Chrissie

When my phone beeped just after lunch, I shrieked, prompting a nearby broker to ask if I was okay.

"I'm fine," I said, scanning the text message with a grin:

"need you to go shoping get 4 steaks case of budwiser n 5 ^th of jack and chips regular and bbq 2 bags of doritoes bring rite after work"

After catching my breath and pondering several potential replies, I went with: "Will do, Mrs. Martin. I'll leave as soon as work is over. Thank you."

I wanted to type so much more. I wanted to bare my soul and thank her for the opportunity to lay eyes once again on her unbridled beauty ... to gaze once again upon the consecrated derriere against which my lowly, effeminate lips had recently been so honored to peck ... I wanted to tell her that I'd never stopped loving her ... never stopped thinking about her ... that she'd shattered my sissy heart when she dumped me — and that I would literally do anything to avoid losing her a second time.

Hunched over my desk at work, I must've re-read her grammatically incorrect text message 1,000 times as I muddled through a whirlwind day of rollercoasting tech stocks. After the final bell, I hustled to the store and purchased the best cuts of steak available along with all the other items on Rebecca's list. She and Karl clearly were prepping for some kind of weekend party, and I briefly considered buying two cases of beer and two fifths of Jack Daniels to impress my princess. In the end, though, I decided to follow her orders to the letter.

With a mixture of delight and trepidation, I arrived on South Sycamore Street and noticed a strange hooptie in the driveway. As I made my way up the front walk carrying the grocery bags on wobbly legs, Karl bellowed from behind the house: "Back here."

I lugged the groceries to the backyard, where Karl, Rebecca and another couple their age sat on lawn chairs near a portable BBQ cooker. The unknown man had a tray in his lap and was rolling a joint.

"There's my lil' baba," Rebecca slurred when I came into sight, and I could tell she'd already been drinking.

I was unsure what to do as I stood there with my arms full of grocery bags, shifting from foot to foot in front of the two reclining, smirking couples.

Karl let me squirm for a few seconds before finally nodding toward a table near the grill. "Set that shit over there."

I obeyed and then again teetered before the foursome.

Karl grinned. "Okay, that's all. You can go."

When I didn't move — because I was numbed by grief and embarrassment — he pointed toward the street. "Go. Get the fuck out of here."

The girls giggled and the other guy leered. Tears formed in my eyes.

Rebecca tilted her head and pouted. "Aw, poor baba, I'm sorry he's so mean to you all the time. I keep telling him to stop, but he's just a big asshole, ain't he?"

Karl blew his wife a kiss. "Yeah, I know I'm an asshole — but at least I'm your asshole, honey!"

Rebecca crinkled her nose at her husband before turning back to me. "Never mind what Mr. Asshole says. Thank you for buying all that for us. You're such a little doll. I really do appreciate it. Now, we're gonna hang out for a while, so we'll see you later, okay?"

"Um ... okay. Uh ... t-thanks." I almost called her "Mrs. Martin," but decided to spare myself further shame.

Before turning to go, I stole one last glance; my Rebecca looked so utterly beautiful in the setting sun's glow, it made my heart ache.

The last thing I heard as I plodded out of the backyard was the other woman snicker and say, "damn, you weren't kidding, were you? Your own little bitch."

They all laughed. Including my Rebecca.

I bawled in bed all night.

By Saturday morning there were no more tears left to cry. I stayed glued to my mattress, unable to get up even to pee.

Then, just after 10, my phone dinged and gloom turned to glee:

"house needs clean come now"

Part IV

Rebecca's text triggered the panic button, and in my haste to get ready I stubbed my toe on the bathtub. Ignoring the pain, I focused on my mission: "house needs clean."

Because it was a Saturday and I wasn't worried about concealing a lumpy garment beneath work clothes, I wore my new French maid's outfit. I'd purchased the dress online a few days earlier while in the throes of Rebecca Strickland-Martin Withdrawal Syndrome, but was having second thoughts about wearing it, fearful my masters might think it was over the top. I took a chance and donned the uniform, covering it with a lightweight, loose-fitting track suit for the drive over.

Rebecca answered my knock dressed in sweats, wearing no makeup, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She obviously hadn't done a thing to gussy up, yet she was lovelier than ever.

"We're gonna do a schedule," she said as she led me into the house. The "Juicy" logo on her swaying ass made me oozy but I tried to concentrate on what my beloved was telling me.

"Karl says he don't want you coming over all the time, but after a few days the house gets real messy — obviously." Rebecca gestured toward the living room, where the carpet was littered with crumbs, while dirty dishes and open containers were stacked on the coffee table. "So, we're thinking you can swing by after work Mondays and Wednesdays to pick up a little and do the dishes, and then do a real deep cleaning, and laundry and all the other stuff on either Saturday or Sunday, depending on what we got going."

I swallowed my excitement at the news that I'd be seeing my darling Rebecca — or at least cleaning her house — three times a week minimum. "Yes, Mrs. Martin," I replied in my most professional voice. "Thank you, Mrs. Martin."

"Yeah, that'll probably work best, at least for now," she mused. "I'm trying to get Karl to trust you so you can clean when we're not here or after we go to bed. But he's still leery."

"Uh ... no, I ... I wouldn't ... um, Mrs. Martin, I would never ..."

Rebecca waved her hand. "Oh, I know you'd never steal, Chrissie. I think Karl's more worried about you going through our dirty underwear."

My ears burned but Rebecca just giggled.

"Anyway, go ahead and get started. The backyard's a real mess from the BBQ last night, so you'll want to get that for sure, although don't be wearing your sissy clothes outside. Oh, and the kitchen needs a lot done — especially that fridge; Stupid-Ass got drunk and spilled OJ everywhere. So, make sure you clean that out real good."

"Yes, Mrs. Martin."

I drew a breath and peeled off my track suit, revealing my maid's uniform, watching for Rebecca's reaction. There was none. After all my apprehension, she didn't comment on the outfit, instead ordering me to fix her a Diet Coke and bring it to the bedroom before I started cleaning.

When I knocked on the boudoir door, Karl looked up from his spot on the bed next to Rebecca, where they relaxed watching Netflix.

"Hey, sissy, bring me a beer," he said.

"Yes, sir." I set Rebecca's beverage on her nightstand before scurrying to fetch one for her husband, feeling the dress brush against my stockings with every step.

Karl smirked as I handed him his can of Bud. "Thanks, Chrissie. Did Becca tell you about the car?"

"Um ... the car, sir?"

He took a sip and smacked his lips. "Yeah, my transmission blew out and the damn junkyard said it was gonna be two weeks before they get one in. I was gonna have to go out to the rent-a-car place today, but I got to thinking: fuck it, I'll just send you out."

"Um, okay, sir ... um, do you want me to go now, or should I keep doing my chores for a while since ... um, since I'm already dressed? I can check to see when they close if you want, sir."

Karl rubbed his chin. "I don't know, Chrissie; hell, if you really was our slave, you'd just loan me your car until mine gets fixed."

"I ... uh ... um, s-sir?"

He stared at me. "I said: If you really was our slave like you say you are, then you'd let me use your car."

Rebecca smiled into my soul. "OMG, Chrissie, that would be soooooooo awesome of you."

"Um, I ..." I melted under her gaze, and two syllables — "OK" — somehow escaped my lips.

My angel's eyes twinkled "You are such a little doll, I swear."

"I ... uh ... t-thank, you, Mrs. Martin ..."

Karl smirked. "Great, Chrissie, now be a good little doll and bring me them keys. The registration, too."

"Um ... uh, y-yes, sir?"

As I started to slog away, wondering what the hell had just happened, Rebecca tittered. "Hee-hee, I think you like having a slave more than I do."

I didn't hear Karl's reply as I continued down the stairs to the hall closet, where I'd left my gym bag. Trembling, I had a difficult time controlling my fingers as I fished the car registration from my wallet and twisted the key fob off the ring.

Rebecca beamed as I handed over my keys and paperwork to her hubby.

"It really takes a giving person to want to be someone's slave, and do stuff like this for them," she said. "Seriously. Thank you, Chrissie."

"Um ... you're welcome, Mrs. Martin. Um ... can I ask a question?"

"Sure, sweetie."

"Um ... how ... how am I gonna get home?"

Karl snorted. "There's a bus stop on Waldo Road. It's only about a mile walk."

I blinked back tears.

Rebecca made a sad face. "Aw, Chrissie, we'd give you a ride, we really would ... but we weren't planning on going out today; we had a little too much to drink last night, and just wanted to make this a laying-around day. Okay, baba?"

A single tear worked its way past my defenses and slithered down my cheek.

My beloved tilted her head. "Don't be sad, Chrissie. You want to make my life easier, don't you?"

"Y-yes, Mrs. Martin, I do."

"Then, don't you also want to make my husband happy, and make his life easier, too?"

"Y-yes, Mrs. Martin." I couldn't bring myself to look at the smug sonofabitch but I could feel the heat of his sneer.

"See?" Rebecca smiled. "All better now, baba?"

"Yes, Mrs. Martin." I cleared my throat. "Um, uh ... when I'm done cleaning, is it okay if I just call an Uber to take me to the rent-a-car place, so I can get a car?"

Karl propped his hands on the pillow above his head and pondered my request. "Naaaaaah, I don't think so. Take the bus for a while, sissy. If you really want to be a slave, then you need to come down a few pegs."

With the tears now freely flowing, I glanced at Rebecca, whose hand covered her mouth in an obvious attempt to hide her mirth.

"Poor Chrissie," she sang. "You put up with so much, don't you?"

"I ... I don't know." I hung my head and sobbed more.

"Aw, poor thing. It's not easy being our slave, huh?"

"Buh-buh-buh-buh-buh," was all I could manage.

Rebecca searched my face. "Listen, Chris, seriously — is this slave thing even something you want to do? You said you wanted to, but you act so bummed out about it all the time. I thought this was your thing, but I don't want to keep doing it if all you're gonna do is cry."

"Oh, no, no, Mrs. Martin, please." I sniffled and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Mr. Martin, sir, please, no, take my car for as long as you need it, sir. And I'll ... I'll take the bus, no problem. Whatever you want. Please, I just ... I just want to ... I want to keep serving you. Please."

I dropped to my knees, clasped my hands, squeezed my eyes shut and eked out one final "pleeeeeeeease."

Karl scoffed. "Fucking sissy."

"Oh, hush, I think it's sweet." Rebecca looked down on me. "Get up off your knees, Chrissie. We'll still let you be our slave if you want to. Just stop all the crying, okay? I know Karl's mean to you sometimes, but that's just how he is. If you're gonna really try to make this work, you need to deal with it without all the drama. Okay?"

"Y-yes, Mrs. Martin. T-thank you, Mrs. Martin. Thank you so much. No more crying. I promise. Thank you."

"You're welcome, baba," she said. "Now, why don't you go ahead and get started?"

Rebecca hadn't been kidding about it being a "laying-around day" for them. They cuddled and binge-watched "Ozark" while I scrubbed, scoured, fetched and polished. I worked as slowly as I dared, trying to draw out the day as long as possible, making excuses to pass the bedroom as I cleaned so I could peek in at my Princess, even if it meant having to see her nestled in that asshole's arms.

When the house was spotless, and I could no longer delay the inevitable, I reported to Rebecca and her husband.

"Um, the ... the house is all done."

By then, they'd turned off Netflix and were each kicked back in bed going through their phones. I stood before them in my maid's dress, feeling even shorter than 5'6 while they ignored me.

Rebecca finally looked up. "All done, sweetie?"

"Yes, Mrs. Martin. Um, is ... is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, baba, I'm good."

I gritted my teeth. "Sir? Is there anything else you need?" I hated myself for kissing up to the sonofabitch, but I was desperate to stay in their good graces.

Karl rubbed his chin. "Nah, you were a good little sissy slave for us today. Thanks for the car. Is there gas in it?"

"Oh, yes, sir, I just filled it up the other day, sir."

"Good," he said. "I'm all set then."

"Um, okay." I stood there for another second. "Uh ... see you later. T-thank you for letting me serve you."

"You're welcome, Chrissie." Rebecca giggled. "Say hi to the bus driver."

Part VII

As I waited for the bus it started pouring. There was no shelter so I stood on the corner and cried in the rain.

With every thunder boom, I hoped like a sap that Rebecca might realize how bad it was outside, feel sorry for me and come give me a ride. She knew where I was, since her husband had just ordered me to walk a whole fucking mile to the bus stop on Waldo Road, and there was no way they couldn't hear the thunder and driving rain, so I kept thinking that perhaps ... maybe ... perchance ...

A speeding truck rumbled through a puddle and the spray smacked me in the face — reality setting in. Who was I kidding? Rebecca wasn't feeling sorry for me; every time it thundered, she probably giggled with her husband about the infatuated little toady who'd just handed over his car keys and cleaned their house and was now getting soaked.

"Say hi to the bus driver."

Those were her last words to me as I'd left their house. It was a meanspirited statement, and she said it for no other reason than to be cruel. I wiped mud from my face and gritted my teeth. Karl's nastiness had rubbed off on my pristine angel.

It took about a half-hour for the bus to arrive. The driver shot me a strange glance but I shrugged it off. I had other problems. Slumped in a rear seat dripping water, I couldn't get the vision out of my head of Rebecca and Karl snuggled up in their warm, comfy bed, laughing at me.

The storm hadn't let up by the time the bus got to my stop, so I trudged a half-mile through the deluge, rain mixing with tears, until I finally made it home.

My mood tumbled even further when I walked into my condo and saw my reflection in the mirror — my maid's dress showed beneath the thin material of my soaked track suit. Blood drained from my face when it dawned on me why the bus driver had given me a funny look.

And then, out of the blue, a miracle occurred and all my troubles melted away: When I switched on my laptop, I saw that Rebecca had friended me.

Her acceptance of my friend request meant I now had access to all her Facebook photos, not just the single profile pic I'd been pining over. My old phone had crapped out a few years earlier, and I'd lost all my pictures of Rebecca from when we'd dated. Since her Facebook security settings blocked non-friends from her account, I had been relying on the one profile photo, which unfortunately included Karl — and because their faces were smushed together there'd been no way to cut the prick out of the pic.

There were hundreds of photos in her picture folder showing her alone and with Karl doing all sorts of partying with different people, and I realized how popular she was. Rebecca had 993 friends. I had 7.

It didn't matter, because one of my Facebook friends was Rebecca Martin.

I spent hours in a narcotic haze poring over her photo albums, feeling like an archeologist who'd just discovered the blueprints for the Pyramids.

A photo of Rebecca sitting on a rustic wood fence was probably my favorite, but there were so many other good ones.

Her smile lit up the pic from a few years earlier when she and her girlfriends had gone to Vegas.

Even though Karl stood next to her, I couldn't help feeling mushy at how happy my angel seemed in the photo where they posed in front of monkeys in the zoo.

I teared up when I came to the baby picture. My precious, precious Rebecca Anne Strickland-Martin ... so utterly adorable.

Then, there were the wedding pix. It appeared to be a low-budget affair, but they seemed so infatuated with each other — which also brought tears to my eyes, but for a different reason.

After finishing with the photos, I started stalking Rebecca's timeline. I sifted through a few mundane posts before absorbing a major gut-punch — some woman named Cyndy Rae had tagged Rebecca in a photo showing me from behind as I walked from the Martins' backyard, accompanied by the hashtag, #RebeccasLittleBitch.

This Cyndy was obviously the woman who'd been at the BBQ the other day and it appeared she'd snapped my picture with her cellphone after I'd dropped off the groceries and was so embarrassingly dismissed. Following the initial shock of seeing the photo, I felt a twinge of relief that at least my face didn't show; and then I wondered if Rebecca had replied. There were 16 responses. I almost didn't want to look. But I did.

The first post in the thread was a second photo showing the groceries I'd brought, with Cyndy explaining: "Rebecca's ex simps for her like crazy. He just dropped off beer, Jack and steaks! Party on!"

I was beyond mortified, but also relieved that Cyndy either didn't know about my crossdressing or had decided not to post about it. I figured with Rebecca and Karl's crowd, they'd probably kept that part under wraps, lest their friends think it weird.

No, my beloved and her asshole of a husband seemed perfectly happy with everyone just thinking I was some lovestruck ex-boyfriend who was making a fool of himself.

The next post in the thread was some smartass named Jonathon Beeder who replied to the photo of the groceries I'd bought: "Bud? Shoulda had him get Sam Adams."

Carole Johns, whose profile photo was stunning, wrote: "I used to have a guy like that. Wish he was still hear but had to move to Cally cuz his work. He wanted to married but didnt want that but dint mind using him for his money LOL"

"Dude should have some self reapct WTF," a guy named Joe Polanski wrote.

Carla Keller warned, "You might want to be careful. A lot of these ex bfs are obsessed and they can be dangerous so don't lead this guy on if he creeps you out at all."

Tom Mobley was brief: "incel cuck"

Rebecca finally weighed in two hours after her friend had composed the post: "Be nice guys."

I broke into tears. My angel had stuck up for me on Facebook.

Part VIII

The alarm clanged way too early. I rolled out of bed, grumbling to myself that nobody should have to wake up at the ungodly hour of 4:45am. But since I wasn't sure how long it would take for the bus to get me to work, I had to err on the side of caution.

After donning a baby blue teddy beneath my suit, I trekked the half-mile to the nearest bus stop and cooled my heels in the predawn darkness for nearly an hour. When the bus finally came, I was relieved that it wasn't the same driver who'd spotted my maid's dress beneath the soaked material of my track suit after I'd been caught in the big thunderstorm two days earlier.