Maid of the Night

It happened over three weeks, and Kevin watched all of it from the outside.

Derek started it. Derek, who had filmed the cleavage, who had rated the scoop a nine, who had called Kevin *good girl* and meant it. Derek texted Kayla about "that place with the fries" and then took her there and then took her home and then, apparently, took her *out* again, and Kevin found out because Kayla came downstairs one morning wearing Derek's hoodie and said "don't be weird about it."

Tony got Mia. Marcus got Jade. Sasha, who was five-foot-nine and had *options*, played the field with a rotating cast and was therefore never single, never *not* being pursued, and never, ever bored.

And Kevin? Kevin was the only one with nobody.

He had a *bra*, though. He had a *collar*. He had a *maid outfit*. He had a permanent white bikini tan line and a chest that bounced when he breathed and one inch of deeply complicated self-esteem.

"You need to meet someone," said Mom.

"I need to *not*," said Kevin.

And then Kayla announced the party.

---

"Party" was generous. "Party" implied a guest list. What actually happened was: three couples came over to Kevin's house on a Friday, sat in the living room, made out on the couch in *staggered* rotation so that at any given moment somebody was kissing somebody, and one four-foot-seven man in an apron served them drinks.

They'd told him a week in advance.

*"You're the maid of the night,"* Kayla had said. *"No bra."*

"No bra?"

"No bra. The dress has a *sweetheart neckline*, Kevin. It *frames* them. You can't put a bra in there, you'll ruin the *line*."

"You *built* the outfit around my—"

"Seven o'clock. Be ready."

Kevin was ready. Kevin was *very* ready. Black dress, white lace trim, frilly white apron, white thigh-highs, white headband. No bra. And when he'd looked in the mirror, the two soft perky swells had sat right in the sweetheart neckline, round and high and *cupped* by the fabric, and Kevin had made a small sound and gone downstairs.

He got to the bottom of the stairs. He heard the doorbell.

And when he opened the door, the whole night walked in as a *unit* — six people, three couples, arms around waists, hands in back pockets, radiating that specific smug glow of people who are getting laid regularly and know it.

Derek looked at Kevin. Then looked at Kevin's chest. Then at the *collar* — which Kayla had already buckled on him, tight, with **BITCH** hanging right at the hollow of his throat.

"Bro," said Derek.

"I *know*—"

"No. *Bro.*"

"He knows," said Kayla, breezing past. "Everyone in the room. Kevin. *Drinks.*"

Kevin got drinks.

---

They made a throne. That's what the night was. A big armchair, dragged to the center of the room, with a throw blanket over it, and one by one, each girl sat in it and Kevin served her, and each girl got a foot rub, and each girl got to call him a name.

That was the rule. Every girl, one name. They had to *use it* all night. They couldn't repeat.

Kayla went first, because sister, because she'd earned it, because she'd *booked* it.

"**Kevina**," she said. "You're *Kevina*. All night."

"Kevina's *fine*—"

"Say 'yes, Kevina.'"

"...Yes, Kevina."

Mia went next. "**Princess**."

Sasha: "**Tinkerbell**."

Jade, five-eleven, looking down at him from the throne with her grey thigh-highs crossed: "**Scooter**."

"Scooter?"

"You're *small* and you *scoot* around the room. Scooter."

Tony — Tony, who was dating Jade, who had *joined the cult* — added one of his own: "**Smalls**."

Marcus added: "**Sweetcheeks**."

Derek finished it, and Derek's was the worst, because Derek's was *accurate*:

"**Good girl**."

And so Kevin was Kevina-Princess-Tinkerbell-Scooter-Smalls-Sweetcheeks-Good-Girl for the entire night, and by hour one he had answered to all of them, and by hour two he was answering to *any* of them, and by hour three he had stopped noticing, and that was the most humiliating part of all.

Every time somebody called a name, somebody *laughed*. Every time Kevin turned around to *answer*, somebody laughed. And everybody recorded. Everybody. Six phones on the coffee table like a little arsenal of humiliation, and every single one of them pointed at him, at some point, for some reason.

---

They did the *tasks*.

"Kevina," said Kayla. "Refill. And *curtsy* when you hand it over."

Kevin curtsied. In a maid dress. The hem lifted. Three guys made a sound.

"Scooter," said Jade. "Stand on all fours. You're the *coffee table* now. Hold this."

Kevin got on all fours and Jade put a bowl of chips on his back and it *fit*, and it *stayed*, because Kevin's back was flat and narrow and small and it was a *perfect* table, and Marcus took a photo and captioned it *"dinner is served."*

"Tinkerbell," said Sasha. "The remote's on the floor. Pick it up. With your *teeth*."

Kevin picked it up with his teeth. On his knees. Head down. Collar swinging. Sasha patted the top of his head and said "*good*" and Kevin's face went red all the way down his neck.

"Smalls," said Tony. "Say something in your deep voice."

Kevin said something in his deep voice. The room lost its mind. Because his deep voice came out of that body and *still* did that thing, the mismatch, the Earl-in-a-dress horror show, and Tony had to put his drink down.

"Say '*I'm a big boy*.'"

"I'm a big boy."

"Say '*I'm a big strong man*.'"

"I'm a big strong man."

"Now say it while Jade stands on you."

Kevin said it while Jade stood on him. It came out *squashed*. It came out *thin*. It came out with a *squeak* in the middle. Six phones went up. Six people *howled*.

"*Sweetcheeks*," said Marcus, wiping his eyes. "Come here. Lay down. Feet."

And Kevin lay down on the rug and they *queued*. Every girl. In order. Stockings on — black tights, nude sheers, grey ribbed thigh-highs, white ankle socks with a bow — and Kevin's face on the floor underneath all of them, getting foot after foot after foot pressed onto it, held there, curled, *squashed*, while the girls chatted over his head about *nothing*, about *their day*, about *Derek's new haircut*, like he wasn't even a person, like he was a *thing* that feet went on.

That's what broke him. Not the standing. The *ignoring*. Being used as furniture *mid-conversation*. Tony leaned over and said "hey Scooter, you okay down there?" and Kevin said "mmph" and Tony said "cool" and went back to his drink.

---

Then the sharpie came out.

Nobody remembers whose idea it was. Everyone remembers Kevin's face when Mia pulled a black Sharpie out of her purse and held it up like a sword.

"Oh *no*," said Kevin.

"Oh *yes*," said Mia.

"Sit," said Kayla. "No — *stand*. Strip down to your underwear. You're a *canvas*."

Kevin stripped to his underwear. His underwear was, of course, pink lace. Because Kevin had *one* pair of underwear that matched the *lingerie* and he'd been rotating through a *basket* of normal ones, and tonight he'd reached the bottom of the basket, and tonight was *pink lace*, and the room *noticed*.

"*Pink lace*," said Marcus, in *awe*. "Every time. Every single time with you."

"Sit him down," said Jade.

Kevin sat.

They drew.

Sasha started at the chest. Two careful circles around the swells, in black sharpie, on *bare skin*, and then, in block letters right across the top of his sternum:

**B CUP**

with an arrow pointing left and an arrow pointing right.

Under the left one, Mia wrote **"PERKY."**

Under the right one, Jade wrote **"SQUISHY (verified)."**

Then down the ribs, in smaller letters, on the side, the *ledger* — because Mia was an accountant's daughter and thought this was funny: **"SCOOP RATING: 9.5/10 (Tony)"** and **"TEN (Marcus)."**

Then the stomach. Derek did the stomach. Derek drew a down arrow, long and dramatic, pointing from his navel all the way down, and at the tip of the arrow, in tiny cramped letters, he wrote:

**1"**

Kevin looked down at his own crotch and saw, in permanent marker, an arrow and a *number*.

"You *labeled* it," Kevin said.

"We *measured* it," said Derek.

"*MEASURED*—"

"With the *tape*," said Marcus. "From your *toolbox*. Tony held the end."

"You measured my—"

"One inch, bro. We rounded. It's *one inch*."

Somebody wrote **"SMOL"** on his left thigh. Somebody else wrote **"SHORTER THAN THE MAID"** on the right. Sasha wrote **"HANDLE WITH CARE"** across the small of his back, and then, underneath, in her neat little handwriting: **"PROPERTY OF THE CAMPING TRIP."**

Jade wrote **"SPANK HERE"** on his ass with two arrows, and then, because she was Jade, *spanked there*, once, hard, to *verify the label*, and Kevin yelped, and six phones went up.

And then the *naughty* ones.

Somebody wrote **"FREE"** on his chest and **"USE"** on his stomach. Somebody wrote **"MAID OF THE NIGHT"** across his collarbone in a band, like a sash. Somebody wrote, in careful cursive along the top of his pink lace waistband, so that the word sat right where the lace was, so that you *couldn't not see it*:

**"little."**

And Kevin, when he finally got to a mirror at eleven o'clock, stood there and read his own body like a report card. His chest said **B CUP**. His ribs said **9.5/10**. His stomach said **1"** with an arrow. His back said **PROPERTY**. His ass said **SPANK HERE**. His waistband said **little**. His collar said **BITCH**.

He was *fully annotated*. He was a *signed copy*.

Mia wrote one more thing, small, just under his jaw, where the collar didn't cover it, where only he would see it for days, where it would survive two showers and three days of work:

**"good girl."**

Kevin stared at it in the mirror for a long time.

Nobody ever explained which one of them wrote it.

---

Then they played truth or dare.

And Kevin got *every* bad one. Every single one. Because the rule they invented — out loud, at 11:15, over his head, *about* him — was:

"Kevin doesn't get truths."

"Kevin doesn't get truths?"

"Kevin's whole *life* is a truth," said Kayla. "Everybody already knows everything. He has to *prove* things. He only gets *dares*."

"That's not fair—"

"*Scooter.*"

"...Yes?"

"Say '*that's fair.*'"

"...That's fair."

**Dare one.** Mia. "Drink your water out of a bowl. On the floor. Like a dog. Full commitment."

Kevin got on the floor. Kevin put his face in the bowl. Kevin lapped. Kevin got *water on his nose*. The room *died*. And when he looked up, Sasha had her phone an inch from his face and said, softly, "*aw*."

**Dare two.** Sasha. "Serve the next round of drinks *backwards*. On your knees. And call everyone '*mistress*.' The boys too."

Kevin served the next round backwards, on his knees, calling three twenty-five-year-old men *mistress*, and Derek said "thank you, good girl," and Kevin's soul left his body and came back slightly different.

**Dare three.** Jade. "Stand on the chair. Twerk. You have one *song*."

Kevin stood on the chair. Kevin twerked. Kevin's B-cups *and* his ass *and* his dress *and* his apron all moved at once, in four different directions, and Tony fell off the couch. Fell. *Off*. Onto the floor. And Kevin had to keep twerking through it, because Jade said "don't stop," and Kevin *didn't stop*, and the whole room was on the floor by the end.

**Dare four.** Derek. "Say the *whole* thing. Full sentence. Names included. No rushing."

Kevin said the whole thing.

"*I'm Kevina, I'm Princess Tinkerbell Scooter Smalls Sweetcheeks Good Girl, I'm twenty-five years old, I'm four foot seven, I weigh ninety-six pounds, I have B-cups, I wear a bra every day, and I'm the maid of the night.*"

Six people. Six phones. One recording, in 4K, from a *tripod* that Marcus had apparently brought *specifically for this*, angled perfectly, framed perfectly, catching every single word.

**Dare five.** Kayla. The last one. The sister one.

"Get on all fours," she said. "Everybody sits on you. All six of us. In a row."

Kevin got on all fours.

And one by one, they sat on him — Kayla, then Derek, then Mia, then Tony, then Jade, then Marcus, arranged down his back and his legs, and Kevin's four-foot-seven body *buckled* under six people, and he held, barely, *shaking*, while they got settled and comfortable and *started a conversation*, and *ignored him again*, for *four minutes*, while Kevin supported an entire party on his spine.

"Kevin," said Kayla, from the top.

"...Yes?"

"You okay down there?"

Kevin's arms were trembling. Kevin's hairless legs were trembling. Kevin was being sat on by six people including his *sister's boyfriend* and he had **1"** written on his stomach in permanent marker and he would be wearing a *bra* tomorrow and forever.

"No," said Kevin.

"*Good*," said Kayla.

And six people laughed, and one phone recorded, and a man with a great rack and a small everything else lay on the floor of his own living room under a pile of couples, single, annotated, and called *good girl* by six people at once.

At the end of the night, Sasha — the only other single one, technically, if you squinted — stopped on her way out the door and looked back at him.

"You know the *sad* part," she said.

"What."

"You're the only one of us who's actually got a *type*. Everyone else is just dating."

Kevin blinked. "...What's my type?"

Sasha smiled. She tapped his collar. She tapped the **B CUP** on his chest. She tapped the **1"** on his stomach.

"*Taller than you*," she said. "And *meaner* than you."

And she left, and Kevin stood in the doorway, and every word of that was *true*, and he hated it, and he *bounced* when he breathed.

The sharpie took four days to fade.

The **good girl** under his jaw took six.