One For Two
My Mistress and I have been together for over two years. We live in my spacious and lovely two bedroom condo in Midtown, which she now calls her own. And in this she is absolutely right. I'm a well-known fashion photographer with my own very successful company and agency. I have a large list of models I select from for the wide variety of shoots and projects for which I am contracted.
She is not one of the classic beauties always on the top of that list, who have achieved fame and riches from the very high level projects that I, among others, procure for them. But her winsome, girl next door looks, and my connections, keep her in steady, if less lucrative work. Compared to all of them however, to me, she is perfection personified. Tall, lean, and lithe, with long brown hair that falls below her shoulder blades, which can be tied up into a playful ponytail, or braided into pigtails, that helps to accentuate the appearance for the types of commercial jobs which I am able to help keep her consistently employed.
Constantly surrounded by the wide array of beauty intrinsic in my field, I have ample opportunity to take intimate advantage that my position in the hierarchy of my line of work affords me. But my professional ethos, and particular nature, has helped me to maintain the appropriate personal distance from all that, bolstering my reputation, and has led me to be well-liked and respected as one of the best in my business.
But before my Mistress I am helpless. I would, and did, do everything in my power to help propel her career forward, without ever taking any credit. I tried to do anything that I thought she might want or like, but in her presence I am paralyzed to act in any other way. I had certainly fallen very deeply in love with her, but for me it was so much more. I adored her and worshiped the ground that she walked on, and these aspects along with my inner nature, consumed me. At first, she didn't respond to the more exotic elements of this, but I was relentless in my veneration, and over time she began to accept, then enjoy, and finally to embrace, demand, and enforce it all, which enthralled me all the more. She came to recognize all the advantages, and took control of them all to her own specifications, and I had no choice, even if I had ever wanted one, but to adhere.
We continued our daily workday activities, both of us remaining dedicated and diligent in pursuing our careers. But it was at home every night where we have come to live our real lives... She, as the unquestioned Mistress of the House... and me, as her devoted and full-service houseboy. In actuality, in every real and imagined way, I am her slave, but she prefers to refer to me as a houseboy, and at home, even though at 39 I am 12 years her senior, she only ever calls me 'boy'.
My duties as houseboy begin of course with being responsible for all of the household chores, always performed to her exacting standards. They also include more personal services, such as foot and body massages, manicures and pedicures, and many aspects in the care of her personal hygiene. She makes frequent and exuberant use of my lips, my tongue, and my fingers and hands in intimate activities that send her to exhilarating heights. But she never makes use of what she refers to as my 'boy thing'. To do that would imply that I might want, and get pleasure beyond that of giving it all to her. And in this she is absolutely right again. My greatest joy and desires come in providing her own to her.
My Mistress is bisexual. But I have come to know that she is far more enamored with the female side of the equation. She has mentioned to me that since we've been together, she has had no contact with any other male. This is likely to remain so, she has said, smiling serenely, as long as I behave and continue to cater to her every wish and whim. I have no doubt however, that on the many evenings that she goes out by herself to party, leaving me home alone with my chores, that she enjoys a variety of female engagements. No matter how late it might be though, she always comes home at night to me, waiting to care and cater to any further needs or desires she may have.
For a long while she seemed quite comfortable, and I was enraptured with our arrangement. We both worked hard at our day jobs, and then would come home where she would settle back, and I would work even harder, to my utmost, to make her happy. But for me it was anything but work. Here, I wasn't just taking photos to sell other people's fantasies. I was living my own. And if being her 'boy' was even the smallest part of her own, it was more than worthwhile for me. It justified my existence. If she was happy, I was so much more than that. And I would do anything for her to keep it so.
About six months ago though, I started to sense a touch of melancholy in her, as if something wasn't right, that something was missing. I had been never sure of her actual feelings for me. She may have been content to have me take care of all her everyday wants and needs, to cater to her every whim, but I began to worry that she might have little other regard for me. And I suddenly realized that I yearned for so much more. I wanted her to want me, to cherish me, for all that I could be for her. But as we had evolved, had I forfeited any right to aspire or even hope for any of that? I began to fear that while she might appreciate all the benefits of my service and devotion, she may actually see me as simply a simp, and personally nothing more than pathetic. I do understand what I am. And if I tried to be something I'm not, would I be viewed with even more disdain? Even by myself? I truly despaired that she might be losing whatever interest she ever had in me... and of this lifestyle. That it wasn't enough. That she needed so much more. If true, I didn't know how I would survive.
Then, around three months ago, the bounce in her step returned, as did the sparkle in her eyes, and her joie de vivre has been growing ever since. I was ecstatic. Could it have something to do with me? I could only pray. She did seem much more excited with my pampering when she would return home from partying, and increasingly exhilarated as she had me lavish her with my fingers and tongue. I couldn't help that my forbidden hopes again began to blossom.
But earlier this week, she told me that she wanted our place, which I always meticulously maintained, to be spotless, and then I was to prepare my very best meal. She was having a special guest over for dinner, and, she added, as if to herself, hopefully for much more.
To say that I was apprehensive, no, downright deflated and nervous, would be an understatement. But I had no choice. I had my orders. On Saturday morning I scrubbed and cleaned until the place was pristine. In the early afternoon I began to prepare the multicourse meal. By late afternoon I went to help her prepare herself for her guest. I aided with her bath, using the loofah in areas she couldn't reach, and in areas that she didn't want to reach. I conditioned and washed her hair. After I dried her when she exited the sunken tub, I shaved her legs, and other more personal areas. I then blew dry, combed out, and brushed her hair, before repainting her finger and toenails in her favorite hue. She was now ready to shimmy into her formfitting little black dress which adorns her figure so alluringly.
Most nights at home I wear a simple T shirt with cutoff shorts and running shoes. At times though, for her enjoyment, my Mistress likes me in what she calls my formal houseboy uniform, which consists of being barefoot, with a bright red thong, covered in front by a pink waist apron. She informed me that that was to be my attire for this night. When the doorbell rang at 7 o'clock, she told me to stand still in the middle of the living room while she rushed off, giddy, to greet her guest at the door.
"Stella, I'm so happy that you've finally come, and are here." I heard my Mistress enthuse, unseen, in the entrance hallway.
"How could I refuse the promise of such a wonderful dinner, baby girl" was her guest's response.
"I hope you're considering everything else"
"All in good time, baby girl. We both have a lot to consider tonight."
"Well, I have a surprise for you that I hope will be even more of an inducement"
"Ooh, I love surprises, baby girl" she laughed.
"Let's go inside then"
They both came into view entering the living room from the hallway. The guest stopped immediately. Appearing to be in her early to mid 30s, she had short cropped dark hair, and stood about an inch shorter than my Mistress, but was much more curvaceous and buxom, although not overly large in any one area. She wore a stylish burgundy colored blouse, with dark hip hugging slacks that tapered down to just above her black ankle boots. But what was most arresting about her was the captivating confidence she exuded.
"What is a nearly naked man doing standing in your living room, baby girl?"
"Well, he's not actually a man"
"Then what, do tell, Is he?"
"He's my houseboy" she proclaimed proudly.
"I would suspect that a houseboy who is nearly naked is something much more than that"
"You're right, of course. I guess he's much more of a... a..."
"... Slave?" her guest suggested.
"Yes, I guess you might say that"
"Very interesting"
"He's also your surprise"
The guest raised her eyebrows. "Even more interesting." She took a moment. "Why don't we sit down so you can tell me more about your 'houseboy'"
"Yes, let's. And have some drinks too. I had boy go out to buy your favorite single malt." She looked toward me. "Boy, this is Stella, Miss Stella to you. Go bring a glass of her special scotch"
"Neat" interjected Miss Stella.
"Yes, and a glass of Prosecco for me."
"Right away. Mistress"
I hurried to fill the orders, and quickly returned. Miss Stella was sitting comfortably on the couch, and my Mistress was perched on the edge diagonally next to her. I presented them with their libations, and then moved off to the side to stand, unobtrusively, to be readily available for any further needs.
"So, baby girl, tell me more about what this houseboy does" Miss Stella began.
"Well, all of the housework, of course,"
"Naturally" Miss Stella concurred.
"And also much of my personal care. His foot and body massages are to die for, and his mani-pedi's are better than any salon."
"And what about more intimate activities?" Miss Stella inquired. "I know that you're bi, baby girl, so I'm sure it's hard not to take advantage"
My Mistress smiled. "I do frequently make delightful use of his tongue and fingers" she agreed. "But never his 'boy thing''' she went on to insist.
"Why not?" Miss Stella asked. "Doesn't he deserve some pleasure for all that he does?"
"His pleasures come solely from providing mine"
We both could see Miss Stella frown a bit at that, and my Mistress pressed on to offer some further explanation.
"I do take care of his physiologic health, of course, every month or so. But always by him with his own hand, and in a way which also offers me some amusement." She started to grin. "I often do like though to have him bring himself to the brink and then order him to stop. I find that a case of blue balls makes him far more fervent in his service." Her grin grew wider. "And sometimes, I let him go just over the brink and then slap his hand away so that he just dribbles and slowly oozes out without any further stimulation, which ruins any of his enjoyment. That can be quite a rush."
"But why would you do that to him?"
"Because I can. And he knows and cherishes that it gives me a thrill."
