over to the bed, and looked at the uniform. It was exactly as I had dreamed about all those years: simple, black rayon dress, starched white apron, crisp white cap. Black leather pumps and sheer black stockings. Each garment was an erotic delight to handle and put on. I could have spent hours just running my fingers across the silk slip, and pulling the tight, high-waisted girdle over my throbbing privates nearly made me come. But I only had a few minutes before my introduction to the staff, so I contented myself with snapping the garters against my thighs as I secured the stockings.
Standing in front of the room’s full-length mirror, I studied myself. My short, dark brown hair was once again brushed firmly into an old-fashioned pageboy, bangs marching straight across my brow, cap fastened firmly on top. The dress had been made from my measurements, and showed off my slender waist, the hem line precisely at my knees. I would still tower over most of the women in the house, but I kept my shoulders down and my back straight. I knew other men who slumped to hide their height when they were in women’s clothes; Miss Cruz had cured me of that habit long ago. Besides, my shoes had low heels, keeping my height at a manageable five-foot-eight. Taking a deep breath, I headed down the stairs.
The parlor was just off the main hall. I knocked quietly at the door, and once again came face to face with the frosty-eyed butler. I curtsied again, mostly to avoid his eyes, and he stepped to one side, allowing me to enter. The staff was lined up in front of the fireplace, Miss Claudia standing in front of them.
“Welcome, Miss Francie,” she said warmly, indicating that I should join her, then turned to the staff. “Miss Francie is to be the new second chambermaid. Her responsibilities will cover the guest rooms, and to assist the first chambermaid and myself in any other duties.” She then introduced me one by one to the rest of the staff: the parlor maid, Miss Charlene; the first chambermaid, Miss Susan; the Cook (“Cook,” of course); and finally, the butler, Mr. Fletcher. As I was introduced to each, I curtsied and they would respond with a curtsy (or in the case of Fletcher, a bow).
“Jefferson, the chauffeur, is out with Mistress Madeleine,” Miss Claudia explained, “and the garden is managed by a company, and is not part of the house. But in any event, you would have little contact with Jefferson or the gardeners, as your duties should not take you even downstairs, except for meals and to assist Charlene for special events. We don’t need chambermaids running through the gardens, interrupting music lessons in the Conservatory, despite evidence to the contrary.”
I blushed a deep crimson, and heard someone snigger. The housekeeper’s head snapped in the direction of the sound, and her pretty eyes narrowed.
“Susan,” she said quietly. The plump red-head stepped forward quickly, her face filled with dread. “Fetch me a cane from the stand, please.” I watched the maid’s eyes fill with tears, but she didn’t protest. She trotted to what I had mistakenly thought was an umbrella stand, and pulled a cane from the half dozen that were kept there. She returned to hand the cane to Miss Claudia, and curtsied. The housekeeper pointed to the fireplace mantle, and with a nervous whimper, the red-head turned to the mantle and pulled her skirt up, revealing creamy white buttocks barely covered with black lace panties, and a black garter belt. With trembling fingers, she lowered those wispy panties to just below the curve of her bottom.
“Susan, you are to receive four strokes for inappropriate verbal behavior,” the housekeeper stated.
“Yes, Miss Claudia,” the girl answered, her voice quavering. The first stroke came almost immediately after she finished speaking, and I winced involuntarily at the sharp sound of cane hitting flesh. The impact had hit the softest, fleshiest part of the maid’s buttocks, just above
Standing in front of the room’s full-length mirror, I studied myself. My short, dark brown hair was once again brushed firmly into an old-fashioned pageboy, bangs marching straight across my brow, cap fastened firmly on top. The dress had been made from my measurements, and showed off my slender waist, the hem line precisely at my knees. I would still tower over most of the women in the house, but I kept my shoulders down and my back straight. I knew other men who slumped to hide their height when they were in women’s clothes; Miss Cruz had cured me of that habit long ago. Besides, my shoes had low heels, keeping my height at a manageable five-foot-eight. Taking a deep breath, I headed down the stairs.
The parlor was just off the main hall. I knocked quietly at the door, and once again came face to face with the frosty-eyed butler. I curtsied again, mostly to avoid his eyes, and he stepped to one side, allowing me to enter. The staff was lined up in front of the fireplace, Miss Claudia standing in front of them.
“Welcome, Miss Francie,” she said warmly, indicating that I should join her, then turned to the staff. “Miss Francie is to be the new second chambermaid. Her responsibilities will cover the guest rooms, and to assist the first chambermaid and myself in any other duties.” She then introduced me one by one to the rest of the staff: the parlor maid, Miss Charlene; the first chambermaid, Miss Susan; the Cook (“Cook,” of course); and finally, the butler, Mr. Fletcher. As I was introduced to each, I curtsied and they would respond with a curtsy (or in the case of Fletcher, a bow).
“Jefferson, the chauffeur, is out with Mistress Madeleine,” Miss Claudia explained, “and the garden is managed by a company, and is not part of the house. But in any event, you would have little contact with Jefferson or the gardeners, as your duties should not take you even downstairs, except for meals and to assist Charlene for special events. We don’t need chambermaids running through the gardens, interrupting music lessons in the Conservatory, despite evidence to the contrary.”
I blushed a deep crimson, and heard someone snigger. The housekeeper’s head snapped in the direction of the sound, and her pretty eyes narrowed.
“Susan,” she said quietly. The plump red-head stepped forward quickly, her face filled with dread. “Fetch me a cane from the stand, please.” I watched the maid’s eyes fill with tears, but she didn’t protest. She trotted to what I had mistakenly thought was an umbrella stand, and pulled a cane from the half dozen that were kept there. She returned to hand the cane to Miss Claudia, and curtsied. The housekeeper pointed to the fireplace mantle, and with a nervous whimper, the red-head turned to the mantle and pulled her skirt up, revealing creamy white buttocks barely covered with black lace panties, and a black garter belt. With trembling fingers, she lowered those wispy panties to just below the curve of her bottom.
“Susan, you are to receive four strokes for inappropriate verbal behavior,” the housekeeper stated.
“Yes, Miss Claudia,” the girl answered, her voice quavering. The first stroke came almost immediately after she finished speaking, and I winced involuntarily at the sharp sound of cane hitting flesh. The impact had hit the softest, fleshiest part of the maid’s buttocks, just above
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