My Housekeeper

I was quite convinced of her sincerity. She was no gold digger. I readily agreed and wrote her a check for $600. She was so appreciative. Her eyes welled up in tears and she told me again how embarrassed she was to ask. She didn't tug on her top. But it was still most revealing. I couldn't help but notice and sneak a few peeks. Strangely, I felt entitled. As though I'd paid for the privilege. She gave me a warm hug before departing, breasts squeezed against my chest.

On her next visit she noticed that I did not subtract anything from her paycheck for the loan. I told her to forget about it. That I considered it a gift. Her pay would remain the same as always. She seemed most touched. She veered off into the realm of the personal. She asked about my wife, how long she'd been gone, how I'm dealing with being a widower. She told me if I ever needed anything that I shouldn't hesitate to ask for help. This time she had a top with buttons and as we visited I noticed that she was surreptitiously and oh so subtly undoing one button after another, working her way down, deliberately. It was not my imagination. She gesticulated normally as we spoke, moving her hands and arms about, and gave me some fantastic views. It was I who was most appreciative. And it was I who was developing a potent, fetishistic attraction to my housekeeper. It was she who was encouraging me. It was she who was in the driver's seat.

The weeks went on. We became ever more comfortable in each other's company. She put on no airs, cussed like a sailor and told dirty jokes like a guy with his buddies in a bar.

The holiday season arrived and I gave her a big bonus - three times regular pay. She seemed truly grateful and enormously appreciative. But something else happened as well.

The built-in drawers off the dining area were filled with linens, place mats, aprons, surplus vitamins, even Covid-19 test kits. It was disorganized. While searching for something I realized what a mess it was. I asked Rita if she could check out drawers and organize them. I did not remember something hidden away at the bottom of one. It was an apron upon which was emblazoned the word "slave." Probably from twenty years prior. Rita straightened up the drawers all right. She also left, carefully folded in one of them, the slave apron on top of everything. And the logo "slave" was clearly and prominently displayed.

The gesture struck me to the core. Her awareness of such an accoutrement drove me crazy. It's all I could think about. Then I began reminiscing about my Domme/sub activities with my deceased spouse. I really and truly, deeply missed the thrills of a submissive relationship. I yearned for the domination of a strong woman. I realized how this desire was a fundamental part of me. To obey a domineering woman was a yearning that had not been satiated in a very long time. And this down blouse teasing, and now the almost certainly deliberate staging of a "slave" apron, ignited my libido like lighter fluid on a bed of coals. Hell, I even masturbated immediately after Rita left, fantasizing not just about those gorgeous breasts, those nipples that were tantalizingly close but just beyond view. I also fantasized what it would feel like if she stood over me and ordered me to obey her commands. And how I would eagerly comply. My obsession stewed.

I was preoccupied with these musings when I placed, on the table in the music room, in full view, a paperback that my wife and I had consulted years earlier, a book entitled "Mistress Guide: An Introduction to Female Domination and Male Submission." I succumbed to my obsession. I caved in to my fantasies. Nervously and full of apprehension, I placed the book in full view, impossible to miss. I wanted Rita to see it.

She said nothing of it when she departed. But after she left I raced downstairs and noticed a post-it note from Rita, stuck on the cover of the Mistress Guide. On the post-it note was a question mark and an exclamation point, a smiley face AND "XOXO" followed by a heart. A fucking smiley face! And an "XOXO" with a heart! My stomach quivered and my dick hardened. All due to this not-so-subtle communication from Rita, my housekeeper and now, more than ever, my Fantasy Domme.

Two weeks later, I again left the Mistress manual on the music room table. I'd taken out a highlighting pen and marked the sentences and passages that applied especially to me and my fetishes. The stuff that really pushed my buttons. Shit that stoked my fire. Descriptions of obedience demands, restraints, some corporal punishment, humiliation, even some strap-on play. Driven by my growing obsession, I didn't hold back on identifying my fantasies. I put the highlighter to work.

I also created on my computer a realistic-looking library-like checkout card and left it conspicuously next to the book. It showed the title of the book, the date of checkout (the date of her cleaning), the due date (two weeks hence), the name of the borrower (blank), and the return date, (also blank). I meant it to be a playful gesture, but with serious intent. I wanted to share with her what turned me on. I wanted to reveal what a kinky fellow I was. What an ardent submissive I was.

So, this scheme (the highlighted passages in Mistress Guide and checkout card) awaited Rita in the music room, a mere two weeks after she left me the enigmatic but encouraging post-it note. Those two weeks passed, she arrived and I took my familiar post in the downstairs bedroom. I tried to read but was too agitated to pay attention.

She finished cleaning the upstairs office and, as usual, she called out. "Your office is ready."

I adjourned to the cleaned office upstairs and closed the door behind me, as usual. I was incredibly nervous, forgoing any meaningful work, playing computer games, listening to some music and reading the NY Times online as she worked away. She cleaned like a whirlwind, as usual. When she was done she knocked on my office door, as usual, and called out.

"I'm done!" I emerged and she began running down her report on the house condition. Then she added, "The next time I come I expect to see fresh vacuum bags, a new box of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, and a fresh bottle of Soft & Scrub. Oh, and make sure all the cleaning rags are washed and ready to go."

I was a bit taken aback by the authoritative, almost condescending tone. She'd never sounded like that before. My thoughts immediately reverted to commands my wife used to give. Orders that fueled my libido and aroused the flames in my submissive loins. Gawd, how I'd missed it. I got a boner. While I swallowed hard she followed up before I could answer, "Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good," she replied, and nothing else. She turned and left.

I was so excited by this turn of events. I literally ran downstairs. The Mistress Guide was gone. Rita had taken it with her. She'd filled in the date of checkout and printed her name on the "Borrower's Name" line. I fantasized about her reading it. "Unbelievable! She's going to see all those highlighted fantasies of mine," I said aloud. I wondered how she'd take it all. I wondered if I'd gone too far. I wondered if it was something she'd keep from her boyfriend or if it would become pillow talk. She did tell me theirs was an open relationship. Wonder, wonder, wonder.

My heart pounded. I was astonished by the unfolding of events. Here we'd never explicitly spoken about any of this, yet it felt as though we were indulging in a clandestine, kinky affair. Or, perhaps, embarking on one.

The very next thing I did was to follow her parting instructions. I threw the used rags into the washing machine. And as they agitated, I pulled out the box of vacuum cleaner equipment and changed the bags on both machines (one for upstairs and one for downstairs). And on the shopping list, on a refrigerator magnet, I wrote, "Mr. Clean Magic Eraser and Soft & Scrub." I realized how fulfilling it was to obey Rita's directives. And all the while I fantasized about what might be. I recalled being ordered to shovel some light snow all those years ago.

When Rita showed up for her next visit, I greeted her at the door. (That wasn't always the case. She had a key and regularly let herself in at the assigned time.) I reminded myself that she'd had two weeks to read all the highlighted femdom passages. I expected some different behaviors from her. She didn't disappoint. She initiated the conversation. No small talk.

"Did you change the vacuum bags?"

"Yes, I did."

"Did you get a new box of Mr. Clean pads?"

"Yes, I did that too."

"The Soft and Scrub?"

"As you instructed me." And then, slipping into my role, I added, "I'll always do what you say!"

"I know you will," she added promptly, deadpan and stern look. "And did you wash all the cleaning rags."

"Yes."

"Good boy. You did well. Now go downstairs while I start in the office. When I'm done you can come back up and close yourself in." This was the customary arrangement which we'd normalized long ago. But to hear it from her lips, as an edict, was exciting.

I went downstairs and fell onto the bed. As I lay there, I glanced in the closet. And noticed the suitcase full of goodies from bygone times - the kinky sex toys accumulated over years of play. Without thinking, I pounced on an idea.

I sprinted to the music room and wrote on a pad:

"Something that might interest you. I invite you to open up a gold mine of possibilities. There is a suitcase in the bedroom closet filled with accessories. Please feel free to explore the contents inside. They are yours to do with as you wish. Or to ignore, as you please."

I left the invitation in the same place that I'd left the checkout card for the Mistress Guide. I was once again on the offensive, pushing the boundaries. I hoped I hadn't overstepped. So far, I didn't think I had. I sauntered back to the bedroom to await the signal to move to the upstairs office. She soon called that she was done. I climbed the stairs and disappeared into the office without a word.

About ten minutes before the two-hour mark of her workday, she tapped on the door and called out that she was done. I emerged from my den and, to my elation, she held a riding crop in her hand. And I knew she'd pulled out and opened the suitcase of toys. She slapped the palm of her hand several times before she spoke.

"Down! Kiss my shoes!" she commanded. I was shocked. My submissive desires rushed throughout my body. I could physically feel the sensation. I dropped down on all fours and kissed one foot, then the other, back and forth. She uttered another command. "Take off your clothes and stand at attention, for an inspection."

Wow! This was happening fast. I was so nervous I began shaking. I was overcome with joy that my fantasies were coming to fruition. But my joy was tempered by deep embarrassment. I was compelled to obey. That's what subs do.

I stripped off every stitch of clothing, terribly self-conscious, awkward and ill at ease. I wondered how this older body might compare to her thirty-year-old boyfriend. I did the best I could. I stood at attention. Stark naked. Shoulders back, eyes straight ahead, chest out, stomach in, legs straight. She circled me, as a military superior might do in an inspection. She tapped various parts of my body with the riding crop, including my genitals and my growing penis.

"Hands behind your head," she ordered. I clasped my fingers behind my head. She stood in front of me and began flicking her tongue over my nipples. And I marveled - was it just luck or did she somehow know that this was an erogenous zone for me? And while she tickled my nipples with her tongue she encircled my balls in her fingers, squeezed and then massaged them in the most sensual way imaginable. My hard-on grew. She stepped back.

"You used to think that you're the boss. That you're in charge." She paused.

"But you're not, are you." A declaration more than a question.

"No, I'm not." I had rarely ever felt so sincere in an observation.

"I'm in charge. And I will do whatever I want. And YOU will do whatever I say. Right?" she demanded.

"Yes, that's right."

You like my tits, don't you? I've watched you stare at them since the very first time we met. Go ahead and look now. I give you permission." She rubbed them gently, showing them off. Then said, "You're not the first man who's said I have the greatest rack in the United States." I stared with great admiration.

"At ease, slave boy." She'd never addressed me in that way. I relaxed but kept staring at her chest. "Now, next time I come...here's the deal...I've got two hours to get everything done. You're going to clean the kitchen before I get here. Spic and span. Top to bottom. Scrub the floor. Murphy's oil soap on all the cabinets. Stove, microwave, dishes done and put away, everything. If all the work, including kitchen cleaning, gets done a little early, that's how much time I'll have for extracurricular activities. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"When I'm giving orders, it's Mistress Rita. Got it?"

"Yes, Mistress Rita."

Now, a couple more things. Beyond the kitchen cleaning. I want you to go to the pet store and print out a tag. On one side it should say, "Your name," then "Property of," and then my name, "Mistress Rita." On the other side you should print the word "Slaveboy."

"Yes, Mistress Rita."

"Good. Repeat what you're going to do."

"I'm going the pet store and engrave a tag with my name, property of, and then your name, Mistress Rita. Then on the other side, engrave the word "Slaveboy."

"Good. Second, I want you to copy and print up all the sections that you highlighted in the book you left me...the book I checked out and just returned. I want all those suggestions in one easily accessible place. Got it?"

"Yes, Mistress Rita."

And with that she set the riding crop down on the table, squeezed my balls one more time and departed.

Flushed and still tingling, I put my clothes back on, grabbed the riding crop and made a beeline downstairs. On the bed was the suitcase, wide open, a few items lying to the side, the contents shuffled around as if they'd been picked over. My wildest dreams were answered. I put everything back in the case and placed it back in the closet.

I went to the music room. There lay the Mistress Guide. The return date, the current date, was filled in. Now I was positive that she'd read it. After all, she'd ordered me to consolidate all the highlighted passages. I grabbed the book, hustled upstairs to the office and began transcribing all the highlighted passages from the book in a word document. I was preoccupied with the endeavor until I typed the last sentence.

Our customary two weeks passed and Rita showed up, right on time, as usual. I greeted her at the front door. Same as the previous time, there was no small talk.

"Did you do all your chores?" she inquired. "Did you clean the kitchen?"

"Yes, Mistress Rita." I'd spent a good ninety minutes on it and was confident it would pass inspection.

She walked purposefully to the kitchen, where her eyes inspected every nook and cranny. She checked the microwave and oven, ran her index finger over various cabinets. Scanned the floor.

"Good job here. The kitchen is done. You can go directly to your office. It's never that dirty. I'll call you when I'm done with the rest of the house."

I scurried my way there and occupied myself as usual.

She knocked on the office door and announced that she was finished. I looked at my watch. Thirty minutes short of the two hours she was committed to. My mind raced with the possibilities of what the next half hour might bring. I emerged and awaited her lead.

"Bring your tag and the list of fantasies to the downstairs bedroom," she ordered.

She had already started walking there and I followed. We entered the bedroom and she said, "Get out the suitcase. Find a collar and a leash and show them to me."

I did as she said.

"Now make me a throne. I want five pillows I can lean into."

I fetched five pillows and arranged them at the head of the bed. She plopped down and sank into them, in a sitting position.

"Show me your tag. And give me the list of fantasies from the Mistress Guide."

I handed her the Mistress Guide fantasies, and then presented her with the ownership tag. She read aloud the engraving on each side, stating that I was her property and that I was a slaveboy.

"Very good. Kiss each side and then attach it to the collar."

I kissed each side of the tag, reverently, and attached it to the ring on the collar.

"Now put on the collar and attach the leash."

I did exactly as she said. I snapped on the leash and wrapped the collar around my neck. I fastened it. The collar was snug. I handed her the leash. She pulled it taut, from her reclining position.

"I think this is so great," she said. "When I first met you, I had you pegged for a super straight professor or something. Who'da thunk, huh? Turns out you're a perv. Like the British lady in the jerk off video says, you're a wanker. My wanker now. That's what I'll call you." She paused. She grinned. She held up and waved the list of fantasies.

"You're one kinky mother fucker." She laughed. "And I'll bet you sized me up as a sheltered little farm girl from the rural Midwest. You have no clue the shit I've done in my life. Your little sub fantasies don't shock me at all. I've got this covered, honey. Now take off your clothes and stand at attention. Inspection!"

And with that prelude I proceeded to strip down to nothing. I was, once again, extremely self-conscious, but nothing like the first time she made me remove all my clothes. I stood stark naked beside the bed, looking down on her. I hoped she'd noticed that I'd neatly trimmed all pubic hairs. I'd call it a crew cut.

She tugged gently on my leash. She grabbed the bottom of her stretch top and pulled on it firmly. She revealed an eyeful of cleavage. And her nipples showed through the stretched fabric. Then she began to read aloud the passages that I'd copied from the Mistress Guide.

"Make sure your sub addresses you properly. "Mistress" is a common and appropriate epithet."

"Done!" she commented.

"Demand an inspection. Fully nude. Fully at attention. Make sure he has carefully coiffed pubic hair, erect posture, eyes straight ahead. Like a private in the army before his commanding officer."

"Been there, and doing that," she commented. "But trim those pubes even closer for next time," she added. "Balls as bald as a cue ball." And moved on to the next entry.

"Sometimes, when you want your slave boy to do something, rather than just tell him to do it, make him ask you to do it. Even better, make him beg. For example, if you feel like spanking him, make him ask (or beg) for it."

"Beg me to kneel down, right now," she ordered, following the suggestion from the Mistress Guide.

"Please, Mistress Rita, may I kneel beside you?"

"Granted." I knelt. She let the leash fall and began tracing her free fingers over her breasts, both the bare, exposed cleavage and that which was covered under the tight fabric. I watched with lust as she kept reading.

"A treasure trove of accoutrements is a must. A riding crop, flogger, paddles, restraints of various kinds. That's a nice start, to be enhanced by your imagination and future interests."

"I'd say we're well-equipped," she opined. I was excited that she said "we." And that she repeated, "...enhanced by your imagination. Hmmm..." On she read...

"You must have a leash or two, to attach either to his neck collar or cock ring. A leash serves as a powerful ownership tool. Like a pet, he'll be under your strict physical control when he's leashed. Stupid pet tricks anyone? Go for it!"