Resting
A sissy maid can also rest for a while, if his mistress allowed him to do. But even at that moment he must wears pantyhose and high heels otherwise he will be punished by his mistress.
One sweltering afternoon, the sissy maid lay sprawled out on his bed, a delicate, black lace maid's dress laid out on the mattress next to him. His skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat, a stark contrast against the stark white fabric of his lingerie. He traced the outline of the dress with his finger, feeling the smoothness of the lace against his skin. It was a dress that had seen better days, having been worn countless times under the unforgiving gaze of his mistress.
"Just five more minutes," he murmured to himself, his eyes drifting shut. The soft hum of the air conditioner was a comforting lullaby, offering a brief reprieve from the oppressive heat outside. His legs, sheathed in white pantyhose, stretched out before him, the seams perfectly straight, and his toes curled in the tight, high-heeled shoes that pinched at his feet. It was a strange sensation, one that he had grown accustomed to over time.
Suddenly, the serenity of his brief respite was shattered by the sharp sound of a door slamming downstairs. His mistress was home early. The sissy maid bolted upright, his heart hammering in his chest. He knew the rules: no resting unless explicitly allowed. He hastily pulled on the black maid dress, the fabric clinging to his body as he fumbled with the buttons. His fingers trembled as he tried to tie the bow at the back, his mind racing with thoughts of the punishment that awaited him if he didn't look perfect.
The sound of heels clicking on the hardwood floor grew louder as she approached the stairs. The sissy maid's stomach churned with a mix of anxiety and arousal. He took a deep breath and smoothed out the wrinkles in his dress, steeling himself for the inevitable. As the footsteps grew closer, he slipped into the role he was forced to play, his posture straightening and his expression shifting to one of subservience. The anticipation was almost unbearable as he waited for his mistress to appear at the doorway, ready to begin another day of servitude in his frilly prison.
Her heels stopped just outside the room, and the door swung open with a dramatic flourish. The mistress's eyes narrowed as she took in the sight of her servant, half-dressed and flustered. "What do we have here?" she purred, a wicked smile playing on her lips. The sissy maid's cheeks flushed a deep shade of red, and he felt the heat of her gaze upon him like a brand.
"Mistress, I-I'm sorry," he stuttered, dropping into a low curtsy despite the protest of his knees. "I didn't mean to rest without permission."
Her smile grew, the malice in her eyes glinting like a shard of ice. "And what do you think the consequences will be for such disobedience?" she asked, her voice a sweet, deadly whisper.
The sissy maid's heart skipped a beat. He knew the answer all too well. "Whatever you wish, Mistress," he replied, his voice trembling. He had learned long ago that protests were futile, that submission was the only path to survive her wrath.
"Just five more minutes," he murmured to himself, his eyes drifting shut. The soft hum of the air conditioner was a comforting lullaby, offering a brief reprieve from the oppressive heat outside. His legs, sheathed in white pantyhose, stretched out before him, the seams perfectly straight, and his toes curled in the tight, high-heeled shoes that pinched at his feet. It was a strange sensation, one that he had grown accustomed to over time.
Suddenly, the serenity of his brief respite was shattered by the sharp sound of a door slamming downstairs. His mistress was home early. The sissy maid bolted upright, his heart hammering in his chest. He knew the rules: no resting unless explicitly allowed. He hastily pulled on the black maid dress, the fabric clinging to his body as he fumbled with the buttons. His fingers trembled as he tried to tie the bow at the back, his mind racing with thoughts of the punishment that awaited him if he didn't look perfect.
The sound of heels clicking on the hardwood floor grew louder as she approached the stairs. The sissy maid's stomach churned with a mix of anxiety and arousal. He took a deep breath and smoothed out the wrinkles in his dress, steeling himself for the inevitable. As the footsteps grew closer, he slipped into the role he was forced to play, his posture straightening and his expression shifting to one of subservience. The anticipation was almost unbearable as he waited for his mistress to appear at the doorway, ready to begin another day of servitude in his frilly prison.
Her heels stopped just outside the room, and the door swung open with a dramatic flourish. The mistress's eyes narrowed as she took in the sight of her servant, half-dressed and flustered. "What do we have here?" she purred, a wicked smile playing on her lips. The sissy maid's cheeks flushed a deep shade of red, and he felt the heat of her gaze upon him like a brand.
"Mistress, I-I'm sorry," he stuttered, dropping into a low curtsy despite the protest of his knees. "I didn't mean to rest without permission."
Her smile grew, the malice in her eyes glinting like a shard of ice. "And what do you think the consequences will be for such disobedience?" she asked, her voice a sweet, deadly whisper.
The sissy maid's heart skipped a beat. He knew the answer all too well. "Whatever you wish, Mistress," he replied, his voice trembling. He had learned long ago that protests were futile, that submission was the only path to survive her wrath.
No comments:
Post a Comment