TG Story: Belling The Cat, 1 of 6

From alt.sex.stories.tg Fri Jan 17 09:56:28 1997 Path: nienor.IN-Berlin.DE!sauveur!IN-Berlin.DE!fub!fu-berlin.de!news.nacamar.de!news-feed.inet.tele.dk!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news.bbnplanet.com!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!EU.net!uknet!usenet1.news.uk.psi.net!uknet!dispatch.news.demon.net!demon!mail2news.demon.co.uk!not-for-mail ~~Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.tg ~~~Lines: 625 Message-ID: 199701131139.DAA13051@mailmasher.com X-Mail2News-User: remailer-admin@huge.cajones.com X-Mail2News-Path: mailmasher.com Comments: Please report misuse of this automated remailing service to remailer-admin@cajones.com

This story is intended for the enjoyment of adults over the age of 18. It contains fantasy scenes of people engaged in graphic sexual activity.

Please, if you are under the age of 18, or if you will be offended by such material, read no further. God find something useful to do. Thanks. LST

Belling The Cat Part 1 of 6

by Little Sissy Tippytoes

He felt like the most powerful man on Earth, like Superman, maybe. His cock seemed to stretch out before him like a foot-long hot dog, as he pounded away in Miley's cunt. He entertained the thought that he was so deep inside her he could feel all the way into her uterus. He would draw his pecker out, almost to the very tip of the crown, then plunge it in as forcefully as he could, causing her to gasp and moan. Her eyes were closed, her body covered with a sheen of sweat, her mouth open in a groan of lust. He was sweating too; he thought he could last forever before climaxing. Never had he pumped away in this delightful pussy as long and as hard as he was doing right now. Their bodies were mashed together and squeaking because of the sweat. His mouth was glued to her ear and he alternately whispered, "Yes! Fuck! Oh, yes!" before gasping for more breath.

Her tits were pressed so tightly against him he thought for a moment they might actually be attached to his own chest. And she humped and thrashed against him as they both gasped and grunted, nearing the inevitable conclusion of things. But he was Superman! He could continue forever. He was absolutely certain of it. She could feel him nearing the end too. She cried and began milking his dick even before he exploded, which he did almost immediately, in a great gusher of cum, pounding the bed with his fists, heaving himself in an effort to be swallowed into her womb along with his ejaculate, wanting to die and be transported into the heaven of her womb. Oh, yes, he never, ever, wanted to see the light of day again.

They lay still for several minutes, trying to regain control of their breathing. Miley seemed to be humming in a low, throaty tone as she absentmindedly stroked his hair with her fingers, waiting for him to calm down. Gently, she milked the last drops of cum from his penis, somehow squeezing him in a way that prevented him from going soft on her. She had no intention of letting this one get away. Finally he kissed her earlobe gently and whispered, "You wanton slut. Goddamn, you're marvelous!"

She smiled the smile of a woman who has just been well-fucked, a smile of eternal contentment, an unexpressed, mysterious joy radiating out from her upcurved lips and her bright eyes. "Why thank you, sir," she drawled. "You're not so bad, yourself."

Afterwards, they lay quietly in each other's arms, savoring the touch of their bodies, the smell of their recent encounter. His fingers gently massaged her face, his hand softly caressed her breasts, her tummy, the fold of her pussy, her still hot inner thighs. She sighed, then murmured, "Lover, we've got to break up the party, I'm afraid. I've got to get back to work. A girl's gotta feed herself, you know."

He groaned. "Oh, man, Miley, I'd give anything, anything, to be able to take care of you so you wouldn't have to leave me like this. I hate it when you get up and leave."

She said, "I know, lover, but I don't have a rich wife like you who lets me lay around in bed all day screwing whoever he can get his hands on. I have to work for a living."

He pouted. "Aw, Miley, you know there's no one else but you. And I don't lay around in the sack all day, either. Just because she's wealthy doesn't mean I'm allowed to be a lazy bum. I've got all sorts of things I have to do."

She sat up and began to dress, starting with her bra. His face looked pained as he watched her breasts disappear into the cups of the lacy garment. Then, she pulled her panties up, after which she rolled the legs of her pantyhose up her legs, standing up to finish the job. His eyes were filled with fascination as he lay there watching this reverse striptease. She stepped into her skirt, then put her arms through the armholes of her sleeveless blouse, buttoning it up and tucking it into the waistband of her skirt. Then she reached into her purse to retrieve her hairbrush, dragging it purposefully through the rich, thick waves of her light brown hair.

At last she turned to him, and reaching across to where he lay, gave his penis a little pinch. "You know I love you, Phil. I wish you weren't married to Ms. Warbucks, the millionairess. I wish you were married to me. But I know you won't leave her, not as long as she's willing to keep you in a manner you've grown accustomed to."

He smiled a rueful smile. "I guess so. It certainly is nice to drive a Jag instead of a Yugo. But, lately, I've been getting really frustrated. I want to see more of you, spend more time with you. I don't know. Maybe I should ask for a divorce."

"Don't bother," she said. "Believe it or not, you're better off with this arrangement."

"What makes you think that?" he asked.

"Because I know you love that money a hell of a lot more than you love me." She placed her knee on the bed, bent over and kissed him softly on the mouth. Before he could put his arms around her, she stood up and backed away from the bed, then smiled and said, "Toodle-oo, lover," and quickly left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

Philip lay there in the bed for a long while, savoring the still present smell of their climax, smiling a little, then stretching his arms, his legs, even his dick, and growling a tigerish growl. Then, he climbed out of the bed, and went into the bathroom for a shower.

Victoria Broadburn leaned across the top of her huge dark maple desk. She picked up the envelope the man had placed on the otherwise clean surface. She fixed her eyes on his, a small, tight smile playing at the edge of her thin mouth.

Feigning casualness, she slowly ran her long, sharp fingernail under the flap, opening it carefully, and, without looking down, pulling the contents out. She glanced at the photos, pretending not to be concerned about what they revealed, but unable to hide entirely the hurt in her eyes. She looked back at the man and said, "You got good ones this time? Do they show everything?"

He smiled broadly, pleased with himself. "See for yourself, Ms. Broadburn. These babies are so clear you can see the sweat beads on their foreheads."

Her mouth tightened, and she furrowed her brow. She was pleased with the quality of the man's work, but not with what that work entailed. "I see," she said. She took a long look at the photo on top. It showed her husband's head, his mouth glued to the nipple of a woman's breast. She leaned back in her plush leather chair, made a tent of her joined fingers, and stared intently at the pile of photographs which now lay spread on the desk. "What do you think, Mr. Peterson? About this bitch?"

The man formed a half-smile with his lips, his eyes also focused on the photos, so he wouldn't have to look into hers. "I gotta tell ya, Ms. Broadburn, I'd watch out for this one. She's hot. And he's hot for her. The others, well, they were afternoon delights. But, this one. Mmmph. This one's different."

A silence descended on the room as the two people sat across the desk from one another, studiously avoiding each other's gaze. Finally, Victoria broke the quiet: "All right, Mr. Peterson, you've done very good work on this case, and I appreciate the quality of your effort. Your check will contain a substantial bonus as an indication of just how much I do appreciate all that you've done. As you can imagine, it is quite embarrassing for me to have to see photos such as these, to know what my husband has been doing behind my back, to know that you know as well."

He shrugged his shoulders, an effort to dismiss her concern in as casual a way as possible. He wanted her to know he was not letting any of this embarrassing information go beyond this room. Discretion was a hallmark of his profession, and he was as tight-lipped as the best private investigator.

She made her hands into small fists, and looked at the wall beyond Peterson. Her voice was almost a whisper. "I hate the humiliation he subjects me to. I don't understand any of it."

Peterson shrugged again. "Some guys just can't sit still, Ms. Broadburn," he said. "They got itchy powder on their dicks, if you'll pardon my saying so."

She snorted. "Itching powder, indeed." She stood up and extended her right hand. "Well, Mr. Peterson, again, thanks for your effort. You've been reliable and honest all along. If you think this latest flame bears watching, perhaps you should continue your surveillance for a while longer."

"Sure thing, Ms. Broadburn," he replied. "Be happy to."

Victoria thought to herself, "Who wouldn't, when you get to see a show like these two put on?" She said nothing, but only smiled as the detective prepared to leave.

He took her hand in his, then turned, retrieved his hat from her coat rack, and left the room. Victoria watched him as he quietly closed the door. Then, she walked out from behind her desk and began pacing her office, her brow knitted in deep thought.

When Philip Johnson returned to the swank townhome he and his wife Victoria shared, he noticed a sheet of paper on the small table that was placed just inside the front door for the newspaper, mail and other packages. The sheet was a brief note from Victoria: "Philip. Come at once to my office. Victoria"

"Jesus, what a cold bitch she is," he mumbled to himself. "No 'Dear Phil,' no indeed. 'Philip.' No 'Love, Victoria.' Just 'Victoria.' What the fuck. And after that wonderful session with Miley. Ah, dear, sweet, hothothot Miley."

He turned around, left the apartment, and hailed a cab which had fortuitously rounded the corner. Soon, he was headed into the center city, to the financial district where his wife's investment firm was located. Within a few minutes, the cab pulled over to the curb and deposited him in front of the towering, mirrored-glass fronted building. He looked up to the vicinity where his wife's firm was located. "Shit," he muttered, "the fucking building's as cold as she is. They sure were meant for each other." Reluctantly, he crossed the sidewalk and entered the building, acknowledging the security guard's greeting as he pushed through the door.

He entered the firm's office, through a glass door which opened into a large reception area decorated with a couple of sofas and straight-backed chairs, and the receptionist's desk. The receptionist looked up from her typing, smiled brightly and said, "Hi, Mr. Johnson! Let me tell Ms. Broadburn you've arrived. I know she's expecting you." She leaned forward, pushed a button on the intercom, and announced Philip's arrival. He was thinking, "What a bitch! Wouldn't even take my name when we got married. Said it complicated her financial arrangements. Goddamn. Good thing I have access to her checking account."

Her door opened and Victoria stepped through. She nearly bumped into Philip as he was preparing to grab the knob. "Oh," she exclaimed, a bit startled. "There you are. Come on in, Philip." She held the door open for him to enter. "Have a seat, Philip," she said, gesturing to the seat the private investigator had recently sat in. Philip crossed the floor of the huge office, and took the seat Victoria had indicated. Almost immediately, his eye fell on the photos, which were still spread out on the desk top. He could feel the heat of his embarrassment beginning to crawl up his neck. "Oh, shit," he thought. "Here we go."

Victoria passed behind him and seated herself in her large, plush leather chair. Even though it was difficult to do so - she'd much rather have broken down and cried - she fixed her eyes on his. After a long moment's silence, she said, "I'll come right to the point, Philip. I want to know what you would like to have happen now."

He avoided her gaze, instead pretending to study the pictures. Actually, he couldn't bear to look at them. Spread out before him in all their full-color glory, they seemed obscene. How dare she invade his privacy this way? Who the fuck did she think - ? But she was speaking, "... to have happen now?" He wasn't sure he understood her. "Have happen? What? I'm not sure... What is it you want?"

She answered, "It's not at all what I want, Philip. Not at all. It's what you want that concerns me. Do you want a divorce?"

His eyes briefly gazed into hers. She seemed perfectly calm. "Cold," he thought, and shivered inwardly. "Divorce?" he asked.

She looked at him sitting there, his hands nervously playing with the edge of a photograph. Emily was straddling him in this picture. You could see his cock disappearing into her pussy. His balls looked like pink apples. She was lost in a world of lust. His face was hidden behind her torso and breast. Philip was beginning to feel a little sick to his stomach.

"Yes, divorce," she replied. "I'm asking you if that is what you would like to have happen here. Certainly those photographs supply ample reason for discussing divorce." She hesitated a moment, then continued, "If that's what you want."

He looked down at his hands which were now resting in his lap. "Umm, no, I don't want a divorce."

She was relentless. "Then, what do you want? I repeat: what would you like to have happen now?"

Small beads of perspiration appeared on his brow. He could feel a slight trickle of sweat slowly dripping down his spine. "I, umm, I don't know," he murmured.

"Let me tell you this, Philip. If you want a divorce, you may have one. But I can assure you that you will not profit from it. I have already made the necessary arrangements to protect what is mine. In fact, I have made all the arrangements to strip you of virtually everything you think you own. Including the clothes you are currently wearing. If you decide to seek a divorce, you better have a damn good job waiting for you. Otherwise, you're going to be sleeping in the park from now on."

He blanched at the fury of her words. He knew she was tough; and he knew she would protect herself as much as possible. He hadn't realized, however, how viciously she would attack him.

The silence between them grew. Finally, she broke it: "I'm not asking you for a divorce, Philip. I want you to understand that. I don't think it's necessary, really. But, if we decide to stay together, I can assure you there are going to be some major changes in our relationship. Now, I'll ask you again: what would you like to have happen now?"

He knew he was too weak to fight. Financially, he didn't have a leg to stand on. Legally, she was holding all the cards. If he accepted the idea of a divorce, and asked for one, she would punish him severely. He was too lazy to simply leave and go somewhere else to start over again. He knew if he stayed, she would continue to take care of him, to "keep" him. But he suspected he would pay a heavy price no matter what he decided to do.

She sat in the plush leather executive chair, hands folded across her stomach, patiently gazing at him, waiting for him to respond. He continued to fidget uneasily with his hands, his eyes desperately avoiding hers. There had been a time when he couldn't take his eyes off her. She was extremely beautiful, and the fact that her wealth could purchase the very best in health and beauty care allowed her to maintain that aura. She was short, about 5 feet 4 inches tall, and slender, with a perfect curve outward from waist to hips. Her bottom was rounded just enough without being too prominent. And, despite her shortness, her legs appeared long and perfectly tapered, probably because of her slender frame. But it was her breasts that were her greatest asset. They were perfection itself. They were large without being overwhelming, firm and yet supple, and they attracted the immediate attention of both men and women. She was well aware of their attractiveness, and she dressed to accentuate them without overemphasizing them. When they had first begun to date, Philip could hardly take his eyes off them; he fantasized his hands kneading them as though they were soft mounds of bread dough. He dreamed of those gorgeous breasts.

Now, he could hardly lift his eyes to look at her. He wasn't aware of feeling ashamed, in particular. Perhaps it was fear of her power, especially now, when she so obviously had the advantage. He knew she was in the driver's seat, and there was little he could do about it. Maybe it was shame he was feeling; shame that she had defeated him. Definitely not shame that he had made love to Emily Owens, his Miley, his mistress. His mind wandered to thoughts of her, even as his wife sat across the desk from him, her eyes fixed on him, waiting for his decision.

Finally, he could no longer delay the inevitable. "Well, Vic," he began, but quickly noticed her glowering at him, in no mood for little tendernesses here. "I mean, Victoria. Sorry. Ok, here's the way I see it. I definitely don't want a divorce. So I guess that means I do want to stay married to you. And, I know I've hurt you, and I'd like to do whatever I can to mend that hurt."

"Mend the hurt, hmmm?" she said. "What about loyalty? What about fidelity? How can I trust you, knowing what I know about you and your - how shall I put it - extracurricular activities? If I can't trust you, how can any of my hurt be mended?"

He replied, "Well, it's true, of course, that my track record isn't very good." He ignored her snort. "But I promise you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I'll change all that. No more, umm, extracurricular activities. I mean that sincerely." Miley's face appeared before him, her eyes dancing, her lips inviting. He shook his head, trying to erase her image.

"So you really do want to remain with me." Her eyes were locked on him, once again cold, unfeeling.

He looked at the floor. "Yes. Whatever it takes, Victoria. I'll do whatever it takes."

The fog of silence settled between them once again. If there had been an old-fashioned grandfather clock in the room, it would have sounded louder than usual, annoyingly loud. As it was, the only sound was the quiet whisper of the air-conditioner pushing cool air through the registers in the floor.

Finally, Victoria reached forward and opened the center drawer of her desk. She pulled out a sheaf of papers. "I'm going to insure your loyalty this time, Philip. And your fidelity. I have several documents I want you to sign. Later, at my convenience, I'll have them witnessed and then my attorney will execute them. I know that's unconventional. But I don't want anyone here seeing us together like this. You would agree with my position on this, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, of course. I trust you to do the right thing, Victoria."

She pushed the small pile of papers over to him, along with a pen which she had also taken from the desk drawer. "Very well. The document on top is a quit-claim. It states that you relinquish all claims to my estate, to my property and to my finances."

He signed. The next document transferred ownership of his Jaguar to Victoria. He signed. Another document provided his agreement to accept an allowance from a trust Victoria had established, but it was subject to her approval. Each week she would verify his good behavior. Her verification would permit the bank to place his allowance in a checking account. If she refused to sign the verification form, no money would be transferred to the account. In fact, the account would be frozen. He signed.

Finally, it was done. He was broken. He now depended on Victoria for his very existence. He wondered if Emily would continue to see him. He sat in his chair waiting for Victoria to make her next move, whatever it was. After several minutes, she said in a near-whisper, "Stand up." He stood. "Remove your clothes."

"What?"

"You heard me. Remove your clothes." She glared at him. "Strip."

"But, why? What is that going to prove?"

Her answer was to reach again into the center drawer, this time removing a lighter. She took the pile of paper in one hand, and prepared to set it on fire. "If these documents burn, Philip, you'll have no choice but to accept a divorce. Do you understand? No choice."

Grimly, he began to undo his belt. "All right, all right. You win."

Reluctantly, he removed his clothes, finally standing in front of his chair completely naked. Victoria reached forward and pressed the intercom switch. "Judith, I want you to come in here, please," she said into the microphone. The receptionist replied, "Yes, ma'am. Right away."

Philip was aghast. "Wh- what's going on?"

Victoria glared at him again. "Silence. You'll speak when I want to hear you."

The door opened, and the receptionist entered the room. She glanced at Philip, and a small smile formed on her lips. Victoria said, "Judith, I want you to take his undergarments and dispose of them, as we had discussed. Then come back and bring your equipment."

The receptionist said, "Yes, ma'am," and began picking up Philip's socks, drawers and t-shirt. She quickly left the office. Philip's mouth started to open, but was stopped by Victoria's abruptly raised hand. "I said, 'Silence.' I meant silence."

A moment later the door opened and Judith re-entered the room. She was carrying a small case in one hand. She walked over to Victoria's desk. Victoria turned to Philip who was standing red-faced and naked in front of the young woman.

Victoria said, "Now, Philip, I don't think it's possible to trust you to be faithful to me or to your marriage vows. You've violated that trust so often and so regularly that I don't think you're capable of behaving in a trustworthy way. So I've devised a little plan that I hope will shame you into behaving yourself. Remember, your allowance depends on my acceptance of your good behavior. Right?"

He was looking down, trying to avoid the receptionist's open stare. He mumbled, "Yes. I guess so."

Victoria smiled slightly. "Very well. Here is what I propose. Judith is going to give you a pedicure, after which she is going to paint your toenails with a delightful red polish. I am assuming you would never want one of your chippies to see you with painted toenails. So, you'll keep your pants on to avoid such an eventuality. Of course, if your pants are on, your dick most likely will be tucked away as well. It's at least worth a try. Nothing else seems to have worked."

The receptionist giggled, clearly enjoying the scene. Victoria gestured at the chair Philip had been sitting in. "Sit down, Philip. And don't give Judith a hard time about this, either." She turned to her receptionist. "I'm going out for coffee. Let me know when you're done with him."

The receptionist, still giggling, said, "Yes, ma'am."

"And do a good job on him. I want those toenails looking absolutely gorgeous."

The receptionist couldn't contain her laughter. "Oh, I'll do a good job, Ms. Broadburn. You can rely on me."

And with that, she knelt down in front of Philip, opened her cosmetic case, and went to work. With a smirk on her face, Victoria turned and walked out the door.

Half an hour later, the receptionist opened the door of Victoria's office. Victoria was sitting on one of the sofas, reading a magazine and sipping a cup of coffee. "I'm all done, Ms. Broadburn."

The two women entered the office together. Philip was seated in his chair, still naked, looking deeply embarrassed. Victoria crossed the office and stood before him. "Let's see those toes, Philip," she commanded. He lifted both feet so she could get a close look. Victoria clapped her hands together. "Oh, look what Judith's done," she said. "This is marvelous. What kind of flowers are those, Judith?"

"They're supposed to be carnations, Ms. Broadburn," Judith said.

On both of Philip's big toes, in addition to the bright red nail polish, the receptionist had painted bright white carnations. Philip's face turned a shade darker than the deep red polish that now decorated his toenails.

Victoria's face wore a thoughtful expression. "Hmm. You know, Judith, if he puts his socks back on over his toes, it might cause those wonderful flowers to smear and ruin the effect. Don't you agree?"

Judith said, "Oh, yes, ma'am. Those socks Mr. Johnson was wearing could definitely cause the polish to smear."

Victoria sighed. "I was afraid of that. Well, I guess we have no alternative, Judith. Go and get me the razor and the rest of the things I gave you this morning."

Philip was alarmed. "Razor?" he thought, suddenly afraid. "What the fuck does she need with a razor?"

When the receptionist returned, she was carrying an electric razor in one hand. In her other hand she had a small plastic bag with the logo of a lingerie shop printed on it. Philip's eyes showed his concern. Victoria said, "Philip, I was afraid that Judith's handiwork would be too delicate for you. I know the quality of her artistic efforts. So, I'm afraid we're going to have to cover your toes with the same kind of material a woman would wear whose toenails were similarly decorated, that is, with sheer nylon. However, nylon stockings would look just awful on those shaggy, hairy legs of yours. So we're going to have to remove the hair. I'm sure you don't mind, do you?"

Philip was almost crying in frustration. He waved his hand dismissively. "No, of course not. Don't want to ruin the carnations, after all."

Victoria glared at him. "Well, you don't have to be so sarcastic, Philip. Judith worked very hard on those nails of yours." She smiled sweetly at her receptionist, then turned back to Philip. "Now, stand up so Judith can shave your legs."

Red-faced with shame, Philip stood up. The razor Judith held in her hand was portable, so all she had to do was kneel down at Philip's feet, turn it on, and go to work. Victoria stood behind her, leaning her delicately rounded bottom against the desk, watching Judith work with the razor. The hair on Philip's legs was, of course, fairly long, too long for an electric razor to shave neatly. Several times he cried out when the razor became snagged in his hair. But, eventually, after several repeated efforts by Judith, his legs were at last free of all their hair and as white as a porcelain bowl. At Victoria's instructions, Judith had also shaved off Philip's pubic hair as well, causing him even more embarrassment than he already felt.

Victoria clapped her hands. "Oh, lovely, Judith. You've done a wonderful job. Now, Philip, sit down so we can show you how to put on these nylons."

She reached into the plastic bag, and pulled out a pair of very sheer, black nylon stockings, the kind with seams. She handed them to her husband.

"It's very important that you put them on as carefully as you can, Philip. You want to avoid runs at all cost. And, you want your seams to be perfectly straight, especially on those days when I inspect you in order to verify your continuing good behavior."

He looked at the dainty handful of nylon. He had no idea how he had so quickly been reduced to this situation. Judith took one of the stockings from him, and showed him how it was to be folded so that he could slide it up his leg after carefully covering his foot. She also instructed him on keeping the seams straight as the stockings were gently pulled up his leg. When the first stocking was in place, she handed him the other one. He was expected to do this one on his own. His hands shaking somewhat, he finally managed to pull the stocking up his leg, keeping the seam relatively straight. Judith showed him how to adjust it. When he was done, Victoria had him stand up. Immediately, the stockings began to slide back down his legs.

"Obviously, you need something to hold your stockings in place," Victoria declared. She reached into the plastic bag and pulled out a black garter belt covered with red lace. She handed it to Philip. "Go ahead, put it on. Judith will show you how to attach the garters to your stockings."

Visibly upset, but unable to counter this humiliation, Philip started to put the belt on. He placed the hooks in front and attached them to the eyes. Then, he began to reach for a garter strap.

"No, no, no, silly!" exclaimed Victoria. "Once you've got it all snapped on, you have to slide it around your waist so the hooks are in the rear. Silly boy."

Judith giggled as the red-faced Philip complied.

"All right," said Victoria. "Now, you can attach the garters."

Clumsily, Philip began to work on this task, finally figuring out how to operate the snaps after Judith demonstrated the method a couple of times. Finally, fully ashamed and humiliated, Philip stood before his wife and her receptionist, his brightly polished toenails visible through the sheer material of his stockings, which were attached to the only other garment he wore, a garter belt.

Victoria's demeanor grew stern. "This is how you will dress each day, Philip. And once a week, you will report to Judith for a pedicure. You will wear no other undergarments, unless, of course, I permit them. If you desire to wear panties, or a bra, or a camisole, or any dainty feminine lingerie, why I'll be more than happy to approve such apparel. But that's optional, for now. However, your stockings and garter belt are not. Those you will wear every day, all day. Do you understand?"

Philip stared at his legs and his freshly painted toes. "Yes," he mumbled.

"Good," said Victoria. "Then you may get dressed." She turned to Judith. "Thanks so much, Judith. You do a wonderful pedicure. You may go to lunch now, if you'd like." The receptionist smiled at Victoria, gathered up her things, and left the office, but not before giving Philip the once-over with her laughing eyes.

Victoria turned to Philip, who had finished dressing and was adjusting his necktie. "You may go now, Philip. Remember, loyalty and fidelity." She reached into her purse, pulling out her wallet. She removed two bills from it and handed them to Philip. "Here's your first week's allowance, two hundred dollars. You'll get your allowance after your inspection, on whatever day I choose, here at the office. All right?"

Philip nodded.

"Oh, one more thing before you go. I want the keys to the Jaguar."

"But, but, how am I going to be able to get around?" he cried.

"This city has a perfectly marvelous public transportation system, Philip. You can take the bus. We'll see how your little sluts like being romanced on the metro." She snickered at the thought of Philip, encased in nylon stockings, attempting to impress one of his girlfriends as they rode through the city on a bus.

She took the car keys from Philip's outstretched hands, then waved him away in dismissal.

Philip had hailed a cab to ride back to his - Victoria's - townhome. "Take the bus," he muttered. "Fuck her, fuckin' bitch." After paying the driver, he turned to go up the steps of the large brownstone rowhouse. It was a three-story structure, and much wider than the usual townhouse and very deep. In the back, there was a small yard, most of which Victoria had turned into flower beds for her garden, which even Philip had to admit was spectacular. Beneath the front porch, behind the concrete steps, was a set of short steps leading down to a basement entrance. At one time, a previous owner had converted the part of the basement which was directly under the kitchen into a servant's apartment. The front walk-down entrance opened into a narrow hallway, which led to this apartment. The apartment itself consisted of a small bedroom/sitting room, a tiny kitchenette, and a cramped shower/sink/toilet room. In the bedroom/sitting room was a door which led directly up to the kitchen situated at the rear of the first level of the house proper. The kitchen also had a door which led to the laundry room. The servants would wash the family laundry in this room, then fold and iron it in either the kitchenette or the bedroom/sitting room. When Victoria and Philip had moved into the townhome, they had built an enclosure behind the kitchen and had turned it into a laundry room. So, during the years they had lived in this townhouse, they had never had any need to use the basement apartment. In fact, all they used the basement for was storage space, and the entrance to the storeroom was reached separately from the servants' apartment.

As Philip reached the landing, he took his key from his pocket and attempted to slide it into the lock on the front door. It wouldn't fit. "What the fuck?" he muttered. "What's happened to the lock?" It was then he saw the envelope sticking out from the letter-drop in the door. He reached down and retrieved it.

"Dear Philip," it read. "Until you have proven to me beyond any reasonable doubt that your loyalty and fidelity can be trusted, I am requiring you to move into the servants' apartment in the basement. I have had the locks to the front entrance changed. Moreover, I have also locked the door leading from the kitchen to the basement apartment. When I have need of you in my quarters, I will permit you entry through that door. I have installed an intercom in your new apartment for the purpose of summoning you whenever I deem it necessary.

"You will find bed and bath linens in the bureau in the bedroom. Your clothes have been moved into the bedroom also. There is food in the refrigerator, and cooking utensils, plates, etc.

"Part of my weekly 'allowance approval' inspection will be to examine the neatness and cleanness of your apartment. Please keep that in mind.

"Your housekey should work in the basement door lock.

Victoria"

He wadded the note up in his fist and slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand. "That fucking bitch!" he exclaimed. "Son-of-a- mother-fucking-bitch!"

Slowly, he calmed down and, realizing the inevitability of his situation, he decided to take a look in the basement at the apartment which he hadn't seen since he, Victoria, and the real estate agent had looked at it during their pre-settlement inspection tour. As he descended the stairs, his eye happened to glance out to the street. Something was wrong, he knew, but he just couldn't - "My Jag! Oh, shit! The bitch has taken my Jag! Oh, nooo..." There was definitely an empty space at the curbside, and there was no Jaguar in sight.

Muttering darkly to himself, he tried the key in the lock. Sure enough, it worked. The door easily opened. Inside, the hallway was dark, and he felt around the wall until he found a light switch. He turned it on, and a low wattage bulb barely illuminated the hallway. He could see the door at the other end, so he walked the length of the narrow corridor. Once again, he tried what had once been the front-door key, and discovered that it fit the lock on this door. He pulled the door open and again had to grope for a light switch to find his way into the darkened room. He found that the entrance gave way into a bedroom/sitting room. Inside the tiny room was a narrow, cot-like metal frame bed with a thin mattress and box-spring. On the mattress was a pillow. There was a chair in one corner, and a five-drawer bureau in the other. On top of the bureau was a small, inexpensive clock/alarm radio and his razor, toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream, deodorant and other cosmetics.

There was no closet. Next to the bureau, attached to the wall, were some pegs with a few wire hangers suspended from them, which would allow him to hang his clothes. There was a shelf attached to the wall above the pegs. On it was an iron. Leaning against the wall next to the pegs was an ironing board.

He went over to the bureau and opened the top drawer. In it were several pairs of nylon stockings, all black, all sheer, all with seams. There were also several garter belts in different colors, but all with plenty of lace adorning them. In the next drawer he found several nightgowns, all sheer, all baby-doll style, but with no panties. The other three drawers contained bed linens, towels and washcloths.

He went into the bathroom. There was toilet paper on top of the toilet tank, and he realized the room was too small to accommodate a toilet paper holder. Above the sink were two narrow shelves, each attached separately to the wall. On these shelves were his medicines - aspirin, bandaids, and other supplies. Above the top shelf was a small mirror. Underneath the sink were cleaning supplies neatly placed on the floor. In the cramped shower stall was a soap dish with a bar of soap in it.

He next examined the kitchenette. It had a small range on top of a small oven. There was no microwave oven, however. If he cooked, he would have to cook in the old traditional way. Next to the oven/ range was a sink, and on the other side of the sink was a small refrigerator. There was, of course, the narrow door leading up to the kitchen above, and another narrow door which led to the laundry room. That door had been removed so that the washer and dryer could be clearly seen. There was a small table in the center of the room with a chair neatly placed under it. Next to the opening into the laundry room several shelves had been attached to the wall. On these shelves were boxes of cereal, cans of soup, and other food. On the bottom shelf was a pot and a frying pan. On the shelf above that were a few plates, cups, and eating and cooking utensils.

Philip looked in the refrigerator. Inside were eggs, milk, some ground beef, some fresh fruit and vegetables, cheese, and a small freezer filled with ice cubes.

In the laundry room, beside the washer and dryer, were laundry detergent, dryer anti-static tissues, dish detergent and other cleaning supplies. Looking at the cleaning supplies, Philip suddenly realized that the little apartment was immaculate. Obviously, Victoria had gone to great trouble to prepare it for him. She'd been planning this for a long time. His heart sank as he began to understand that Victoria was going to be humiliating him far more severely than he'd originally thought. "Damn," he said out loud. "Maybe I should ask for a divorce. It can't possibly be any worse than this."

He went back into the bedroom and sat on the bed. The mattress definitely wasn't firm like the mattress on his bed upstairs. But it wasn't uncomfortable, either. He began contemplating his situation. It was pretty obvious that Victoria had some kind of plan that she wasn't revealing to him. It was also pretty obvious that she intended to punish him for his womanizing. He considered simply removing the garter belt and stockings and leaving, going ahead with a divorce - no matter how painful it might be for him - and then starting over, perhaps even moving from the city and relocating somewhere else. But a voice inside his head continued whispering, "Stick around. See what she's up to. Maybe you can come out ahead, after all."

Evidently, he had dozed off. A loud buzzing had startled him awake, and as he sat up, groggily wiping his eyes and shaking his head to clear the sleep away, he realized it was the buzzer on his clock radio. The clock read 8:00, and the P.M. light-dot was lit. "Damn," he said, "that is one loud alarm. I'll have to set it for a morning wakeup. Like around 10:00, maybe." He stood up, looking around a little confused, then realized he was in the apartment in the basement of his townhome. He decided he would go out to get a bite to eat, maybe at the pub up on the corner, Harry's Grill. They had good burgers, and he could have a couple of brews while he sorted out his thoughts and feelings on what was going on with Victoria.

As he stepped toward the door, suddenly a static roar emerged from the intercom. Then, Victoria's voice boomed out, "Philip, I wish to speak with you right away. Please come to the door in the kitchen. There's a doorbell switch there. Just push it and I'll unlock the door from up here." Evidently, she had installed an electronic lock on that door. "Probably so I won't 'invade' her 'kingdom,'" he thought. But how the hell had she known he was in the apartment? And getting ready to go out? "She's got a camera hidden somewhere around here, the fucking bitch." He groaned.

He walked into the kitchenette, and stepped over to the door. He found the doorbell switch, and pushed it. Immediately, he heard a buzz, not unlike the buzzer on his clock radio alarm, and then the sound of the door unlocking. He pulled it open and climbed the stairs. There was another door at the top of the stairs, which was unlocked. He opened it and entered the kitchen. Just as he closed the door, Victoria's voice sounded over another intercom, this one attached to the wall next to the door. Victoria's voice commanded, "Come into the study, Philip. I'll meet you there."

Slowly, he made his way through the kitchen and into the main hallway. His frustration was growing, threatening to turn into real anger. He was afraid he might say something which could cost him whatever benefit he might have in this situation. He entered the study. Victoria was seated in a wingback chair, facing a fireplace. There was a fire burning, the flames dancing merrily above the large logs. She looked up and watched Philip as he crossed the room to her, then indicated that he was to sit down in another wingback chair facing her, his back to the fire.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Then Victoria said, "Well, Philip, I trust your new accommodations are satisfactory."

"Smug bitch," he thought. But, he said, "They're all right, I guess. But, why are you making me stay down there?"

She looked him straight in the eye. "Don't forget, Philip. You violated our marriage vows. I'm not even sure I want to continue in this marriage. But, I'm giving you a second chance. Another chance to prove you really love me, and are willing to be a good and faithful husband."

"So, why can't I live up here? With you? I mean if you're pissed off at me, and don't want me sleeping with you for a while, well, ok, I can understand that. And I'll be willing to sleep in another bedroom until you do. You know. Want me to sleep with you again. When I have proved to you that I am faithful and true, and you're happy to restore me into your good graces."

Victoria contemplated him thoughtfully. "Well, Philip, I may decide to do just that. But for the immediate moment, I prefer this arrangement."

Philip shrugged his shoulders. He was curious to see what other conditions she was getting ready to impose on him, so he didn't feel like arguing this point.

"Now, Philip, I like to think of these next few weeks as a sort of trial period. Not just for you, but for me as well. So far, I've only placed one condition upon you, that you report to my office every Friday for a pedicure, and to have your toenails painted by Judith."

"What about this having to wear stockings and a garter belt? And no other underwear?"

"Well, of course, that goes without saying. You have to protect your toenail polish. But, it's all part of the same condition."

"Don't forget making me live downstairs in that little, whatever, servants' quarters."

She smiled slightly and looked directly in his eyes. "Yes, Philip, I guess that is a condition also. And, in fact, I am going to impose one more condition as well. At least, for the time being. There may be others, as time goes on."

"What is that?"

"Each morning, upon waking, you will place the clothes you wore the previous day on hangers, and you will open the kitchen door, the one leading to the stairs up to my kitchen, and you will place those clothes on the peg nailed to the wall at the foot of the stairs. You'll know what I'm talking about, because your clothes for the new day will be hanging there already. So, it'll simply be a swap."

"That's it? That's all I have to do?"

"For now, yes. And, of course, you must show yourself to be a faithful and loyal husband. I am hoping that the pedicure and the stockings will remind you of that obligation. But, then, sooner or later, and I hope sooner, you'll be a faithful and loyal husband simply because you want to, and not because I've forced you to."

"Of course. Now, you said there may be further conditions imposed on me as part of my, umm, probation, you might say?"

"It depends upon your progress, Philip. And whether your improvement is genuine or not." She smiled at him. "So don't try to con me."

He looked at her, realizing that he wasn't sure he wanted this game to continue. "Do I really love her?" he thought. "Enough to jump through all these hoops?"

She continued to smile, and said, "You're probably wondering if it's worth it to even try. I can't help you there, Philip. I will say this: I had to move to protect myself and my wealth. So if you file for divorce, there won't be any division of property, believe me. You will simply lose what little you have left, which isn't much. But if you pass my test, if I believe you really are in love with me, and really do wish to be a good and faithful husband to me, then I can assure you I will be exorbitantly generous in whatever I give you."

"Speaking of not having much left, what did you do with my Jaguar?" he asked.

"I had it towed to a dealer and sold. The keys were yours, but the title was mine."

"But, why?" Philip's frustration was threatening to get out of hand.

"You needed an object lesson, Philip. You needed to know that I'm holding all the cards here."

His eyes were growing moist. He put his index finger in his mouth and bit down on it. Hard. It was either that or start swearing at her.

"Now, don't forget. In the morning, you will find your outfit for the day hanging by the kitchen door. And I want you to give me the clothes you are now wearing, so I can have them cleaned. I want you to be neat and presentable at all times. Speaking of which, from time to time I will be inspecting your apartment, to be sure it is as neat and clean as you found it today. Of course, I'm sure it will be."

"Yes, yes, of course," he replied, exasperated.

"Incidentally, don't forget to keep your legs shaved. It really will help prevent runs in your stockings. Oh. One other thing. The nighties were given to you for a reason. To enjoy. So enjoy them." She looked him straight in the eye, and her mouth curled into a mocking grin. "If you have no further questions, then, Philip, I'll say goodnight. You may let yourself out the way you came in."

She stood up and walked out of the room, without looking back at him. He sat there in stunned disbelief. Then, confused and shaken, he stood up and began the long journey to his new home.

As he passed through the door at the head of the kitchen stairs, it automatically locked behind him. Then, as he entered the apartment, that door, too, swung shut automatically, and he heard the click of the lock. "Damn," he thought. "That is some elaborate security system." He looked around once again at the tiny rooms, then decided he wasn't hungry, after all. "Might as well just take a shower and go to bed. Get a good night's sleep," he thought. He entered the bedroom and got some sheets and a pillowcase out of the bureau, and made up the bed. Then, he pulled a towel and washcloth from another drawer. He removed his clothes, being careful with the stockings. He wasn't sure what Victoria might do if he damaged the filmy nylons.

He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower in the cramped stall. "Damn!" he said out loud. "I don't even have room to bend over to wash my feet!"

He managed to scrub himself off, however, and then toweled himself dry. He had to carry the towel and washcloth back into the bedroom, since there was nowhere in the tiny bathroom to hang them. He used one of the pegs attached to the wall next to the bureau. He opened the bureau drawer that contained the babydoll nighties and stood looking at them, trying to decide whether to wear them, or just sleep naked. He had decided to sleep in the raw, and was just closing the drawer when the intercom came alive again. It was Victoria. "I told you, Philip, that the nighties are for your pleasure. Go ahead and put one on. I insist."

He looked around the room in wonder. "Motherfucker!" he exclaimed under his breath. "The bitch does have a camera hidden in here!"

Victoria's voice broke the silence again. "Put a nighty on now, Philip," she scolded. "Or else I'll think you don't love me anymore." And she giggled.

"Shit," he muttered. "Bitch." But he reached in the drawer and pulled one of the filmy nightgowns out, this one a transparent pink. It had a silky feel to it, and it had lace edging around the deeply scooped neckline and thin straps. He pulled it over his head and let it drop over his body. The bottom hem of the gown, also trimmed in lace, quit at just about his hips, leaving his hairless cock and balls exposed.

"Cute," said Victoria's voice in the intercom. "Nighty-night, Philip. Don't forget to put your dirty clothes on the stairs in the morning."

Cursing and muttering darkly to himself, Philip finally crawled into the narrow bed. He was so exhausted and shaken by his encounter with Victoria, and the rest of the events of the day, he fell almost immediately into a deep sleep. He had to admit that the feel of the silky-softness of the nightgown was interesting. He'd felt such material before, but then, of course from the outside in. Now he was experiencing it from the inside out. He fell asleep then, and dreamed the strangest, most vivid dream he could ever recall dreaming. In the dream, his head was shaved completely bald, like Yul Brynner's, and his body was wrapped in soft, transparent nylon. He was floating in a pale-blue sky, it seemed, and just ahead of him was Victoria. Only she seemed gigantic, and towered over him so that her face was distant from him, hidden by her massive breasts. He floated closer to her, so that his head came nearer and nearer to the triangular patch of her pubic hair. Suddenly, she opened her legs and he could feel this warm, comforting heat enveloping him like a luxurious cloak. And he noticed an aroma that seemed to overwhelm him with desire. He floated nearer and nearer to her open vagina, and suddenly his head was lodged inside it. Gently, her huge hands held him at the waist, and she pushed him further inside her opening. His head entered her and was immediately surrounded by darkness as he moved deep inside her vulva. It was dark; it was warm; it was moist. As soon as he was lodged well inside her, she began to pull him back out, until all but his face had slid back out of her pussy. He struggled to crawl back in, and she obliged him, holding him still at the waist and pushing him deep into her vagina once again. He had become like a human dildo, and that is exactly how she used him. Back and forth he floated, up and down her vaginal canal. Her breathing became heavier and heavier, and from inside her womb, it sounded like the approach of a thunderstorm. Her vaginal walls grew hotter and wetter, and he thought of a tropical rainforest, hot, humid, sultry. Harder and harder she pushed and pulled; deeper and deeper he sank into her interior; louder and louder the roar of her breathing became, until he was completely overwhelmed and powerless against the onslaught of this magnificent female essence. Then everything became black and he lost all sense of himself, indeed of any reality.

He awoke moaning, and could feel a sticky wetness on the sheets near his pelvic region. He pulled the cover and top sheet back and looked. He'd had a massive orgasm, evidently, because there was a huge stain on the sheet and it was wet and cold. He shivered a little, then sat up and placed his feet on the floor. He was still breathing a bit hard, and he could feel his pulse racing. "Whew," he thought. "That was one hell of a dream. I have never been through anything like that."

He stripped the wet, cum-stained sheets from the bed and carried them over to the laundry room, placing them on the washer lid. Then, he went into the tiny bathroom to clean himself up. After his shower and shave, he went over to the door in the kitchenette and pressed the button on the jamb. Immediately he heard a buzz, followed by the click of the lock and the door swinging slowly open. As he opened the door, he looked at the wall next to the stairs. Sure enough, a pair of slacks and a shirt were hanging there. He took them down, replacing them with his soiled clothes from the day before. He carried the clean clothes into the bedroom and hung them on one of the pegs on the wall. It was then he noticed a piece of paper pinned to the slacks. He took it off and unfolded it. It was a note from Victoria:

"Dear Philip,

When you look in your underwear drawer you will notice that you have nine identical pairs of stockings, one for each day of the week plus a couple of spares in case you suffer a run. You should wear a different pair each day, and wash them in the sink at night. You also have seven garter belts, each of a different color. You should wear a different one each day also, rotating through them in a systematic fashion. These you can wash with your regular laundry. Have fun!

Victoria"

Philip wadded the note up and tossed it aside. "What bullshit!" he thought. "Why don't I just go up there and tell her to fuck off, I'm outta here, she can have it all?" He stopped in the middle of the room and stood stock still. Why, indeed, not go tell her off and leave? What was keeping him here, after all? Her money? She would dole it out only in small amounts, and he was too undisciplined to hang on to any of it, spending it as fast as she gave it to him. "Well, maybe this is just a whim of hers," he considered. "If I cool it for awhile, pretend to toe the line, then she'll let me come back into her good graces, and all of this will be just a dim memory."

He took out a pair of stockings and a clean garter belt. He attached the belt, then sat on the bed to pull up the stockings. He did this with great care, not wanting to tear them, and also to be sure the seams were straight. The feel of the stockings on his hairless legs certainly was pleasurable, and he enjoyed the sensation of coolness and warmth simultaneously, and the tension of the garter straps holding the stockings up high on his thighs. But it wasn't a particularly erotic sensation; it didn't give him a hardon or anything like that.

He removed the slacks from the hanger and began to put them on. "Hmmm," he thought, "these trousers seem a little snug. I don't recall ever wearing them before, either. Oh, well." And he pulled them up his legs, buttoning them at the waist and pulling up the zipper. "Wow, they are snug!" He looked down and noticed that not only were they a little snug, but they were also a little short. Not so short that his stockings showed, but if he weren't careful, they certainly would. "Fuckin' bitch!" he muttered.

He reached for the shirt, only to discover to his horror that it was a woman's dress shirt. It wasn't frilly or overly feminine, but it was clearly a woman's shirt. The buttons were on the left, and the material was silky and almost transparent. He would have to wear a sweater or jacket or something to disguise it.

"I don't know, Phil. Maybe now's the time to pull up stakes," he thought. But his own response was negative. "I'll just go along for a while and see what happens."

Having decided that, he put on his sport coat (thank God it went with almost any color) and left the apartment. His first stop was Harry's Grill for some breakfast, and he went there immediately, picking a seat in a booth at the back of the restaurant in order to make himself less noticeable.

After he had eaten, he knew he needed to find a phone. No matter what, he had to call Emily to tell her that Victoria knew of their affair and had, in effect, called it off. He paid his bill and located a public phone in a short hallway where the restaurant's restrooms were located. He put in a quarter and dialed Emily's office number. She picked up on the second ring. "Good," he thought. "She's not too busy to talk."

"American Cardboard Association. This is Miss Owens. How may I help you?"

"Miley, it's me, Phil."

"Phil! What's going on? You didn't call me last night. I was getting worried."

"Listen, Miley. We've got to talk. Something really serious has come up and I have to see you right away."

"Something serious? I hope it's not too bad, Sugar. Well, how about lunch? We could meet at Antonio's."

"No, that's too public. Umm, how about the Savoy Bar and Grill, over on Tenth?"

"Oh, that hole-in-the-wall. That place is always filled with cigarette smoke and it takes me days to get the smell out of my hair."

"I know, I know. But it's also quiet and private. So meet me there at about 12:30. Ok?"

"Well, I guess so. But you're going to have to pay to have my dress fumigated." And she giggled in her delightfully sexy way.

Philip hung up and decided to go back to Harry's Grill for another cup of coffee. He had a lot of time to kill, and nowhere in particular to do it.

When Emily arrived at the Savoy, Philip was waiting outside for her. He had a brown paper bag in his hand. Emily ran to where he was leaning against the wall, and threw her arms around him, giving him a loud, wet kiss on the lips. "Hello, my lover!" she happily exclaimed.

He looked nervously around, then said, "I decided you were right. This place is the pits and there's no point in asking you to go in there just to get your hair full of cigarette smoke. So what I did was I went and got us a hotel room, and a bagful of sandwiches and a couple of sodas."

"Oh, you incurable romantic, you," she laughed. "How far is it? Will we need a cab?"

Philip took her by the arm, and pointed to a hotel down the street. "Right over there. It's not the Hilton, by any means. But we just need a little privacy for a little while." He steered her along the sidewalk until they arrived at the entrance to the hotel. It looked as though at one time it had been a fairly classy place; but, that had probably been more than forty years ago. It wasn't exactly rundown or seedy. It just seemed a bit frayed at the edges. They moved through the entrance and entered a spacious lobby, which they crossed to get to the elevator on the other side.

Philip was holding her hand. "I already have the key. So all we have to do is get on the elevator and go right on up."

Emily held his hand tightly. "Why all the mystery, Phil?"

The elevator door opened and they stepped inside. The door closed and they began to climb. Philip looked her in the eye and said, "As soon as we're in the room, I'll let you know what's going on."

Philip unlocked the door and gently nudged Emily inside. The room was not small, but it was also not new, either. The bed's mattress was high enough off the floor that a person felt the need to climb up to get on top of it. There were a couple of slightly worn easy chairs, a table for writing, a low chest of drawers, a small closet and a small bathroom, with the counter and sink actually in the sleeping/sitting room. Emily jumped onto the bed and rolled over on her back, raising her arms toward Philip. He lay down beside her.

"Now, tell your darling Miley all about it. Why all this secrecy, Sugar?"

In answer to her question, Philip slid off the bed, stood up, and immediately lowered his trousers. Emily's eyes grew wide at the sight of her lover standing there in a garter belt and stockings, his penis half-erect. She began laughing loudly and rolling around on the mattress.

"Phil, ah, hahaha, oh, Phil," she roared. "I don't believe it. Hahaha. What the hell are you doing?"

Philip stared glumly at the floor. "It's that bitch of a wife of mine. She's making me do this."

Emily continued laughing for a few more moments, then realizing Philip was not sharing the joke, she leaned up on her elbows and looked deeply at him. "Victoria? She's making you wear this get-up?"

"Yes, yes," he cried. He sat down on the edge of the bed, holding his face in his hands as he fought back the sobs which were choking him. "She knows about us, Miley. She had me followed. She knows everything."

"And this is her punishment, eh?" Emily replied.

He brought his hands down to his lap and looked at them. "I guess so. I don't know exactly what is on her mind. She told me if I didn't wear this underwear, she would throw me out. And I wouldn't get a dime. I'd be impoverished."

Emily was angry. "She can't do that, Phil. There are laws in this State. She has to comply - "

He cut her off. "She doesn't have to do anything she doesn't want to. Believe me. If I know anything at all, I know that."

"Ok. Suppose she does throw you out and takes all you have. So what? We still have each other. And you can always find a job."

Philip actually blanched at that last sentence. He stood up and turned to face her. "W-work?" he stammered. "M-me?"

"Of course you, silly," she said. "Why not? Millions of people do it every day. It doesn't seem to be doing them any serious harm, as far as I can tell."

"B-but..." He swallowed hard. "I-I don't...I don't have...umm..."

Emily looked hard at him. "What's the matter with you? Listen. All you have to do is walk out of that house, walk away from that rotten bitch, and come live with me. I don't see any huge problem here."

Philip glanced nervously around the room. "I, uhh, I think we should, ummm, should think it over."

Emily looked up at him with a sly grin on her face. "You know what, Sugar? You look kind of hot in those stockings. If you don't come over here right away and kiss me, I'm going to die of horniness. And it'll be all your fault."

She held out her hand, and he took it, then moved to the side of the bed. She let go of his hand, and quickly grabbed his penis. He gasped as she tugged on it, leading him to her. As he raised his leg and knelt on the bed, she released his cock, reached behind him, and gave him a loud smack on the ass.

"Get over here right now, you bad boy," she growled. "Miley needs some goo-ood loving."

She pulled him across her body as she fell back on the bed, then circled him with her arms as she drew him into a long, passionate kiss. His right hand sought out her left breast, and he began tweaking the nipple, causing Emily to groan in lust. Then, he covered her entire breast with his cupped hand, and squeezed hard as her tongue invaded his mouth, pushing as far as it could toward his throat. His penis was now rock-hard and sticking straight out. She grabbed it with one of her hands and began rubbing and stroking it, causing him to begin moaning. They thrashed around on the bed, breathing heavily, as though they had just finished sprinting a hundred-yard dash. Their bodies were covered with a sheen of perspiration as they groaned and grappled and panted and puffed. Finally, Emily could stand it no longer. She took Philip's penis in her hand and guided it between her legs, almost sucking it into her pussy like a vacuum cleaner sucking up rug dirt. She gasped when he was fully encased in her steaming cunt, and cried softly as he began a delightful, rhythmic pumping in and out of her love tunnel. As he got closer and closer to his climax, his pumping grew more frenzied, his hands, each clutching a breast, squeezed until she cried out in orgasmic pain, his mouth pressed so hard against hers he left teeth imprints on her lips. And then the crisis was upon her, and she grabbed his ass cheeks, trying to pull him even deeper into her. He lunged and pushed, grunting and panting all the while. Then, with a sudden shout, he exploded, pouring his hot seed into her hot hole. Her eyes rolled back into her head, her legs, bent at the knees and spread wide apart, pumped back and forth as his cum gushed into her, and she laughed and sobbed and pummeled his ass with her fists. Then, too soon, it was over, and he lay atop her, spent and gasping for breath. She crooned and hummed as she let her hands softly caress his back, his neck, the hair on the back of his head.

They slowly parted, and he rolled off her to rest at her side, softly stroking her breasts, her tummy, the burning wetness of her thighs where they joined her pussy. He softly kissed her lips, and gazed dreamily at her face, her eyes closed in repose, as she let herself relax and luxuriate in the pleasure of her own climax. Finally, she opened her eyes and smiled up at him. "Mmmmm," she cooed. "You oughta wear those stockings and garters all the time, if they make you fuck that good."

He looked a little hurt. "Aw, Miley, c'mon. Don't even joke about it. Ok?"

She continued smiling, then closed her eyes and let her head relax on the pillow. "We'll see," was all she would say.

After awhile, she declared she had to get back to the office, and she pushed him away from her as she rolled over to get off the bed and step towards the bathroom. Philip watched her delightfully plump ass gently jiggle as she crossed the room, then disappeared into the shower. He lay on his back looking up at the ceiling and thinking of her, conjuring an image of her as she showered, wishing it were his hands softly scrubbing the sweat and semen of their lovemaking away. He couldn't stand to let her go. He knew he didn't love her enough to want to move in with her. But he loved loving her, and he hated to have it end. It would have to, though. As much as he loved these little trysts with Emily, he loved Victoria's money more. "Too bad," he thought. "We really did have a good thing going."

The shower had stopped, and Emily had finished toweling off. She came back into the room, and began getting dressed. "Miley," Philip spoke from the bed.

"Mmmmm," she dreamily replied.

"Miley, I'm sorry, baby. But this has to be it," he said, and there was genuine anguish in his voice.

"Has to be what, Sugar?" she asked.

"I can't go on with this, Miley," he cried. "I'm telling you, Victoria will cut my nuts off if she knows I even saw you today."

"So you leave her. What's so difficult about that?"

"It's impossible! That's how difficult!" He groaned and closed his eyes, unable to look at this gorgeous woman whose body he so loved and craved.

"You mean this is it? For us?" she said.

"Yes, that's what I'm trying to say," he moaned. "I don't want it to end, ever. But, I can't go on. I'm telling you, Miley. The bitch will bury me if I don't stop seeing you."

Emily turned toward him, her eyes narrow slits, her lips compressed into a thin line drawn so tightly her face around them was ashen. "Do you mean to tell me you brought me up here so you could get one last fuck out of me, and then you were going to just kick me out?" She glared at him, hatred beginning to shine in her eyes.

"I didn't intend to, no," he said. "It just happened. I wanted to tell you before we came up here. Oh, Miley, I'm sorry. I'm sorry it has to be like this. That it has to end..."

"You motherfucker!" she suddenly screamed. "You motherfucking son-of-a- bitch!"

He literally backed away from the onslaught of her emotions.

Her voice dropped to an eerie, deadly softness. "You know what, asshole? I don't care what she does to you anymore. In fact, I hope she does cut your nuts off. It'd serve you right, you bastard."

Before he could reply, she turned and ran to the door, slamming it loudly behind her as she left the room. The last sound he heard of her was her heels clicking loudly and rapidly as she hurried down the hall to the elevator.

When Philip entered his new apartment, he found a note waiting for him on the small table in the kitchenette. It was from Victoria:

"Philip,

As soon as you have read this note, I want you to come immediately to my office. This is an urgent matter. Please do not delay.

Victoria"

Philip held the note in his hand. "Hmmm. I wonder what the ice-queen wants now," he thought. Then, sighing, he turned and left the apartment, feeling in his pants pocket to see if he had enough change for the bus.

A half-hour later, Philip was seated on one of the couches in the receptionist's area, watching Judith as she worked her word-processor and tried not to smirk at her employer's uncomfortable-looking husband. She could clearly see his nylon stockings as his too-short pants hiked several inches above his shoe-tops. Finally, the intercom buzzed, and Judith looked over at Philip. "You may go in now," she said as gently as possible without bursting into giggles.

Philip stood, smoothing his trousers down his legs (they seemed to want to cling to the nylons), and crossed the floor, passing by the secretary's desk to enter his wife's office. As he closed the door behind him, he looked across the room to where Victoria sat, seemingly engrossed in reading a report, or letter, or something. She looked up at the sound of the latch clicking, and signaled him to join her. He crossed the room and took a seat opposite her.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Your note said you had to see me about an urgent matter. What's so urgent, anyway?"

She folded her hands and gazed at him across the desk. For several seconds she simply studied him in silence. Then she said, "Philip, it has come to my attention that you have again, even after all the warnings and threats I issued, been unfaithful to me. Less than twenty- four hours after all your solemn promises not to, there you were, violating your word with that - that - whore!"

Philip was startled. "B-but, how, what, I --"

"Don't try to deny it, Philip," she said, "You know what you've done, and so do I. How I came to know is none of your business. But I know." She glared at him, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. Valiantly she fought to maintain her composure. "How could you?" she moaned. "How could you?"

Philip was defeated. He couldn't meet her eyes. Looking numbly at his hands, he muttered, "I - it wasn't supposed to happen. I met her to call it off. I - I'm sorry. It sort of got out of control."

Victoria looked at him with pity and disgust. "Oh, Philip. What nonsense. What utter bullshit. Do you really expect me to believe that?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "No, I guess not," he mumbled.

She continued to study him, silently. The room became icily quiet. Finally, breathing a sigh, she spoke: "There is no way I can allow this marriage to continue. Without question I am going to divorce you. As soon as possible."

She allowed Philip to absorb this information before she continued, "As I told you when we first discussed this, you would be left with nothing. I would insure that you would be lucky to have the clothes on your back when I was finished with you. You do remember my saying that, don't you? It was only one day ago, after all."

"Yes, yes, I remember," he said, half-whispering his reply.

"Well, Philip, perhaps I'm weak, or sentimental, or something," she said, and Philip glanced up at her to be sure she wasn't smirking sarcastically, "But I've decided that simply throwing you out, discarding you like yesterday's leftover fish, isn't quite fair. To you or to me. So, I am prepared to make you an offer that I believe is enormously generous, given the present circumstances."

Philip's ears pricked up, and he listened carefully. "Yes, generous," she said. "In order to settle things between us, I am prepared to give you one million dollars in return for your agreement to sever our marriage bonds. And the money will be tax-free."

Philip's eyes widened in disbelief. His mouth was formed in a perfect O.

Victoria showed the slightest trace of a smile, but he couldn't see it. "There is, however, a condition I am going to impose. And you will have to fulfill this condition perfectly or you won't get a dime."

For a million bucks, Philip was prepared to do anything, except maybe commit a major crime. "What's the condition?" he asked.

"For the next three months, you will submit without question entirely to my will. Call it a time of indentured servitude if you'd like. You will do everything I demand of you. Instantly. No questions, no complaints. The first violation of the agreement will result in your being removed from my house and sent away emptyhanded."

He studied her face, trying to see any sign of deceit. Her gaze was steady, her eyes piercing his. He looked away again.

"You need not worry, Philip, I won't ask you to commit a murder, or rob a bank, or anything of the sort. You will simply be my indentured servant, subject to all my demands. Do you agree to do it?"

He looked up into her steady gaze. "Can I think about it?" he asked.

"No."

"Three months?"

"Three months."

"One million dollars?"

"Yes."

"Well, ok, I guess." He decided to sound certain. "Yeh. Ok."

"Very well." She reached into her center drawer and withdrew a form. "Look this contract over carefully and sign and date it." She handed the paper across the desk to him.

He looked at the form. It seemed like a standard employment contract, specifying, instead of hourly or weekly wages, that at the end of three months, he would be given one million dollars, with the income taxes to be paid by his employer. It also specified all terms of the contract had to be met unconditionally and satisfactorily or no payment would be made. There seemed to be only one condition specified: "All requirements of the employer, Victoria Broadburn, must be met without hesitation, question, or complaint."

Philip took a pen out of his shirt pocket and signed at the bottom of the contract. One million dollars! He smiled and handed the document back to Victoria. She glanced at it thoughtfully, then returned it to her center desk drawer. She leaned over and punched the intercom. "Judith," she said, "I have some chores to attend to at home with Philip. Please reschedule all my appointments for the rest of the day, will you?"

Without waiting for the receptionist's response, she turned to Philip and said, "Come along, Philip. We can get started right away." He followed her through the private entrance of her office, which opened into an elevator for her exclusive use. They descended to the garage in silence, and he followed her to her limousine. The hired driver was waiting, and he opened the door for her, seating her in the luxurious rear seat. He held the front door open for Philip, indicating he should ride up front with the driver. Philip sat quietly, wondering where all this was going to lead.

The car seemed to glide noiselessly through the busy streets of the city. But after a short time, Philip realized the driver was turning into his street. Soon, very soon, Victoria's plans would be revealed. He hoped they wouldn't be too difficult for him. A million dollars would do very nicely for his future!

The car pulled to a stop before the entrance to the house, and the driver quickly walked around to open the door for Victoria. Gently, he took her hand, and carefully guided her from the seat to the sidewalk. Philip, of course, was left to open his own door. Once the two passengers were standing together on the curb, Victoria instructed the driver to wait in the car; she might need a ride back to her office.

Turning to Philip she indicated he should follow her into the house. She opened the door, and he reached out to hold it for her, then entered the foyer himself. Perhaps because of their meeting in Victoria's office, or because of the strange night he had spent in the servants' quarters in the basement, the house now felt different to him. He no longer felt like he was part of the household - of course, since Victoria now was planning to end their marriage, he technically wasn't - but there was just something odd about the atmosphere of the house, and it left him feeling slightly uncomfortable.

Victoria motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen. When they had both entered that room, she sat down at the table. He started to, but she stopped him, saying, "Remember, Philip, you are no longer my husband, you are my servant. You may stand over there," and she pointed to a spot at the other end of the table. She studied him for what seemed like several minutes, then said, "I've decided in your new role that leaving you in the basement apartment is too complicated. I wish you to be at my disposal at all times of the day, so I have arranged quarters for you up here. Do you see that closet over there?" She pointed to a pantry on the far wall. Philip turned to look. "Go over there and open the door." Philip walked over to the pantry and opened the door. On the floor beneath the shelves of canned goods, baking items and other boxed foods was a thin mattress, tightly rolled, and a pillow and blanket. There was also an old-fashioned tin wash tub with handles. He turned back to face Victoria.

"When you have finished your duties for the day, you may unroll the mattress and place it on the floor here in the kitchen. That shall be your bed. The washbasin is for your bathing needs. You may fill it from the kitchen sink. You will bathe each morning before beginning your daily duties, and again at night before going to sleep. Now, go over to the broom closet and look in there."

Philip walked across the kitchen to the door at which Victoria pointed. He opened the door and found, besides a kitchen broom and an ironing board, a maid's uniform hanging on a hanger. Above these, on a shelf, was a wig box, and several packages of the sheer, black, seamed stockings he had found in his basement apartment. Instead of several garter belts, however, there was only a red waist-cincher, and it looked too small to fit. He heard Victoria's voice behind him: "This is your uniform. You will wear it every day. You will see to it that it is kept in immaculate condition. Failure to do so will put the million dollar settlement in serious jeopardy. Do you understand?"

He nodded dumbly. "Yes."

"By the way, from now on, you will address me as Madame. You shall be known as Phyllis. Don't forget that."

Again he nodded. "Yes, Madame."

"Very good. Now, strip."

His fingers trembling slightly, he began to unbutton his shirt. Suddenly, Victoria cut him off. "Stop! Aren't you forgetting something?"

His mind was racing. She had ordered him to strip and he was obeying her order. What - ? Oh, of course. "Yes, Madame. I forgot to say, 'Yes, Madame,' when you ordered me to strip."

"Correct. You may continue."

He bowed his head. "Yes, Madame." He resumed his task, slowly removing his clothes. Victoria stood up and walked over to the kitchen sink. She reached under it, opened the small door and pulled out a plastic garbage bag. She then tossed it on the table, and told Philip - now Phyllis - to put his clothes in the bag as he removed them. Soon, he was naked. He turned and looked at her, awaiting further instructions.

"You may never, ever look me in the eyes that way again, Phyllis," she said in a cold, even tone. "When you are in my presence, your eyes are always to be looking downwards. And you will speak only when spoken to. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Madame." He lowered his eyes.

"Very good. Now, before you don your new uniform, I want to be sure that all trace of filth has been removed from your body. I refer specifically to the residue of your illicit coupling with that whore earlier this afternoon. So, I wish you to bathe yourself thoroughly, and remove all your leg, underarm and facial hair."

"Yes, Madame." Philip - Phyllis - retrieved the washtub from the pantry and set it before the sink. He turned on the water, then, taking a water pitcher, began to fill the tub as rapidly as he could. He felt extremely vulnerable as his wife sat at the table watching him with an expressionless face. Soon, he had enough water in the tub to step into it, and, using a sponge he found under the sink, began to wet himself so he could apply soap, which he also found under the sink. After a long while he had finally succeeded in soaping himself. He stepped from the tub onto a towel he had laid beside it, then emptied the soapy water from the tub into the sink, and re-filled the tub with clear water to rinse himself off. After this, he used a razor which she gave him to complete the task of shaving.

He finished shaving and presented himself for "Madame's" inspection. She nodded her approval, then ordered him to cross the room to get his "uniform" down from the closet. Slowly, eyes aimed at the linoleum tile covering the floor, he crossed to the broom closet and opened the door.

"Take down the girdle first," said Victoria.

"Yes, Madame," he responded, and he pulled it down from the shelf. Just as he imagined, it looked to be several sizes too small. It was designed to cover the midriff completely from just above mid-hip at the waist, to a few inches below the chest. A woman would wear a bra with such a garment. Phyllis, of course, had no need of a bra. The girdle was put on by stepping into it and tugging it up the legs and over the hips. Phyllis strained and grunted as he struggled to pull it into place, finally managing to do so after exerting enormous effort. He was breathing hard, and shallowly - the garment put so much pressure on his torso he couldn't take a deep breath. He pushed the squeezed-up loose flesh of his chest over the top of the girdle, giving himself the appearance of having tiny breasts.

Victoria spoke again. "You may not have noticed, Phyllis, while you were putting on your foundation, that there is a little attachment in the front of it, at the hem. Do you see it?"

Phyllis could hardly look down, but by straining, and also by feeling with his hands, he located the attachment Victoria had mentioned. "Yes, Madame," he replied.

"Good," she said. "This attachment is for your penis - you know, the little devil that has caused you all this trouble. It will provide support and protection for you." Here, she smirked a little. "Go on. Put it on."

"Yes, Madame." Phyllis strained to look down. The apparatus was a sleeve, a very narrow, stiff, vinyl cylinder about two inches long. Attached to the sleeve by a short chain about an inch long was a small bell, the clapper of which was taped to its inside. Phyllis realized the only way he could fit this sleeve on was for his cock to be absolutely soft. He also knew he would have to force the sleeve over the head of his penis, and stretch his member so that it would be sufficiently thinned-out enough for the sleeve to fit. It wasn't going to be easy. But, a million bucks is a million bucks! He would make it fit! After a struggle only slightly less vigorous than the one he'd engaged in to put the girdle on, he finally succeeded in fitting the sleeve into place. His cock felt like it was being mashed between two bricks. It now jutted straight out from his pelvis. The bell hung in front of his balls, resting against them.

With ice-cold eyes and a tight smile, Victoria said, "Now, Phyllis, remove the tape from the bell's clapper."

"Yes, Madame," he replied. By feeling around with his fingers, he managed to locate the end of the tape and to pull it off. Instantly, the bell clanged, much louder than he had imagined it might. He realized that with every step he took, this bell was going to announce his presence. He also realized that it was going to bounce continuously against his testicles, constantly irritating them. "What a diabolical bitch!" he thought, but kept his mouth shut and his eyes aimed at the floor.

"Now, Phyllis, you may put on your stockings and attach them to the garters."

"Yes, Madame," he murmured. This task was going to be much easier said than done. Because the girdle was so tight, he could barely bend over to fit the stockings over his toes. But, again, with much sweat and strain, he finally managed to complete the task, the bell clanging wildly all the while. When he had finished, and the stockings were attached to the girdle, seams perfectly straight, Victoria pointed to a pair of black, patent-leather high heels in the closet. They had to be at least three, if not four, inches high, and they had no ankle strap to hold them on! Moreover, they were open-toed, and Phyllis's toes pushed into the opening in such a way that they were severely pinched. These things were going to be the worst agony he would ever experience!

"Now," said Victoria, "you may put on your dress."

"Yes, Madame," he said, and removed the dress from the closet. He realized it was sleeveless and strapless, held up only by a zipper and its own tightness around his middle. He also realized that it had no skirt, but instead was constructed like a ballet tutu, with satin-covered crinolines sticking straight out from his waist, leaving his ass and his sheathed cock completely exposed.

"Very pretty," said Victoria. "Now, for the accessories." She reached up and pulled down the wig box, setting it on the table. She opened the box and pulled out a platinum blonde wig, which she handed over to him. "You will wear this wig at all times, Phyllis, and you will keep it immaculate and always perfectly arranged. While you are sleeping, you will keep it on the wig form in the box."

She watched as he fitted it, somewhat clumsily, on his head. Next, she removed an apron which was really little more than a lacy decoration to fit around his waist, since an apron would hardly fit over the tutu-skirt. She next pulled out a black satin ribbon with a lace-frilled white bow attached. "This will be secured around your neck and you will wear it at all times while you are on duty." She handed it to him and watched as he struggled to fit it around his neck. It was obviously too small, and he realized it would pinch constantly, making talking an uncomfortable proposition. It attached by a hook-and-eye connection, which he finally succeeded in closing by doing it in front, then sliding it around his neck until the connector was in the rear and the bow was slightly off-center, under the left side of his jaw. Finally, Victoria produced two wristlets, each about three inches wide and covered with the same frilly-lacy material that was used for the bow attached to his neck. He noticed the wristlets were joined together by a thin, gold chain about eighteen inches long. Silently, she handed the wristlets to Phyllis, making no comment about the chain.

She pointed to the floor about two feet in front of where she sat. "Stand here and let me get a good look at you," she said. Phyllis tip-toed to the spot she indicated. His face was red with embarrassment and the effects of his struggle to dress. She looked him directly in the face. "I am going to give you some cosmetics, and I will expect you to make yourself up each morning. This means painting your toenails as well as your fingernails. You will fix your face, and, as I mentioned, groom your wig. And you'd better be neat and feminine-looking when I inspect you in the morning. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Do you have any questions about your attire or your appearance?"

"No, Madame."

"Very well. You will be required to have my breakfast prepared by seven o'clock in the morning. Since it will take you at least an hour and a half to prepare yourself, and another hour to prepare my meal, and extra time to wake me, I would suggest you set your alarm for four o'clock. At least until you become sufficiently skilled in these duties. At night, you will attend me until I have turned off the lamp beside my bed. This means you will often find yourself not going to bed until midnight or later. You had better learn to content yourself with three to four hours sleep a night."

"Yes, Madame."

"Of course, for an alleycat slut like you, that shouldn't be a problem," she said with a smirk. She stood up and walked around him, brushing him here, patting him there, making tiny adjustments to his uniform. "When you enter into my presence, or whenever you are dismissed, you will curtsy. Since the chain attached to your wristlets isn't long enough for you to lift the sides of your skirt, you will curtsy by grasping the front edge of your skirt between your index fingers and thumbs. The chain between your wrists will be kept perfectly taut. Do you understand?"

Having never curtsied before, Phyllis was at a total loss as to how to respond. He shook his head, his face flushing, and said, in a near whisper, "I'm sorry, Madame. I don't understand."

"Well, we'll practice. Then you'll know what I'm talking about. Incidentally, you will never refer to yourself in the first person. You will refer to yourself only by name. 'Phyllis' this, 'Phyllis' that. Do you understand?"

Red-faced now with shame and frustration, Phyllis nodded, "Yes, Madame."

"Try that sentence again, then."

"Yes, Madame." Then, haltingly, he said, "Phyllis is sorry, Madame. Phyllis does not understand."

"Very well," said Victoria. "Don't ever forget. Forgetting could cost you that million dollars."

"Yes, Madame."

For the next three-quarters of an hour, she made Phyllis practice his curtsy. When they had finished, Phyllis was exhausted. His mind kept repeating, "Is this shit really worth a million bucks? Fuck!"

Finally, Victoria stood up. "I'm going to attend to some business now, Phyllis. You may rest for fifteen minutes. I will expect you to bring me a hot, fresh cup of coffee when I call you."

He looked at the floor. "Yes, Madame," he murmured, and executed a flawless curtsy, index fingers joined to thumbs at the front edge of his skirt, chain perfectly straight between his wrists. With no further comment, Victoria turned and left the room. Phyllis sagged with relief.

Later, after Phyllis had served Victoria her coffee, and been treated to stinging criticism regarding its flavor and a promise of severe punishment if the quality of his cooking didn't improve instantly, Victoria called for her limousine as she had to return to her office for an appointment. "A very critical meeting," she told Phyllis.

Phyllis was instructed to practice putting on makeup and styling his wig, and to continue learning how to walk in his high-heeled shoes and executing flawless curtsies. Once Victoria had left the house, however, Phyllis found a chair in the kitchen, and sat relaxing, pouring himself a cup of coffee, which, he had to admit, was pretty awful.

But, after a few minutes rest, he grew fidgety and, probably because of the novelty of the extreme changes which had just taken place in his life, he actually began fiddling with his hair. After trying different ways of putting the wig up, he grew bored with that activity and decided to practice walking in the spike-heeled, open-toed mules. He knew Victoria would show no mercy in this area, so he would have to get used to wearing them for long periods of time. He would have no one to complain to, in any event.

For the next hour or so, he practiced walking back and forth in the kitchen, curtsying as effeminately as he could before turning to retrace his path. He discovered that, in order to look effeminate, he had to take short, mincing steps, walking almost on tiptoe. To make any progress, he had to step as quickly as possible, causing his feet and calves to begin crying out in discomfort and exhaustion. Moreover, walking in this difficult and unfamiliar way had another unforeseen consequence. The bell which had been attached to the sleeve around his penis bounced constantly against his balls and the underside of the head of his penis and rang and rang until he thought he would go crazy from the irritating noise and the even more irritating slapping of the brass object against his sensitive organs. He reassured himself through all this by saying over and over, almost as if he were chanting a mantra, "One million bucks...one million bucks...only three months...only three months..."

Several hours later, he heard a buzzer sound in the kitchen. He wondered what that was. Then, he heard the front door open and close. Almost immediately, he heard Victoria call, "Phyllis! Where in hell are you?"

As quickly as he could, Phyllis scurried out to the front hall where Victoria stood, impatiently tapping her foot on the hardwood floor. "Well?" she demanded. "Where have you been? Taking a nap? You worthless bitch. Come over here."

Phyllis minced over to stand in front of Victoria and executed a well-practiced curtsy, all the while keeping his eyes locked on the toes of Victoria's shoes.

Victoria glowered at her servant-husband. "Well? What's your excuse for not being here to attend me?"

Phyllis, flustered from having to rush in from the kitchen using the short, mincing steps he'd learned, was slightly out of breath and red in the face. "Phyllis is sorry that Madame is inconvenienced," he said, half-whispering his words. "Phyllis forgot his duties." Phyllis curtsied again.

"His duties? His duties? Hah!" she sneered. "I don't see any him's around here. All I see is a sissy slut. The appropriate response is: 'Phyllis forgot Phyllis's duties.' Do you understand, stupid?"

Phyllis's face grew even redder. "Yes, Madame," he mumbled. "One million bucks," his mind chanted. "Only three months." He continued to stare nervously at Victoria's toes.

"Go and make me some coffee, and it had better be good this time, slut," she warned.

"Yes, Madame," Phyllis curtsied and hurried to carry out Victoria's demand.

He poured the fresh coffee into a porcelain pot, and placed it and a matching cup and saucer, plus a silver creamer and sugar bowl with spoon on a tray and carried it into the living room. Carefully balancing the tray as he tried to balance on the heels and bend his knees to set the cup and saucer on the coffee table in front of the couch where Victoria now sat silently, smirking at the spectacle before her, Phyllis gently poured the coffee into the cup. He then poured cream and spooned in some sugar before handing the cup and saucer to Victoria. When he had finished that, he straightened up and stepped back from the table.

Victoria glared up at him. "Aren't we forgetting something?" she snarled. Phyllis seemed confused. Then, remembering her instructions, he curtsied, "Phyllis forgot, Madame. Phyllis is sorry."

"Phyllis certainly is sorry," Victoria caustically replied. "Just remember this, sissy-slut: it's better to curtsy than not to. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, Madame," mumbled Phyllis, shamefaced.

"Now, go and prepare my dinner. By the way, your meal will always be taken at the noon hour, when I'm not likely to be here. I don't want you stuffing your face when I'm around, because I want you concentrating on your service to me. Understand?"

"Yes, Madame." Curtsy.

"And you will eat the meals I specify. And only those meals. You will not snack in between, either."

"Yes, Madame." Curtsy again.

Victoria glared angrily at the specimen before her. "Well, don't just stand there with your cock dangling in the breeze, idiot," she said. "Get in the kitchen and make my dinner."

"Yes, Madame," said Phyllis. He curtsied and turned to leave.

"Wait a minute, slut," shouted Victoria. Phyllis came to an immediate halt. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Phyllis wracked his brain. He'd remembered to curtsy. He'd addressed her as Madame. What else was there?

"The tray, you worthless bitch. Do I have to sit here looking at your equipment the rest of the day?"

"Shit," Phyllis thought to himself. "A million bucks...three months..." He turned and curtsied. Then, head bowed, he said, "Phyllis is sorry, Madame. Phyllis forgot Phyllis's tray." He crossed the room, picked up the tray, curtsied again, then hurried into the kitchen before Victoria dreamed up some other torment for him.

Once in the kitchen, he turned his attention to Victoria's dinner. He knew she ate lightly, and didn't care for red meat at all. In the refrigerator, he found some chicken breasts, and he decided to cut one into strips, and bake it for a chicken salad. With a nice glass of wine, this should be a dinner she would enjoy. And it wasn't too hard to make. An hour later, he was finally finished with his masterpiece. He had three different kinds of salad greens, some carrots, tomatoes and broccoli cut up bite size, and several tender, nicely baked strips of chicken breast. He went into the dining room, and carefully set a place for Victoria. Then, he retrieved the salad from the kitchen, setting it before her place. Finally, he opened a bottle of chilled white wine which he set on the table near where he had set the salad bowl. He also put a small loaf of French bread and some salad dressing on the table.

Then, as quietly and discreetly as he could, notwithstanding the jangling of the bell as it bounced against his balls, Phyllis entered the living room and curtsied before Victoria. "If Madame pleases," he said, "Madame's dinner is served."

She glared up at him, but said nothing as she stood up and walked before him into the dining room. Cautiously, he pulled her chair out and seated her. Then, he stepped around her and picked up the wine bottle, which he held before her so she could inspect the label. He then poured her a glass of the wine, set it on the table, and, following a curtsy, stepped back to await any further instructions or orders. Victoria ate silently for a few minutes. She seemed satisfied with the dinner Phyllis had prepared, or at least she found nothing particularly obvious to criticize. Finally, she spoke to the silent husband-servant. "It has occurred to me, Phyllis," she said, "that you are too clumsy and foolish to train yourself for your new position. And so this afternoon, after I left you alone here, I returned to my office to interview a person whom I feel would be an excellent trainer for you. This person has accepted my offer and will be arriving sometime after dinner."

"Yes, Madame," he murmured, and, though her back was to him, curtsied anyway. Better to curtsy than not, as "Madame" had said.

Again silent, Victoria completed her meal, and signaled for Phyllis to remove the used dishes. Phyllis stepped to the table, curtsied to Victoria, and proceeded to clear away the dishes. On his first trip into the kitchen, he turned the coffeemaker on. When he took the last load of dirty dishes into the kitchen, the coffee was done, and he poured it into the porcelain coffee pot, and filled the serving tray as he had done earlier in the afternoon. He then brought the coffee out to Victoria, who watched him carefully as he worked. He curtsied through every step of setting the tray down, pouring the coffee, and removing the tray from the table. He was beginning to get an ache in his lower back from all the bowing and scraping. "One million bucks...only three months..."

Finally, the meal was complete, and Victoria excused him to go into the kitchen and clean the dinner dishes. He was not allowed to use the dishwasher. She told him where to find rubber gloves to protect his painted fingernails. Then, glaring after his retreating form, she rose and went into the living room.

A short time later, a knock sounded on the front door. Phyllis was busily cleaning up in the kitchen, and didn't hear it. So Victoria had to get up, cross to the kitchen door, and announce that her visitor had arrived. Phyllis, flustered by not having been aware of this, quickly removed his rubber gloves, curtsied to Victoria, and minced rapidly to the front door, his bell clanging loudly and insistently. When he opened the door, he nearly fainted from the shock. Standing in the entrance, a small cosmetics case firmly gripped in her right hand, stood Emily Owens. His Miley!

Flabbergasted, and momentarily at a loss, he simply stood staring at her, his mouth hanging wide open, his eyes registering his shock. For her part, Emily stood glaring at him, her lips drawn tightly together in an angry expression. Victoria, seated in a wingback chair in the middle of the living room, was able to see the entire comedy being played out at the door. Finally, she spoke, "Well, slut, don't just stand there staring like an ignorant fool. Show my guest in. And don't forget your manners!"

Although deeply embarrassed, Phyllis still managed to perform a curtsy, and to take the case from Emily's hand as he showed her into the room. Emily, for her part, walked past him, nose in the air, and went to stand before Victoria in the living room. Victoria let her stand there.

"So," she said. "You've decided."

Phyllis furrowed his brow and stared at the floor, not wanting to miss any of the conversation, but knowing also he had better be ready to respond to anything Victoria might require.

Emily looked at Victoria with no particular expression on her face. "I have," she replied.

"Very well," said Victoria. "You accept all the conditions we discussed."

"I do."

"Are there any last questions?"

"No, I think I understand perfectly well what is required."

"Fine, fine," Victoria rubbed her hands together. "You may strip while I explain what is going on to jingle-dick Phyllis here." Phyllis could hardly believe his ears. He stood gaping as Emily, calm and assured, began to remove her clothes. Victoria signaled him to step forward. He was now positioned in front of Emily facing Victoria, making him unable to continue watching Emily undress.

Victoria glared at Phyllis. "Forgetting your manners already?" she sneered. Phyllis immediately curtsied.

Victoria continued to stare at Phyllis. "You're probably wondering what's going on here," she said. "As you may recall, this afternoon I told you that you were too foolish and clumsy to teach yourself to be my servant. That you were going to need a trainer. Do you remember that?"

"Yes, Madame." Curtsy.

Victoria regarded him silently for several moments, long enough for him to make the connection. Emily? Emily was going to be his trainer? Whatever a trainer was? He was thoroughly confused, and a little apprehensive as well.

Victoria looked over at Emily. "Come over here, Ms. Owens," she said in a formal tone. "Stand where you can see the sissy-slut there." Emily stepped over beside Victoria's seat. She was completely naked. Phyllis noticed she had even shaved off all her pubic hair.

Victoria turned her attention back to Phyllis. "Ms. Owens here is going to be your trainer, slut. You will follow her instructions and you will be perfect. Every mistake you make will be severely punished. But not by me. No. Ms. Owens will punish you. With my full approval. She has complete authority over your training. However she chooses to accomplish the task of teaching you to be my sissy servant is up to her. You will consider her my voice. Do you understand?"

Phyllis had no idea what was going on. But he responded, "Yes, Madame." And curtsied.

"You will address Ms. Owens as Mistress, just as you now address me as Madame. Do you understand this?"

"Yes Madame." Curtsy.

Victoria turned to Emily. "Now, Ms. Owens, as per our agreement, you will be in charge of this sissy's training. You will be accountable for any success, and for any failure as well. I will not punish the slut for his mistakes; you will. But, failure on your part to keep his mistakes as non-existent as possible may result in your dismissal and the termination of our contract. Agreed?"

Emily replied, "Agreed, Madame."

Victoria went on, "When I am home, you will remain out of sight in your apartment." Phyllis frowned in bewilderment. "If I feel the need for you to correct this slut's failures of performance, I will summon you to do so. Are we agreed?"

"Agreed, Madame."

"When I am away from the house, of course, you are free to come up and monitor the slut's performance, as you wish."

"Yes, Madame."

"Very well," said Victoria, and she reached down beside her chair to pick something up. Phyllis trembled when he realized she was holding a black-leather riding crop in her hand. She handed it to Emily, who took it, and using the small sling on the end of the handle, placed it on her wrist. "This shall be your badge of office. You may use it as you see fit."

"Yes, Madame."

"Very well," Victoria said, and a small smile played on her lips. She stood up. "I have an appointment for this evening, so I shall leave you here to brief the bitch about your requirements. You may retire to your apartment whenever you wish. The slut is not permitted to visit you there." She glared at Phyllis. "Remember, sissy, you do not retire until the lamp beside my bed has been turned off. If Mistress Owens decides to go to bed, that is no matter to you. You will await my return and you will attend me until you are dismissed. Understood?"

Phyllis curtsied. "Yes, Madame."

Victoria glared at him for a few moments longer. Then she turned to Emily and said, "The slut's all yours, Ms. Owens." And without further word, she walked over to the closet by the door, put on a warm jacket, and left the house.

Emily regarded Phyllis for a long time before she spoke. As she spoke, she walked around him, as though inspecting him for any imperfections in his attire, or his posture, or his demeanor. "So, to make yourself a millionaire, you've agreed to become her servant, eh?"

Phyllis swallowed nervously. "Yes, Mistress," he mumbled.

She continued to walk slowly around him, like a shark circling a shipwreck. "But you're such an ignorant piece of shit, she had to bring in outside help."

Phyllis realized this was a statement, not a question. But, he responded, anyway, "Yes, Mistress."

Suddenly, Emily stopped. "Keep those beady eyes of yours on the floor, shithead," she said in a threatening tone.

Phyllis was beginning to perspire. He knew things had ended up badly with Emily. He didn't realize just how angry he'd made her. "Yes, Mistress," he whispered.

Emily began circling again. "So, for the next three months, your ass is mine. Oh, how delicious." She stopped directly in front of Phyllis, and leaned her face toward his until they were separated by only an inch or two. "Let me tell you what the deal between your former wife and me is," she said. Her breath was warm against his face. "Every time you fuck up, I get to use this on your ass." She waved the riding crop in his face. "And I get to decide what constitutes a fuckup. After the way you dumped all over me, you can imagine just how eager I am to use this on you. Can't you?"

Phyllis gulped. He could imagine. He nodded fearfully. "Yes, Mistress," he said.

Emily began pacing again. "So, there aren't going to be any mistakes, are there?" She stuck her nose against his. "Are there?"

"No, Mistress. No mistakes."

"No foulups. No fuckups."

"No, Mistress." He was really sweating now.

"There better not be." She stopped in front of him again and raised the crop to where his eyes could see it. "Turn around, slut," she said.

Phyllis turned around.

"Bend over and grab your ankles."

He did as she instructed.

"I'm going to give you a small taste of what's in store for you if you screw up with Madame Victoria."

His lips began to quiver. The room became deathly quiet. Almost before he heard the swish of the crop, he felt it explode against the cheek of his bare ass. WHAP!!! He screamed and nearly fell to the floor. Again. Swish. WHAP!!! Tears were pouring from his eyes. But Emily was far from done. Eight more slaps of the crop, and his ass was blood-red. He was sobbing and shaking all over.

After a minute or two, she commanded, "Straighten up, sissy. And quit bawling." Phyllis straightened up, though his buttocks burned as if Emily had poured gasoline on them and lit a match. He managed to stop sobbing, and stood before her, shaking, silent tears running down his cheeks.

She glared angrily at him. "Just remember, asshole. That was a small taste. Try to imagine what you'll get if I decide you've really fucked up."

He wondered if maybe he should back out of his agreement now. He certainly hadn't considered this horrible pain as part of the bargain.

Almost as if she were reading his thoughts, Emily said in a low voice, "One other thing. Don't even consider trying to back out of your agreement with Madame Victoria. If you do, then my contract with her will be void, and I won't get what she agreed to award me. I will kill you before I will let that happen. Too bad, Phyllis. Phyllis, is it? Appropriate for a sissy-slut like you. Understand this: You're in this thing for the duration. So you'd better set your mind to doing it right. Like I said, you just got a taste. I don't think you'll want to be present at the banquet." She chuckled at her own angry humor.

She began circling Phyllis again, talking as she paced. "Madame is going to give me your schedule, your work assignments, and your uniform requirements. I am going to see to it that everything she requires is done, and done perfectly. But more than that, you are my servant, too. You will do my bidding as well as Madame's. Oh, yes, you're going to be a busy little slut, you are. Very busy. This is going to be three months you will never. Ever. Forget." Her last three words were punctuated by slapping the crop hard against the palm of her hand. Phyllis jumped at the sound of each slap.

Phyllis awoke from the first night of his new life stiff, sore and still sleepy. Victoria had returned later that evening and had required him to prepare her bath and to scrub her, dry her and dress her for bed. By the time he had finished, and she had turned out the lamp on the table beside her bed, he was already exhausted. But before he could lie down himself, he had to take his own bath, a lengthy operation since it required him to fill the metal washtub twice from a half-gallon water pitcher, once to soap and once to rinse. Finally, however, he had pulled the thin mattress from the supply closet, and had stretched out on it, covering himself with the cheap, scratchy wool blanket. He was asleep before his head hit the worn-out, uncomfortable pillow.

Soon, too soon, the cheap, tinny alarm rang, awakening him to a new day. He quickly turned it off, not wanting to take a chance that Victoria might hear it and be annoyed by being awakened at four o'clock in the morning. He tiptoed through the dark house to the downstairs powder room, where he relieved himself in the toilet. Then, he returned to the kitchen, where he once again filled the washtub, this time for his morning bath. Quickly, he soaped and rinsed himself, toweling off with a thin cotton towel which had been provided for him. Next, he carefully shaved, including his legs, underarms and pubic area, as well as his face, as Victoria had ordered while he was getting her into bed the night before. He managed to knick himself several times, and his legs felt raw from the razor's scraping; but, when he put his stockings on, he was amazed at how erotic the feeling of the smooth nylon against his his bare legs was becoming. He worried that he might obtain an erection, which would make fitting his penis into the narrow sleeve a hellish proposition.

This morning's effort to dress was considerably easier than his maiden effort had been, largely because he knew what he was doing, and had a system of sorts for accomplishing it. Getting the girdle on was still a struggle, since it really was one or two sizes too small, and the elastic wanted to compress itself to severely snug him up. The tutu-dress was difficult to manage, since it zipped in the back, and he was unused to manipulating things with his hands when they were reversed and hidden from view. But, despite all the obstacles, he finally was fitted into his "uniform." He checked his stockings to be sure the seams were absolutely straight. He put on his collar with the large, lacy bow, and then proceeded to arrange his wig and make up his face. Victoria had given him a makeup mirror that he could use to do this. The mirror was small, making it difficult for Phyllis to see himself entirely. But, after several tries with the lipstick tube, he felt his lips looked sufficiently feminine to pass muster. He next attacked the problem of making up his eyes. He obviously had no familiarity whatever with mascara, eyeliner, or anything of the sort. So, he more or less blindly experimented, hoping the result wouldn't be too overdone. He didn't want to look like a parody of a female, because he knew Victoria would be displeased, which would mean Emily would be displeased, and he could still feel the bite of the riding crop on his ass.

Finally, Phyllis was satisfied with his face, and he turned his attention to placing his penis in the diabolical sleeve Victoria had attached to the dress. He had to bunch the material up so he could pass his penis through the least amount of it as possible. Then, he had to force the head of his penis through the narrow opening. This required much struggle and strain, and by the time he had managed to slide his cockhead through the opening, it ached and burned from his exertions. He next had to grasp the crown and stretch his prick to its fullest extent, to make it as long and as thin as possible, while, with his other hand, he attempted to smooth the sleeve out to its fullest length. When he was done, once again he felt like his penis was being mashed between two bricks. The crown glowed an angry red and he hurt like hell.

At last he was able to turn his attention to preparing Victoria's breakfast. She had ordered him to make her two eggs with toast, a simple enough request. She also wanted juice and coffee. And it was to be delivered to her bedroom. It was now five o'clock. It had taken Phyllis only an hour to dress himself. "Thank goodness, he thought. "I can sleep an extra hour." He picked up the alarm clock and reset the alarm for five a.m. He didn't want to start Victoria's breakfast too early. So, for the next hour he simply sat at the kitchen table, sipping a glass of water and contemplating the trap he had let himself fall into.

He had assumed that at any time he would be allowed to quit and simply forfeit the money. But Emily's presence now complicated the picture. Evidently, Victoria had set up a contract with her to be Phyllis's trainer. If Phyllis quit, then Emily's contract would be void as well. And Emily had made serious threats against him about that very thing. He thought, "She must be getting as much as me for this deal. Man, did I ever set myself up for a screwing. That fucking bitch, Victoria. She knew all along that once I agreed to this game, I was going to have to play it out to the end. Shit!"

Finally, the time came for Phyllis to prepare Victoria's breakfast. He fried the eggs, breaking the yellows several times, and having to start over, since Victoria had been very specific about wanting her eggs over easy with the yellows intact. But, Phyllis did eventually manage to produce two attractive-looking eggs. He made the toast and placed everything on a plate which he then covered under glass. He put this in the oven to keep warm while he waited for the appropriate time to deliver Victoria's meal to her. At precisely 6:55, he put on his high-heels and his wristlets with the chain attached, picked up the tray and headed for the stairs. As he passed the front door, he set the tray down, opened the door, and retrieved the morning newspaper. Then, he carried the tray up the stairs, wobbling on the thin heels, terrified that he might trip and fall. The bell attached to his penis sleeve jingled merrily away, and Phyllis was certain the noise would wake Victoria up. If that happened, he knew his ass would be in for one hell of a hiding. But, try as he might, he couldn't stop the bell from bouncing wildly against his balls, jangling loudly at each bounce. But what seemed loud to him must not have been too loud, since the house remained quiet as he finally got to the top of the stairs. He walked the few steps to Victoria's bedroom door, where he stood quietly, waiting for the sound of her alarm.

As soon as it went off, he quickly opened the door and entered the room, as Victoria had instructed him the night before. He crossed to a small circular table set against a wall, and placed the tray on it. Then, he stepped over to the table beside the bed and turned off the alarm. He took a step back, and stood at attention, head bowed, eyes on the floor, to await his first instructions of the day.

Drowsily, Victoria moaned, then began to sit up, stretching her arms above her head and yawning loudly. Her eyes opened, and she saw her husband-servant standing beside the bed. She looked him over critically; then, her voice a bit raspy from just waking, she said, "You look like shit, slut. Your trainer is going to hear from me about this. Do you think I want to wake up and have to look at a worthless slut who can't comb his own hair, and who makes himself up to look like a downtown streetwalker?" She groaned again, while Phyllis stood redfaced looking down at the floor.

She suddenly barked at him, "Turn around, bitch. Let me see what you look like." He curtsied, and did as she instructed. He was startled by the volume of her voice, "You worthless slut! Your stockings are all crooked, and your zipper is off-center. Don't you know how to dress yourself?" She sat up and placed her legs over the edge of the bed, then stood up. "Turn around, bitch," she ordered. "If I weren't in such a hurry, I'd make you go downstairs and dress all over again. You are in serious trouble, believe me." She groaned again, then muttered, "All right. Follow me. You have work to do."

Phyllis curtsied and followed Victoria into the bathroom. Victoria turned to him and said, "Draw my bath, then help me off with my nightgown." Phyllis curtsied, and knelt on the floor to place the stopper in the tub drain and turn on the water. Then, he stood up, and, as gently as he could, he lifted Victoria's nightgown over her head, hanging it on a hook behind the door. Although he tried to avert his eyes, he couldn't help seeing her naked, flawless body, her large, firm breasts, her flat stomach, her strong supple thighs which disappeared into her pubic bush. He could feel an erection beginning to form, and he fought with all the strength of his mind to keep it from happening. He could feel the sleeve tightening even more around his poor, wounded dick. The bell vibrated and rang. Sweat drops had formed on his upper lip.

Victoria glared at him and said, "You're looking at me, aren't you, slut? You're getting turned on."

Phyllis's mouth felt drier than a desert. He mumbled and muttered incoherently. Victoria's voice was sharp: "You were staring at me. You useless bitch. Your trainer is really going to get an earful from me. She hasn't done much of a job with you at all." Phyllis looked like he was going to break down and cry.

Victoria stepped over to the toilet. She looked over at Phyllis. "Come over here, slut. Kneel down beside me."

Phyllis quickly knelt on the floor beside the toilet, facing the wall behind Victoria. Victoria sat down and proceeded to release a long stream of pee into the bowl. When she had finished, she turned to Phyllis and said, "You will wipe me without touching me. And you had better be gentle and thorough. Do you understand me?"

Phyllis nervously replied in a whisper, "Yes, Madame." He took several sheets of toilet paper in his hand and carefully reached between Victoria's legs, nervous and fearful that he might accidentally touch her legs with his arm. Finally, he could feel the paper against her pussy, and he wiped, as gently as he could. Then, hoping she was truly dry, he stopped wiping and dropped the paper into the bowl. Very cautiously, he removed his hand from between her legs. He was sweating and trembling.

Victoria looked at him with an annoyed expression. "You better become expert at that duty, bitch," she said, then stood up and climbed into the tub. Phyllis flushed the toilet, then immediately moved over beside the tub, kneeling so he could reach her with the scrub brush, which he soaped up before proceeding to scrub her clean. Afterwards, he dried her with her large, fluffy towl, then followed her back into the bedroom. She went over to the table where Phyllis had laid the breakfast tray, and he pulled out the single chair for her to sit down. There used to be two chairs, but evidently she had removed the one he had sat in as her husband. He lifted the glass cover from her plate and poured her a cup of coffee from the porcelain pot. He then stepped back, curtsied, and waited as she ate her breakfast and read the morning's newspaper. Her only comment during the meal was that the toast was too crispy, and his trainer was going to get a full report of it. By now, Phyllis figured that once Emily was finished with him, he wouldn't be sitting down for a long time.

Finally, Victoria was done with her breakfast. She instructed him to dress her, and he did so, curtsying at each article of clothing he put on her, until his lower back and his calves began to ache the way they had the day before. When she was satisfied he had performed this task correctly - pulling her panties on without touching her skin, rolling her pantyhose smoothly up her legs, securing her bra in place (his hands trembled so much he could hardly hook it up), dropping her dress over her head and zipping it up and smoothing it out, kneeling before her to put her shoes on her feet - she instructed him to watch carefully as she made up her face and arranged her hair. "You will practice this task until you are perfect at it, because, beginning tomorrow, you will perform it on me. And it had better be flawless."

He curtsied for the umpteenth time and murmured, "Yes, Madame."

Finally, she was ready to leave for the office. Phyllis gathered the breakfast dishes onto the tray and followed Victoria into the hall and down the stairs. She waited by the door while he set the tray down on a table in the hallway, then went to the closet to get her overcoat. When he had finished buttoning her coat, she opened the door and left without a word or a backward glance.

Phyllis's body slumped as much as it could in the stiff, constricting outfit he was made to wear. But, then, realizing he had to wake Emily up and attend to her needs, he scurried back up the stairs to Victoria's room to make the bed, clean the bathroom, and put away her nightgown. Finally, satisfied that her room was presentable, he went down to the kitchen, where he washed Victoria's breakfast dishes.

Now, he had to repeat the whole process for Emily. Since she herself was an underling in Victoria's household, she didn't warrant the fancy dishes and silver; but, as she was now Phyllis's superior, she did get the same first-class treatment Victoria had. She had left instructions that Phyllis was to wake her up as soon as Victoria had left the house. Phyllis went to the door leading to the basement apartment and rang the bell. Several seconds passed, and he heard a buzz, indicating she had unlocked the door, and he could go downstairs to attend her.

Hurriedly, he went down the steps to the tiny apartment. Emily was just getting out of bed, nude, of course, since her contract with Victoria specified she would remain naked the entire three months. Like Victoria, she glared at Phyllis as he stood before her, eyes turned to the floor. She said, "Where'd you learn to put makeup on, idiot? I didn't realize the whores had a beauty school." She glowered angrily. "You look like a streetwalker. Did Madame say anything about it?"

Phyllis curtsied. "Yes, Mistress," he said, nervously, "Madame said the same thing about Phyllis's makeup."

"Shit," she muttered. "That means I'm going to get an earful of her complaints. Well, you are in deep shit already, I see." Then, more to herself than to Phyllis, she said, "How long am I going to have to put up with this asshole's foulups?" She sighed, and pulled herself out of bed. Even though her hair was tousled and her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, Emily was an extremely beautiful woman. She had breasts that Phyllis yearned to touch, to kiss, to suck. Her body was stunning, and, just as had happened with Victoria, he began to grow erect reacting to Emily's sensuous beauty. He could feel the sleeve beginning to strangle his penis, cutting off circulation. He moaned inwardly, trying to will his erection away.

Emily looked at him, mildly puzzled by the strained expression on his face. But, she decided to ignore it and went into the tiny bathroom to begin getting ready for the day. The bathroom was too small for Phyllis to attend to Emily's toilet, or her shower; but, he was required to towel her dry afterwards, and then to make and serve her breakfast. Finally, she was done eating and reading Victoria's morning newspaper. While she had enjoyed a second cup of coffee, Phyllis had busied himself straightening up the apartment and making Emily's bed.

Now Emily stood up and indicated Phyllis was to follow her upstairs. They had just entered the kitchen when the phone rang. Emily took the call. It was Victoria, Phyllis knew, because Emily simply stood there with the phone to her ear, saying, "Yes, Madame," or "No, Madame," or "I'll see that it's done, Madame." When Victoria had hung up, Emily replaced the phone in its cradle, and turned to Phyllis. "Between now and the time Madame comes home, you are going to become an artist with makeup. Your face will be perfectly done when she gets here. So, we are going to spend the day learning how to put you together."

Phyllis curtsied. "Yes, Mistress."

Emily fixed him with her gaze. "Come over here, idiot. Kneel down."

Phyllis minced over to where Emily stood, then, careful not to run his stockings, he knelt before her. His face was even with the vee between her legs.

"What do you see, slut?" Emily asked.

Phyllis said, somewhat nervously, "Phyllis sees Mistress's pussy, Mistress."

"Wrong!" she snapped. "What you see is Goddess. She is the object of your worship. Do you understand?"

Phyllis wasn't sure, but he answered, "Yes, Mistress."

"For the next three months, you will devote yourself to pleasing and worshiping Goddess," she said. "Everything you do, you will do for Goddess. Not for me. I'm only me. I'm only your Mistress." She pointed her finger to her pussy. "But this, this is Goddess. I am not Goddess. I am Mistress. This is Goddess. It is she you will worship. It is she you must please. Now. Do you understand?"

Phyllis knew some line was being crossed. This wasn't in the contract; but, of course, nothing he'd done in the past twenty-four hours was in the contract, formally. He answered, "Yes, Mistress."

Emily went on. "When Goddess is pleased with you, she will permit you to worship her. Your every action will be performed with one objective in mind: pleasing Goddess so that you may be permitted to worship her. Pleasing Madame is secondary. Of course, failure to please Madame automatically means you will have failed to please Goddess. So you will please Madame. Not for her sake, but so you may worship Goddess in her temple. Do you understand that?"

His face was inches away from her vagina. He was beginning to smell a musky aroma. He thought, "She's getting turned on by this speech." He spoke to the shaven pubis in front of him, "Yes, Mistress."

"When Goddess is unhappy with you, I, your Mistress, am obliged by her to take measures to correct you so that you may be restored to her favor and be able to worship her in her temple once again. Goddess does not punish. Your Mistress does that. But Goddess does reward. And her reward is to let you worship her in her temple. Do you understand this?"

"Yes, Mistress." He wanted to taste the musk, to place his lips to her labia, to drink the nectar from within. He felt faint.

"Now, even though Goddess is displeased with you because you have shamed yourself with your ridiculous whore makeup, and she wishes you to be punished for that transgression, she also wishes you to desire to worship her in her temple, and to do so properly. But, before you may worship her, you must pledge your love and your loyalty to her for all time. Will you do so?"

Phyllis's head seemed light enough to float away like a helium-filled balloon. He whispered, "Yes, Mistress."

"Then repeat after me: The center of my life is Goddess."

Phyllis said these words.

"Everything I do or say is for one purpose only: to please Goddess."

Phyllis repeated.

"I will devote my life to worshiping Goddess in her temple."

"Yes, yes," Phyllis thought. "Let's get on with it." He repeated the statement aloud.

Emily stood before him, silent for a moment. Then she spoke, "Very well. Goddess is pleased. You may enter her temple to worship."

Phyllis opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out. He leaned forward, eager to taste the juices he could see dripping down Emily's inner thigh. Suddenly, she grabbed his hair.

"What are you doing, you useless fool? I didn't say you could touch Goddess. I said you could worship her in her temple." Immediately, she turned around, bending over so her ass was directly in front of Phyllis's face. She reached behind her, spreading her asscheeks and revealing the little brown ring of her anus. "Well, slut? What are you waiting for? Goddess wishes you to worship her in her temple. You don't want to displease Goddess any more than you already have, do you?"

Phyllis knew he'd been tricked again. But he also knew that if he refused to do as Emily had ordered, he would be severely punished. Reluctantly, he pushed his face forward until he could feel her ass pressing against his nose. Timidly, blindly, he sought out her opening with his tongue. He nearly gagged when it came into contact with her asshole, and he could vaguely taste the residue of her last bowel movement. Above him, Emily spoke, "You may enter the temple of Goddess with your tongue, slut. Show Goddess how eager you are to do so."

Trying to hold his breath, though he knew how impossible that would be, he pushed against the opening with his tongue. By mashing his face hard against her ass, he actually managed to insert his tongue a short way into her asshole. He was nearly retching with the realization that he was actually reaming her ass out with his tongue. But he knew if he balked at this point, he would be severely punished. So, he continued to push his tongue deeper inside her. "Make love to the temple of Goddess, slut," he heard Emily say. And so he began a back-and-forth rhythm with his tongue, pushing it in as far as he could, then pulling it back until it was almost all the way out, then ramming it back in again. Emily began swaying, and he had to move his head to keep up with her. His neck and back were aching, but he kept his tongue inside her. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he could feel her tensing, beginning to climax, moaning and pressing back against his face. Then she cried out, and gave a mighty shove backwards, nearly knocking him over.

Emily leaned forward, placing her hands on the kitchen table, breathing hard, her large, soft breasts heaving. Finally, she gathered herself together, and turned to face Phyllis, who was still kneeling on the floor, his face red and sweaty from his exertions. She looked at him; then, her voice stern, said, "Well, slut? Are you pleased that Goddess has allowed you to worship her?"

Phyllis knew he had no alternative but to answer, "Yes, Mistress."

She grinned humorlessly. "And I am certain you will wish to carry the reminder of your experience throughout the day. So enjoy the flavor, bitch. And don't try to mask it with toothpaste or chewing gum. Got me?"

Phyllis replied, "Yes, Mistress."

Emily lifted his face with her hand until he was looking directly into her eyes. "From now on, you will beg your Mistress to be allowed to worship in the temple of Goddess. Won't you?"

Phyllis mumbled, "Yes, Mistress."

"Yes, you will beg and implore and cry to be allowed to taste the essence of the temple sacrifice. But there is only one way you will be permitted to worship Goddess. You must be perfect in all you do. Are you prepared to be perfect?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"And why do you want to be perfect, slut?"

Phyllis closed his eyes and grimaced, "Because Phyllis wishes to worship in the temple of Goddess, Mistress."

Emily sneered smugly at the thoroughly overpowered man who knelt before her, defeated, tears in his eyes. "Yes, slut, you will beg. Over and over you will beg. And you will worship there often. The essence of the temple sacrifice will be always in your mouth and on your tongue. Worthless fool."

Phyllis's training began in earnest. Over and over through the long morning, he was made to remove his makeup and reapply it, until, finally, Emily began to make approving noises. But this was not all that Phyllis did. Each time he would remove his makeup, before reapplying it, he would spend anywhere from fifteen minutes to a half-hour "worshiping Goddess in her temple." By the time Emily called a break for lunch, Phyllis was thoroughly familiar with every every nuance of flavor in his Mistress's asshole. Within a single morning, Emily had completely broken his will and destroyed what little dignity he thought he had retained.

For lunch, she permitted him to eat a small salad, a piece of bread, and a glass of water. She, in turn, had a thick sandwich of turkey, ham, cheese, lettuce and tomato, prepared, of course, by the famished Phyllis. Emily also enjoyed several cups of coffee, sitting at the kitchen table, while Phyllis stood in his uncomfortable heels, broken and dejected, at the counter next to the sink.

The afternoon's training was simply more of what had occurred in the morning, though by now, having become used to the taste of Emily's shit, Phyllis began to beg in a bit more spirited manner to be allowed to worship Goddess in her temple.

In addition to continuing to learn how to apply makeup and to arrange his hair in a style acceptable to Victoria, Phyllis also practiced walking in as feminine a manner as possible. While he did this, Emily had him walk from room to room, dusting and vacuuming as he went, so that the entire downstairs fairly sparkled when he was done.

About five o'clock, Victoria called and spoke with Emily. When they had concluded their conversation, Emily informed Phyllis that "Madame would be home for dinner about seven, and desired lobster bisque." Phyllis would have to work quickly to prepare such a meal. He also had to feed Emily, who did not share the same one-meal-a-day restriction which had been imposed on Phyllis. So, for the next two hours, Phyllis toiled in the kitchen, feeding Emily and preparing Victoria's dinner. Emily, knowing she had reduced him to a state of complete servitude, interrupted his efforts several times so he could gain vital experience worshiping in the temple of Goddess.

But, finally, a buzzer sounded in the kitchen, indicating Victoria was at the front door. Emily disappeared to her apartment downstairs, and Phyllis nervously rushed, mincing and swishing, to attend Victoria as she entered the house. When the door opened, Victoria was pleased to see Phyllis standing in the foyer, holding the front edge of his tutu, and curtsying deeply and gracefully before her. Phyllis then removed Victoria's coat and hung it in the closet before following her into the living room. Curtsying again, Phyllis asked, "Would Madame care for a drink before dinner?"

Victoria fixed Phyllis with a stare. She stood motionless for several long seconds, then said, "I told you when we began this relationship that you would speak only when spoken to. Do you remember that?"

Phyllis was taken aback, but answered, "Yes, Madame."

"Well, then, why did you speak just now?"

Phyllis just stood there, not knowing what to say.

"Let me tell you something, slut. If I want a drink, I'll tell you that. You just keep your useless mouth shut unless I require you to speak."

Phyllis curtsied. "Yes, Madame."

Suddenly, Victoria grabbed his ear and yanked, nearly causing him to topple over. "Did I ask you a question just then?"

Phyllis, in terrible pain, squealed, "No, Madame, no."

"Then keep your mouth shut!" And giving his ear one final twist, she released her grip. He was nearly sobbing from the pain.

She continued to glare at him. "Your trainer, your Mistress, doesn't seem to be making much progress with you. I'm going to have to have a word with her after I've eaten."

Phyllis's ears were ringing so badly he could hardly hear Victoria. But, he realized she had mentioned eating, so he curtsied once more and scurried into the kitchen to finish preparing her dinner. He served her in the dining room, remaining as discreet yet attentive as he could as she ate in cold silence. Finally done, she turned to her hapless servant-husband and said, "Go and call your Mistress. I wish to speak with her. I will be in the living room waiting."

Phyllis curtsied, then rushed into the kitchen and over to the buzzer at the door leading down to Emily's apartment. When she had unlocked it, he descended the stairs and, entering the small kitchenette, curtsied before her as she sat naked at the table relaxing.

"What is it, slut?" she demanded.

"Begging Mistress's pardon, Mistress, but Madame has directed Phyllis to inform Phyllis's Mistress that Madame wishes a word with Mistress." Trying to keep everything in the third person was clearly not going to be an easy task for Phyllis.

"Is that so?" asked Emily. "And what does this pertain to?"

Phyllis curtsied again. "Phyllis does not know, Mistress." Curtsy.

Emily arose, her glorious breasts jiggling, causing Phyllis to nearly gasp aloud. "Very well. I'll be right there." She wrapped the strap of the riding crop around her wrist and climbed the stairs, Phyllis following close behind. When they arrived in the kitchen, Emily continued through the door into the living room, and Phyllis stayed behind, cleaning up both Emily's and Victoria's dinner dishes. A very long time passed, and Phyllis was growing quite concerned. He tried pressing his ear to the closed door, but could only hear an indistinct murmur of voices. Finally, he heard Victoria call, "Phyllis! Come in here at once!"

Quickly, nearly tripping in his haste, he scurried into the living room, mincing in short steps, trying to look as feminine as possible, bell ringing absurdly against his balls. He walked over to stand in front of Victoria, before whom he executed a deep curtsy. He stood quietly, saying nothing. He did not want to be punished for talking out of turn again. Emily was standing a few feet away, looking somewhat agitated. As Phyllis waited, mute before Victoria, Emily spoke, "Well, slut, just as I warned you. Madame now knows the full story of your day and your many failures and shortcomings. Of course, she already knew about your whorish makeup job. And she knew about how you are prone to talk out of turn. As your Mistress, I am now obliged to execute your punishment for all these infractions. Before I do, however, Madame has a few words to say to you."

Phyllis was clearly worried. He remembered the previous night's "taste" of punishment. How horrible was the real thing going to be? He was so preoccupied with his worries over this, he almost missed what Victoria was saying, "...worship Goddess." He stood dumbly, not knowing what to say or do. Victoria tapped her hand on the arm of her chair. Finally, she spoke in a low, cold, brutal tone, "Are you willfully refusing to comply with my instructions?"

Phyllis curtsied, "N-no, Madame. Phyllis is sorry, Madame. Phyllis doesn't know what Madame's instructions are."

Victoria appeared outraged. "What? Are you that stupid? Or were you just not paying attention? Answer me."

Phyllis curtsied again. "Phyllis was, um, er, Phyllis is, um, just stupid, Madame."

Victoria turned to Emily. "Add ten to the punishment."

"Yes, Madame."

Victoria then turned her attention back to Phyllis. "Just stupid, eh? Just plain old stupid slut Phyllis." Her voice lowered to just above an angry whisper, "Now you listen, and listen good, you worthless bitch. I told you I wanted a demonstration of how you worship Goddess in her temple. Can you understand me now?"

Curtsy. "Yes, Madame."

"Well?"

Phyllis was unsure as to how to proceed. Finally, fearing the worst, he decided to take a chance and act on his own initiative. He turned to Emily, curtsied to her, and sank to his knees before her, his nose an inch away from her vagina. "Please, Mistress, Phyllis wishes to worship Goddess."

Emily looked down at him with cold disdain. "Do you think after all you've done wrong today Goddess will permit you to worship her?"

Phyllis pressed on, not knowing what else to do. "Please, Mistress, Phyllis is sorry for all the wrong things Phyllis did. Please let Phyllis worship Goddess."

"You aren't even worthy to lick your Mistress's toes. What makes you think you are worthy to worship Goddess in her temple?"

Phyllis could smell the funky aroma of Emily's sexual heat. He was beginning to feel a little lightheaded. "Oh, please, Mistress. Phyllis will do anything if Mistress will let Phyllis worship Goddess." Tears were forming in his eyes, and his lips had begun to tremble slightly.

"You miserable slut. You want to put your tongue into the temple of Goddess and taste Goddess's essence. You don't even deserve to smell that essence, let alone taste it."

Phyllis, becoming hysterical in his fear of what Victoria might do to him if he failed to convince Emily to let him worship Goddess, was sobbing, his voice breaking as tears freely flowed from his eyes. "Oh, Mistress, please. Please. Phyllis will do anything. Anything!"

Emily smiled at him, a cold, ruthless, humorless smile. "Anything?"

Breaking down completely, Phyllis sobbed, "Yes, Mistress. Anything. Just, please, please, let Phyllis worship Goddess."

"Then you'll sign over your million dollar payment to me, won't you, slut?" said Emily, a note of triumph in her voice. Behind him, Phyllis heard Victoria, surprised and delighted by Emily's shrewdness, laugh loudly. He knew he had just been trapped and ruined at the same time. And all that would result would be that he would be allowed to stick his tongue into Emily's asshole and lick the shit inside. An asslicker. He had been reduced to a penniless asslicker.

"Won't you, slave?" Emily demanded.

He wailed, "Yes, Mistress, yes. Yes, yes, yes."

He was crying openly, totally defeated, when Emily suddenly turned around, thrust her ass into his face, and said in a sharp, angry tone, "Worship, whore!" Still sobbing, he placed his hands on her asscheeks so he could spread them apart, allowing his tongue free access to her asshole. Evidently, she'd had a bowel movement down in her apartment, but hadn't bothered to wipe herself afterwards. Flecks of dried shit were crusted in the area around her asshole. Phyllis knew what was expected of him. Nearly fainting from the odor, he pressed his lips against her flesh, and began licking in long, rapid strokes. The shit tasted awful, and he nearly passed out from it. In his mind, he saw his future, serving as a toilet maid to these two revenge-maddened women. He continued to sob, the tears running down his cheeks, ruining his carefully applied makeup.

His tongue now entered her asshole, and he knew this was truly his place in this household. A nothing now, a complete zero, he gave in to Emily's victory over him, and began fucking her ass with his tongue. In and out, faster and faster, his tongue becoming raw from the effort, he pushed and pulled and gasped and cried. His nose was filled with the odor of shit, his mind cried, "Shit! Shit! Shit!" He was done for. All had been lost. He wanted to laugh with Victoria.

Finally, Emily was done with him, and she stepped away, then turned to face him. His face was covered in tears and sweat and wet mascara which ran garishly down his cheeks. His lips were quivering as he sobbed, his chest heaved, his head was bowed in defeat. Emily stepped forward and bent over, then whispered to him, "It's time for your punishment now, slave. Stand up."

Slowly, his knees nearly buckling, Phyllis struggled to stand. When he was erect, standing at attention, Emily whispered, "Bend over and grasp your ankles. Now." Blindly, automatically, Phyllis did as Emily had commanded. The whipping began slowly, gradually picking up speed. It seemed to last forever, and Phyllis was certain she'd broken the skin of his ass, and that blood was pouring out of his cuts. His ass was most certainly a deep, ugly, purplish hue; but, he was not bleeding. Finally, Victoria called a halt to the punishment. Almost gently, she dismissed Phyllis, telling him to go get a drink of water and to take a break to pull himself together. She instructed him to repair his makeup and report back to her when he had done so.

His ass burned so badly he could barely walk as far as the kitchen. He took short, almost tiptoe steps, eventually reaching the relative safety of the door which would separate him, however briefly, from his two hell-sent tormentors. He stepped over to the kitchen sink and ran cold water on a cloth which he then used to wipe his face to remove the ruined makeup and his tears. After a few minutes, he had calmed down enough to reapply his makeup, putting it on so that it looked much better than his earlier efforts had been. Then, ass still burning, he returned to the living room, where Victoria calmly sat talking to Emily, who stood near the center of the room, riding crop still in hand.

When she saw Phyllis, Emily commanded, "Come over here, slave. Kneel."

Phyllis crossed the room and knelt before her, his nose once again an inch from her pussy. Emily said in a cold, imperious voice, "I will say this only once, and you had better never forget it. Goddess is any woman's vagina. And the temple in which you worship Goddess is any woman's rectum. If a woman ever says, 'Kiss my ass,' you will do so without hesitation. And you will be glad for the honor she has bestowed on you."

Phyllis could smell her devilish musk again.

"Do you understand, slave?"

"Yes, Mistress." It was over. Philip was nevermore. Phyllis was a nothing, an asslicker, a slave.

"Now, I have something I wish you to sign." She handed him a sheet of paper. His eyes were filmy with tears. He couldn't read a word of it. She handed him a pen, and pointed to the place on the paper where he was to sign. He did so.

Emily looked down at the top of Phyllis's head. "You just transferred to me the one million dollars Madame promised you for carrying out your three month's period of indentured servitude. But that contract no longer applies, since you are now my slave. And there is no limit on your servitude to me, is there? You do agree, don't you?"

Phyllis wasn't sure what she meant. He didn't know what to say. Instead, he began to cry, knowing whatever he said would probably be wrong and he would again be punished.

Emily, her voice sharp with anger, said, "You do agree don't you? That you are now my slave?"

Phyllis, trembling, mumbled, "Yes, Mistress."

"And you are mine for as long as I wish?"

Phyllis, completely lost now, said, "Yes, Mistress."

"You just love sticking your tongue in my asshole, don't you, slave?"

Once again, his tears were ruining his makeup. "Yes, Mistress."

"It's worth a million dollars to you to stick your tongue in my asshole. You'd give away a million dollars for the pleasure of licking my butt, wouldn't you?"

His shoulders heaved as he sobbed, "Yes, Mistress."

"That's right. You just did. You dumb shiteater."

Behind him, Victoria was laughing loudly.

"Look at me, stupid." Phyllis turned his eyes to face Emily. "Although you now belong to me, I desire you to continue to serve Madame, just as you have agreed under the contract you entered into with her. You will perform whatever tasks she requires of you, and you will be cheerful and prompt in their execution. But, you will answer to me from now on. Agreed?"

"Yes, Mistress," he whispered.

Emily leaned over so her face was directly in front of Phyllis's. "Madame wishes to acknowledge this momentous occasion," she said quietly to him. "She has some gifts which she wishes you to accept. But you must look happy and grateful when you receive them. So I wish you to go to the kitchen and strip naked and put on fresh makeup. And as soon as you have done this, I wish you to return to this exact spot and kneel as you are now doing."

"Yes, Mistress," he responded, then stood up, curtsied, and retreated into the kitchen. As he undressed and washed the smeared makeup from his face, Phyllis's mind was a whirlwind of emotions. How could this have happened to him, and so quickly? In less than a day, these two women had turned an agreement with him completely upside down. Not only was he no longer in control of his own being, he had completely lost the million dollars he had been expecting to get for playing this game in the first place.

He was convinced Victoria and Emily had not originally conspired to set him up like this. Probably, Victoria had simply wanted to shame and embarrass them both with this bizarre arrangement. It had to have been Emily who had turned the tables and taken control of the game. Victoria had seemed as surprised as Phyllis by how swiftly Emily had acted. Amazingly, Victoria didn't seem to mind. Probably, she recognized Emily's shrewdness and appreciated the deft way in which Emily had taken the initiative. But, the bottom line was that he, Philip Johnson, had, in less than twenty-four hours, been reduced to a mere asslicking nothing, a slave of these two vengeful women. He was sure this had to be a bad dream. It couldn't really be happening.

Finally, his makeup freshly reapplied, Phyllis, now completely naked, returned to the living room, and knelt on the floor before the two women. Victoria was still seated in the wingback chair, and Emily was still standing next to her, as naked as Phyllis now was. Neither woman spoke. Both women were smiling, but their faces betrayed no particular thought or emotion. Phyllis guessed maybe they had planned together to destroy him. He shivered and wondered what awful degradation they would subject him to next.

He didn't have long to wait. Emily stepped towards him. "As I said, slave, Madame wishes to commemorate this occasion. She has some gifts for you which she wishes you to accept. As your Mistress, I have accepted them for you. You, of course, will be overjoyed to receive them. Am I correct?"

Phyllis had no choice. "Yes, Mistress," he mumbled.

"Very well," said Emily. She reached behind Victoria's chair and brought out a paper shopping bag, setting it down a couple feet in front of Phyllis. She reached into it and withdrew a shiny, stainless steel object. Phyllis glanced upwards and saw what appeared to be a tangled up chain. Emily stood before him and unraveled the bundle.

"This gift is an acknowledgement of your continuing servitude, slut," Emily said, "both to your Mistress and to Madame." She stepped forward and placed around his neck a chain-link collar, much like a training collar a dog might wear. The collar fit snugly, but not uncomfortably. It closed by means of a small padlock which rested against the back of Phyllis's neck. Attached to the collar were two chains, each a little more than a foot long with a handcuff attached to the end. Emily took each of Phyllis's hands in turn and placed them in a cuff, which she then proceeded to lock. Like the collar, the cuffs were snug, but not uncomfortably so. Phyllis looked down at his imprisoned wrists and saw that the cuffs were also linked together by a chain about ten inches long. The effect of this arrangement was that his arms would always be bent at the elbow so that, if he were standing straight up, his forearms would be parallel to the floor. The chain binding his wrists close together further restricted any mobility on his part.

Emily stood back and appraised him. She smiled broadly. "Well, slave? Do you like them? They do suit you, you know."

Phyllis was about to start crying again.

Emily paid no attention, but went on, "Aren't you going to thank Madame for her thoughtful gift?"

Phyllis said, "Thank you, Madame." But there was a lump in his throat, and his words came out in a mumble.

Emily wasn't finished. She reached into the bag again, and produced another set of tangled-up chains. She walked around the kneeling Phyllis until she was standing behind him. Then, she stooped down and began attaching the cuffs at the ends of this chain to his ankles. Again, the cuffs were snug, but not uncomfortably so. Emily stood up and said, "Spread your ankles, slave."

Phyllis began to spread his ankles, but was almost immediately halted by the chain, which was only a little more than a foot long. Emily walked around him so she was again facing him. "Because you won't be able to take very long strides now, Madame has ordered that you learn a new way to go up and down her stairs, so you won't trip and fall. You will be shown this new method later. Isn't it nice that Madame is so thoughtful and caring?"

Phyllis mumbled, "Yes, Mistress."

Emily waited a moment, then said, "Is that all you have to say?"

Phyllis, the lump still in his throat, said, "Thank you, Madame." Tears had formed in his eyes, and the room was now a blur to him.

Emily wasn't done. She said, "Madame has also decided to honor this moment by giving you a new uniform, one which I am sure you will be delighted to wear." She reached into the bag again, and pulled out what looked like a long-line corset, made of a very stiff material and covered with black satin trimmed in red lace with pretty red bows attached to the six garter straps. Emily handed the garment to Phyllis. "Stand up and put it on," she ordered. "Let's see how you look."

Phyllis struggled to his feet, nearly tripping over the short chain joining his ankles. He knew he would have to be very careful how he moved from now on. The corset wrapped around him and was closed by a zipper in the front. It was designed to extend from his waist to just below his nipples. This garment was even tighter than the other one had been, and he struggled mightily to join the zipper ends. By the time he had succeeded in closing the zipper all the way, he was struggling to catch his breath. He felt as though all his internal organs had been squeezed into his stomach. The loose flesh from his midsection had been pushed up so that the skin of his chest now spilled over the top of the foundation, forming what looked like breasts. Emily had retrieved a full-length mirror, which she now placed before him.

"Take a look," she said with a broad smile. "You look adorable."

Phyllis looked into the mirror. The corset had reduced his waist by at least three inches, and pushed his hips out at one end, and his chest out at the other, so he could see the breast-like protrusions. Instead of a tutu-like skirt, there was a narrow skirt of red lace which extended from the bottom of the corset to just above his groin, leaving his penis fully exposed. Also attached to the front of the corset by a short, delicate chain, was the same sleeve and bell which had been on his other uniform. This sleeve, like the new corset, looked even tighter and more difficult to fit over his cock than the other one had been. By the time he had managed to get his penis into it, he felt like he had been kicked in the balls by a gang of football punters. His face was bathed in sweat, his makeup a smeary mess.

Emily paid no attention to that. She reached once more into the bag and retrieved a pair of sheer, red nylon stockings, seamed like all the other nylons Phyllis now owned. She handed them to him. "Your ankle cuffs are just large enough so that, by being very careful, you should be able to slip your stockings through the cuffs and then attach them to your garters. So. Go on. Put them on."

Because of the way his arms were bent and his hands joined nearly together, Phyllis knew the only way he could accomplish this task would be to sit down and bend himself into a pretzel. The extremely tight corset made it almost impossible to do this. But, by much careful effort, and a great deal of perspiration, he finally succeeded in slipping both stockings through his cuffs. He then stood up, nearly tripping and falling again, and pulled the stockings the rest of the way up his legs, carefully insuring the seams were as straight as he could get them.

Emily left him standing there, contemplating his imprisonment in the chains as he gazed at his image in the mirror. She disappeared into the kitchen, returning a few seconds later with Phyllis's high- heeled mules. "Put these on, then walk around the room for me," she ordered. Phyllis stepped into the mules, and began to walk. Unfamiliar with the short length of chain joining his ankles, he took too long a step and nearly toppled over. He realized instantly he was going to have to take very short, tiptoe steps all the time. His feet were going to be in a state of constant agony.

Emily said, "Walk over to the stairs, then turn and face me. And be graceful and feminine, you clumsy slut."

Phyllis tiptoed across the room, trying to walk as gracefully and swishily as he could. His hips rolled in an exaggerated way, and he felt silly mincing across the room. When he got to the stairs, he stopped and turned around to face his Mistress and Madame.

Emily said, "Sit down on a step as though you were sitting in a chair."

Phyllis did as he was commanded.

Emily continued, "Now, lift your feet to the next higher step."

Phyllis did.

Emily said, "Now, stand up and repeat the process, going up a step at a time."

Phyllis realized this was the only way he would be able to negotiate the steps, since the length of chain separating his ankles was not long enough for him to step up like a normal person would. He also knew this procedure would be extremely uncomfortable to perform following any kind of punishment with the riding crop. Furthermore, it would present a nearly impossible situation if he were balancing a tray full of dishes.

When he was about halfway up the staircase, Emily called out, "That's enough. Now, you descend in the same manner. Let's see you try it."

Slowly, carefully, Phyllis stretched his legs to lower his feet by one step. Then, he stood up, sitting down again on the step below the one he had just occupied. Coming down the stairs proved even slower and more arduous than going up had been. By the time he reached the bottom, he was exhausted and his legs ached terribly.

In his confusion, and because he was thinking only of how grateful he was to have survived the journey without incident, he began to cross the floor before he realized he hadn't been given permission to do so.

His face reddened instantly as Emily, pretending outrage, screamed, "Who gave you permission to move, you worthless slave! Come over here this instant, you ninny!"

As quickly as he could, Phyllis swished across the room, bell jangling wildly, until he was standing before his Mistress, his face cast down. He lifted the hem of the tiny skirt and curtsied as deeply as he could.

Emily spoke in a stern tone, "You will be punished instantly for that breach of discipline, Miss sissy. Turn around. Bend over and grab your ankles." Even before he felt the first stinging blow, Phyllis was already crying. His ass was still sore from his previous whipping, and now it felt like his skin was being stripped off his buttocks. But, finally, it was over, and Emily ordered him to stand up straight. He turned to face her, his lips quivering wildly as he tried to stop his sobs. Emily placed the riding crop in his right hand. "You will carry this with you at all times, slave. Do you understand?"

He stammered out that he did. Emily went on, "This way you will always be aware what the price of your foolish thoughtlessness will be." She paused, and glared at the thoroughly cowed Phyllis. "Well? Have you nothing to say to your Mistress?"

"Thank you, Mistress," he gasped.

"Kneel, slut." He knelt slowly and carefully, not wanting to trip and fall.

Emily moved forward until her pussy was in his face. She said, softly, "Goddess is pleased, slave. She wishes you to worship in her temple."

Phyllis, his mouth nearly touching the soft place where Emily's legs joined together, muttered, "Yes, Mistress."

Emily's voice grew sterner, "Aren't you forgetting something, slut? Aren't you forgetting that you must beg to be allowed to worship in Goddess's temple?"

Phyllis instantly responded, "Oh, please, Mistress. Phyllis wants to worship Goddess. Phyllis needs to worship Goddess. Phyllis will do anything to be allowed to worship Goddess, if only for a minute."

Emily, laughing at the abject figure before her, said, "Very well, slave, you may enter the temple of Goddess." And she turned around, once again presenting her ass to the kneeling Phyllis. Instantly, his face was buried in her asscrack, his tongue probing the tiny cave of her anus. As he buried himself in Emily's ass, Phyllis could hear both women laughing loudly at his plight. He no longer cared. He was in complete awe of them. They had so perfectly outmaneuvered him, had so quickly reduced him to his present status, had so thoroughly destroyed all he had been - and in less than a day! Truly, they were Goddesses! Truly, he deserved no more than this, to have his nose and tongue buried in their nether holes. They had won. He was theirs. And so it should be. And so it was.

...He wasn't sure when his situation had become permanent. Perhaps it had been the day Madame informed him his three-month period of indentured servitude was concluded. He had already lost track of the passage of days and months. Such matters were no longer of concern to him.

Madame had remained faithful to the agreement. He had been commanded to appear before her, where she had told him his million dollars awaited him. He had been brought over to a table in the living room on which was stacked an enormous pile of cash. He had to assume it totaled a million dollars.

Then Mistress had brought out two large suitcases and he was instructed to fill them with the money stacked on the table. After he was finished putting all the money in the containers, he was dismissed to serve dessert to the two women. When he returned with a tray of dessert plates and coffee cups, he noticed the two suitcases had been removed. He never saw them again.

...Perhaps it was the day, a few weeks later, when he had returned to the household after his convalescence following the breast augmentation surgery. Before, his chest had measured 40 inches. He now measured a full 46 inches, and enough silicone had been inserted to expand his breasts to a massive E-cup size. At the request of Mistress, the surgeon had also pierced Phyllis's greatly enlarged nipples. Attached to them now were shiny gold hoops. Mistress had also requested that a matching hoop be attached to the loose fold of skin joining the back of his testicles to his perineum. Accordingly, he had also been pierced there.

Once he had dressed in his uniform, a new one he was sure, since the tight corset felt even more snug than he remembered from before his trip to the private clinic for his breast surgery, he was summoned to appear before Madame and Mistress.

As was now his automatic behavior, he stepped before Madame and curtsied. Then, he turned to Mistress and curtsied again.

Madame said, "Well, Phyllis, are you all recovered from your surgery?"

Phyllis curtsied again. "Yes, Madame," he replied.

"And how do you like your new breasts?"

Because they were so large, they tended to wobble and flop wildly whenever he walked, causing a great deal of stress and ache in his back. Curtsying, he responded, "Phyllis loves Phyllis's new breasts, Madame." What else could he say?

He wanted to cry.

Ever since he had entered the clinic for his surgery, he had been receiving massive injections of female hormones on a daily basis. His emotions had been overwhelmed by the huge shift in his hormonal balance. He felt like crying all the time. To counter these outbursts, Madame had also directed that he be given large doses of tranquilizers. So now he was calm. He didn't cry, but his eyes were usually brimful of tears wanting to spill out. Everything looked to him as though he were seeing it from underwater.

It made him want to cry.

Mistress spoke next, "Well, slave, we are pleased that you are happy with your new breasts. To celebrate this wonderful occasion, Madame has some new gifts for you."

At some point while he had been in the clinic, Madame and Mistress had become fast friends. Mistress no longer lived in the basement apartment, but now shared the upstairs with Madame, sleeping in the bedroom adjoining hers. Although they were obviously friends, Mistress still preferred to remain naked while in the house. Perhaps this was her way of emphasizing her superiority over Phyllis. He never would know. And it really didn't matter.

Phyllis curtsied again. Mistress stepped forward and unlocked the padlock holding Phyllis's collar in place. Then, she unlocked his handcuffs. Finally, she bent down and unlocked the ankle cuffs. Phyllis's chains now lay in a heap at his feet. Mistress bent over and picked up the chains, tossing them aside. She then turned back to face Phyllis. "Kneel, slave," she said.

Phyllis curtsied and knelt. Mistress continued, "Madame has directed me to present you with the gifts she wishes to give you. You will remain still and silent during the presentation."

She turned and retrieved a small shopping bag which was resting beside Madame's chair. She reached into the bag and pulled out a short length of gold chain, with gold-colored cuffs attached to the ends. She then went behind Phyllis, and stooped to attach them to his ankles. She directed him to spread his ankles apart. As he did so, he quickly realized that this chain was shorter than his previous shackles had been. It would be nearly impossible for him to get anywhere without shuffling on tiptoe.

The next object Mistress retrieved from the bag, however, was far more significant than the ankle fetters; it was this object that would forever seal his fate. Mistress held it up for Phyllis to see. Then, she busied herself attaching it to him.

She first removed his nipple rings, inserting new ones which were somewhat thicker and sturdier than the original rings had been. As she clamped them on, Phyllis heard a distinctive "click," making him realize that these rings were permanently locked in place. Attached to the new gold rings were short lengths of gold chain identical to the chain joining his ankle cuffs. These chains were only about eight inches long. And attached to the ends of them were gold handcuffs, which Mistress now fixed on Phyllis's wrists. The handcuffs were joined together by another length of gold chain, itself also about eight inches long.

Despite the tranquilizers, Phyllis could not stop the tears. He knew his condition was now irrevocable. He also knew his situation was all but impossible. How was he to accomplish even the simplest tasks? He knew Madame and Mistress were unconcerned about his dilemma. Their expectations were that he would serve, and serve perfectly, without mistake. Failure to do so would be punished. It was up to him to figure out how to avoid that punishment.

Mistress looked down at her sobbing slave. "Madame has one other gift for you, slave," she said, her tone smug and superior. She reached again into the bag and brought out a riding crop made of stiff black leather. It looked even more lethal than the crop Phyllis had been made to endure during his period of indentured servitude. Attached to the end of its handle was a thick gold hoop. Mistress also held a clamp, with a spring-loaded insert. This clamp was attached to a gold hoop similar to the one on the handle of the crop. Mistress, after commanding Phyllis to stand, fed this hoop through his testicle piercing. It closed with the same "click" of finality as the nipple rings had.

Next, she opened the clamp, feeding the small handle-loop into it. Phyllis now carried, dangling from behind his testicles, the instrument of his discipline. Mistress could simply unclamp the crop and it would be available for her to whip his ass, or his breasts, or even his penis, which stuck straight out in front of him, stretched painfully through the tight sleeve attached to his corset.

Phyllis had eventually adapted to his new life. Even simple tasks were made difficult, of course, because of the shortness of the chains joining his wrists to his nipple rings. But he had taught himself, encouraged by Mistress's frequent and vigorous floggings, to overcome the limitations imposed by his restraints. These days, he moved with a graceful dignity, slowly but efficiently performing his daily routine. He was an accomplished toilet slave. He would gladly have eaten the women's shit had they chosen to defecate in his mouth, which they never did. But, frequently they would "forget" to wipe themselves, and then he would be commanded to lick them clean. They referred to such times as "feast days in the temple of Goddess."

But things weren't going well this morning, however. The trouble had begun when his stockings had snagged on his ankle cuff while he was trying to slip them through the tiny space between his ankle and the cuff. He had wasted a pair of stockings and was growing impatient with the effort, of course causing him even more delay.

Finally dressed, he realized that if he didn't hurry, he was going to be late for Madame's alarm. But, in his haste to have her breakfast prepared, he'd hurried so that he was now perspiring, and his mascara was beginning to melt. He scurried down the hallway to the stairs as quickly as he could, virtually running on tiptoe, taking teeny six-inch steps. He balanced his serving tray above his breasts, which flopped wildly about, banging the underside of the tray, nearly knocking it loose from his shaking hands. No matter how much he worried, this journey, short though it might be for unfettered people, always took him several minutes and left him breathless and exhausted when he reached the stairs.

He carefully bent over, setting the tray on a step, then shuffled to the front door to retrieve the morning newspaper. He never even glanced at the headlines anymore. Such matters as what took place beyond the doors of Madame's house no longer interested him. Serving Madame and Mistress was his only concern. And avoiding the riding crop.

He placed the paper on the tray, then turned around to begin his journey up the stairs. He sat down, then lifted his shackled feet up a couple of steps. Carefully, he stood, positioning his bottom over the next available higher step, then slowly sat down so the contents of the tray would not spill. He repeated this maneuver several times until at last he stood at the top of the stairs. Too late, he heard the alarm sounding in Madame's room. Before he could reach her door, he heard her speaking loudly, "Where is that slut? Must I do everything myself?"

As he turned the knob, a difficult task requiring him to balance the tray with one hand while grasping the knob with the other, all the while unable to see what he was doing since the tray - and his breasts - prevented a clear view, he could hear Madame continuing to mutter and curse. Finally, he was able to open the door and shuffle into the room. As he moved toward the table where he could set his tray down, Madame shouted curses at him, and he attempted to curtsy as he continued toward the table, nearly dumping the tray and its contents on the floor.

"You worthless fucking idiot!" she screamed at him. "You're late again. Haven't I told you over and over to get up early enough to be here when the alarm goes off? What have you been doing? Reading the comics? Idiot! Fool!"

Madame's shouting finally awakened Mistress, who had been sleeping soundly in her room next door to Madame's. Still yawning, she stepped through the door which connected the two rooms. "What's going on?" she asked.

"Look at this worthless piece of shit!" Madame cried. "He's late - as usual - and his mascara is smeared all over his face."

Mistress looked angrily at the forlorn Phyllis. "You miserable slave," she said, in a tone which raised goosebumps on Phyllis's flesh. "Bend over and grab your knees. Now!"

Phyllis bent over, his lips trembling. Mistress reached between his legs to release the crop from the clamp, grabbing and squeezing his balls as she did so. His little penis-sleeve bell jangled merrily away. Mistress smacked his ass so hard he nearly toppled over. His breasts were heaving, making it difficult for him to grip his knees. He stifled a scream as she brought the crop down a second time. But by the tenth stroke, he was openly sobbing and begging Mistress to stop the flogging.

He lost count as she continued to flail at his burning ass. But, finally, she stopped, and ordered him to kneel before her. She placed the crop in his trembling hand, and commanded him to return it to its holder. Then she instructed him to beg Goddess for her forgiveness. Mistress turned around, presenting her ass to the kneeling Phyllis, who spread her asscheeks and buried his face in her crack. He began begging Goddess for forgiveness, his mouth jammed up against her anal opening, causing his words to be muffled. Mistress and Madame didn't care. What he said meant nothing. The fact that he buried his face in their asses is what mattered. Finally, Mistress shouted, "Worship, slave!" Phyllis's tongue instantly shot out of his mouth and entered her anus, where he began to lick frantically, his tears pouring from his eyes and running down the space between Mistress's asscheeks.

After Phyllis had cleaned out her asshole, Mistress ordered him to stand and serve Madame her breakfast. "You've already missed your morning toilet chores, you shiteating idiot," Madame complained. She sat down to eat, the hapless Phyllis holding her chair for her while Mistress stood a few feet away, watching his every move.

He poured coffee into Madame's cup, and removed the glass cover from her plate. Madame took her fork in her hand, and cut into the egg. She brought the fork up to her mouth, and took a bite.

"Agghh!" she cried. "This food is stone cold!"

Mistress screamed at Phyllis. "You useless piece of shit! How dare you treat Madame this way? Bend over! Now!"

Again, the crop was brought down on his already reddened ass. It began to turn purple, and tiny drops of blood ran down the backs of his legs. He could barely stand as the whip sliced away. Mistress was breathing hard as she finished, her naked breasts heaving as she gasped air into her lungs. Phyllis sobbed and cried, begging for mercy. Slowly, the beating tapered off, and Phyllis was told to stand up.

Madame glared at him. "You have ruined my breakfast and you have failed in all your other duties. You shall go hungry today, you miserable slut. No lunch for you. Do you understand?"

Phyllis, barely able to speak above a whisper, curtsied and gasped, "Yes, Madame."

Madame said, "Now, take this tray of wasted food away from me. This instant! And get out of my sight!"

Phyllis curtsied, picked up the tray and shuffled as quickly as he could to the door. He heard Mistress say, as he scurried into the hallway, "When you've repaired your appearance, you may prepare my breakfast and report to me with it immediately."

Phyllis turned so that he was facing back into the room. He curtsied again. "Yes, Mistress," he whispered. Then he closed the door and hurried to the stairs.

Behind him in the room, Madame and Mistress smiled broadly at each other. Then Madame began to dress for the day, and Mistress returned to her bedroom, humming happily to herself.

His ass on fire and hurting intolerably as he descended the stairs in reverse fashion of the way he had ascended them, Phyllis finally managed to get to the main floor. He shuffle-hobbled into the kitchen, where, holding back his tears, he managed to wipe away his ruined makeup with a damp cloth. He carefully dried his face, then reapplied his foundation, eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick. Carefully, he ran a brush through his hair so that each strand would be perfectly in place.

Then, he set about preparing Mistress's breakfast. He could hear Madame coming down the stairs, opening the closet in the foyer to retrieve her coat, then opening and closing the front door.

Quickly, Phyllis prepared Mistress's tray, and began the long, arduous journey back upstairs to serve Mistress her breakfast. He arrived at her door, where, balancing the tray with one hand, he gently knocked on her door. Mistress called out, "Enter!"

Carefully, Phyllis bent over to grasp the doorknob, balancing the tray with his other hand. He succeeded in turning the knob without spilling the tray's contents, and he entered Mistress's room noiselessly, if one ignored the jangling of his penis-sleeve bell. Like Madame, Mistress had a small circular table in her room where Phyllis served her breakfast, as well as an occasional bedtime cup of cocoa. Phyllis shuffled directly to the table and placed the tray carefully down on it.

Then, pressing the palms of his hands together between his breasts, fingers stretched out as though he were praying, and elbows held tightly against his waist, he turned to face Mistress, his eyes drilled into the floor.

"Go draw my bath," she muttered sleepily, "Then come here and help me out of this fucking bed."

Curtsying deeply, Phyllis hurried to the bathroom. He knelt over the tub as far as he could in order to be able to insert the drain plug. Then, he turned on the water. As quickly as he could, he stood up and shuffled back into the bedrooom. Mistress was still lying in it. He walked over to her bed, assuming the praying position once again. Mistress opened one eye and said, "Well, don't just stand there, you ninny, help me up."

Phyllis bent over and took Mistress's hand in his and began to back away from the bed, straightening up as he did so. Mistress reached her fingers out until they grasped Phyllis's nipple, then gave a mighty squeeze. Phyllis wanted to scream as the sudden pain shot through his breast and straight to his brain. But he knew better than to do that. Such behavior would leave him unable to sit down for several days.

Finally, Mistress was on her feet, and Phyllis guided her into the bathroom, where he gently led her to the toilet. She sat down and peed noisily, afterwards requiring Phyllis to clean her up. Phyllis then helped her step into the tub, where she sank into the nearly scalding water, slick from bath oil beads Phyllis had put in while he was filling it. Mistress soaped herself, though Phyllis was required to kneel beside her in case she might desire assistance of some sort.

Her bath completed, Mistress stood in the tub while Phyllis carefully and gently shaved first her legs, then her underarms. Mistress had begun to let her pubic hair grow back, but it was still too short for Phyllis to trim her there. She stepped out of the tub, allowing Phyllis to wrap a towel around her and to rub her dry. She then brushed her teeth as Phyllis stood beside her, a cup of cold water in his hand for when Mistress needed to rinse the excess paste from her mouth.

Then Mistress returned to the bedroom, going directly to the table where Phyllis had laid out the breakfast. She sat down, and waited while Phyllis poured her coffee. Then, she opened the newspaper to scan the front page, and took a sip from her cup. Suddenly, she spat the coffee back into the cup. "Wshh! Shit! You idiot! What did you make this coffee with? Dishwater? Aaaghh! This is awful!"

Phyllis couldn't comprehend. He had just made a fresh pot. Then - oh, no, had he forgotten to rinse the pot out completely after he had cleaned up Madame's dishes? - an awful realization crept upon him. He had been in too big a hurry because his earlier punishments had left him running behind in his chores.

Mistress glared angrily at the trembling slave. "Turn around, you shithead," she growled. "This instant! Now, bend over!"

Phyllis, knowing what was in store for him, trembled greatly, and could hardly bend over. Mistress snatched the crop from its holder, scratching his balls with her nails, causing his penis-sleeve bell to begin tinkling.

WHAP!! Instantly, Mistress connected with the thin, deadly leather. Phyllis cried out in anguished pain. WHAP! WHAP! The blows rained down on his already tormented ass. He could finally take no more, and he sank to his knees, his head on the bedroom floor, sobbing and screaming as Mistress continued to rain blow after blow upon him.

Then, all was still. Mistress stood there, the riding crop in her hand, breathing hard from the exertion. Phyllis lay on the floor, still sobbing in pain and humiliation. His ass was again a fiery red color, mixed with nasty-looking purple stripes. He would have to rub a lot of salve on this morning's wounds.

"Get up, you worthless slave," said Mistress. "Go make me a fresh pot of coffee. And be quick about it."

Phyllis could barely stand up. But he managed to leave the room without further incident, and to hobble down the hall, somehow managing to negotiate the stairs and balance the tray with the porcelain coffeepot on it. He scurried to the kitchen, where he started a new pot of coffee, then carefully washed and rinsed the porcelain pot, drying it with a fresh, clean dishtowel.

He hurried up the steps once again, and entered Mistress's room with the coffeepot on his tray. Mistress had already finished her breakfast, and she directed him to set the pot on the table and pour her a cup. Phyllis did so, pouring in a little cream as well. The meal finished without further incident.

Before Phyllis could dress Mistress, however, he had to worship in the temple of Goddess, this time licking and reaming Mistress's asshole until she climaxed in orgasmic release.

Finally, he had completed making her up, doing her hair, and helping her get dressed. He gathered up the dirty dishes, and left the room, hurrying back downstairs to deposit his tray in the kitchen. He shuffled as quickly as he could to the coat closet, where he held Mistress's coat in his hands, waiting for her to take it from him. Eventually, she came down the stairs and took the coat Phyllis offered. She then gave him instructions to clean the entire house and to have dinner prepared for both her and Madame by six-thirty. Phyllis curtsied over and over as Mistress issued her orders, his penis-sleeve bell bouncing and jangling, his huge breasts wobbling furiously.

...He wasn't sure when his situation had become permanent. But as he stood in the foyer, gazing at his shackled hands and feet; at his enormous breasts with his hands chained forever to them; at his madeup face and carefully combed, platinum wig; at his penis pointing straight at the mirror, tightly encased in the vinyl sheath; at the bell resting softly against his useless balls; at the riding crop dangling obscenely from his testicles between his legs, Phyllis knew. He knew that for him, he'd earned his million dollars. He was a millionaire for sure. And more.

He smiled softly, and shuffled off to clean the house.

The End