Arrival
The young man waited at the door of the surprisingly grand house. He had felt out of place driving his beaten-up car up the sweep of the gravel drive, and now he didn't know what to expect. He would have felt nervous and self-conscious on the best of days. This was not the best of days.
Sarah. She was the reason he was here. Beautiful, vivacious, unapologetically kinky. And very much out of his league. She had coaxed him to wear a chastity cage on their second date. When he arrived wearing it on their third date she had been delighted and teased him mercilessly. He had planned to take her away, somewhere impressive and frankly beyond his budge But after he'd booked it, taken time off work, she dumped him by text. She'd had a better offer, she said.. He'd pleaded. No response. Finally he texted "but what about my cage?". Her reply had been simple: she'd left the key with her mother and a map reference.
She's expecting you
, she'd added--followed by a flurry of gleeful, suggestive emojis.
Now he was at her mother's door. If the owner of this very grand house was indeed her mother. Presently the door opened. He found himself eye to eye with a maid. She was his height. Her heavily made-up eyes held his briefly before she fluttered her eye-lids and stepped to the side to usher him in. She didn't speak; she had a ball gag tightly fitted into her mouth. Its colour matched her lipstick. He stepped in, heavy with misgivings. "What have I gotten myself into?" he thought.
He followed the maid down the corridor, her stilettoes clicking on the parquet floor. Despite himself he watched the wiggle of her ass then felt the restriction of his cage.
They reached a door. The maid knocked and they were admitted. He briefly took in a large classically furnished room, a leather inlaid mahogany desk, at which sat a handsome woman, perhaps late 40s. She looked up, at him, ignoring the maid entirely. "Yes?" She didn't smile.
He didn't quite know what to say. After a long pause fixed in her gaze he managed, "Sarah sent me". She raised an eyebrow, her gaze still penetrating. After another embarrassed pause he added, "Ma'am". It felt right. Then "You have my key".
Understanding dawned on her face. She relaxed, permitted herself to smile. "The wimp" she laughed. Then while he was processing this she waved dismissively and said "take off your clothes". Given his condition he was expecting to have to disrobe, but glanced nervously at the maid, who was watching. Her gag made her expression inscrutable.
"It's nothing she hasn't seen before," said the woman. He started to undo his trousers. "All your clothes" she said. Having started, he had little choice to strip down to nothing. Well, not quite nothing. There was still the cage
The woman stood. He couldn't help admiring her cleavage, her figure. She approached him, coming up close. She scrutinised his expression while she grabbed his chastity cage, tugged it slightly. He winced, and found he could no longer meet her eye. He was ashamed. Still holding tightly, she waved at the maid with her other hand saying "take his things and bring a suitable uniform". He opened his mouth uncertainly, but she put her finger across his lips silencing him.
"You want me to release you from chastity?" He nodded, "yes please". Her hand slipped down to his nipple, played with it, then squeezed it hard so that he brought his eyes to meet hers. "I..." he started, but he felt a sudden confusion. His cock was pulsing in its cage.
"I see," she said inscrutably. "In any case you will have to earn your release. I need a maid for the coming week, and you're feminine enough to serve the part". His cock twitched involuntarily, and she laughed.
Training Marcie
The next few days involved a lot of training. He was given the name Marcie (for time being, he was told. Or rather
she
was told.) She reported to the Stables' psychologist for 'toilet training'. She was permitted to relieve herself only on command. A series of subtle exercises rapidly ensured that when the psychologist gave the word she released involuntarily, even before her conscious mind had registered it. She was also given training on deportment, how to walk in a more feminine manner, how to soften her voice, to put on make-up, and so on. Frequently during these lessons she felt herself throbbing in her cage. The other girls, noticing her blush, smiled.
After a few days one of her lessons was interrupted by a summons. The maid silently lead her to the drawing room. Marcie was now in uniform: glossy black heels, too-short maid's dress, white stockings held tight by suspenders. Her face was prettily made up, her cock locked and silent in its cage, the faintest ache in her bladder.
The door was opened, and she was ushered in without explanation. To her horror she saw Sarah, seated on the chaise longue; beside her a man he didn't recognize. Tall. Lean. Comfortable. His hand rested possessively on Sarah's thigh. Both eyed him with amusement. The Matron stood up. Marcie found herself lowering her eyes. A practiced gesture.
The Matron spoke. "Ah, Marcie, our new slut". Marcie flushed, kept her eyes down. Then heard the Matron say "Slut, piss yourself". Marcie looked up in panic, but her body was already betraying her. The warm flood coursed down her thighs before her conscious mind caught up. Her pretty stockings darkened in streaks. She felt the warmth spread into her shoes, and the piss pooled on the floor.
Her face flamed hot with shame. She couldn't speak. She couldn't move. Her body was frozen in the moment, except for the small trembling in her knees, the locked tension of her jaw, the sickening fullness of her humiliation.
The man laughed softly, a single breathy snort.
She had become a thing that pissed itself on command.
_______
The week continues
For the remainder of that day Marcie moved like a shadow through her duties, barely able to meet anyone's eye. No one commented on what had happened. The other girls treated her with the same distant familiarity as before: a nod in the hallway, a hand brushing her hip lightly in passing, an unspoken shared rhythm in kitchen chores. If anything, the silence around the incident lent it weight. To them her humiliation was unremarkable.
The days that followed blurred into a steady rhythm. Marcie scrubbed, folded, polished, and served, her movements becoming more fluid, her posture unconsciously adopting the modest elegance the Matron demanded. The mirror above the washbasin now showed a young woman who bent slightly at the knees when she curtsied, who lowered her eyes without thinking.
She tried not to think about how pretty the stockings made her legs look.
But it wasn't all housework. Early in the week she was instructed to assist during client sessions. The working girls --sleek and composed, or silly and giggly -- welcomed her without ceremony, handing her towels, lubes, toys, drinks, anything they needed mid-appointment. Marcie stayed silent, obedient, and out of the way. She was dressed just like them. Glossy heels, sluttish uniform, face perfectly made-up.
She didn't expect the arousal.
At first she assumed it was just the novelty, or nerves. But the feeling didn't go away. Watching another girl moaning softly as she rode a client's lap, catching the rhythm of their hips -- it made Marcie press her thighs together. She was ashamed of it. Ashamed of watching so closely. Ashamed of the aching throb of her locked cock and how her heart beat faster when a client grabbed a girl by the throat or bent her over roughly.
Once, she caught herself staring at the girl's flushed face as she was fucked from behind, her eyes unfocused with pleasure. She imagined being the girl. She tried to imagine being the man. She didn't know which fantasy was worse. Or better.
The Matron noticed. She didn't comment. But Marcie found herself assigned more frequently to the sex rooms. Always as assistant, usually with Jules. Never touched. Never used. Just close enough to smell sweat and lube and perfume and watch with deepening fascination.
Then one morning the gagged maid brought a note from the Matron. "I wish to speak with you. Come presentable."
It was nearing the end of her agreed time. She would be leaving soon. That's what she told herself.
But in her hurried preparation she tried her best to look especially pretty.
The Matron's Office
The Matron looked up as Marcie was ushered in by the gagged maid. "Sarah is arriving this morning," she said without preamble. "With her young gentleman. Her real man" she added with emphasis.
"She's specifically asked for you to wait on her. And for you to have your toilet privileges restricted"
Marcie's visibly quailed.
"You can serve in the drawing room. Uniform pressed, hair styled. You'll pour the wine. Refill the glasses. Cater to their needs."
The Matron seemed to notice Marcie's reluctance. "Alternatively" she said after a pause, "we're a little shorthanded in the private rooms this morning. Instead you could attend your first client.."
Marcie hesitated. Her stomach turned at the thought of being on her knees before Sarah again, forced to smile, curtsy. And her bladder already felt half full. On the other hand, she had attended client sessions as an assistant all week and... she felt her cock swell inside its cage.
"I'll serve the client," Marcie said, and then blushed because it sounded too eager.
