Maid For Dessert Ch 01

It is Friday morning and Sir leaves me with a lingering kiss as he walks out the door to go to work for the day. Immediately I go into the kitchen and check the special bulletin board he maintains there just for me. My heart skips a beat as I spy the familiar yellow post it note he's left me. It reads, "Check The Box".

Heart beginning to race, I run upstairs to our bedroom. As always when I am told to "Check The Box", the first thing I do is retrieve my training collar from its place in my night table. Buckling it almost reverently about my throat, I cannot help but pause for a quick glance in the dresser mirror on my way to collect the Box key from Sir's underwear drawer, where he keeps it. I am forbidden to even think of opening the Box or touching the key unless specifically instructed to by Sir.

Holding my breath, I kneel by the Box, insert the key and slowly lift the lid. On the upper tray of the Box is a sealed envelope addressed simply to "slave". The only other item visible on the tray is a very large, bulging manilla envelope. I know that the tray hides all Sir's instruments and toys from my view beneath it, and tempted as I am to have a peek to see if he has added any new 'pleasure tools' to his collection, I resist the urge, for I know Sir will ask me if I looked beneath the tray when he arrives home and I will be severely punished if I have disobeyed him. Of course, I could always lie - but I would never lie to Sir.

Trembling inside, I reach for the smaller envelope addressed to me. Inside is a terse, yet detailed letter:

"Slave,

After you have secured the Box and replaced the key where it belongs, you are to take the manilla envelope, unopened, with you into the bathroom. There you will strip and get into the shower.

I wish you to wash your hair and your body thoroughly. Pay very special attention to your pussy. In fact, you are to soap yourself so well that you can easily glide your middle finger around and across your clit. I want you to play with yourself, slave. Frig yourself to the point of coming - but do not come!! I will not be pleased with you and you will be punished severely if you come! Once you are panting and moaning in the effort not to orgasm, take your finger away from yourself and rinse off.

Now, shave. I want you soft as silk for me - your lower legs, your thighs, your underarms and especially your pussy lips, which should be nicely puffed from your play.

Rinse again and step out of the shower. Dry yourself using a rough towel. Give particular notice to your breasts. Rub your nipples hard! I want you to rub them until they hurt. Make them stand erect for me, slave.

Remain naked while you do your hair and your make-up. I wish your hair put up in a loose bun. Your make-up should be subtle but obvious. When your hair and make-up are done, then you may open the manilla envelope. You will wear what is inside it. You will find further instructions within this second envelope.

Now - go take your shower, slave!

Sir."

Swallowing hard, I lock up the Box, return the key to its rightful place and, taking the manilla envelope, I go into the bathroom.

I take my time with my shower, scrubbing my scalp leisurely and my body vigourously enough to raise a pink overall blush. Then I soap my pussy for a second time, but don't rinse right away. Instead, I use my middle finger to ensure that my clitoris is well-lubricated with suds. My finger swirls, dipping and gliding, sliding and slipping. 'Round and 'round it curls, flicking at the tender nub until I feel it protruding from my puffy flesh in a hard little kernel of sensation.

It takes only moments before my hips catch my finger's rhythm and thrust in hopeless misery as my throat arches back and I moan. My knees grow weak and I can feel the flush rising in my breasts as I manipulate myself closer and closer to the edge. So close! I am so close - just a tiny bit more - just one more lingering sweep - one more flickering twiddle - and I shudder with the effort it takes to yank my hand from between my legs!

Moaning pitifully, I force myself to spread my trembling thighs wide apart, so I won't be tempted to rub my throbbing clit between them. At last the throbbing fades to a dull, aching pulse as I lean against the shower wall. The water beats down while steam rises in a shroud-like fog.

Drawing a shaky breath, I ignore the engorgement that pulses still in my nether lips and reach for the can of shaving cream. Lathering my underarms, I carefully shave what little hair is there. So slowly I shave my lower legs and then my thighs, in the hope that some of the pulsing in my pussy will fade by the time I glide the razor over my swollen lips. Despite the time I've taken, it is still a struggle to resist the urge to come as I slide the razor with meticulous care over my sensitised skin. I stop several times in the process, to catch my breath and to allow my pussy lips to stop twitching their strong desire. At last, with relief at having passed Sir's test, I turn the shower off and step from the tub, knowing that my skin, including my pulsing vulva, is smooth and soft as wet satin.

Enfolding myself in a big, rough towel, I pat delicately at my body - a body tenderised by my prolonged time under the hot water and by the attention from scrub brush, fingers and razor. I dry my nipples last, abrading them with a rapid back and forth motion that turns them a deep rose-red and makes them burn. It isn't long before they are standing at attention as Sir demanded they do.

Sighing, I keep my legs apart, so as not to inadvertently rub my aching clit with my thighs as I towel dry my hair and try not to think too much of how sensitive the rough terry has made my poor nipples.

I take care with my hair and make-up and it takes me some time to finish the job to my satisfaction. I want so much to look good for Sir, to please him. Finally, I slit open the manilla envelope and dump its contents on the bathroom counter.

Along with another small sealed envelope - Sir's further instructions, I've no doubt - there is a tiny scrap of white material, which I discover on examination, is a frilly apron made just big enough to cover my pubic area; a pair of sheer silk stockings, which I can see will attach to the garters cleverly worked into the apron's strings in the front and back; a tiny little flattish white cap and a long black ostrich feather. I bite at my lower lip and dress in the 'uniform' that Sir has provided me.

As I suspected, the frilled apron, once on, reaches just to the V of my thighs and barely conceals my pussy; the stockings fit perfectly and come to just above my mid-thigh, so that the white garters provide a nice frame for my creamier-coloured skin. The little cap I perch at a jaunty angle just in front of my loose bun.

Only then do I open Sir's second set of instructions, which read:

"Gooooooood slave!

I trust you have thus far followed my instructions to the letter and are now freshly showered, shaved, made up and dressed in your skimpy little maid's uniform. If you've tied the apron strings in a bow behind your back, release the bow and tie them in a knot, so that the strings hang down and tickle the crack of your sweet ass. Yes, that's much better, isn't it? I wish you to complete your outfit for me with a pair of sexy, high-heeled black shoes.

You've much to do today, slave. I expect the following to have been done when I arrive home from work:

* The bedroom will have been dusted and the furniture polished until it gleams. * The livingroom will have been dusted and the furniture polished until it gleams. * The diningroom will have been dusted and the furniture polished until it gleams. * The diningroom table will have been set with a tablecloth, cutlery for one, one dinner plate, one wine-glass and one napkin. * You will have cooked a delicious meal (see the recipe included with these instructions) and it will be ready to be served upon my arrival home. * You will be waiting at the front door, on your knees, thighs spread to display a peek of slave-pussy beneath your apron to me as I walk in the front door. Your right hand will be resting on your right thigh and will be holding a small glass of brandy ready to offer me. Your left hand will be resting on your left thigh and will be holding your feather duster. * You will, of course, be spotlessly clean from your labours when I arrive home.

I will phone to check on your progress at one or more points throughout the day.

I expect you will not disappoint me, slave.

Sir."

My breath catches in my throat as I finish reading his instructions and pick up the feather duster in a trembling hand. So much to do - and so little time!

I run to the bedroom, ignoring my shimmying breasts as much as possible, and find the sexiest, highest pair of black high heels that I own. Slipping them onto my feet, I know that they lift my ass into prominence between the framing apron strings and garters and that my cheeks curve enticingly plump as a result. I feel myself redden as I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror in the corner. I look the part of a very improper french maid!

I spend my time in the bedroom making our bed with fresh sheets, tidying up any stray clothing that had been left to lie around and dusting the furniture. I find the can of spray wax in the linen closet and two soft rags and begin to work on raising a shine on the wood.

I can't help but notice, unbound as they are, how my breasts jiggle and bounce with every movement I make. The harder I rub at the wood, the harder my breasts jostle. The rounded globes begin to ache with a sweet, dull throb that make them feel oh-so-full. They ache with my passion to have them patted and fondled. Of course, I don't dare fondle them! Such a thing is forbidden to me unless Sir expressly orders me to caress myself. But, oh! How I want to knead that soft-firm flesh! My nipples jut blatantly at the thought of how good it would feel to pinch and tweak them!.

It takes perhaps a half hour to complete the bedroom, but I leave it with the satisfaction of knowing Sir will find no fault with my effort in this room at least. Taking my can of wax and my feather and rags, I go down to the livingroom. I tidy for a small time and then begin the dusting. I manage to finish only one table when suddenly the phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Hello my little cum-slave."

I feel myself blush and my voice trembles when I answer. "Hello, Sir."

"Where are you, my sweet?"

"I'm in the livingroom, Sir."

"You have your feather duster with you?"

"Yes, Sir"

"Good girl. Please sit yourself on my red leather chair. I want your ass right at the chair's edge. Slip your shoes off and place your feet on the chair's edge so that your knees are drawn up. Are you positioned yet, love?"

I swallow and manage to squeak, "Yes, Sir, I am positioned as you ordered."

"Very good, slave. Now, spread your knees - wide! Are they spread?"

"Y-yes, Sir."

"Lovely. I can just picture you in position. Now - take your feather duster and dust yourself, slave! That's it. Nice and slow. Oh so soft. Tickle your clit for me. Are you feathering yourself, girl?"

Barely able to draw breath, I gasp, "Yes, Sir."

"Goooooood girl! Very, very good. You please me with your prompt obedience, slave. You please me so much that you've made my cock twitch."

"Th-thank-you, Sir. I love pleasing you."

"I know you do, angel. Now - you will sit there on that chair, with your legs lewdly spread for me, feathering your pussy until such time as you make the leather of my chair damp with your cream! You will not come!!! But you will make yourself very, very wet! So wet, that some of your juice trickles down to dampen the leather! Do you understand me, little slave?"

"Y-yes, Sir. I - I will make myself so wet - that - that I dampen your leather chair with my juices. I - I am not to come, Sir."

"Mmmm. Very, very good, slave. When you have my chair slightly damp - not wet, mind you! I don't want my leather stained!! You will be punished if you stain it!! - but when it is damp, you will stop feathering yourself. You will put your shoes back on, you will get a clean cloth and you will wipe down my chair so there is no sign remaining to show how dirty you've made it. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes, Sir. I am not to stain your chair or I shall be punished. I must clean it well when I have made it damp."

"Very good. I may call again, slave. Now feather yourself and make my chair damp like a good little sex-slave."

The connection dies and I moan into the echoing silence. Oh god! I'm petrified of staining his chair! I've always been afraid of damaging it in some way! So many times he's warned me to be careful of marring the leather when I clean it! How damp is too damp, I wonder! What if I misjudge how much moisture I dribble? I swallow, knowing I have no choice. He's ordered me to feather myself until his chair is damp and, wanting so desperately to please him, I do as he's commanded.

Nervous as I am, it takes perhaps thirty minutes for me to make his chair sufficiently damp and I almost orgasm on several occasions in that time. I'm forced to stop often to catch my breath, to force the throbbing in my pussy back to a manageable level, to reach anxiously beneath my ass to see if my pussy has dripped its moisture onto the leather yet. But at last the hide feels sufficiently damp - yet not too wet - for me to feel safe in rising and running for a cloth to wash away my sticky scent.

Sir calls me five more times throughout the day. Each time he orders me to seat myself on his leather chair and to 'dust' myself to the point of making the leather damp with my juices. Each time I drive myself to the brink of orgasm three or more times before finally his chair feels dewy beneath me. Each time I am terrified that I've stained the soft leather. Each time I haven't stained it, but after his third phone call I'm left with a pussy that throbs lingeringly through the remainder of the day and nipples that seem to have forgotten how to lie flat.

I pay special attention to dusting and polishing the diningroom, knowing that Sir obviously intends to have his dinner there. I set the table very prettily for him and when I am well-pleased with all my efforts, I take myself into the kitchen to begin preparing his dinner.

It is a complicated recipe and it takes me most of the afternoon to cook it, but by the time I am done, I have an exquisite meal that looks fit for a king and the house smells divine. Glancing at the clock, my heart almost stops! Sir will be walking through the front door in only a few short minutes!

In a panic I run upstairs, moaning at the way my breasts joggle. Quickly repairing my make-up and my hair, I spritz on the perfume that I know drives Sir wild. Glancing critically in the mirror, I gasp - to my horror I have a small spot of dirt right in the middle of my apron! I swallow hard. There's no time to attempt to clean it! Sir will be home any second! Praying that he somehow overlooks my tiny error in the face of everything else being so perfect, I return downstairs to prepare his glass of brandy. A quick moment of terror when I can't find my feather - ah! there, on the kitchen chair - and I am kneeling in the front hallway with my knees widely spread, brandy glass in one hand, duster in the other, eyes demurely lowered as I know he likes, outwardly calm though my heart is thudding, as the front door opens and his shoes enter my line of sight. I shiver.

"Good evening, pet."

"Good evening, Sir."

He reaches down and tilts my face up so that he can see my eyes. "How was your day, slave?"

My voice trembles. "It was wonderful, thank you, Sir."

He nods his satisfaction and motions me to hand him my feather duster. I give it to him then blush as I watch him lift it to his nose and inhale deeply.

"This smells like slave cream. Can you explain to me why that is, sweet?"

"I - I used the duster as you instructed me to, Sir. I dusted my pussy until I made your chair damp."

He nodded again, this time almost grimly. "I can smell that you obeyed me in this. You didn't climax, did you?"

"N-no, Sir."

"Are you certain, slave?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Did you want to come?"

I suddenly feel so weak - deliciously weak. "Yes, Sir."

"Did you almost come?"

I bite at my lower lip and nod. "Y-yes, Sir. I almost came several times. I had to stop often to make sure that I didn't disobey you."

Casually he comments, "It pleases me to know you had to struggle in this way, slave."

I almost squirm in pleasure at this praise. "I'm so happy to have pleased you, Sir."

"Did you stain my chair?"

I swallow, nervous, though I know I've no reason to be. "No, Sir. I was very careful not to stain it."

Threateningly he inquires, "You did make it damp though, didn't you?"

My breath catches. "Y-yes, Sir, I made the leather quite damp."

He smiles. "And you made certain to clean all signs of your lewd, dirty behaviour from my leather?"

I feel my cheeks flame. "Yes, Sir."

He nods again, then steps around me and into the livingroom. From the corner of my eye I can see him carefully inspecting his chair. He even bends to smell it! Returning to me, he takes another deep inhalation of the feather duster before handing it back to me. "Good girl," he praises quietly. I breathe a sigh of relieved, intense pleasure.

"I trust the rest of my instructions have been followed to the letter, slave?"

"Yes, Sir," I nod eagerly.

"You didn't peek beneath the tray in the Box?"

"No, Sir."

"And you re-locked it and returned the key to its proper place?"

"Yes, Sir."

Nodding, he reaches for the drink I hold ready for him and sips appreciatively. "I'm going to change. When I return, I expect my dinner to be on the table, a glass of red wine poured, and you to be kneeling in display position for me on your cushion on the floor by my left side. Do you understand?"

Breathless, I nod.

As soon as his tread fades up the stairs, I hurry into the diningroom and bring his plate into the kitchen, where I arrange his dinner on it as pleasingly as I can. I take the cork from the wine bottle and bring the bottle, along with his plate, back to the table. Carefully I pour his glass and ease his chair invitingly out from the table for him, before retrieving my kneeling cushion from the corner of the room and sinking to my knees upon it.

I spread my thighs wide and adjust the little scrap of an apron so that it reveals more than it hides. Straightening my back, I cup a breast in each hand and rub a thumb over each nipple to ensure that both are standing proud for his pleasure. Breathing shakily, I wait for his return.

Some five minutes later, Sir returns down the stairs. He's changed into tight back jeans and a loose-fitting black silk shirt. In his hand he carries a medium sized black duffel bag, which I know contains various instruments he's taken from the Box. I swallow when he drops the bag on the floor directly beside me as he sits in his chair. I know he is all too aware that I will not be able to tear my mind away from the bag's contents during dinner.

Over the course of the next half hour or so, we have a very pleasant dinner filled with menial, meaningless, light-hearted conversation. Throughout the entire time, I maintain my position with knees wide-spread, hands cupping my breasts - on display for him - while Sir patiently feeds me tidbits and morsels from his own fork and tilts the wine glass to my lips for an occasional sip. We both laugh when a spatter of gravy is captured by my apron and I gasp when a dribbling of wine catches itself on the tip of my nipple where the droplet hangs like a wet red jewel until Sir swabs it away with his finger.

Our meal complete, Sir instructs me to clear the table and to return back to my display position once done. My heart begins pounding as I carry the dishes into the kitchen. I can feel Sir watching my every movement and I sense that he has decidedly devious plans for me for the evening. Once I remove the table-cloth, I return to my kneeling position on the floor at Sir's side. I feel myself blushing as his eyes smoulder on me.