The call came at eight a.m. I was due to leave later that morning to meet Stephen at two for a matinee movie, then supper out and whatever would follow.
"We've had a change in plans," he began, "and I want you to come earlier."
Without inquiring for an explanation, I agreed, and was about to hang up the phone when he added, "You better be shaved."
I paused, remembering his command of a week earlier. I had complied by getting a professional manscaping, but his reminder at this point made me more than a little intrigued. "Yes, Sir Stephen," was all I had answered back, though, and I hung up.
We lived an hour away from each other, so the drive to meet up could have provided plenty of time to conjure up vivid scenarios of what might be awaiting me that afternoon, with plenty of titillation. Instead, it gave me an opportunity to ponder where I thought our relationship might be going.
This was going to be our third rendezvous since our meeting on line roughly a month prior. We were finding our way as newbie bi-guys, mutually agreeable about trying out a sub/dom relationship.
As novices, it seemed to me that role-playing our fantasies could be fraught with failure or embarrassment. Being two primarily straight but relatively total strangers, we didn't really know the other's gay desires, having to gradually learn what worked or didn't, in real time. It dawned on me, just then, that we had never really discussed what would and wouldn't be acceptable. As point of fact, during our two times together so far, several of the things he had demanded of me had made me bristle. Curiously, though, something about him, which I couldn't really define, had made me acquiesce, and, in so doing, had eventuated in an outcome that was quite sublime. So, I was starting to trust him. And even more than that, after our first overnight together last week, I was starting to experience an infatuation for Stephen. That scared me, because I wasn't sure if we were wanting the same things—me, a more intimate male companion, but maybe he, a mere playmate. Further speculation would have to wait, however, as I had just pulled up in front of his house. I took a deep breath and got out.
Stephen was quite animated when I entered. The last time I was there, we had come from an outing, and, as we had agreed upon, as soon we had entered and the door was shut, we assumed our dominant/submissive roles. This time, however, we didn't have outdoor time to catch up, so we put off adopting our usual parts, and instead, allowed for a period of cordiality beforehand to reestablish a connection. Once we had exchanged personal stories of the week, though, Stephen raised a hand to command a halt to further conversation, allowed a lengthy silence to grow, then announced what we would be doing for our time together that day.
"So far, you have been a good submissive to me, Martha," he began, "but it's important in your training to also be a good submissive—and a good servant-to any and all guests whom I entertain. My long-time friends, Bevaun and Virginia, are interested in seeing the movie in town, and I wanted them to come over for lunch prior to us going out. I've intimated to Bevaun that I have a new house boy, or maid-servant, and wanted them to help me break you in."
He paused to let me take in the concept of break you in, my scrunched-up forehead providing him a cue to wait. Then, to expound, he went on, "it's important that you experience public humiliation to learn to find a greater strength in the servitude."
"Yes, Sir Stephen," was all I could summon, although it was, for the moment, making no sense. A voice was telling me that I should never have gotten involved in this relationship. "He's using you," it said "He doesn't care a thing about you." Nevertheless, I silenced its cautionary advice and listened on.
"Bevaun is ex-military, a former drill sergeant from Fort Bragg. He now manages a UPS warehouse. Virginia, his wife, is a pastry chef at Flour, in Cambridge. Their kids are grown, the house is free for anything they now want, but from my conversations with Bevaun, his marriage isn't going well, and I don't think they've had sex for years. Personally, I wonder if Bevaun is gay. Or maybe she is. So, I'm trying to spice up their life a bit with a provocative experience. Which is what I hope you are going to provide for them."
I grew more curious than apprehensive, although the sly smile spreading across Stephen's face made me recalculate my initial excitement.
With his hand on my shoulder, Stephen herded me down the hallway and into the spare bedroom, went across to the closet, and brought out a hanger with a neatly starched, but tiny red apron hanging over it, along with a pair of see-through lacy black women's panty briefs. A clear plastic bag, with black heels inside, was dangling on the hanger by a drawstring.
"They are due at noon, so I would like you to get into this Maid Martha uniform and be ready at the door to greet them."
He left. After a host of "What the fucks," I collected myself. The first two times together had turned out really good, I reminded myself, even though I had been initially apprehensive. So "Trust him," overcame, "Get out of here!" and I began rehearsing my role of servant, as I bent over to untie my shoes.
As it was a warm autumn day, and his house, comfortable, the goosebumps I had were not from standing skimpily attired in the ambient temperature, but my nerves from the queer assignment I had been given. In the mirror, I studied the fit of the red apron which looped around my neck, hung down to my upper thighs, and tied at the back. I had to admit that the black lace underwear contrasted nicely with the apron, and perfectly matched my black heels. Though my cock would be concealed, I realized my partly covered ass was in full view whenever I turned to walk away. Taking two deep breaths, I left the room and clumsily walked in my new high heels back down his hallway and into the living room.
Stephen 's first look revealed much. He had that familiar stare I'd seen before when he saw me in a woman's dress—mesmerized, that is—and he licked his lower lip provocatively. His sigh reminded me of the power of the outfit—or, rather, I hoped, the allure of me in the outfit.
"Yes," though, was all he said. But more ogling. More hand motions for me to turn around. More passing of his tongue over his lower lip, and I knew he really liked what he saw. So, I patiently waited in his gaze until the reverie broke.
"They will be here any minute, and your instructions are simple. You are to attend to their every need, every wish, every request. You are to tolerate any and every advance, every inappropriate touch. I want you to show them what a perfect servant I have. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Sir, Stephen."
When the doorbell rang at exactly noon, I opened the door as instructed. I didn't know who was the more shocked, the couple standing before me, or me, answering the door. They were quite a contrasting pair. Virginia was tall, perhaps 5 feet 10, and on the thinner side, with graying blonde hair nicely conforming to her face and falling to her shoulders and to the white short-sleeve blouse which overhung her black skirt. She was attractive, even in what I guessed was, her late fifties. Bevaun, on the other hand, was a monster of a man, 6 feet 4, sturdily built, weighing almost as much as Stephen, I estimated, but much more muscular. And...he was black.
I didn't know if Stephen had expected their reactions. Virginia visibly stepped back, startled by my attire, and Bevaun, initially speechless, began to chuckle and then laugh in big guffaws. "What have we here, Stephen" he asked, taking a step forward for a closer look, but when he felt Virginia's hand on his forearm, he stopped. I'm sure I blushed, forgetting that these two strangers, looking at my nearly naked body, were being invited by Stephen to play a part in a scene that they had had no idea to what exactly they were agreeing. So, once our initial reactions had subsided, I ushered them inside, stealing a look at Stephen with the little smile turning up one corner of his mouth.
I began with an attentiveness that I had been preparing for. I escorted them to the living room and asked each what they would like to drink, then brought them back their requests. The three chatted while I stood at the side, ready for any additional orders.
At one p.m., Stephen bade me to serve the lunch, and the three assumed places at the kitchen table as I brought out the sandwiches. I saw Bevaun intentionally drop his napkin and asked me to pick it up. "Here you go Sir," I said, handing it to him. He made sure to sneak in a caress of my calf and inner thigh with his left hand as he took the napkin with his right. My feeling was that if Virginia had not been here, he would have done more than that. With every bite, any remaining awkwardness began to pass, as they assumed the conviviality afforded by a long friendship. It was only as lunch was finished, and I was asked to clear the table, that Bevaun began with a suggestion to Virginia that maybe they should have someone like Maid Martha. He was obviously playing with Stephen, but Virginia was not in a mood to play along. It began to look like Stephen's grand plan was failing miserably. In fact, when he reminded everyone that Joker was starting soon and that they needed to walk out now to get there in time for the previews, Virginia said she wasn't feeling well, and told the men to go on ahead without her. She would remain back at Stephen's with me, she added. A romance catalyst, it appeared, Stephen was not.
After the two men left, and with some hesitation, perhaps unsure whether to continue on in Stephen's screen play or to assume a more natural conversation, Virginia tentatively asked me to make her a cup of coffee. "Yes, Ma'am," I replied, indicating to her that we should remain in our roles. When I returned with the cup, she asked for a tour of the house. As we walked from room to room, she asked about my employment relationship with Stephen, when I was hired, what my duties were, and so on. Although trying our best to play Upstairs/Downstairs, we soon strayed into areas more intimate. Each of my answers intrigued her enough to ask another question, and we continued on in this way for several minutes. I soon began politely inquiring about her relationship with Bevaun and, surprisingly, she quite readily revealed to me her unhappiness.
"We haven't had any physical contact for years," she intimated. "Oh," she softly sighed, "how I long for a tender touch, a gentle caress, or...," and when she saw the brush, comb, and hand mirror on the vanity of the spare bedroom, she added "for someone to simply brush my hair."
"I will brush your hair," I entreated.
My offer to do so startled her; she hesitated a split second, but then nodded eagerly.
"Show me how you would like it, Milady," I implored her. I wanted to safely retreat into my servant role, as I was unsure where this might all lead.
With her sitting on the double bed and me behind her, she showed me her favored motion. I began drawing the brush through her shoulder length graying blond hair in long strokes, beginning at her forehead, over the top of her head, then down her neck to her shoulders. From the middle, I fanned out to each side, alternating back and forth. I played with other strokes, brushing her hair all to the left side, then back, then all to the right, and back. Within minutes I had her sighing, and she reached back, perhaps unconsciously, and placed her left hand on my left knee. My head was beginning to feel the sensual high that comes from imparting pleasure to another, and I took her hand on my knee as a sign to do more. I began dragging my brush through her hair, then along her blouse, and down her back to her waist. When she quivered with, what I interpreted was, added joy, I continued, letting my free left-hand rest on her shoulder, as if I were steadying her frame against the pull of the brush. She leaned back into me so that her hair was now just beneath my chin and I could inhale the scent of her shampoo. I slid my left hand from her left shoulder across her upper chest, set down the brush, and wrapped my right arm around her the other way, giving her a hug from behind, my right cheek now resting on the left side of her head. She did not recoil, nor did she reject my advance. On the contrary she exhaled, "I love this." Apparently, years of sexual deprivation had created a wanting in this sensual woman so great, that she was willing to allow a perfect stranger—a man dressed in a skimpy apron and women's panties—to touch her in ways that her husband apparently would not. Still sitting behind her, I lowered my arms around her breasts, each of my hands cupping one, and then slowly snugged them into another hug.
"Oh, my goodness, this feels so wonderful," she exclaimed.
I got the feeling that now I could do no wrong. I let go of my embrace from behind and moved my legs so that I was sitting next to her on the bed, turned to face her and with my arms encircling her, kissed her lightly on the cheek. When she turned her face toward me, I kissed her lightly on the lips, and then more intently so, running my fingers through her hair. I tugged gently on her lower lip, slid my tongue inside her lips, then felt her soft tongue probing my mouth in response.
I glanced at the clock—three o'clock—the men would be home around four, they had said. While I continued to kiss her, and receive her soft moans back, I began unbuttoning her blouse down the front. Then I reached around her back and undid the clasp of her bra, releasing her lovely breasts, breasts which had nourished two children, but were still nicely taut. Her nipples were erect. I took each between my thumb and forefinger and gave them a gentle squeeze, aware of the risk, but it turned out it excited her all the more.
"Harder," she whispered, and I complied.
She leaned back onto the pillow with my left hand supporting her head. Kneeling at her waist, my hands began gently kneading her breasts, like I imagined she would do to her pastry dough, adding a crimping of her nipples intermittently to augment her excitement. Feeling emboldened, I left my left hand to make figure of eights around her breasts while my right found its way beneath her skirt, slowly moving up one thigh and back down to the knee then across to the other knee and up the opposite side with the same motion, never quite reaching the groin but with each U-turn, getting closer and closer to the elastic of the legs of her underwear.
"Yes, yes" she urged me on, and I made one pass from her right thigh crease across to her left, grazing the tuft of hair that was prominently filling her underwear's crotch. She spread her legs further apart, welcoming more of my hand into the wetness dampening it. I bent over and kissed her more intensely, with deeper lingual penetration, and received her returned favor, all the while working my fingers beneath the waistband of her panties and onto her vulva. I was able to stretch her silky lingerie enough to slide more of my hand along her outer lips, the edges of a flakey-crusted turnover, I thought, hot out of the oven, which I was longing to sample.
"I want you inside me," she gasped, as if intuiting my desires, then kissed me more ferociously. I was bulging inside my own panties, and I could readily imagine myself ripping hers off, then mine, and descending to devour that steaming cherry turnover of hers. Then, after she screamed with her first orgasm, sliding my wanting cock into that wanting-more pussy, and bringing ourselves to a screaming end.
But I told her there wasn't time, promised her a "next time," and instead, placed my finger into the now slippery wet crevice and found her swollen clit. With a gentle grinding motion, I pressed on her womanhood, squeezing it between her pubic bone and my index finger until she was rocking her pelvis back and forth, and gasping. Then she stiffened and shuddered with her first orgasm, then her second, and third, as I did not let up on my motion.
It was 3:45, and we needed to transition back to our prescribed roles before the men returned. I slowly unwound my finger, reversing the direction, as I released the pressure gradually. I took my hand out from beneath her panties and softly continued my circular touch, but now through a thoroughly drenched fabric. My hand moved off, tracked down one thigh, and back up, across her mound, then down the other side, as I slowly subtracted the stimulation. Finally, when her breathing had settled down, I kissed her once more on the forehead, on the hair, and then on the lips. I helped her to a sitting position and steadied her.
"You better get dressed," I said, as I left the room.
I went into the bathroom, thoroughly washed my hands and my face. When I returned, she was brushing out the tangles of her hair. She set the brush back on the vanity and looked into the mirror, smoothing the front of her blouse and skirt, and then she looked at me.
"I give you high marks for a servant, Maid Martha."
We hugged one last time, before walking out into the living room. We sat apart in chairs opposite one another, talking about our work, our recreation, and our children.
The men soon burst through the door in full conversation, but the minute they saw us sitting down, and me in particular, Bevaun bellowed out "Two beers, Maid Martha." I quickly got up and walked past them into the kitchen, smelling the beer already on their breaths, and getting a whack on the backside from Stephen as I whirled past.
Virginia, more confident sounding then she had all afternoon, said to them, "You two seem quite full of yourself. How was Joker? And they proceeded to interrupt each other telling her different aspects of it.
After respectfully listening for several minutes, Virginia rose and sweetly put her hand on Bevaun's shoulder. "I'm going home to make us supper. What time will you be there," she asked.
"How about seven?" he answered. "I wanna shoot the shit with Stephen a little longer."
"I'll have something ready by then," and she gave him a peck on the lips, turned to thank Stephen for the lunch, and then to me for the excellent service. When she took her leave, it was as if the teacher had just left the classroom. Bevaun quickly drank one beer and demanded another, which I delivered. He downed a big swallow and then dragged me roughly over to the couch where he had parked himself. Stephen, across the way, a twinkle in his eye, was enjoying the freedom in his friend that Virginia's departure had allowed.
"Turn around Maid Marsha and let me see you in the sunlight. You are a pretty thing. Why don't you take off that apron and let us see those adorable undies that you have on. Look at that pretty white ass, right Stephen, in that dainty black lingerie. Black flatters you Maid Marsha. The way your pretty white mouth would be flattered with a big black cock in it. You'd like that wouldn't you, Maid Marsha, my big black cock filling your pretty white mouth?"
I couldn't tell if his bawdy language was beer bravado or what. I appealed to Stephen with my glance. Stephen helped me out.
"Answer him, Martha."
Turning back, and casting my eyes at Bevaun's feet, I replied, "Yes, Sir," recalling Stephen's morning instructions to me.
"What are you saying 'Yes, sir' to, Maid Martha," inquired Bevaun, getting my name right—after Stephen's prompt.
"I would love your big black cock in my pretty white mouth," I obeyed.
"You bet you would." Bevaun was obviously becoming more inebriated, and there was nothing gentle about his approach.
He grabbed my wrist, after he hoisted himself up with one hand on the arm of the couch.
"Then I'm going to give you what you want. Undo my pants Maid Marion," again mangling my name. I unbuckled his belt, unzipped his fly, released his snap, and pulled his pants down. He was going commando, so there was nothing else to prevent his cock's full liberation. It was already filling, a thick cut cock that made me gulp. It was both beautiful and menacing, jaw-dropping, yet threatening. He stepped out of his pants, sat back down with my little red apron beneath his ass and pulled me over to sit on his lap.