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Dear Auntie Helga, Following my debut in print (P.D.Q. September 08 Schoolgirl Discipline) my wife feels I should attempt to illustrate other aspect of our life together - or rather, my condition. I enjoy crossdressing and role-play and I am fortunate in having a partner who is an enthusiastic ring mistress of my foibles. In my last letter I touched upon schoolgirl role-play. However, I am also constrained as a domestic maid. I say constrained, but as many of your readers will doubtless attest, it is an imposition that many, including myself, would welcome. My wife has created a scenario for me, in which I am a middle-aged drudge of a working-class woman - married to a brutal blue-collar husband - who comes to work for her as a maid. She of course plays the role of the beautiful, condescending, socially superior, lady of the house (of course, over time, these roles have become more-or-less, constantly ingrained). I often wonder if such situations as ours emanate from, a peculiarly English, obsession with the minutiae of social class and the hierarchical social relations that ensue; perhaps your readers will recall the long-running T.V. show of the 1970's Upstairs Downstairs, which illustrated the Master/Mistress/servant nexus, in the England of the 19th century. Indeed, it is notable that many of the men who are attracted to womens' clothes seek the very acme of everything that biological women have been seeking to escape domestic confinement without employment or property rights; with the utter sexual objectification of the gender-specific uniform. Nevertheless, I, among many, would consider it a dream to be a 19th century tweeny with a pretty well-scrubbed little face and pert body sheathed in ankle length black satin and white lace, corseted, and above the sheer black of my stockings and below the pure white of my under things my thighs and bottom are red and stinging like fury. I brush away tear as I carry out my duties, knowing it will be the cane for my next infraction. However, the reality of my service is somewhat less glamorous - I am usually attired in a below the knee nylon overall dress (hot in Summer, cold in Winter) with flats and 70 denier tights, and heavy duty firm-control foundation garments. I always wear a lace edged, full-length, opera topped slip, in white Celanese; and in warmer months I am expected to wear a tweed pencil skirt and turtle neck sweater, under my overall dress. To get some of the weight off you as my wife says. The general effect is what we British call Mrs. Mop, the cleaner or daily woman. As an extra refinement, I am made to wear an engagement ring (diamond solitaire style) and gold wedding band. My wife obtained these, quite cheaply, from the catalogue shop chain Argos, (I am a ring size x, usually a mans size). My wife, said she got some funny looks when she purchased them - she suspected they thought she was a lesbian (more on this later). I would advise any wife/mistress to try the rings' stratagem - I know as soon as they are put on me I feel like a doubly submissive downtrodden housewife. I go into character as 1940's skivvy, I'm sure it'd be a pleasure to do for a lovely lady, such as you Madam. My wife is exultant in her role as the snooty, snobby, mistress of the house. She will stand over me whilst I am cleaning the lavatory bowl, asking how I feel about my job. I reply, I'm proud to be trusted with such an intimate duty Madam. I'm sure your bottom shouldn't come in to contact with anything that isn't immaculately clean Madam. And, of course, I mean every word. How do I feel when in my finery? Clearly, there is sexual arousal, allied to deep sense of security that I am completely under the control of my mistress; yet, paradoxically, there is a sense of disorientation (of not knowing what is going to happen next, with a loss the usual cues, associated with one's usual male persona) and visceral overload - raised heart rate, sweating palms etc. The fight or flight syndrome. One aspect that has developed, of late, has been the conceit that I am a straight woman coming out to her. I initiated this when I noticed a speck of dirt on her shoes. In a flash, I was on my knees, asking permission to clean them with a cloth. Some moisture was required to complete the work. I plead, that cannot spit on her shoe and ask permission to lick them, and my request is granted. Afterwards, I immediately raise my head, still kneeling before Madam, and confess that whilst licking I had surreptitiously kissed her shoes without permission. I blurt out that I am in love with her, but that nothing can come of it, because I love my husband and she is impossibly high above me. Then I, quite spontaneously, burst into tears. I should that this Sapphic aspect has allowed my wife to teasingly and with certain imaginative cruelty, to exploit the girlish side of my nature. Relatively recently, my wife decided I should be lent out to Mrs. B for maid service. Mrs. B is a very elegant and distinguished looking lady in her late 40's, who lives alone in a large detached house, in a rather posh suburb not too far from us. The liaison came about as Mrs B had confided to my wife that her son (now grown-up and left home) had similar tendencies to mine and the she had indulged them, becoming something of an expert in the supervision of c.d. maids. Unlike many of your readers, I was thrilled by this development, feeling that to be supervised by someone other than one's wife, outside the home, is the epitome of sissy submission. She usually picks me up in her car and dresses me at her home. A routine has developed - on arrival I bathe and shave off any unsuitable hair (of which there is usually little as my wife sees to it that I have regular Veet treatments). Then into a bathrobe to fix my make-up - Mrs. B had done my make-up for me on my first few visits - but from then on it was up to me; her particular bete noire is the application of too much. On a number of occasions I have been sent to the bathroom to scrub it all off and start all over again - and on one occasion she smacked my bottom with a hairbrush right there and then. Once my make-up has been approved I will dress. My uniform consists of 1950's style bra, panties and suspender belt with a full-length slip - all in white. A black maids dress with white facing on the collar and cuffs. Black stockings and kitten-heeled black courts. A short blond wig topped with a lace cap with streamers down the back. The outfit being completed by a lace-trimmed full-length apron in white. Before I start work I am inspected, holding my hands forward to check my nails for cleanliness etc. Then I meekly follow her through the house to start my duties. Usually, the destination is a out of the way bedroom, where I would be confronted by an ironing board and a large pile of ironing. Thereupon, I would be instructed on how each garment should be sorted, what setting on the iron should be used - which I would scribble down, anxiously, in the small notebook I always have to keep about me. If the weather is cold the chosen bedroom is North facing and chilly. In warmer weather South facing (with a sealed window). I always have to face into the room, with the light at my back. I don't want you distracted by staring out of the window she would say. Then I would be left to my appointed task - which would usually take some two to three hours. Occasionally, Mrs. B (who I have to address as Madam) would drop in to inspect my work. I then have to stop what I am doing and give a little bob curtsy - her rather posh tones, allied to a diffident I can't be bothered with you, manners affect me. Here was I totally under the power of this woman - subject to her every whim - not only working for her - but having my work minutely inspected and subject to petty changes. I want you to press those napkins with four folds, not three. Do them again. After my main task, for the day is completed, Mrs. B will usually take me round her beautiful house and we have a sort of girlie chat - if a little one-way. She will explain the origins of pictures she has purchased, or the aesthetics of a ceramic figurine. Sometimes I am instructed in flower arranging; on other times she will take me into the bedroom of her beautiful daughter (who is working in the U.S. - after graduate school). Explaining different combinations of style and colour, her understanding of chic - dresses would be held against me and we would delve into the silky froth of her underwear draws. In all of this, I suppose I am experiencing the feminine universe - with all its mysteries, its petty formalities and restrictions - compensated for by its sensual indulgences. I know I am very fortunate to be subjected in this way and I am profoundly grateful to both of the wonderful women in my life. Yours respectfully (curtsy) Mandy xxxx Thank you for your letter Mandy. You should be grateful for the guidance they're providing you and you're very lucky to receive their attention. Auntie Helga |