Chapter 2

Over the next months my life settled into a sort of routine of humiliation. Every Saturday, instead of enjoying a long restful lay in as I had always done in the past, I had to crawl out of bed as the alarm shrilly woke me half and hour earlier than my usual weekday time. Then it was straight into the shower (Mistress couldn't abide uncleanliness or the slightest hint of body odour), a quick towelling off, a shave with a brand new blade (while being careful not to cut myself, dried blood or stubble being unsightly in the eyes of the Mistress), a through brushing of the teeth followed by a liberal sprinkling of Opium perfume. Returning to the bedroom, I had to carefully paint each finger and toe nail being mindful to use the brightest, most tarty red shade I could find. After that, I had to put on my heavy black biking leathers (nothing underneath, not even socks) after which I had to leave the house, normally at a run because things never went totally to plan, while ramming my skid-lid onto my head as I went. A quick prayer would have to be said since Bonnevilles are not to most reliable motor-cycle ever conceived or built but, once the engine had thundered into life, it was generally and easy run on the roads that were deserted at this ungodly hour over to the Mistresses' house where I pulled in at the side of the road a quarter of a mile away where I cut the engine before pushing the Trumpet the rest of the way so that the sound of the powerful parallel twin engine did not disturb Her sleep.

Pushing open the front gate (which I ensured that I oiled regularly to ensure a silent approach) I would slip round into the back garden where stood an old wooden garden sheet that Bill had been forced to empty out and clean up a little. Unlocking the padlock on the door, I would enter my little changing room. A single sixty watt bulb provided the only illumination and, in winter, it got terribly cold as there was no heating. Here I would strip off my leathers before starting to dress as my Mistress's maid. First would come the white frilly knickers of the sort so favoured by tennis players; this would be followed by a padded bra, suspender belt and black fishnet stockings; over the top I would wear a tradition maid's black dress though cut very short; a white apron and a small white waitresses' cap were followed by black stiletto shoes that pinched at the toes and had taken me weeks to master walking in.

Leaving the hut, I would creep across the garden before unlocking the back door with a key that the Mistress had provided me with. Once inside I would set about washing up the dishes left over from the previous night's meal. Next would come the ironing, all to be done in silence of course. As the clock ticked round towards nine o'clock, I would start to prepare the Mistress' breakfast - orange juice, cornflakes (cold milk and no sugar), kippers with a knob of butter, wholemeal toast, strawberry jam and Earl Grey tea. After picking up the tray, I would creep down the hallway, collecting the newspaper from the carpet by the front door as I went, before quietly climbing the stairs and knocking respectfully on Her bedroom door. After a moment of two She would bid me to enter and I would do so before placing the tray ever so carefully upon the duvet. I would then open the curtains a foot or so and prepare to answer the question that was always asked at this point - "What's the weather like today, Jane?"

Jane! Jane?! Oh, how I hate being called that! But this She knew which is why She used the accursed name as frequently as She could. Holding back my anger, I would answer the question as fully as possible before being dismissed. If Bill hadn't annoyed Her too much the previous evening, I'd be told where She'd left him and be provided with the keys or whatever else was needed to release him from whatever torment She had contrived for him this time. On the other hand, if Bill had been a bad boy, he would be forced to remain where he was until She had forgiven him. And even assuming that Bill was, at some point released, he was almost immediately chased out of the house by the Mistress and not allowed back until dinner time - unless She wanted something from him, of course.

The rest of my Saturdays would all follow basically the same path - cleaning, making beds, preparing lunch, dusting and serving tea with cakes I had made earlier. Every now and again, the Mistress would pull out that damned camera and shoot off a few more shots of me going about my duties around the house before taking great delight in summoning me to the study where She'd make me stand behind Her as She cut and pasted the shots into that e-mail which was just waiting to be sent over to my bosses at the firm of solicitors where I worked. Finally the late afternoon would come and I would start to prepare and serve a roast dinner. The Mistress would eat at the table while Bill tucked into his from a dog bowl on the floor of the kitchen. I was normally allowed to bolt some food down in the kitchen between serving the various courses to the Mistress and Bill. Eventually I would wash and dry the pots before wishing Her a very respectful goodnight and reversing the arrival process. Such was the routine of my existence.

Of course, routines don't last forever and the first inkling that things were about to change came one afternoon when She had some friends round for tea. Having been warned of this the previous weekend, I arrived even earlier than was usual and immediately started to produce extra amounts and varieties of cakes. Then, after breakfast had been served in the usual manner, I had to ensure that the entire house was spotless - and, just for once, I even had some help during the morning in the form of Bill who the Mistress transferred away from his gardening duties. After lunch I had to begin making small, dainty sandwiches and to preparing the best china. As four o'clock edged closer, the guests started to arrive. All were female, of course, and all shared a similar mind set and fashion sense with my Mistress. Needless to say, they all complimented Her on the job that She was doning training Her maid, told Her how lucky She was to have made such a find ("My husband's so useless around the house, I'd give anything to have a maid like her," was the general run of the conversation) before asking what the maid's name was. From then on it was "Jane, come here" and "Jane, do that" and "Jane, my cup is empty". There was one particular woman, younger than most of the others and prettier too, who seemed to take some sort of fancy to me and she began by complementing my Mistress on my figure - I've always been slim and a little short so did look a bit more natural in a dress than most men would have. She then proceeded to follow me about, her hands never straying far from my bum which she would grope with regularity and at the most inappropriate times such as when I was pouring tea for other guests. I found the whole experience just so humiliating and degrading, to be treated like some sex-object. And then this woman had the audacity to follow me into the kitchen where she slipped her hand up the front of my skirt and grabbed my balls through the material of my knickers while I stood there stock still and helpless due to the fact that I was carrying a large, heavily loaded silver tray in both hands! I immediately felt myself reddening as she applied some pressure and started to fondle my balls. "Not overly well endowed, are we?" she asked me with more than a hint of distain in her voice. "No, ma'am, not at all," I replied shamefully for I knew that this was true - in my youth I'd measured myself often enough after reading the letters pages in Mayfair, Men Only and other magazines of that ilk. She giggled - yes, she actually giggled - and then suggested that hanging fishing weights onto it might help! "If you like," she went on to say, "you can come round to my place and I'll instruct you as to how to put them on. Maybe I should have a word with your Mistress about it, eh?" She then winked at me, removed her hand and left... while I took a deep breath and tried to stop myself from shaking.

A few weekends after this, I arrived at the Mistress' house and, after changing, entered the kitchen only to find a note from Her commanding me to take up two breakfasts instead of one. This was, of course, very unusual and I wondered to myself what Bill had done to deserve such an honour as to share his wife's bed for the night... until I opened the cupboard where the ironing board was kept only to discover Bill, naked from the waist up, hogtied with his ankles doubled round behind him and roped firmly to his upper thighs while another rope that passed under his arm pits suspended him from a hook mounted in the ceiling, his pee soaked pants dripping smelly liquid into a puddle on the floor. Bill's pleading eyes looked into mine as his body slowly twisted round in the confined space but I knew better than to help him; instead, I just removed the board and iron that I had come to collect before closing the door on him again. 'So, ' I thought to myself, 'if it's not Bill, who has She taken to bed with her?'