Sweet maid
Did you hear that sweetie? It is your Mistress calling you to please her, so, hurry up. Go before she will punishes you for being late.
"What on earth are you doing, sissy?"
The shrill voice pierced the quiet of the mansion's hallway, making the delicate chandeliers tremble in their crystalline embrace. The young sissy maid, clad in frills and a maid's apron, froze mid-step, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red than the crimson ribbon tied around his neck. He'd been caught lingering again, daydreaming about the day he wouldn't have to wear these ridiculous clothes or cater to the whims of his Mistress.
"Coming, Mistress!" he squealed, scurrying towards the source of the sound. His Mistress had taken to calling him "sweetie" or "sissy maid," as if to erase his true identity. The plush carpet muffled the clack of his high heels as he rushed to her side, his heart thumping in his chest like a drum in a marching band.
His Mistress stood tall in the arched doorway of the living room, her arms folded across her chest, her expression a perfect blend of boredom and irritation. She was a statuesque woman, dressed in a black latex catsuit that clung to her curves like a second skin, accentuating every sharp line and powerful muscle. Her hair was a cascade of raven locks that fell down to her waist, and her eyes were like emeralds set in a face of porcelain.
"You're late," she said flatly, her voice dripping with condescension. "I expect perfection from my little sissy maid, not dawdling."
The sissy maid's eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, but the walls seemed to close in on him, the very air thick with the scent of her dominance. He knew better than to argue. "I'm sorry, Mistress," he said, his voice high and feminine, the result of months of practice. "I'll do better."
"You will," she said, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips.
The shrill voice pierced the quiet of the mansion's hallway, making the delicate chandeliers tremble in their crystalline embrace. The young sissy maid, clad in frills and a maid's apron, froze mid-step, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red than the crimson ribbon tied around his neck. He'd been caught lingering again, daydreaming about the day he wouldn't have to wear these ridiculous clothes or cater to the whims of his Mistress.
"Coming, Mistress!" he squealed, scurrying towards the source of the sound. His Mistress had taken to calling him "sweetie" or "sissy maid," as if to erase his true identity. The plush carpet muffled the clack of his high heels as he rushed to her side, his heart thumping in his chest like a drum in a marching band.
His Mistress stood tall in the arched doorway of the living room, her arms folded across her chest, her expression a perfect blend of boredom and irritation. She was a statuesque woman, dressed in a black latex catsuit that clung to her curves like a second skin, accentuating every sharp line and powerful muscle. Her hair was a cascade of raven locks that fell down to her waist, and her eyes were like emeralds set in a face of porcelain.
"You're late," she said flatly, her voice dripping with condescension. "I expect perfection from my little sissy maid, not dawdling."
The sissy maid's eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, but the walls seemed to close in on him, the very air thick with the scent of her dominance. He knew better than to argue. "I'm sorry, Mistress," he said, his voice high and feminine, the result of months of practice. "I'll do better."
"You will," she said, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips.
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