a man had just felt her up. Her mind kept dwelling on that threat of a spanking. Everything had turned hazily erotic again, and Mark could not quite regain control of his own brain from her.

One hour.

It had taken only one hour since the mind-blowing orgasm in the study, and suddenly he was once again randier than a cat in heat.

As he mopped up the wine from the floor, his outfit caressed his every move. The shoes were still painful, but now erotically so. They forced him to stand with his ass and chest out, his every breath causing his swelled chest to heave. The corset still made him breathless, narrowing his waist down to nothing in a delightfully sexy way. The garter straps stretched tight against his thighs and ass each time he bent or stooped. There was a soft and sensual residual taste of lipstick on his lips. His long, strawberry-scented hair constantly swept across his face as he bent over. All of it was erotic again.

But not like before.

It was entirely different now.

Before, it had been a game.

Now it's real.

He was a maid. An honest to god, sissified maid. This was not doing chores for an erotic reward. This was cleaning because he had been commanded to do so. He dared not disobey, not after that last, little scene in the kitchen.

Mark was absolutely certain of one thing.

Tricia WOULD throw him out of the house.

He would be put out on the curb in the ridiculous heels and the breath reducing corset, completely exposed.

Tricia could probably do it without the help of Mr. Goodwin. If he were to help her, he was stout enough that he could carry Lacy over one shoulder without even breaking a sweat.

The thought made Lacy squirm with erotic delight.

Why is Tricia doing this?

Had he done something to Tricia to deserve this?

Mark wracked his brain. He could not find anything. There was no hint at all as to why Tricia was doing this to him. The only thing that kept floating back into his thoughts was his promise.

Tricia never forgot a promise.

But what did the promise of a photograph have to do with any of this?

Ten Months Ago - Tuesday, 8:19 PM

"You hate your job!" Tricia said, her voice was near a yell, "Quit!"

"I am NOT quitting my job."

Mark was angry.

Why are we even having this conversation?

"Look. I had a rough day. I just wanted to come home and vent. I don't need you to solve this."

"Mark. You HATE your job. We don't need the money. I'm doing well enough for the both of us."

"I make more than you do."

"No you don't, sweetie."

Her voice had suddenly turned soft and it stabbed at Mark like a knife.

"What?"

"I got a raise four months ago."

"You didn't tell me!"

"Do you blame me?"

Silence loomed.

The fight was over.

They sat in silence at the dining room table, she at the head of the table, and him beside her. His bare arms felt cold as they rested on the cool marble table-top.

Reality dawned on Mark for the first time during that silence. She was sitting at the head of the table.

She has the larger income.

At some point... not today, not last week... but at some point in the past... she became the dominant member of the household.

"Honey," her hand went on top of his, "You're not going to stay at that job."

He did not like the tone. That was Tricia's decision making tone. She made HIS decision for him.

Anger flared back up in him.

"Yes I am! It's my job, and I'm going to stay at it as long as I damn well please!"

He stormed from the room.

They made up later that night. It was a rare occasion where they had legitimate sex. With little over a year of marriage under their belt, despite being virtually newlyweds, they had settled into a routine. More often than not, she preferred his tongue to the thing between his legs. It brought her there quicker and better. With her needs spent, she would then encourage him to finish himself off. It was quick. It was easy. It was routine.

This night was different. She climbed on top of him, mounting him without warning. The submissive part of his personality kicked in and his eventual orgasm was amazing.

Her orgasm could be heard down the block.

Today - Sunday, 4:45 PM

The air on the patio was brisk. There was just the beginnings of a winter chill in the air as Mark took a deep breath and stepped outside. He carried a small plate of pasta. It was already congealed and he knew that he would not eat it. Even if his stomach was not a giant ball of nerves, there was nothing appealing about it.

Gingerly, he sat on the lawn chair, his stocking-clad legs together and his feet to the side in a very ladylike manner. He arranged his skirts carefully...

...very, very carefully...

... so as to hide what lay exposed beneath.

He placed the plate of food on the side table, put his hands in his lap and stared straight ahead trying to lose himself in denial.

I am not sitting on the patio in a slutty, French maid uniform. I am not sitting on the patio with no underwear, dressed in a slutty, French maid uniform. I am not sitting on the patio, with no underwear, waiting to get spanked by some strange man in my own house, dressed in a slutty, French maid uniform...

The first wolf-whistle caused him to close his eyes. If he kept them tightly closed, maybe he could wake up from this nightmare.

Beneath his skirts, his erection throbbed.

The chill air, the even colder seat and the complete and total humiliation of the day slowly drove the Bimbo to the deep, dark recesses of his mind. His arousal fell away.

Over an hour later, he heard Tricia yell for him from the house.

She's yelling for HER. For the Bimbo maid.

He had no idea how many people had seen him sitting out here. He did not want to know. He only hoped anyone who saw him thought he was a real maid that they had hired. Better to be seen as a sexual, womanizing deviant, than the maid herself.

If any of them noticed it was me...

I don't think I could bear it.

Carefully, he stood up. His tiny, cold knob of manhood bobbed under the petticoats. One of his garters popped off and he watched his long, feminine fingers, attach the garter tab back into place as if having an out of body experience.

He picked up the plate of pasta and made his way back inside. The hour of inner meditation had calmed his heart rate considerably... but he had absolutely no doubt of one thing...

The worst was yet to come.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE: Confession… I did a thing. Maidenhead exists as a fully illustrated book, and the first chapter is now up as a branch right off chapter one. Go take a peek. I’ll wait.