French Maid Weekend: The Plan

Fantasy: One weekend my husband cleans the apartment from top to bottom, cooks dinner, manages to look pretty doing it, and is totally ready for sex afterward, while I sit back, read a book, and don’t lift a finger.

Reality: Wait…that’s his fantasy too?!

J will confirm that I have never so quickly and gleefully embraced one of his kinky ideas as I did the French Maid Weekend. I’m so excited about this that I could practically cum just planning it. (Disclaimer: J works weekends and has spent 95% of his free time since we married caring for an ill parent. I don’t want any of you to think he’s just a lazy, terrible slave. But I’m definitely ready for him to take on a more wifely role, and apparently so is he!)

Eventually I’ll buy sissy a maid outfit and some high heels for these occasions. (I hope he didn’t suggest this thinking it would only happen once….) I’m not ready to spend the money on that because we just made another major purchase. 

In the meantime, I think I’ll simply dress him prettily as befits a sissy cleaning house for his Mistress. He will be naked except for a pair of pink and purple lacy panties we ordered from Lane Bryant, and of course his leather collar. Perhaps I will lock up his cock, depending on my mood. I will have him put makeup on—something we have only tried once so far—and paint his nails for the weekend if we have no plans to go out. Throughout the day he will alternate between nipple clamps and his new anal plugs. 

I expect to feel some guilt the first time we do this. I’m used to being the cleaner, and I truly don’t mind it most of the time; to watch him working while I relax will be a little odd. However, I have a feeling that if I can get past the guilt quickly, I will luxuriate in this. 

I will relax on the couch, book in hand, while he scrubs the bathroom and the kitchen. I will sip my sweet tea, idly glancing at him as he dusts and polishes the living room around me, never truly acknowledging him except to remind him that he missed a few spots. When he bends over to pick up the things he’s left strewn about the floor I will stare at the see-through nylon covering his ass until he squirms with self-consciousness. When he squats to shine the glass coffee table next to my couch, I may stand up, bend him over that table, and smack that purple-clad ass until he’s whimpering from the stinging arousal. When he comes over to ask me if he can remove the plug for a while, I will take my time answering as I look my fill at his pouting face with his long-lashed eyes and his shiny red lips. I can picture how he will stare down at the floor, his expression half petulant and half submissive as he enjoys yet resents my reaction to his very pretty mascaraed and glossed face. 

At the end of the day, when I feel he’s accomplished enough, he will worship me with his tongue until I take my pleasure. 

J and I have discussed why this scenario appeals to both of us at length. For now, I’ll summarize: I deserve it, and he wants to do it. 

I can’t wait.

Mistress K

Reflections on Cum Eating and TPE

A lot of people have said that the Mistress/slave relationship is about me getting what I want. This confuses me.

In case you haven’t read before, I’ll mention that I’m a pretty novice Mistress and that I might not be a Domme if my husband weren’t so very submissive. In other words, I’m a Mistress because my husband wants to be a slave. Do you see the contradiction yet?

As we reach the end of our first full month of continuous Mistress/slave living, I’ve tried to establish boundaries in my own mind. My slave repeated to me something he found in a blog (I unfortunately don’t know which one, or I’d give credit): That safewords aren’t necessary between a married, committed, loving Domme and sub because they know each other well enough, communicate well enough, and trust enough to know when enough is enough. Thinking back to a conversation we’d had in the shower that morning, I completely agreed. 

My husband, like most submissives, tends to respond to an orgasm by retracting all of his previously stated fantasies. Before an orgasm, he says he wants to be locked in chastity for a year straight; afterward he’s certain he isn’t quite ready for anything more than a week. Before an orgasm, he’s aroused by the idea of being forced to eat his own cum; afterward he’s disgusted by it and has no interest. On this particular day, that was the matter at hand. He could tell that I was becoming more accustomed to the idea of making him eat cum, though I’d been somewhat repelled by it when he first mentioned it and had no intention of doing it. (I don’t even let him cum in my mouth. I can’t help it; I find it disgusting. I wish I didn’t.) 

As he watched me getting used to the idea, he became nervous. “I know I don’t have a safeword,” he said that day in the shower. (I “took away” his safeword, at his own instigation, during a bondage scene years ago, before I really understood this lifestyle completely.) “But how will you know if I really don’t want to do something, instead of just being stubborn or embarrassed?” 

“I think I’ll just know,” I said without having to think about it at all. “You’re my husband. I’ll know the difference between ‘That’s gross but it still really arouses me,’ and ‘That does arouse me, but I really find it disgusting and I don’t think I want to do it again.’”

“True,” he agreed, and that was the end of that. 

Lo and behold: the next night, after reaching a blinding, exhausting climax using only my slave’s mouth and fingers, I decided he deserved a reward. He had done a lot for me that day, sexually, emotionally, and domestically. I was too sated to want to bother taking him inside me, though, so I decided that he could jerk off. To balance this overly generous gift (it was his second orgasm in one day), the caveat was that he would have to taste his cum afterward.

The face he made when I put my cum-filled finger in his mouth was comical. It was perfectly clear that this aroused neither of us. We determined that I might do this again, but only in a highly dominant scene of control and bondage. If he was tied spread-eagle, blindfolded, plugged in the ass, and gagged, then it might be arousing to force cum into his mouth through the gag. The atmosphere would be the deciding factor, though.

I don’t really get off on control. I just enjoy the perks of this female-led relationship. I enjoy having great orgasms without worrying about his. I enjoy having help with the housework. I enjoy getting back massages and brownies without having to ask. But I don’t derive any real pleasure from controlling him simply because I can. (My husband might disagree. And he might be right. That’s a debate for another day, though.)

This seems very contrary to some of the opinions I’ve seen expressed in various blogs and forums. I’ve noticed quite a few people—both dominant and submissive—stating that the slave should never be able to say no to anything, and that the complete power of forcing unwanted actions like eating cum is essential to the D/s relationship. Forcing J to do something for the sake of exercising my power, when he genuinely finds disgusting and not very arousing, just doesn’t seem fun to me. Maybe that makes me less of a Mistress.

I guess I am not much interested in definitions for now. I’m interested in enjoying an unusual and special relationship with my husband.

Mistress K

His First Pink Panties

When my husband (then fiance) admitted years ago—after lengthy interrogation—that he liked the idea of sissification, the big reveal was pretty anticlimactic. For one thing, I had no idea what sissification was at the time! Then, once he’d explained it some, I wrinkled my nose and said I didn’t see myself ever particularly wanting him to wear girls 'undies.

Oh, how suddenly things can change.

One evening home alone, my slave and I decided to read through a list of activities and behaviors to rank how willing he’d be to try them on a scale of 1-5. The list came from She’s in Control, a book being sold by Sarah Jameson which I’ll review once I get a chance to finish reading it.

When we came to the line for "Forced dressing (opposite sexual identity - private)," slave said that he ranked it a three in the diffident tone I know to mean, "I am lying to you a little bit because I don’t want to admit how much I desire this embarrassing thing."

Luckily, my slave can’t lie to me. I always know, and if he doesn’t admit it immediately, he will be punished.

"Three?" I said archly. "I would’ve thought this would be a five. Didn’t you mention to me once that you wanted sissification?"

"Yes..." he conceded in the slightly whimpering tone that says he thinks he’s about to get himself in trouble. "But you said you weren’t interested."

His head tilted downward, his eyes fixed on the sheets. His hips pressed down into the bed slightly. I knew his cock was hard and leaking against the sheets and his eyes would be wide and dilated if I forced them up to mine.

I told you, I know my slave.

"True, but you are very interested, aren’t you?" His head ducked further down toward the sheets. "Aren’t you, slave? You will answer me."

"Yes," he finally said in a small voice.

Was I particularly eager to see pink panties on my husband? No, not particularly. But our bodies are programmed to respond to our lovers' arousal with arousal. He was horny as hell and dripping precum, ready to lick my feet if I asked. And the idea of pink panties had done it. Well, hell. Why not?

I hopped off the bed and went straight to my dresser, rummaging around in the top drawer.

"What are you doing?" he asked warily.

"Looking for those one-size-fits-all panties that are huge on me, of course." I pulled out the lacy pink things and held them up. "Well? Here you go. Put them on now."

He stood up slowly but hung back, giving me a petulant pout. I stalked up to him, gripped his balls, shoved the lace into his hand and whispered against his ear, "You will put those panties on."

The next morning, after twelve hours of watching my slave walk around in panties, I can’t say I really knew why it aroused me. I suppose it aroused me because it aroused him.

In any case, the effect was undeniable: as he licked my clit and thrust his fingers against my g-spot, I found myself gasping threats and promises: "Soon I’m going to buy you more panties, sissy. You’ll be wearing them all the time, under your uniform, no one else will know but you will, lacy panties with a wet spot on the front from your little clitty, just like a woman, my sissy slave.…" With every word my slave squirmed more, my pussy got wetter, my clit got tighter, until I finally exploded.

That afternoon I went to the store and bought some more XL pink panties.

Mistress K       

The Day My Slave Shaved

Things changed when I made my slave shave his pubic hair.

My husband and I don’t always live as Mistress and slave. Before we married we mostly played at D/s. Since moving in together, we’ve had more chance to explore long-term chastity and servitude, and we tend to have a few weeks at a time of serious Mistress/slave play before taking a break. J has made it clear to me that he wants to be my slave all the time, but he’s afraid. Maybe to some Mistresses that wouldn’t matter, and they would know how to simply take command and demand their due at all times. However, I am growing into my role as Mistress because my husband wants it. I find it more and more attractive as time goes on, and I’m certainly not doing something I don’t want to do…but I did not read BDSM erotica throughout my teen years as my husband did. I don’t always know how it’s supposed to work. The idea that he wants to be controlled or hurt or humiliated started out pretty foreign to me, and I’ve had to get used to it, moving slowly to be sure I’m not crossing his real boundaries. This is a theme you will see often in my stories.

Three weeks ago, quite unexpectedly, my husband suddenly became very submissive (not unusual, certainly; it happens periodically) and suggested that Mistress might want him to shave himself. Does slave want to shave himself? I asked, needing more explicit guidance, as I often do. Slave wishes to please Mistress, he answered predictably. If Mistress wants him to shave, he will.

I understood this to mean that, yes, this was part of some fantasy of his, that I wouldn’t truly be hurting him by making him shave, and that he wanted to be commanded to do it. At the time, I didn’t fully understand why. I thought it might make giving head a little easier, but I wasn’t sure I’d like it—what if he didn’t seem as manly without the hair?

If you are more experienced than I was, you may have already realized: That was the point.

I came home from work that night and found him naked and waiting for my examination.

I looked at his bald pelvic area for a long while. I fondled his bare cock and balls, feeling the smoothness left by body lotion and the small prickly patches that weren’t fully clear of hair. Did I like it? I still wasn’t sure, but I did know that my eyes kept returning to it. As we stood in the kitchen or sat talking on the sofa, I stared. My gaze would move up to his magnificent, broad, hairy chest, and then back down to that nude little penis, and my hand would idly reach over to stroke lightly all around it, enjoying a texture I had never felt on a man before.

Eventually the truth crystallized in my mind. I was hesitant to say it at first, because it sounded selfish, almost vindictive, and perhaps humiliating to him. Yet something inside me hinted that maybe this was his goal…so I said it aloud.

It’s bare like a woman’s pussy. I like it…because you had to do what I have to do all the time. You had to feel the irritation of the razor, you had to spend extra time in the shower, you had to painstakingly move a blade across your most sensitive areas, and you had to do it just so that your sex would appeal to the sexual, objectifying gaze of your lover. You had to do what society automatically demands from a woman. And I made you do it. I like it.

I had read similar sentiments before in books about being a Mistress—books my husband gave me to read in hopes they would help me internalize the fully dominant mindset. Women are superior, they suggested. Make your man do the things society demands of you. Make him do chores, make him indulge your sexual desires before his own, make him cater to your demands out of bed as he should by right. I agreed with these suggestions to some extent, but I had not quite taken them to heart. After all, I am the woman. As liberated as America has become, most of the people around me—in-laws, friends, even my own parents—truly would have these latent expectations of me as the woman. Of course I needed to cook and clean up for my husband if he was going through a troublesome time and had little time at home. Of course I should provide him the comfort of sexual release and sexual intimacy when he’d had a hard day. Surely that was my job, not as a woman but as a lover. Yet those other mistresses whose books I’d read said otherwise. And my husband—my slave—wanted me to think otherwise.

This is a complex issue I will undoubtedly turn over and over in my head over the years. Later, I will tell you how this simple command to shave quickly turned into our first clear encounter with sissification, how it led to my slave wearing pink satin panties under his clothing right now, and how we’re learning to incorporate this into our usual chastity and bondage play.

For now, it is enough simply to state: I like my husband’s shaven pubis, and I will demand that it stay that way.

Except, next time, I think I’ll make him wax.

Mistress K