A Curtsy for Mr. Goodwin

CHAPTER TWO

"Lacy!"

The sharp tone caused Mark to stumble forward, bringing him out of his comatose state.

This can't be happening!

I am not standing in front of some strange guy, dressed as a slutty, French maid.

It was mind-bogglingly impossible.

As if in a dream...

...an incredibly scary and out-of-control dream...

...he moved to the tray still holding the one wine glass. He picked it up with his delicate hands. His eyes focused on his own nails, the long, pink nails on the tips of his fingers.

The woman ushering in a complete stranger.

He had grown his nails out to the limits of acceptable masculinity just for this game they played. Then he grew them just a little longer. Then acrylic extensions were added. Now, they did not even look or feel like they belonged to him.

"Have a seat, Charles. I'm afraid if you wait on the maid you'll be standing there all day."

They both laughed. He moved to the chair and she lounged onto the back of the couch to his side.

Mark was infuriated on more levels than he could describe. His wife had let a stranger into their home...

...at least he is a stranger to me. She seems quite familiar with him.

She had let this man walk right in and see something intimately private.

Not to mention that she has both the keys that unlock this stupid outfit. Not to mention she just spanked the hell out of my ass.

His backside still burned.

Fury raged in him, but dressed as he was, there was nowhere for it to go. Standing in his high heeled boots and a tiny little maid dress, made anger hard to deal with. More than anything he was mortified. That feeling took up way too much room in his brain for any anger to have a home. Beneath his skirts his exposed equipment shriveled. With no arousal left, the thing between his legs tried to retreat from the chill of the room and the embarrassing situation. Mark was painfully aware of every inch of his exposed creamy skin which peeked out of his fetish uniform. How much of his privates could be seen under the petticoats?

The skirt was short.

Really short!

His hands began to tremble even more, causing the wine glass on the tray to come close to sloshing over.

"Lacy! Don't spill the wine! And say hello to Mr. Goodwin. Don't be rude."

His wife's voice was pleasant. Yet there was just the slightest hint of a threat beneath the words. As Mark staggered around the chair with the serving tray, he found himself frantically trying to make words come out of his mouth.

Should he use his real voice?

Should he pretend to be Lacy?

What did the guy know already?

His hand was trembling so badly that the wine spilled over the rim of the glass and dribbled down.

"Hello, Mr. Goodwin," Lacy's voice drifted out softly.

Although it was not quite Lacy's voice.

His Lacy voice always had an edge of carefree edge to it. Knowing that the whole thing was just a game, knowing that if her voice was not feminine enough, gave an air of confidence to his normal attempts at a female voice. His normal Lacy voice always sounded fake. This new Lacy, the one who felt her life might depend on sounding like a genuine female servant, was a very feminine tenor. The words were incredibly soft and meek.

Mr. Goodwin beamed at her.

"Why hello, Lacy." He took the trembling glass of wine off of the tray and laughed again, turning to Miss Sellers. "You know, I half expected her to curtsy."

His wife laughed with him. Mark wished he could crawl into a hole and die. His whole body felt flush with heat. The short, sharp breaths the corset enforced, made him worry that he was going to faint right in front of them.

"I think that is a marvelous suggestion." Tricia chuckled. Both of them turned to look at Mark.

Waiting.

His eyes were frozen with a deer-in-the-headlights expression. He could not look at Mr. Goodwin. It was too embarrassing. He made himself look at Tricia. His eyes begged not to make him do this.

Tricia with her amused, half-arched eyebrow just watched him, as patient as stone.

She knew that he was going to do exactly what she asked of him.

What else can I do?

He did not know this man sitting in front of him. He did not know how much Mr. Goodwin knew about the situation. He did not know much of anything. He felt so stupid. This was not the Bimbo-Slut stupid where arousal replaced common sense. This was a genuine feeling of stupidity.

He was helplessly trapped in this outfit that made him look and feel more submissive then he had ever felt in his life. The whole situation was so far out of his league. Only fear and embarrassment kept him from bursting into tears right then and there.

They were still waiting. How much time had passed?

Seconds?

Years?

His mind raced trying to figure out how to perform a curtsy. He had tried it a few times on his own, back when he first received the outfit. Tricia had never asked this of him before. It was only fairly recent that she had taken any interest into this game at all.

For months it had just been little, feminine things. Arousing yes, but never quite enough to give him the complete thrill he wanted. Then the little things compounded. Then came the maid outfit.

That was the first of the extravagant purchases and it had been suggested entirely by her as if she had ferreted that fantasy right out of his brain. They had spent more money on this maid uniform then he had ever spent on an outfit of clothing, male or female.

Things had changed after that.

Partly it was because she was the one working. It was her money spent on his fantasy.

Part of it was she treated him like an actual maid when he wore it.

Now here he was, and it felt like his life depended on remembering how to curtsy.

He could not seem to figure out how to start.

Carefully, he placed the toe of his right foot behind his left foot. He swayed, desperately trying to keep balanced on the one, long heel.

With his hands on the sides of his maid's dress, he did a delicate bob. It was only as he began to lift the skirts that he remembered a very important, and very terrifying thing.

His panties were behind the sofa.

The bob wavered as he suddenly yanked the skirts back down. Were the petticoats low enough to hide his equipment?

Oh God... why did I take them off. At least with the gaff on I might pass for a female... but this stupid dress is so short and the petticoats so poofy...

Surely the little, shriveled indicator of his gender was sticking out in plain sight. He could feel the cool air under his skirts, causing a whimper to burst out of his throat.

He tried to pull the skirt out and down as he curtsied. This change of down, instead of up, nearly caused him to land flat on his face. He wavered, his other foot desperately jutting out to try to regain balance. He teetered on the stilts like a circus act.

His audience laughed.

"Not a very good maid, is she?" the tall man said, turning back to Tricia. She twirled a lock of her hair and sipped the last of her wine, still staring at Mark in a very contemplative way.

"She has her days," she said, a smirk on her lips.

"Well I have to admit, she's quite fetching. Fantastic body. Especially in that outfit."

"She picked it out herself." Tricia smiled.

She had yet to break eye contact with Mark. Mark dropped his eyes first. They were talking about him as if he was not even a person.

...just a thing...

"Personally, I think it's a little slutty." Tricia muttered.

...he thinks I have a fantastic body...

The Bimbo-Slut was squawking inside his head. Mark shut his eyes in horror. He was dressed like a wet dream being ogled by a guy he did not even know.

And my wife is allowing it.

Encouraging it!

This can't be happening!

They were both staring at him. He shifted on his painful toes feeling awkward and out of place. Moments went by. For Mark, they lasted days. Finally, a meek little voice sprang from his glittery pink lips.

"Is there anything else, Miss Sellers?"

Oh God.

I sound so submissive. So helpless and feminine.

Tricia smiled at the stranger.

"Would you like something to eat, Charles? A sandwich? Maybe some pasta?"

"Pasta sounds wonderful." He sipped his wine and looked up expectantly at Lacy.

"Why don't you whip us up a nice, light lunch, Lacy. Something tomato based, I think. And saute some zucchini while you're at it."

"That sounds delightful, Tricia. Thank you very much."

Thank HER very much?

They just ordered a full meal from him and he was thanking HER? This was getting out of hand fast. And yet, here was his escape. He could leave the room and get out of sight of this intruder...

...who thinks I'm fetching...

The desire to flee from the room was tremendous, even if it meant going to cook for them. There was only one, tiny problem. His panties still remained in a gooey heap behind the sofa.

"Um. Tricia.... I mean... Miss Sellers... I... could I speak to you for a moment?"

Mark found himself staring down at his heeled feet as Lacy's voice stumbled meekly from his mouth. How could he look at either of them?

Ever!

"What is it, Lacy? Make it quick. Charles and I have some business to attend to."

"It's just... um... could I speak to you in private for a moment?"

"We have company, Lacy." Her voice took on a condescending tone as if speaking to a very small, and somewhat stupid, child. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait until Mr. Goodwin has gone. Now go get lunch started and let us know when it's ready."

They both continued to stare at him. He could feel their eyes. She was really going through with all of this. He turned to go, painfully aware of their eyes watching him leave.

"Lacy!"

He stopped, hope and fear blooming simultaneously.

"Don't you think another curtsy might be in order?"

Oh god.

He turned back around as if in a slow-motion horror movie. This time he managed a somewhat competent curtsy without falling all over himself. They laughed and Mr. Goodwin gave a short clap of his hands. Mark died a little inside.

"There you go. See. A little more practice and you'll have it down pat. Please let us know when the food is ready. You can try your curtsy again then. Now go."

"Yes, Miss Sellers," he mumbled softly and flew from the room like a bullet.

Mark dashed up the stairs as fast as the spindly-heeled boots would allow. He had to get out of this outfit. He had to get out of this entire situation. At best, he could find someway to get the boots and uniform off. At the very worst, he could find some panties.

Why did I ever take them off? So stupid....

As he ran, his tiny equipment bobbed and bounced under the uniform. Every step caused the petticoats to torture his sensitive member. Each bounce an increasing reminder of how exposed he really was.

He raced down the hall to the bedroom. Maybe if he could get the heels off, he could at least find some pants. That would go a LONG way towards making this whole situation less awkward. Then he could rip or cut the uniform off, remove all the horrible makeup and return as Mark.

He was already planning the explanation.

Lacy got called away and he dismissed her and by the way, who the hell are you?

"...and how do you know my wife?" he would say with just the right amount of accusation. It was time to turn the tables on this whole situation.

This evolving plan was dashed instantly as he tried to turn the knob of the bedroom door.

"...fucking bitch..."

The words were muttered.

What if she heard me call her that? She has already lost her fucking mind. What would she do if she really got mad?

He stomped his foot which only made him feel girlish and stupid. There was no way to even properly express anger when dressed in such a fashion.

"Why did I ever fucking do this?!?"

He slumped against the locked door, tears forming in his eyes. He just wanted this to end. There was no arousal now. There was nothing but shame, humiliation, fear and loathing. He would do anything to not be seen like this again. Anything.