Cindy's Humble Servant

The Broken Destiny of Cindy's Humble Servant:

A Story of a Terrible Love in too Many Parts

Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread Softly because you tread on my dreams.

W.B. Yeats

She chose for herself the English name Cindy. I cannot choose another name for her because this name has become a word of power for me, a potent Om. Just hearing these two syllables can cause my restless blood to surge. No other name will work for me, and so in this story I must leave her name as it is.

She came from Dongbei to Beijing with her Chinese boyfriend, her college sweetheart, and she had been working at my company as my assistant for six years.

When Cindy first joined my company, there was perhaps a window of opportunity for me, through which I might have dated, and then married her, and had children with her, and fulfilled the destiny that had been laid out for me. When she first joined my company, I was in the last gasps of a terrible failed relationship. The girl I was with and I fought all night every night, and my morale was very low. Also, when I first met Cindy, I did not recognize her for who she was. She dated two of my foreign employees in succession, and it meant nothing to me. Suddenly though, one day not long after I had finally finished with the girl I had been dating, I recognized who Cindy was, and I asked her to come up to my office. I declared my love to her, and told her that I would give anything and everything for a future with her, but she only sat there across from me staring blankly.

I was surprised by this, because it had always been so easy for me to win over Chinese female members of my staff. I sent her excessively romantic text messages, but she did not answer these. I realized then that I was too late. She had started to date one of my foreign employees, a very handsome and charming young Irish man. I had to watch them flirt and play every day at the office, and when I criticized them, it seemed as though I were jealous, and small hearted; which I was. I told her that this young man would only be staying in China for a short while, and that she had no future with him. She told me that this is what she wanted. She said that she was going to marry her Chinese boyfriend eventually, but that she felt that it was only fair that she should have a chance to be with one man other than her future husband.

I wept, and told her that I would do anything for her. I would give her a family, look after her family, and love her every second of every day. She told me that this was not what she wanted. She said that she would not feel comfortable being with someone who loved her so much. She wanted someone who would be equal to her, not someone who worshipped her. She told me she felt disgusted when men she did not want made advances on her. I asked her coldly had she experienced this often, and she told me even more coldly that she had.

The more Cindy rejected my advances, the more I desired her. I felt no interest in other women, though I had many opportunities. I began to jack off while looking at photos of Cindy, and this became the only way that I could find sexual release.

In China, bosses are often able to take liberties with their female assistants, and I'd had some experience with this. This added to my humiliation in being so firmly and so coldly rebuffed by Cindy. By her standards I was quite well off. I was an exotic westerner; tall, blonde haired and blue eyed, and I could offer her a foreign passport. Still, she always kept me at arms length, and showed no reaction to my confessions of love but frustration and disdain. I could not get closer to her by offering gifts, by appealing to her vanity, or by shocking her by openly telling her of the extent of my devotion. I realized then that I was getting older, and I was not the catch I had once been. She was twenty seven, and I was forty five. My foreign members of staff with whom she flirted were all around twenty seven years of age. Age had never seemed to be an impediment to me before, but now my advancing years, the wrinkles creeping out from the corner of my eyes, and the increasing difficulty I had in keeping my waist slim, were the deepest of humiliations to me.

Whenever I put too much pressure on Cindy, she threatened to leave my company, and I would have done anything to avoid this loss. Though she was a source of terrible frustration to me, I needed to be near to her, and could not imagine losing her from my life. More and more, she became my reason for living. When she threatened to leave my company, I would beg her to stay, and this spectacle was often witnessed by other members of my staff, so that I began to lose the respect of my colleagues. When there was a disagreement between us, Cindy thought nothing of shouting at me, and harshly scolding me in front of anyone present.

The years went by like this. My company became very successful, because the only way that I could impress Cindy was to achieve success in business. I worked so hard for our company, in the futile hope that she would one day respect me.

Though I knew it was my only hope, it was impossible for me to play it cool with her, and she knew full well that she would prevail in any dispute between us. When I one day confessed to her that for five years I had only had sexual release by masturbating while looking at photos of her, she told me that she would quit her job if I said such a thing again. A year later, I told her that I had borrowed her slippers from under her desk and kissed them while looking at a photo of her so that I could feel closer to her, and she said nothing, but took the slippers home the next day.

Where I will fail in telling this story will be in my inability to describe Cindy to you. Of course words cannot describe her to you, or make you understand what things about her had such power over me. There was something about her face that enthralled me. She had high, arching eyebrows and a warm and knowing smile. She could appear coy, and she could appear regal. I can do little more to describe what to me was sheer perfection. Her voice covered all tones in its range. It was rich and full. It could be harsh in anger, musical in laughter, and soft in confidence. She could look like a 1930s glamour model, a purring sex kitten, or a competent professional. My prime concern in life became in studying the shifting inflections of her face. Though she was Chinese, her eyes seemed Indian. They were Siddhartha eyes. I was obsessed by the shadows beneath her eyes, which came alive when she smiled. Her lips were full and expressive, and when she smiled exquisite dimples appeared at either side of them. Her face was longer and slimmer than most Chinese women. Her jaw was proud and forward, and the front row of her teeth arched strangely.

All parts of her were exquisite because they belonged to her. Her fingers were fleshy yet slim, and her nails well manicured and long. She wore polish on these, but no color. Her body was fuller than most Chinese girls, but still slim overall. She had full breasts, and full hips. Her ass was amazing; so round, elevated and arrogant. Her skin was white as chalk. I could study all the pieces of her body for hours on end. Every inch of her was the holiest of holies to me. When I saw her, all I wanted to do was to throw myself at her feet, and to kiss the ground beneath her shoes. I was jealous of the ground on which she stood, and the seats on which she sat. I wanted nothing more than to be this ground, or these seats, but because I was a man and not a thing this was denied to me. This seemed so unjust.

As for her character, Cindy was a contradiction. On the one hand she was very traditionally Chinese, and never spoke about sexual topics, or flirted in an overt way. On the other hand she was extroverted, loud and touchy. Her laugh was powerful, and she joked in a loud and bossy way. Her presence filled any room: others became meek and silent ghosts before the hurricane of her vitality. Her stride was jaunty and proud, and her demeanor was humorous, extroverted and forceful. Though she was not flirtatious, she gave off a sexy aura of that neither man nor woman could fail to be affected by. She was not vain, and she did not dress to show off her body, but she could not hide it. She sometimes wore glasses, which made her look bookish, like an office girl.

I cannot describe what it was about her, but I had been obsessed with everything about her for over five years. My moods were dependent on her attitudes toward me. She was sometimes sunny, but more often cold and aloof. This was a never ending source of grievance, because with our colleagues she was always laughing and joking, but with me she was usually just business. When I asked her to come up to my office, she would listen to me patiently, take notes and offer advice, and then, when I had run out of excuses to keep her there any longer, she would ask: "Is that it, then?" and leave me office with a jaunty stride as I sat there alone in a sulk. She knew how much I wanted to speak to her about my feelings for her, but she always deftly denied me this opportunity. I began to lose all of my pride.

She was touchy feely with everyone but me, and this made me feel despair. As she passed her colleagues in the hall, she would slap them on the back, and sometimes even on the ass. She was such a vibrant and extroverted presence. I often whined to her, "Why can't you treat me in the friendly way that you treat other people." She would reply: "I can't be myself with you because I know you have special feelings for me, and I don't feel comfortable with you." I said to her once: "I wish I were a woman, so that you could be friends with me, and be comfortable around me." She curled her lips in puzzlement and distaste, and then changed the subject.

I bought a car just so that I would have the chance to offer her a lift home now and then. She sometimes accepted, but more often declined. I was quiet and polite when I drove her home, for fear of saying something that might make her uncomfortable. She also said little. We both knew that I would pay the price of silence for the privilege of driving her home. I saved money in the hope that one day I could be useful to her. There was nothing I wouldn't have done for her, but there was nothing I could do to make her want to be closer to me. I was forever pleading her to tell me that I was her friend, and yet she never would. She refused to concede that she would be upset were I to die. She said she only had room in her heart for her boyfriend, and that no one else meant anything to her. She knew that she had me in the palm of her hand, but she didn't want me there. She reminded me again and again that she had always felt disgusted by men who admired her too much.

I could think about nothing but her: I had no sexual feeling unless I was thinking of her, and when I knelt in front of my computer looking at photos of her, zooming in on different parts of her, I had the most intense orgasms of my life. Sometimes as I spewed cum into a tissue I had placed in front of myself, I gasped "Cindy! I love you!" to the indifferent image on the computer screen. When I masturbated to her image, I did not imagine her naked, or far less having sex with me. She was too high above me for me to even dream of this. Instead, I imagined myself kneeling in front of her, and professing my love to her. I imagined myself undergoing trials, in order to prove my devotion to her.

I often hoped that my futile adoration would abate, but it did not. Instead, it grew stronger and stronger. I thought about her until I fell asleep; I dreamed about her and then woke to thoughts of her. I hurried to work for the chance to see her for a second, and say good morning in passing. The entire temper of my day hung upon the tone of that first good morning. Everything I did, I did to impress her. I saved money, bought a car and a house, looked after my body and my appearance, but nothing I did let me grow closer to her. When I tried to discuss my feelings with her, she told me that she loved her boyfriend, and that I shouldn't say such things to her.

When I heard, though, that her Chinese boyfriend was going to work in Africa for a year, and that she would not go with him, I hatched a desperate plan. It began as a daydream, as a sexy fantasy, which grew when I knelt before my computer screen, tugging myself off before an image of Cindy. As I lost more and more self respect though, and as my worship of Cindy grew, it began to solidify, and take on its own life. At first, after orgasm I simply forgot about this plan, but later, it stayed with me longer, and became less and less of a fantasy, and more and more of a plan. I knew all along that it was madness, and that it would ruin me, but more and more, as her slights heaped themselves upon my head, I wanted to be ruined by my love for Cindy.

My plan had a strange logic, and a mathematical certainty. Were I to bring it to life, I could not fail but to show Cindy how much I belonged to her. The key to the plan was Laura. Laura was an English girl from Leeds who had worked at my company a few years before, but had left because she felt we did not pay enough. Now, she lived in the international part of the city, among foreigners, discos and bars. My part of the city had no foreigners, and I always hoped to keep Cindy away from the international part of the city, afraid that she would find something better there.

Laura was the archetypal slapper: she had big tits and a big ass and a stupid slutty face. She would have made a decent porn star. She wore low cut tops and low jeans that revealed the crack of her ass. She was loud, like Cindy, but unlike Cindy she was lewd and graceless. She and Cindy had been good friends while she worked at my company: although they were different, Cindy found Laura's openness refreshing and humorous. They didn't keep in touch much anymore, but occasionally messaged one another on facebook.

Laura had a very low opinion of me. Once, when she worked with us, we had gone out to a club together on the east side of Beijing. She ended up accompanying me home to my apartment and we spent the night together. During the night, she tried to entice me to have sex with her: she played with my cock and sucked me, but I did not reciprocate. The next morning I told her how I felt about Cindy, and that I could only feel sexual arousal while looking at her photos. I hadn't thought of how this would hurt Laura's vanity. She was angry at me, and she called me a sicko and a stalker before storming out of the apartment. Later, she told Cindy and all of my colleagues what I had told her. To be honest, I wasn't upset that she had announced this, because I wanted it to be known. Cindy pretended she had never heard this, and continued to work with me, keeping me always at arm's length.

I called and met up with Laura in one of the bars in her part of town. I made a proposal, and I knew she would accept it, as it appealed to her wounded vanity, it offered her money, and it gave her the chance to experience something new. She introduced me to two of her friends, and I reiterated the plan that I hoped these three would help me with. They agreed, and laughed as I handed over money to each of them. I sent them all emails explaining the details of what I had in mind, and I wrote up and signed a statement outlining what I had asked them to do, and how much I had paid them to do so.

The next week, I arrived at Laura's apartment at 4:00 in the afternoon. I knew that she had succeeded in making arrangements to meet up with Cindy that evening, and I knew that she had convinced Cindy to meet with her boyfriend and his friend. I knew also that Cindy had no idea that I would be there. As I knocked the door, there was a lump in my throat, and my heart was beating so hard that it felt as though it would leap out of my mouth. I was experiencing a sort of tunnel vision.

Laura answered the door breezily and nonplussed, and welcomed me in. Though she behaved civilly toward me, neither of us could completely conceal our contempt for the other. She was not in the least shy about what was going to happen, and got down to business without any small talk. She looked at the bag I held, and said "you can get changed in the lav," and then she sat down on the sofa and turned on the TV.

I went into the toilet and shut the door behind me. My hands were shaking as I began to take off my clothes, and when I happened to glance in the mirror I was shocked to see the look of dread on my flushed face. I stood naked, and I could hear the TV from the other room. I opened the bag and took out white stockings and a garter belt. I fastened the garter belt around my waist, pulled the stockings up over my shaven legs, and then fastened the four snaps dangling from the frilly garter belt to the lacy stocking tops. I slipped semi transparent white panties up over my shaven cock and balls. These panties were too small, and they crept up the crack of my ass. I pulled a frilly French maids outfit over my head, and pulled down the hem of the skirt. It came to just beneath my buttocks, about three long inches above where the garter clasped the stockings. I put on an apron, and frilly wrist and neck pieces. I put on a blonde bob wig, and put the frilly maid headpiece over this.

I took a deep breath and tried to calm my beating heart. I did not dare to look in the mirror, because I knew what an awful sight I must have been. I had always been disgusted to see photos of men dressed as sissies. There seemed to me to be nothing crasser. I was mortified. I was under no illusions as to the merits of my personal presentation. I knew that I was not in any way convincing or sexy. I was pathetic at best; utterly repulsive. I felt slightly calmer though, as I began to take on the persona of the clothes I was wearing. Having fallen so far, it was less frightening to fall any farther.

I put the clothes I had taken off in the bag and carried it with me into the living room. I stood nervously at the entrance to the living room and said: "I'm ready, Ms."

She did not look up from the TV immediately. When she did, she said roughly: "Is that the best little girl's voice you've got?" I was taken aback: when I had asked them to let me dress as a maid for them on this evening, I had not considered this. Laura was improvising, and this worried me. Still, I was no longer in a position to set the ground rules.

"No Ms, I'm sorry Ms," I said, attempting a feminine falsetto, and looking down and blushing deeply. I knew how disgusting it sounded to hear a man putting on a little girl's voice, and I was not comfortable with it at all. It was the only thing worse than the cross dressing itself.

She pointed to the center of the living room. The expression on her face making no secret of the fact that she felt I was repulsive. I went to the centre of the room and stood looking down and holding onto my bag of clothes.

"Bag down you silly cow!" she barked, and I put the bag at my feet and stood holding the fingers of one hand, as I had been taught to do when I felt nervous on stage in grade school.

"You curtsy before you carry out a command, and say 'yes Ms!'" she scolded.

I curtsied and said "Yes, Ms."

"VOICE!"

"Yes Ms. Sorry Ms," I said in a higher and squeakier voice, and curtsied again.

Laura got up and walked around me, taking her time. "God you are revolting!" She tugged one of my garters, and let it snap back against my skin. I was shivering, and I recognized that I was utterly at the mercy of my enemy. She stood in front of me, and because I could not help but look down, away from her gaze, I found myself staring straight at her voluptuous white breasts. They seemed very sexy now, and I realized that though I had once scorned them, I would not have the chance to scorn them again: from now on any scorn would be aimed directly at me. She held my chin between her thumb and forefinger, and turned my face up so that I was compelled to look into her eyes. I did not like her face, but I knew that I should not look away. She was in complete control, and she wanted to drive this home to me by forcing me to meet her gaze, by not permitting me to hide my soul away.