I can still remember what it was like getting dressed for work that Monday morning. I was still not used to seeing a hairless reflection in the mirror. It was confusing; the build and the genitals said male, but the skin said female. Putting on her panties wasn’t that much of a change; they were plain cotton, and although they were cut differently, they didn’t feel all that different from briefs. And though she didn’t know it, I had tried on her panties before. My cock became hard as soon as I put them on. But the bra was another matter. I had never put one on, and although there was plenty of extra space in the cups, the band was tight across my chest and I had to work to get it clasped in the back.

I knocked on the bedroom door, dressed only in her underwear.

“Come in.” She looked at me with approval. “How does it feel?”

“The top is a little tight. The bottoms are fine.”

“Call them by their names. You are a man. You are wearing your wife’s old bra and panties. How do you think it will feel at work?”

Her words describing how I was dressed made me even harder. I resisted a sudden urge to put my hands inside my panties. “I don’t know exactly. I guess I’ll be worried about getting caught.”

“Keep your jacket on and you’ll be fine. And if you take it off be sure you have on a T-shirt. Besides, I want you to be thinking about it.” She giggled. “Every woman wants her man to think about her when she’s away.”

“I didn’t realize we were . . . taking this outside the house.”

“I used to worry that you might want to flirt with one of the secretaries No making out in the supply closet for you anymore. Or nooners at the motel.”

“I never did anything like that. Really, I didn’t.”

“Whether you did or not, doesn’t matter any more.”

“Are you planning to keep me like this?”

She looked at my erection and giggled some more. “At the rate you’re going, the panties you have on aren’t going to last long. You’re about to rip them.”

“I . . .don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say a word. Your dick says it all. Now get me my coffee and the paper.”

I was ill at ease at the office that day, terribly conscious that my underwear might somehow be showing. I kept my suit jacket on most of the day, and when I took it off I checked carefully in the washroom mirror to make sure the bra straps didn’t show. As the day went in, the straps and the chest band dug into my flesh harder. It was uncomfortable and distracting and stupid . . . and yet I was in heaven. I felt so sexual. It was like she said, every movement reminded me of her and my service to her. I wasn’t just doing this on a lark. She made me do it. I worked at a big firm, with lots of secretaries and paralegals. I flirted with a couple of them, innocently of course. But now I looked at them and thought about how it was impossible for me to have them now. The first hug and the other person would feel my bra strap . . .

My wife was often late, but that night she was already home when I walked in. I apologized that I hadn’t had a chance to think about dinner. We alternated the cooking and tonight was my night.

“That’s fine,” she said. “It’s going to be a busy evening, anyway. Get naked.”

I took off my shoes and socks, then my jacket and tie. I did it a little slowly, like a striptease. She wasn’t in any hurry for me to finish. She watched while I unbuttoned my shirt and then pulled off my T-shirt.

“You’re still wearing my bra and panties,” she said with delight. I felt more naked than if I’d had on no clothes at all. And I was excited. My cock made a huge bulge in my panties. She looked me over without comment, but her eyes lingered on my crotch. “Come upstairs.”

She led me to the bed and told me to sit at the other end. She was still in her business suit; all she’d taken off were her shoes. “Tell me, did you masturbate today?”

“Yes, but I didn’t come.”

“Talk to me about it. Play with yourself while we talk, but don’t come.”

I reached into my panties and touched my cock, which was hard as a rock from the memories. “A couple of times I went into one of the cubicles in the washroom.”

“What did you do?”

“I sat on the seat and dropped my trousers. And then I pulled my panties down to my knees.”

“What did you think about when you touched yourself?”

“That it turned me on.” I could feel a little pre-come oozing out.

“It turned me on, too,” she said. “I touched myself this afternoon, too, thinking about how I had you dressed. How you couldn’t chase girls, how you were harmless now. And that even if you took off the bra, the marks would be on your skin for hours.” She smirked. “That’s why I make you wear ones that are too small, you know. Letting you wear the right size wouldn’t be as much fun. Keep playing with yourself.”

“I’m ready to come.”

“Then touch yourself lightly, just don’t stop and don’t come.”

“I’m getting a little dribble. I got one at the office today.”

She slid her hand under her skirt and began touching herself. I thought I was going to explode. Her voice was soft. “I like that, knowing that you want to come and can’t because I won’t let you.”

“I try to be good. Ma’am.”

“I like it when you call me that. It’s going to make things so much easier if you know your place. Don’t stop playing with yourself.”

“Please let me come, Ma’am.”

“Beg me,” she whispered.

“Please, please, Ma’am. I’ll do anything if you let me come.”

“You’ll do anything already.” Her hand was moving faster under her skirt. “Give me something more.”

“Please, Ma’am. Let me come or let me stop touching myself. I’ve been good for this whole time, doing everything you said, no complaints at all—“

“That’s the way I expect my maid to be. I don’t take sass from my staff. And don’t take your hand away. Keep it moving.” Her breath was getting ragged and her face was flushed; she was as hot as I was. Except that she was in control, not me.

“I’ll be your maid always, Ma’am. I’ll do anything, give you whatever you want. I don’t want this to end. Please just let me come.” I found myself getting tears in my eyes I was so emotional.

“You’ll be a real maid, not just pretend?”

“Oh, yes Ma’am please just let me come!” I was whining now.

“Don’t stop. But you know you can’t be a real maid; all you can be is a sissy maid, like in your story.”

“I want to be your sissy maid, Ma’am. Please let me.” I want it,” I sobbed.

Her fingers were working her clit through her clothes. “You want to be a sissy maid and not a man?”

“Yes, please Ma’am, just let me come, please . . .”

“Keep touching. Faster now. If I let you come you know I won’t treat you like a man again? You won’t be a husband you’ll just be a sissy maid.”

“I know, I know, just please . . .”

“All right, if you really want to be a sissy and not a man, then go ahead and come.”

Ten days of pent up tension, and all the stimulation she had given me all joined in the most sexually exciting moment of my life. I never had an orgasm like that in my life, before or since. It shook my whole body like an electric shock, from one end to the other. One, two, three, four, five big spurts of come roared out of my cock, soaking my panties and spilling out onto the bed. I saw she was climaxing, too.

It seemed to last an hour but it must have been only a few seconds. However long it was, when it was over we looked at each other across the bed, exhausted. We spent a long time like that, very still, thinking about what had just happened. We’d both revealed ourselves to each other, not just in the last few minutes but in the last week. Both of us were seeing sides of the other, and of ourselves, that were unexpected. Submission had been a masturbation fantasy to me, nothing more, one of several that helped relieve my boredom. In a few days it had gone from an idle fantasy to a lifestyle. And it had to be just as surprising for her. Even when our sex had been good, years ago, it was vanilla. We had done a little mild bondage a couple times, but that was it. She wasn’t humoring me, not just playing a part. Somehow our games had triggered her need to dominate sexually. And now that need would be fulfilled.

I spoke first. “Shall I run you a bath, Ma’am?”

“Later. I want to feel like this as long as I can. When we first were together, remember how when I was really excited I could . . . shoot out? I’ve soaked my panties through.”

“And I’ve soaked yours, too, even more.”

She laughed, and then she sat up. “Get dressed. And don’t change them. I want you to remember.”

I put on a sweatshirt and jeans over my bra and panties—she told me not to wear a T-shirt, that women didn’t wear T-shirts under their sweatshirts. There was so much come that the crotch of my jeans became wet. She had changed from her work clothes to a sweatshirt and jeans as well.

It was dark when we went outside. I have no idea how long we had spent in bed. She drove us in the direction of the biggest shopping mall in the area. Now that she had caught her breath, she was excited to tell me her plans. “The timing of this, of you wanting to be my maid, it’s enough to make you believe in fate. My supervisor gave me some news a couple of weeks ago. I’ve been thinking about it. He told me the firm is going to decide January 1 whether I make partner. There are six associates and not enough partnerships. You know how it works—the ones who don’t make partner are cut.”

I’d met her supervisor, Gino, a couple of times at firm functions. He was in his early forties but looked younger. He’d been a real mentor to her, making sure she got her share of good assignments that gave her visibility to other partners. “Should he be telling you this? I mean, it should be confidential among the management committee.”

“It’s just a fair warning. I’ve been there long enough to know that this year is up or out, anyway.”

“I know how important this is to you.”

“I have six months to convince them. I’m going to show them how I can network with clients, bring in new business. It’s going to be a lot of extra work but now I know how we can do it.”

“We?”

“This is going to take both of us. Working as a team. There are plenty of young associates working hard. Doing good work isn’t enough to make partner. You have to show the firm that you can build a practice. Entertain clients. Make the clients feel at home with you. I’d been thinking about this for a long time but I never realized it was so simple. Starting this fall, I’m going to throw a series of formal dinner parties for clients and prospective clients, every weekend. We’ll have a few of the senior partners at my firm as well, so they can see how well it goes. The house is so small, the parties can’t be very big—three or four couples at a time—so we’ll need to have a lot of them to really have an impact. I’m thinking ten or twelve parties before Christmas. Maybe a few parties midweek, cocktails not dinners.”

I’d never known her to be interested in entertaining. On the rare occasions we had people over, I’d done most of the cooking. The conversation was so surprising, there were so many problems with her plan, I raised the first difficulty that came to mind. “How are you going to find time to mingle with the guests with all the cooking?”

“That’s your job. You said you wanted to be the maid. You were always the better cook, and you’re way more interested in entertaining than I am. And besides, like you said, job one is to mingle with the guests.”

“No—I can’t—“

“That’s not what you said a few minutes ago. Or last week, for that matter.”

“I could help in the kitchen, but letting people see me—“

“Don’t worry—I’ve got this all thought through. First, there won’t be anyone who knows you. I will just say my husband is away and send his regrets. That will give us an extra seat for single guests or parties of three . . . And this will all be after dark, in dim light, no one will be looking closely at you. They’ll just see a uniformed servant and that’s all.”

“I would be so embarrassed—“

“So you’ll need to work hard on not being spotted. Lots of men pass. And who looks closely at the maid anyway? You see that there is a maid, everyone’s impressed, but you think about her afterwards, who really noticed her?”

“But . . . you said there wouldn’t be anything public.”

“This isn’t going to be public. Think of it as a costume party, except you’re the only one dressed up.”

“This is going to backfire and embarrass us both.”

“I told you, I have it all planned. We have an appointment scheduled with a specialist in helping men pass.”

I was frightened by the way she was talking. “You think a dab of makeup is going to make people not notice?”

“This is a medical doctor. He has a lot of good suggestions on appearance.”

“When did you talk to him?”

“Hmm. Today. I did some research last week. But when I was thinking about you today, that’s when I made the call.”

“After you touched yourself.”

“Yes.” I couldn’t see her face in the dark, but I could hear the tension in her voice. “You cannot believe how much this turns me on. And the more I do to you, the hotter it makes me. Telling you about this, I’m wet all over again.”

I was hard again, too. “Just let’s not do anything stupid.”

She took my hand. “Trust me, I have just as much an interest in having you pass as you do. They wouldn’t make me a partner if they thought I had a sissy husband.”

“At least we’re on the same page with that.”

“Oh, we want the same thing, I’m sure of it,” she said. “You know what you haven’t said? You’ve brought up a lot of things, but you know what you didn’t say?”

“I know.” I squeezed her hand. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to.” And it was true. When I did the housework, a job that had fallen on me more and more as she got busier, it had been a fantasy of mine that I was that I was being forced to do it as a maid or housekeeper. It made the time go faster. And ever since I’d found those porn books, the fantasy had been even stronger. The idea of being forced to serve a formal dinner, somehow, was more exciting than I could describe.

My wife was full of surprises that night. The first stop was Victoria’s Secret, where she selected two lacy 38B bras, one black and one white. and a pair each of black panties and white panties. She paid for them with my card. As we were walking out, she explained. “These bras ought to fit you better. The black set is for your uniform; the white set is for everyday under your clothes. You wouldn’t want to wear black to work; it would show through.”

“Why only two?”

“Because you’re just starting out. A working girl getting her start doesn’t have a lot of money to waste on fancy lingerie. And I want you to hand wash them every day and hang them up to dry. You need to learn to take good care of nice underwear.”

The next stop was a uniform store. But she didn’t buy anything sexy or even formal; she bought—with my card, again—some no nonsense uniforms like you might see on hotel maids; plain, shapeless dresses with simple collars that buttoned all the way down the front. One was white, one black with a white collar, and one was simply gray, with an apron.

“These are your day uniforms,” she explained on the way out. “A real maid doesn’t prance around in lingerie. I expect to see you in the white uniform when you bring me breakfast each morning, and the black one in the evenings. The gray is for cleaning. You can wear tennis shoes with any of them. And pantyhose.”

A few minutes later we were home and I was unpacking our purchases. She was telling me how I needed to wash and iron them daily. The fabric was stiff nylon, durable but cheap, like hotel maids would wear. I was a little disappointed. The uniforms were ugly and all she was talking about was more work. “If we are just home alone,” I asked, ”What do we need these for?”

She seemed surprised by the question. “To remind you of your place.”

“My place?”

“You need to dress like what you are.”

“Come on, honey; we don’t have to do this all the time, you know.”

She looked at me. “You are the maid,” she repeated slowly. “You decided. You were my husband. Now you are the maid. It’s that simple.”

I laughed, a little nervously. Things were moving so fast, and in directions I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to confront her; she seemed so calm, so self-assured, so I said the first thing that came to mind. “Well, even a maid gets . . . compensation.”

She didn’t seem a bit surprised. There was nothing coy or seductive or sexual about her attitude. She talked like an employer considering giving the help an extra day off. “And so you shall. I like the help to feel rewarded. Once you finish your chores, go to your room and get on the bed naked. On all fours.”

I unpacked the bags and had the clothes in the washer in moments. I threw in the clothes I had on, as well. The panties were stiff from my dried come. I went to my room and waited, as instructed. And I tried to make some sense of what was happening, and how I felt. The idea of serving at a dinner party, of passing myself off as a woman, made me tremble. Being found out would be humiliating. But she was right; who really pays much attention to the help? It wasn’t like I was having a date where someone would be staring at me close up. Keep the lights dim, keep moving, hand out drinks and appetizers . . . It would be her job to be the star of the evening, to keep the guests distracted and the conversation moving. I would be invisible. She would get me something formal, with lace, for the party; I was sure of it. Her idea was bold, and risky, but it could be done, especially if I had proper training in how to pass. The parties could be very sexual. I thought about my reward would be after a good party. Fucking her while wearing the maid’s outfit would be hot. But it wasn’t that simple. She had some crazy ideas about how this could fit into my own career. All the work she wanted from me—I couldn’t do it all and still keep up my hours at work. She would need to see that I couldn’t do my job as well as everything she wanted as a maid. She was getting too deeply into her own career plans; she didn’t understand that this couldn’t be a job; all I wanted, and all there was time for, was to play at being a maid. But even a couple of dinner parties would be exciting. To be moving among the guests with stockings rubbing together, the feeling of sheer panties against my cock . . . Maybe three or four dinner parties. Once a month, I could do. I would just need to make clear to her what was practical.

She came into the room, still dressed in her sweatshirt and jeans, with something in her hand. She still had her shoes on. I was very conscious of being naked in front of her. She was standing up, fully clothed; I was on the bed naked waiting to see what she would do to me. There was no doubt who was in control. Especially when she saw my hard cock between my legs.

She put on a pair of latex gloves and dipped one finger in a jar of lubricant. “Ready for your reward? She tried to sound slightly bored, but I could tell she was excited. “As if I didn’t know.”

Before I could answer she took hold of my cock lightly with one hand; with the other, she spread my butt cheeks apart and slid a finger inside. “Oh!” I gasped. “You never did that before.”

“Before, what?”

“Before now, Ma’am.”

“That’s better. This is not just about giving you release. It’s about teaching you your new place.” She loosened her hold on my penis till there was barely any contact, but pressed harder with her finger till it was firmly against my prostate.

“That feel so good . . . Ma’am.”

“This is how a maid has sex. I’m going to finger fuck you in your bed and leave you to sleep in the wet spot.” She stroked my cock lightly. “Remember when you used to leave a big wet spot in the bed and I would wind up in it?”

“I’ll be careful, Ma’am. A little harder, please.”

She ignored me. “Careful has nothing to do with it. You don’t get to put your cock in me, ever again.” My cock grew larger when she said it, and from the way her hands hesitated, she knew the effect her words had.

“Never . . .Ma’am? Oh, no. That would be so cruel.”

She laughed. “You’re loving it, absolutely loving it. Don’t try to pretend.” She began slowly working her finger in and out, massaging my prostate. I gasped. Sweat started breaking out all over my body. She saw that, too. She lowered her mouth to my ear and whispered. “You like being fucked, don’t you?’

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Better than fucking, right?”

“Please don’t stop.”

“I am going to stop . . . unless you tell me you never want sex any other way.”

“Don’t make me say that, please . . .”

“I’m going to pull my finger out and let go of your cock and sit here with a book to make sure you don’t get off. I may even tie your hands so you can’t touch yourself.”

“Please, Ma’am, can’t I have both, sometimes?”

She let go of my cock completely and withdrew her finger till only the tip was inside. “Men fuck their wives and sissy maids get fucked in the ass. One or the other. And you’re a sissy maid, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She slid her finger halfway in. “A real man wouldn’t let his wife do this, would he? He’d be doing it to her, with his cock, his fingers, in her pussy, her mouth, her ass; he’d be inside her, making her moan and beg for it.”

She took hold of my cock and began slow, slow strokes. I don’t know how I could be so aroused without coming, but she kept me on the edge. “Oh, Ma’am, please, please . . .:

“Please, what?”

“I’ll be your sissy maid. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Whatever?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I promise.”

Her hand on my cock paused. “You will never have sex with me again.”

“No, Ma’am.”

“You will never even see me naked. I will have complete privacy.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Her finger pressed deep and tickled my prostate. Fluid began to ooze out of my penis. “You will do all the household chores, every one of them, the cleaning, the cooking, the laundry, the ironing, and you will be punished if they are done badly.” She withdrew the finger a little; a moan escaped my lips.

“Yes, Ma’am. Just don’t stop.”

“You will be my maid at the dinner parties; to have enough time for all the work, I want you home from the office by five sharp every day. I need you to be focused and not distracted.”

“Oh, Ma’am . . .”

She started playing with my cock again. “If you stopped working late think of all the time you will have to cook, and learn makeup, and have beauty treatments.”

“Beauty treatments?”

“You will need a new hairstyle, and a manicure and pedicure, and your eyebrows done, and electrolysis for all that hair. Think how you will look.” At that moment she let go of my cock completely and just pressed gently on the prostate. “How does that make you feel, knowing what’s going to happen to you?”

I came so hard I almost passed out.