Sissy Maid Story, Part One

A friend sent me this story a few months ago. I don't know who the author is and I took the liberty of re-working it and editing it. Should the original author either want applause or the story's removal, please contact me.

Most sissy stories are about a sissy submitting to a dominant woman and I do get a charge out of such stories and have a big collection! But it is a nice twist (for me at least) to have a sissy submitting to a dominant male.

I plan to post a blog on that subject sometime soon...

In the meantime, if anyone has pictures that they believe would illustrate this story, please get in touch.

Chapter 1

It was a sunny, summer’s day as he walked up the front path to the unknown house, pulling a rolling suitcase behind him. It was really too warm to be wearing a turtleneck sweater, but bearing in mind what was under it, he really knew he did not have a choice. His heart was beating furiously, he was sweating, his palms were moist and his mouth was getting drier by the second. He had never done anything like this before. Well, he had come this far. No turning back now, he told himself, fatalistically, swallowing hard. At least, see what happens, give it a go. It’s an exercise in building character. Yes, that’s it, life experience, he told himself. He swallowed hard as he walked up to the door, all too aware that this was the last time he would walk in such a manner. A huge change to his life lay on the other side of that door.

He had an image in his mind of himself as he was now, as the man he was about to leave behind. Nothing exceptional, dressed conservatively but with an inner life that had dominated and tormented him for so long…

He forced the image out of his mind as he reached up to touch the doorbell now in front of him. He hesitated for one last second then rang the bell. He could hear it ringing on the other side of the door but far away as if in a dream. His heart beat harder and faster than ever as time seemed to slow down. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. He stood there. Three minutes passed, at least. Maybe it wasn’t going to happen, maybe it had been called off, maybe… His heart leapt again as he suddenly heard steps making their way to the door. The handle turned, slowly, loudly, and the door swung open.

”Yes?” said the man on the other side.

The visitor had a glimpse of a handsome face with a sardonic smile on it before he lowered his eyes to the man’s chest and managed to utter the phrase he had been instructed to speak.

“Good afternoon Sir. I’m here to clean the house”

The man opened the door and stood aside.

Taking one last swallow, the guest entered, walking into the foyer as his host closed the door, shutting out the outside world with a soft but final sound of wood and rubber.

”Put your bag down and stand there,” he ordered, forgoing the pleasantries in a way that set the tone immediately.  The guest stood on the spot as ordered.

”Well...?

The guest stood there, hesitantly.

”Off with those clothes.”

The guest took a gulp before his final dive in, and reached for the bottom of the pullover but he was stopped by the man saying, ”Uh, excuse me.”

The guest stared back. .

”Do you have something to say?”

A wave of shame washed over him. He was still in male clothes after all. He was still a man, an equal, at least up to this point, wasn’t he?

”Sir...he mumbled defeatedly, looking down again, “Yes Sir.”

Recognizing the profound and wonderful difficulty this probably took to say, the Master let the mumble slide and smirked again. The guest put his hands back down. He grabbed the pullover and raised it above his head and off. Then the shirt, then  pants, then the shoes, (he had been told not to wear socks) as he stripped down for the first time for another man. Finally he stood there before the Master in a full set of women’s lingerie contrasting with his white skin. Black satin panties. Black push-up bra. Long black nylons attached to a black satin garter belt, with a little pink rose on the front. And a black choker around his neck which his turtleneck once covered. There he stood in shame and mortification, as the sissy he knew he was and had always been. The Master was now smiling, pleased with what he saw.

”Very nice.”

The sissy stood there, completely on display, knees trembling from nerves and the

novelty of it all.

”You are a real sissy, aren’t you?”

”Sir,” he whispered, “yes Sir.”

”Nice bra. Where’d you get it?

”Sir, it was my ex-girlfriend’s, Sir.”

There was a silence as the Master smiled, albeit bemused.

”You stole it from her?”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

”Where’d you get the garter belt?”

”Sir,  a department store, Sir.”

”You went in there and bought it yourself?”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

”Pretending it was for your girlfriend.”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”But it wasn’t for your girlfriend was it?”

”Sir, no Sir.”

Another pause.

”Are you glad you’re here, sissy?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”Are you nervous?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”But you’re ready to be my maid.”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”Say it,” he said, now warmed up. “All of it.”

The sissy, while reeling from the humiliation, aware of the chill of the air conditioning against his skin, was nevertheless falling into the rhythm of the questioning. He spoke up a bit, his voice echoing in the foyer.

”Sir, I’m ready to be your maid, sir”

”Say it again.”

”Sir, I’m ready to be your maid, sir”

”Ask me for it.”

A pause.

”Sir, may I please be your maid, Sir?”

”What’s that?”

He swallowed again.

”Sir, may I please be your maid, Sir?”

There was a brief silence as the Master smiled, satisfied.

”Sissy, I want you to go upstairs. Up there you’ll find your room, on the

right. Take your bag, and leave your clothes here. Go put on what’s on the

hanger, the accessories on the night table, everything you see laid out.”

He paused, waiting.

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”Then put on your makeup and wig. You will do a good job on your makeup

won’t you?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”Go ahead, sissy,” he ordered, with an air of doing him a favour.

”Sir, yes Sir,” replied the sissy, as he turned and marched up the staircase in his black lingerie.

At the top, he stopped in front of the first door. Turning the knob and pushing, he saw what he both dreaded and expected inside the plain guest bedroom: a classic, black French maid’s dress displayed on a hanger, its lines forming the shape of a demure but shapely woman even as it hung there empty. While the uniform was classic, it was far from ordinary, made with customized quality and an exaggerated femininity rarely seen outside the movies, or at least movie parodies. Short flared skirt, dramatic puffed

sleeves, and white lace trimming every conceivable edge. He went and took it off the hanger. Unzipping it, he put it on the floor and stepped in, pulling it up and zipping it. It fit snugly, and intentionally so. The short skirt flared out in all directions, the square collar was edged in flounces of lace. He couldn’t help but turn a bit and watch the skirt billow. Turning to the dresser, he saw a pile of lace and ornaments, and a strange black item. He realized what it was and the dress was off again as, for the first time, he worked himself into a tight, black corset.

He had difficulty in tightening it but with each pull on the strings behind his back he felt his excitement; his shape was changing and he felt like he was becoming a new person. When it was finally on and the strings tied round, he felt that  his waist was compressed by nearly four inches which forced him to take short, quick breaths. Once the dress was back on, it was accessory time. In what would have made a great movie montage sequence, he put one thing on after another in a flurry of white lace and ribbons.  When this was completed, he went to the vanity and unzipped his bag. Two more items he found beside the dresser....

Twent-five minutes later, a sissy maid emerged from the room. Taking small uncertain steps in her six inch black patent heels with straps encircling each ankle, she carefully stepped out to start her slow descent down the curving staircase. This was it, her coming out party, a sort of perverse debutante ball, one with neither the high society dignity or the inevitable rich-girl-marries-and-never-has-to-work-again happy ending. The Master, hearing the stairs creak, came out to observe the spectacle unfold. Now she was descending, with smoky, heavily made up eyes, lashes lacquered in coat after coat of mascara, thick foundation and powder giving the illusion of a smooth, porcelain like complexion, and lips drawn and painted into a scarlet bow. Gold clip hoop earrings dangled against her rose tinged cheeks with each step. Down below, her dress was now accentuated with the lacy, frilly white satin apron tied into a big bow at the rear and complemented by a pair of three-inch wide lace cuffs on each wrist. Her skirt now stood out nearly horizontally below her waist, buoyed by yards of short ruffled petticoats. Her chin was tickled slightly by a white lace choker collar with a black bow. A delicate lace headband fanned out ridiculously, perched almost proudly atop her wig. A lacey white leg garter with a small black bow constantly revealed itself on her left leg as her skirt bounced exuberantly with each step. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she reached the bottom.

”Come here,” ordered the Master, pointing to a position just in front of him

The sissy spoke even more softly now, simply unable to comprehend how this

all had happened.

”Sir, yes Sir.”

She clacked over the hard floor in her heels, taking very small steps and one foot placed directly in front of the other in what she hoped was a new and feminine gait, to the spot in front of her Master. If there was ever any doubt who was in charge before, a simple snapshot of the moment would have made it clear even to a caveman what the dynamic was now.

She stood in front of the Master for a full minute as the Master examined her. Finally he spoke.

“The corset will eventually be much tighter but not bad for a first attempt.”

“Sir, thank you, Sir”, she replied.

”Tell me, sissy, do you like this outfit?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”Tell me.”

”Sir, I like my outfit, Sir.”

”Then thank me for allowing you to pay for it.”

”Sir, thank you for allowing me to pay for the outfit, Sir.”

”Tell me how much you like wearing this.”

“Sir, I like wearing this more than anything else I’ve ever worn, Sir.”

”I want you to walk over to the mirror. Tell me what you see.” He pointed to a mirror on the wall. The sissy clacked over and stood in front of it, gazing at her image. If there was a trace of maleness left, it was not evident in his reflection.

”I see a highly effeminate, sissified, pansy French maid.”

”Excuse me?”

She paused for a moment, then remembered. “Sir, I see, a highly effeminate, sissified, pansy French maid, Sir.”

”Does she appear to be obedient and submissive?

“Sir, yes Sir.”

“Say the whole thing.”

“Sir, she appears to be an effeminate, highly obedient and submissive, sissified, pansy French maid, Sir.”

“Turn around. Twirl. Keep looking at yourself.”

“Sir, yes, Sir,” she said, twirling around, then whipping her head around to see herself again, now sinking down into the essence of her femininity.

”Again.”

She sank lower in her mind.

”Let your wrists hang limp. Again.”

Lower.

”Now curtsey”. She hit rock bottom.

Sliding one foot behind the other, she grasped the edges of her skirt between her thumb and forefinger. She spread them apart and bent down, bowing in the mirror. Then came up.

“Now, sissy, I can tell you that you may now love the way you look, love the uniform that you are wearing – but you will come to curse it, and wish for something more practical. But you have chosen this uniform as your working clothes, have you not?”

“Sir, yes, I chose this uniform as my working clothes, Sir.”

“I fear you did not think this through, sissy. But I gave you the choice, you made it, and now you must live with it, even when your legs ache from wearing those heels all day, even when you are on your knees scrubbing floors and still have to maintain a perfect uniform.”

The sissy’s chest heaved in her corset as the implication of what the Master said sank in. Already the heels were hurting her, as was the corset – she felt its bite.

”Come here.”

She clacked over in her pointed heels once again and stopped before him.

”Sissy, are you ready to take on your designated role now?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”To accept your destiny and give up your masculinity completely?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”To do anything and everything I say no matter how trivial or degrading, or risk being put out of the house exactly as you are now?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”Are you ready for your instructions?”

She stood there, swaying in her heels, swimming helplessly in her satin and lace uniform. Their roles were as black and white as the confection she now paraded in before him.

”Sir,” she replied, “yes Sir.”