Erotic Easter Treat: Room Service for the Submissive Man

Disclaimer: I almost never post erotica on this blog, but today, on this Easter Sunday, why not. This is a story that I wrote some time ago and never got around to editing and publishing on other channels. If you like it, do please let me know, as I am considering creating a separate section of this site to add my years of erotic stories…now numbering in the high hundreds. But since they are currently behind a paywall with Amazon and others, haven’t figured out how to do that here too.

Though not a true story, but it was inspired by real-life. That said, it is a work of fiction, and any similarity to any real-life events or individual is purely coincidental.

Mistress and I always discuss the vague outlines of what will happen between us.  The vague outlines as she does not wish to lose all elements of surprise.  I know that there will always be something that pushes me.  She is very firm about understanding and respecting limits, and the use of code words and gestures to make sure we stay within our respective happy places.  This time was no exception.

Mistress was always precise.  She was meticulous in her planning, down to the smallest detail.  She took great care in coming up with new ways to humiliate and torture me.

She gave me the room number by text.  I was to go up.  There were instructions on the bed.  The suite was nice, airy, bathed in light.  My attention was drawn to the neat stack of clothes on the bed.  There was a note.  It read:

“Hello Pet.  I hope you have shaved your legs.  This outfit will show them off nicely.  I know you’ve always had a thing for cleaning ladies.  Today, you get to be one.  I’ve found you a proper maid’s outfit.  You will thank me later.  Now put it on, I’ll be up shortly, and I expect you to be ready.”

I could hear her voice in her written word.  I loved the sound of her voice.

The outfit was a maid’s uniform.  It was not fetish gear though, I could tell by the quality and weight of the fabric.  The uniform itself was a light slate grey in colour, fitted around the body, but quite short.  Quite.  There was a little white apron that had scalloping all around it, even around the neck and the ties that went around back.

I stripped down and quickly tossed my clothes aside.  She had thoughtfully included stockings and a garter, but I could see the uniform was so short that if I bent even slightly, it would rise up high enough to show the lacy tops on my upper thighs.

There is something so deeply sensual about stockings, and pulling them up my clean-shaven legs, gave me a thrill.  My skin was sensitive today.  I attached the stocking tops to the straps of the garter.  It was a beautiful powder blue silk garter with white lace trim.  Very elegant.  What a maid!

I pulled the panties up after.  She was very firm on the sequence.  This way was how to make it easy to take them off later.  There was no bra, no falsies.  She didn’t like me “faking it”.  Instead, there was a beautiful matching camisole.

The “no faking it” rule also extended to wigs and makeup.  She thought I looked much better when I was just naturally me, and not hiding or enhancing with those things.  Mistress knows best.

I was still not very good with heels, which is probably why she picked some very high ones, knowing that I would wobble and totter and not be able to stand even without her help.  I put on the uniform, buttoned it up, and then put on the apron.

The full height mirror showed this very sexy, alternative looking maid.  Yes, I was still a man, but somehow she always managed to get the balance right.  She managed to make me look better than I would were I wearing men’s clothes.  She knew how to dress me for sex appeal.  I would jump me.

I quickly folded and put away my street clothes.  She hated untidiness.  I smoothed the bed cover, so that it was taught and unwrinkled.  I went to stand by the door, at attention, and wait.

It was not long.  She rapped on the door, the sharp rap of someone of confidence, fully expecting it to be opened immediately.  I opened the door and there she was.  What a splendid woman!  Tall, statuesque, fit, and filled with energy.

I did look at her in the eyes.  I always did.  She liked that.  Some Dommes always have their subs kneel, and to never look at them above the waist, but not my Mistress.  She loves for me to look into her eyes.  Whenever I do, I feel as if I am falling.  I feel her power, and she knows this.  It takes just seconds…no words, nothing, just her eyes, a stare, a history of shared experiences.  I could never hold her gaze long, and had to close my eyes, just to blink, to relax, to feel whatever I had inside me melt away.  To lose language, to lose words, to just be there with her.

“Hi baby,” she said strutting around me.  She’s wearing a long coat, hiding the rest of her outfit.  She just exudes total confidence in herself and in me, and how I will respond.

“Hi Mistress.”

“Do you like the outfit I picked out for you?”

“Yes, very much.  It’s very elegant.”

“I have a surprise for you.”  I looked at her.  “We’re going for a walk.”  She knew my fear of public encounters.  But we had established trust.  “Let’s go,” she said, opening the door and gesturing me to step out into the hall.  I did and she was right behind me until she did a double-take, and said, “oh.  Forgot something, one sec,” and the next thing I knew the door had closed and I was standing in the hallway in a maid’s outfit.

I heard the elevator open.  I heard voices.  I was suddenly very nervous.  The voices were coming this way.  I tapped gently on the door.  “Mistress,” I hiss-whispered, “someone’s coming.”  No answer.  I knocked again, this time a little more urgently.

But then they rounded the corner.  Too late.  I drew myself up, smoothed my apron, and knocked again, “Housekeeping,” I called out.  I glanced over at the young couple who were approaching.  They were clearly checking me out.

He says, “nice,” as they draw abreast.

“Thank goodness this hotel is an equal opportunity employer,” I say.  The woman laughs and winks at me.

“My therapist won’t let me transition unless I live as a woman first!” I say to explain.

Just then Mistress opens the door, right while they are abreast.  She has taken her coat off, and is there in full regalia.  She is wearing some very strappy, kinky lingerie, is standing wide-legged in very high heels.  The sunshine pours around her body out into the hall, casting a shadow so heavy I am swimming in it, and dazzled by her beauty.  A Goddess by design.

“Oh wow,” the guy says as he is literally passing behind me.

“Have fun,” the girl says and pulls him along.

She has a whip in one hand, and she wraps it around my neck, but she’s laughing, and my cheeks are burning.  I am laughing now too, thinking of the burn that is coming in other ways.  She pulls me by the neck with the whip into the room, walking backwards, the door slams to behind me, and we collapse onto the bed, all giggles and laughter.

“I heard everything,” she said.  “That was very quick.  Such a clever boy.”  Her eyes were glossy with amusement.  It was bliss to lie next to her, looking at her, at her face, her lips, her eyes, how they danced, and how their dance carried me along with it.

“I thought you planned that,” I chuckled along with her.  Everything was always so carefully planned.

We lay next to each other, not touching, the only contact between us the whip she had used as a collar and leash to pull me in.  I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, smelling her, feeling her enter my body through my senses.

“You haven’t told me how beautiful I am.  Do you like what I’m wearing?”  I didn’t open my eyes.

“Very much Mistress.  When you opened the door, you were framed by the gold of the sun.  It was blazing around you like fire.  I love you Mistress.”

“I’m going to whip you today.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“It’s been a while.”

“Yes, it has,” I said.  All of the marks had long since healed.  It was her skill with a whip that had led me to her in the first place.  She is the only person to have ever whipped me.  I knew that I needed to learn about being whipped, and that was the genesis of our relationship.

“Stay down,” she said putting a hand on my body, pushing me into the bed as she leaned on me to get up.  “I like this outfit on you,” she said, admiring her taste as she towered over me.  My legs dangled over the edge of the bed.  

“Onto your stomach,” she said and I half-turned to comply.  I felt her hand lift my skirt.  “I love your ass,” she said scratching it with one of her nails, cupping it, squeezing it.

“Thank you, Mistress.”  She had given me so many exercises to give me a big, firm ass.  I worked on it every day, whether we were together or not.  “I’d much rather spank a nice bubble butt than some flabby thing,” she said.

She reached between my legs, “spread your legs for Mistress,” she said.  One hand was cupping my balls and the base of my cock through the panties.  She began to trace her fingers around my perineum, teasing my rosebud, pushing the panty fabric up against my hole, teasing, pinching, scratching, turning me on.  She was arousing me, to the touch, sexually, like she was warming up a car in winter, idling the engine, letting it run, warming, getting it ready to be driven, ridden, ridden hard.

She spanked me first.  Lightly, then harder, alternating the rhythm, alternating smacks with caresses.  She had me hold up the dress, exposing myself.  And then she started in with the whip.  On my ass, my legs, my thighs.  

“Thank you, Mistress,” I gasped after each blow as she had taught me to do, counting out each one.  

“Let’s see how far you can go today,” she said.  “Shall we?”

“Yes Mistress.”  My previous record was just over 50.  That time I had started sobbing at 20, but we kept on.  I was still proud of myself then.  Today, it was to be 100.  She took her time, pacing herself, pacing me, teaching me about breathing.  It took a long time.  I sobbed, and breathed, and counted, and thanked her.

Afterwards, she put cream on me.  It was so soothing, and I lay there, as she salved my wounds, my legs, my buttocks.  And when she was done, she let me kiss her hands.  I cried with thanks.

Then we both dressed and went out for a lovely dinner.  She loved to see how I struggled to sit from the stinging.  She loved that I could feel her marks for days after and see them for weeks.  So did I.