19 August 2011

A Nightmare In Silk And Lace Part 2

Dean wasn't happy about this, but on the other hand going along with
the plan meant he now had the key to his penis restraint. After a
couple of days locked up, he longed for some sexual relief. Truth be
told, certain aspects of his situation were actually quite erotic,
though he could never admit as much to Gemma or anyone else. The
stockings in particular were very sensual, and it was impossible not
to be turned on by his own appearance when he happened to catch sight
of himself in a mirror. Tonight, once he was alone in his new room
he'd unlock the restraint, free himself, and masturbate himself while
rubbing his stocking clad legs together. His trapped penis was
already trying desperately to grow as he made his way towards the
lift. The staff quarters were in the basement, but when he tried his
new swipe card on the elevator door, nothing happened except that the
door light blinked red. Confused, Dean tried to swipe the card a
second and then a third time, each time finding the door light
blinking red again.

Seeing a hotel maid walking down the corridor, Dean called out to her.

"Excuse me, my card isn't working. I can't get the elevator door to
open." As Dean spoke, the maid looked up at him and dipped into a
curtsey. She was dressed in the old fashioned manner of a short black
dress, white apron and a white lace cap. The uniform was perhaps a
bit too tight on her, and the neckline was cut surprisingly low,
exposing the ample curve of her breasts. Didn't she realise how
sexual it made her look? Dean found himself wanting her. Trapped
inside the plastic sheath, his penis struggled and protested at its
unfair confinement.

"Can I see your card, Miss?" The girl's voice sounded foreign, and
very deferential. She looked Asian as Dean handed her the card. Close
by the elevator there was a small computer terminal. The maid swiped
the card on the terminal and pressed an 'okay' button after touching
the screen. For a moment her expression seemed confused. Then she
gazed back at Dean and smiled. "I thought you were a guest!" she
said, her previously subservient demeanour having suddenly vanished.

"I am," replied Dean as he gazed longingly at her stocking clad legs.

"You shouldn't lie to me, maid." She gave Dean a disapproving look.
"And you know very well that hotel girls aren't permitted to use the
elevators." She pointed towards the distant stair well. So that was
it, thought Dean. Of course - he had a staff card so that he had
access to the staff rooms. And the staff didn't use the elevators
that were reserved for guests. Of course he was a guest - the stupid
maid didn't realise that. Obviously the pass card still had the name
of the girl who was supposed to be working here. The inability to use
the elevators was inconvenient, but hardly terminal. The important
thing was to find his new room quickly, close and lock the door and
then use the belt key that Gemma had placed in his handbag. Nothing
else was important right now except getting some long delayed sexual
relief.

Dean was aware of a black stare from the maid - her ID badge read
'Lucy' - as he walked slowly down the hall way. She obviously thought
he was being rude, but frankly he didn't care what she thought. He
was a guest after all, and she was just staff.

Navigating the stairwell was tricky in three inch heels. Dean
gripped the hand rail as he descended one step at a time. By the time
he reached the basement level, he was beginning to get the hang of
dealing with staircases. A short corridor stretched out before him
that led to a glass panelled door that in turn led to a reception
room. There was another card reader beside the door. This time when
he swiped his ID card, the door reacted positively with a green
light. This of course was a door that a guest card wouldn't have
opened. The reception room inside was carpeted and boasted a service
desk, and a low coffee table with two chairs. A couple of potted
plants filled the far corners. Several women's magazines lay neatly
arranged on the coffee table.


"Badge." The voice was female and rather sharp in tone. Dean turned
and came face to face with a dark haired woman dressed in a dark grey
suit. She wore glasses and had her hair tied above her head. Dean
handed over his card as ordered. "My name is Miss Tyson," remarked
the sombre looking woman as she swiped it through a desk terminal.
"And you are Ariana Demisovski. You're late. According to my records
you should have arrived three days ago." That was obviously the name
the card was registered to, so Dean nodded. He hoped he didn't have
to fill out any forms for the room. Right now he simply wanted to
crash out on his new bed and remove the frustrating chastity device.
>From where he stood Dean could see the terminal screen and he was
amused to notice that the picture of Ariana Demisovski had bleached
platinum blonde hair similar to his own. While not identical, his
current feminised state was similar enough to the photo for him to
pass without questions. According to the personal details she was
from a town in Albania. "Handbag," remarked Miss Tyson.

"What?" Dean looked confused.

"Handbag." Miss Tyson held out her hand. Still confused, Dean handed
it to her. To his surprise she placed it on a shelf under the counter
of the reception desk.

"What are you doing?" The key to his penis restraint was in that bag.

"Staff bags have to be checked for contraband items. When the bag
has been checked it will be returned to you."

"But..." Dean felt his penis strain against the cruel chastity device.

"No buts. We have rules in this hotel, Ariana. Now, come." Miss
Tyson snapped her fingers sharply and steered Dean by his elbow away
from the front desk. Despite his protests, he found himself pushed
through the next door and into a long corridor with a series of doors
running down either side. A sign on one of the walls read
'Dormitories.' "You are in room nine." Miss Tyson swiped a card
reader on the appropriate door and waited as it opened. Inside was a
small room dominated by a bunk bed. Nearby was a vanity unit with a
mirror, across the surface of which was scattered a variety of
cosmetics and hair bushes. There was also a single wardrobe and a
small chest of drawers. Mounted in one corner was a security camera
that had a clear view of the whole room. As Dean entered the room he
found it was already occupied by two girls. One was Abyssinian, while
the other was Asian looking. They both wore identical pink chiffon
baby doll nighties and high heeled open-toe high heeled slippers made
from luxurious satin, with an adorable marabou pompom on the side.

"Emily," Miss Tyson acknowledged the black girl, "and Lucy," she
nodded at the Asian girl. "This is Ariana." Both girls looked
suspiciously at Dean, as if his presence was some sort of
inconvenience. "She'll be rooming with you. Now I know there are only
two beds, so two of you are going to have to share."

"Don't I have my own room?" asked Dean.

"Of course not. We don't have the facilities for such frivolous
luxuries. The more rooms we allocate to staff means less rooms for
paying guests."

But I AM a guest, thought Dean to himself. This was frankly
unacceptable. Gemma would simply have to sort something else out. If
there weren't any guest rooms left in this hotel, then she would have
to book him into another hotel somewhere. He simply wasn't prepared
to put up with...

"Now strip to your underwear, Ariana. Off duty maids wear the
regulation nighties and slippers." Miss Tyson opened the wardrobe and
found an identical pink baby doll nightdress and matching pompom
slippers. While the wardrobe door was open Dean saw that it was full
of maid's uniforms, but nothing else.

"I'm not going to..." Dean suddenly cried out as Miss Tyson slapped
the inside of his thighs with a flexible switch that she unclipped
from her belt.

"Quickly now," she remarked as she brandished the short whip. "Off
with the blouse, skirt and shoes. Chop-chop." She gave Dean a second
swipe that brought tears to his eyes. Emily and Lucy sat on the edge
of the lowest bunk and giggled to one another, amused to see the 'new
girl' go through the same routine that they had once endured.

Dean didn't want to be struck again by this mad harridan. He
undressed as quickly as he could, shedding his tight secretarial
skirt and blouse, and slipping the crippling three inch heels from
his feet. Losing the shoes of course wasn't too much of an ordeal. As
Miss Tyson swished the crop for good effect, Dean pulled the chiffon
night gown over his body and slipped his stocking clad feet into the
pompom slippers.

"Now that wasn't so difficult, was it?" said Miss Tyson as she
scooped up the discarded skirt, blouse and shoes. "Sit down on the
edge of the bunk beside Lucy and extend your left ankle."

Dean did so, still shocked and distraught by the sudden turn of
events. Miss Tyson took his ankle in her left hand and, with her
right, she produced a steel anklet that she locked around it with a
sharp click. "All maids in the hotel wear these GPS trackers, so we
know where you are at all times. When you're on duty they will also
register whether or not you're moving. While of course you are
permitted a certain amount of standing around, doing so too often, or
for too long will alert the switchboard that you may be slacking. We
take a dim view of lazy maids."

Maids? But I'm not a maid, thought Dean to himself. I'm just using a
maid's ID card to gain access to a room.

"Lights go out at nine in the evening, at which time you should all
be tucked up in bed. Wake up call is at four thirty."

"Four thirty!" squealed Dean. "Miss Tyson, I think there's been a
mistake. I'm not supposed to be..."

"Quiet!" Miss Tyson raised the switch and Dean promptly closed his
mouth in fear. Instead he shrank back on the bed beside the two
maids, Lucy and Emily, both of whom scowled at him. Until now they
had been two girls sharing a room. Now this new clumsy maid was going
to take up some of their living space. And worse still, she'd be
expecting to share one of the beds. "Now you have just over half an
hour to get acquainted with your new room mates. Once you hear the
bell ringing, you will be expected to make whatever final
preparations you need for bed. When the second bell rings, you should
be in bed." Miss Tyson glanced at the security camera mounted in the
corner of the room. "And we'll know if you're not." With a final
swish of her crop, Miss Tyson left the room and closed the door
behind her.

"Stupid new maid," hissed Emily as soon as the supervisor was gone.
"You'd better not annoy Miss Tyson. She can make our lives miserable."

"Yes." Lucy poked Dean in the ribs. "And if one girl earns a
punishment, the punishment applies to other girls she shares a room
with as well."

"Stupid maid!" Emily suddenly grabbed hold of Dean's left wrist,
while Lucy did the same with Dean's right wrist. Together the two
girls were easily strong enough to overpower him and pull him down
onto his front on the lower bunk.

"What are you doing! Let me go!" squealed Dean in his breathless
high pitched voice as his face was pressed down against the bed. The
tightness of the corset made him gasp as the girls quickly drew off
his stockings and, with one of them, tied his wrists together and
then secured them to the bottom end of the bed. Working quickly, they
then used the second stocking to tie his ankles together and secure
his feet to the other end of the bed. "Please! Let me go!" cried Dean.

"Uh-uh," said Emily as she wagged a cautionary finger. "Not until
you understand your place here. Lucy sat down on Dean's back, pinning
him helplessly as she raised the chiffon hem of his baby doll
nightie. She seemed very happy.

"I'm not the lowest ranking maid any more," said Lucy as she placed
the palm of her hand over Dean's pantied bottom. "Emily was here
first and when I arrived she made it clear who was in charge in this
room. Now that you're the new girl, I'm making it clear that you are
below me in the order of things. Isn't that right, Emily?"

Emily nodded and brushed the long blonde hair out of Dean's eyes
with her fingers.

"You're all crazy!" cried Dean. "I'm not a maid! There's been a
stupid mistake! I only wanted a room."

Both girls laughed and Lucy clapped her hands in delight. "Oh we do
have a special Princess here tonight. Not a maid... whatever next!"
Then she began to spank Dean hard across his exposed bottom, and
across the inside of his thighs. Pretty soon after the first dozen
slaps, he began to blubber and then cry, twisting in his bonds. But
Lucy didn't let up, She continued to rain blows down on the poor
wretch until at last he couldn't take any more.

"I'm a maid! I'm a maid! Please stop!"

Lucy paused from delivering a further blow. "Are you sure, Princess?"

"Yes, yes, I'm a maid! But please don't hit me any more!"

"Emily is first maid in this room, so what dos that make you?"

"Third maid!" cried Dean. "I'm third maid."

"Good." Lucy seemed satisfied. "So here are the rules. When you
enter the room, if one of us is here, you curtsey to us. The same
applies if you're in the room and one of us enters." She began to
count off the rules on her left hand. "Secondly, you don't eat until
one of us two gives you permission. Thirdly, when not working in the
hotel, you address both of us as Ma'am. Fourth, if one of us tells
you to do something, you do it. Understand?"

"Yes, yes," moaned Dean in between tears.

                                (Two)

"I can't wear that..." Dean stood staring at the contents of the
shared wardrobe as the other girls set about helping one another
dress. Already the second morning bell had rung signifying that maids
only had ten more minutes before they were expected to turn out for
early morning duty.

"Why not?" Emily was suddenly standing directly in front of Dean,
her small hands clenched into annoyed fists as they rested on her
hips. "Do you still think you're better than the rest of us,
princess..." she used the term mockingly. "Do you need us to spank
you again?"

"No!" Dean cringed. This place was a madhouse. First the horrible
Miss Tyson, and now these two maids - everyone in the hotel seemed to
think they had the right to chastise him. "But I don't know anything
about being a maid."

"Of course you don't," sniffed an angry Lucy. "It's your first day.
No one knows anything on their first day."

"I just need to make one phone call... just one phone call to a
hotel room, and all this can be sorted out..." pleaded Dean.

"Oh? And I suppose you have a phone do you?" asked Emily as she
tapped her foot.

"No... but if I could just make one call..."

Dean suddenly felt his bottom slapped hard. He jumped as Lucy handed
him the fluffy starched petticoat. "Put it on," she hissed. "Now!" He
did so, quickly and obediently, under the joint glare and strict
supervision of the girls. The petticoat was a mass of frills and
crinoline as it flared out high up his thighs. "The dress next." The
dress was plain black, made from some satin material. It was short,
lacy and very frilly, cut low to show off a girl's cleavage. Dean
struggled with this garment as it was tight and figure hugging, even
with the corset he wore. As he struggled to pull it on, Lucy sighed
and reached for his corset lacing. "You need to reduce your waist by
another inch, maid."

"No. Please, it won't go any tighter, it won't. It really won't."

"Of course it will." She loosened the laces and for a moment Dean
felt a blissful sense of relief as the constant pressure around his
midriff relaxed. But it was only a moment's relief as Lucy then
pulled hard, bracing herself against Dean, pulling harder still than
Gemma had ever done. Once again Dean's waist constricted sharply, but
this time a whole inch tighter than before. Quickly now the girls
secured the laces into a tight knot and stepped back to admire their
handiwork. If Dean had found it difficult to take deep breaths
before, he now found it nigh on impossible. But the black dress could
now be pulled down past his waist and smoothed over his petticoats.
"There, see." Together, the girls helped Dean straighten his seamed
black stockings. "Miss Tyson is very strict about stocking seams."
While Lucy made a few adjustments, Emily produced a pair of four inch
glossy heels that she slid onto Dean's feet one at a time. They
buckled over his foot and clicked smartly in place. Meanwhile Lucy
now set a frilly cap on Dean's head and tied a lace collar around his
neck. The final touch was a lace edged apron in white cotton. The
apron laces were tied neatly into a bow at the back just as the final
morning bell rang throughout the dormitories.

Dean felt the girls turn him about until he was facing the tall
mirror above the dresser. What he saw was a maid, flanked by two
other maids. There was nothing now in his reflection that he could
recognise as being Dean Prentice.

It seemed that his apron was secured just in time as barely had the
morning bell ceased ringing that the door to the room sprang open and
in walked the monstrous Miss Tyson, switch already in hand. All three
girls, Dean included, shrank back as she appeared. Lucy and Emily
both dropped down into neat curtsies and Dean, once he received a
nudge from Emily, did the same, copying their stance.

"You're all dressed. Good." Miss Tyson produced a name badge that
she pinned above Dean's right breast. The badge was pink and read
'Ariana'. Next to the name was a single star, denoting her rank. Dean
noticed that Lucy's badge had two stars and Emily had three.
"Stocking seams straight?" She peered at Dean's stocking clad legs
which were now perfect. If anything she seemed disappointed that she
didn't have cause to criticise Dean. "Hmm, well yes, they are it
seems..."

Dean's stomach was empty. The events last night had meant he had
missed out on dinner. Presumably breakfast would be served before the
maids went off to work for the day. Dean of course had no intention
of working. Once he was out of this mad house he would locate Gemma
and get her to sort this mess out. He was only supposed to be
occupying a room, not actually stepping in and taking on the role of
a hotel maid.

"Stocking tops!" Miss Tyson suddenly slapped Dean's thighs with her
crop. He jumped and gazed down to where she was pointing. The hem
line of the petticoats had risen slightly, revealing the dark trim of
the stocking tops which, at the best of times, were barely an inch
from being exposed. "Only sluts go around showing off their stocking
tops, Ariana. Are you a slut?"

"No, Miss Tyson!" Dean pulled swiftly at the hem of his brief skirt.
There, the stocking tops were barely covered again by ruffles of
petticoat lace.

Dean spent the long morning under the strict supervision of Miss
Tyson. She hardly took her eye off him for longer than a couple of
minutes as she paced him about the third floor, cleaning one hotel
room after another. At first Dean proved to be useless at making the
beds neatly. The art of laying fresh clean linen sheets was lost on a
man who slept under a duvet. When Miss Tyson had summoned maids Lucy
and Emily to give a demonstration, Dean could see that the two girls
were less than amused at having to take time out from their own
gruelling workload to teach something that a stupid Albanian maid
should already know.

By midday he had finished his rounds and Miss Tyson led him
downstairs into the lobby where he was permitted to use the staff
canteen for a light lunch. The maid menu offered a choice of two
crisp salads with or without all the beetroot you could eat. His feet
by now were killing him. His aching calves protested against the
cruel four-inch heels and his back felt so stiff from continually
bending over (during which Dean had found it impossible to control
his flouncy petticoats that rose up to expose his panties) that he
almost missed the sight of Gemma crossing the lobby on her way back
from the ground floor restaurant. She was walking beside the tall,
broad shouldered and powerful looking figure of Mr Grimm; an
expensive leather folder clutched professionally in one of her hands,
and a mobile phone in the other. Gemma was laughing at some joke Mr
Grimm had just made as they walked towards the lift doors. As Dean
watched, Gemma briefly checked her reflection in a wall length mirror
and adjusted a few strands of her gorgeous blonde hair.

"Lunch was wonderful, Mr Grimm. Oh, but the wild boar tenderloin
with potatoes dauphin was the finest I've ever tasted and you really
spoiled me with that shaved truffle dessert. I do declare I'm going
to have to spend an hour in the hotel gym tonight if I don't want to
pile on the pounds!" Gemma patted an incredibly flat stomach that
would be the envy of any super model. Her eyes sparkled as she added,
"and the wine! I can't believe they charged $475 for the 1982
Burgundy, but oh my, I've never drunk anything quite like it. Now I
know what they serve in heaven." The gorgeous and upwardly mobile
secretarial girl closed her eyes, crossed herself politely and
mouthed a silent prayer as she mentioned heaven.

"Hmmff. Well, you're... um, you're worth it, Gem... uh, Miss Layton. I
mean... hard work and all that... I think you deserve it." The ordinarily
brusque, plain speaking, impatient and ruthless Mr Grimm looked very
self conscious around Gemma as he fiddled with the cuffs of his long
shirt sleeves and stared at his shoes. He coughed once to clear his
throat. "Didn't mean anything else by it of course. Just... you're
welcome... pleased to treat you." For some reason he was fumbling his
words around the girl. "No point in eating cheap food. Life's too
short and all that. Yes, pleased to treat you, Miss Layton." Dean
could be mistaken, but for a moment he thought he saw an expression
of deep and painful longing on Mr Grimm's face as he gazed down at
the beautiful secretary. But no, he was obviously mistaken. Mr Grimm
had a reputation for being a ruthless and determined alpha male who
ground his enemies under his metaphorical shoes.

"I'm not sure I should have had that second small glass though,"
added Gemma as Dean watched. "I do believe I'm feeling a little
tipsy, Mr Grimm. I'm really not used to drinking so much." She put
her hand to her mouth as she produced the most delightful little
feminine giggle and then reached out to briefly touch Mr Grimm's
sleeve, apparently to steady herself. Gemma was dressed formally in a
knee length black dress that was evidently designer and exquisitely
tailored to display to perfection the impossibly perfect figure that
nature had blessed her with. The dress was somehow modest and
stunning at the same time. A price tag of $10,000 was more than
likely. Around her throat she wore some pearls, and on her left wrist
was a beautifully understated, but incredibly expensive gold
bracelet. On her feet were a pair of Versace low heeled shoes -
easily $1,000 if not more. Dean had never seen Gemma looking so
ravishing before. Her corporate salary of $25,735 pa and a $700 bonus
at Christmas had always ruled out such extravagances. Now all of a
sudden she was clothed in haute couture and jewellery that wouldn't
be out of place on display in the very finest shops in Saudi Arabia.

"Um..." Mr Grimm cleared his throat again. "I've been meaning to say...
I don't mind if you call me Charles if you like. Instead of Mr Grimm.
If you prefer..."

"Charles." Gemma tried the name out. "It's a lovely name. Charles..."
The syllables rolled from her tongue, sounding like music from a
heavenly choir.

"Well, thank you." The ruthless cutthroat businessman who had closed
a hundred high level deals in his time plucked up courage to add,
"perhaps I could call you Gemma instead of Miss Layton..."

"Gemma?" She laughed politely and thought about this for a moment.
"Well, oh, I don't know..." now she wrinkled her cute little nose as
she tapped her iPhone against her lower lip, deep in thought. "Well...
the thing is... I do really like you calling me Miss Layton, Charles..."

"Of course, of course." Mr Grimm - a man who had bedded a hundred
high class call girls in his time and forced them to satisfy all
manner of carnal requirements while he whipped their naked buttocks -
nodded quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Taking liberties.
Shouldn't have done that. Awfully sorry. Please forgive me."

Gemma raised an eyebrow, tilted her head slightly, and tapped her
right foot as if waiting for him to finish the sentence.

"I mean, Miss Layton. Please forgive any discourtesy, Miss Layton."

"Oh, Charles. We won't even mention it again." She reached up and
adjusted the knot of his tie around his neck, giving it a gentle tug.
"Will we, you silly billy."

Mr Grimm stepped to one side to make a personal phone call. Suddenly
Dean saw an opportunity to get close to his secretary and alert her
to the terrible indignities he had suffered. She'd be able to clear
everything up in an instant. All he had to do was...

"Where do you think you're going, MAID," said Miss Tyson as she
grabbed Dean's elbow. He had only taken two steps towards Gemma's
swiftly departing figure when his supervisor pulled him up short.
"You're not off duty until seven o' clock tonight. You can't just go
scampering off whenever you feel like it."

"But..."

"But, but, but... you sound like a goat!" She smacked the back of his
legs with the palm of her hand. Dean saw Gemma turn around the corner
and disappear from sight. He had to talk to her! He had to get her to
sort things out!

                               (Three)

The receptionist regarded Dean with a superior air. She after all
was an office girl, while Dean was merely a menial hotel maid. As far
as the pecking order went, and the girls who worked in the hotel
treasured whatever paltry status the pecking order might allow them,
the maid standing there was a lower rank.

"What?" She snapped as her fingers fluttered over the keyboard.
Really, maids should know better than to bother the front desk with
questions. Didn't they know they should speak to their supervisor
first? Her badge read 'Debbie - here to help', but that only applied
to guests and supervisors as far as she was concerned.

"I don't want to work here any more! Who do I need to speak to, to
collect my wages for the past two days?" asked Dean. The money
wouldn't be much, but it would be enough to buy a pair of jeans and a
t-shirt to replace the uniform that was his only choice of clothing.
Then, looking reasonably inconspicuous he could leave this madhouse
and hitch hike if necessary back home.

"Oh, don't you?" Debbie sighed. "Badge!" She held out her perfectly
manicured hand until Dean produced his swipe card. With a growing
look of disdain she passed it through the computer access point and
checked the maid's details. It was as she had suspected - an East
European girl employed on a six month contract. Like all such staff
there was the standard set up fee for travel to the USA and sundry
expenses such as uniform and administration. "Well, according to your
personnel file you still owe us $873.37."

"What?" Dean leaned over the counter to take a look at the screen,
standing on tiptoe in his shiny heels as the girl tilted the monitor.
His petticoats billowed up around his upper thighs as he strained to
peer over the tall desk.

"What I just said. Until you work off your set up costs you're
obliged to continue working here. And in any event, your working visa
requires you to be employed. If you can't demonstrate that you have
an alternative job offer, we're obliged to notify immigration. That
means a man will collect you and take you to the airport to fly back
to Albania."

"But I'm not from Albania!"

The girl sighed. Maids were always so troublesome. "Yes you are. It
says so here." She tapped the screen. "Computers are never wrong.
You're not an American national. No job means no visa. You'll be
deported."

This was insane. The girl was actually threatening to have the hotel
security bundle him onto a plane bound for Albania if he refused to
work here any more.

"I won't put up with this!" Dean stamped his foot petulantly. "I
want to speak to a manager."

"I can call your supervisor? According to the computer that's Miss
Tyson?" Suggested the girl, one hand reaching for the internal desk
phone.

"No!" Dean's voice sounded scared.

"No?" enquired Debbie with a wry smile, her hand still hovering over
the phone.

"No, not my supervisor..."

"You asked to speak to a manager. That's who you need to speak to. I
can get her here in the next five minutes..."

"No, I've changed my mind." Dean shuddered at the thought of what
Miss Tyson would have to say to him.

"So you don't want to speak to a manager?"

"No..."

"So you're not stamping your foot and demanding to leave?" Debbie
gave Dean a very stern stare.

"No..."

"So you're going back to work now, aren't you?"

"Yes..."

"Yes what?"

"Yes... Miss..."

Several more hours passed. Dean's calves now ached like they had
never ached before. He stood in four inch heels, tears welling in his
eyes as he was forced to wash by hand and carefully iron the scanty
underwear, frilly petticoats and uniforms belonging to maids Emily
and Lucy. They had after all insisted in no uncertain terms, that
after a long day cleaning and serving in the hotel, Dean was to
devote his free time to dealing with their laundry. This allowed
Emily and Lucy to settle down and unwind after their own hard day of
toil. The girls shared a three seater sofa and sat there in their
frilly baby doll nighties - their ankles locked in steel GPS tracker
bands like Dean's - giggling and chatting as they flicked through
glossy magazines full of clothes and make up. Dean had also been
forced to change once again into the silk baby doll nightie. The hem
teased the very tops of his thighs as he fidgeted at the ironing
board, his long peroxide blonde hair dangling down and brushing his
lips as he moved his head.

They were such bullies! Working as a team, Lucy and Emily easily
overpowered him, which they did if Dean showed any sign of
disobedience. It was almost as if, after a long day of being
subservient to hotel guests and Miss Tyson, the girls took out all
their frustration on him. Dean Prentice had never been physically
helpless before, and now that he was, he found it very scary. It
really didn't help that the Asian girl, Lucy, seemed to know some
weird sort of kung-fu. The last time Dean had 'kicked up a fuss' as
Emily put it, Lucy had immobilized Dean by pressing down on some
pressure points. Within seconds Dean found himself lying on his
belly, his right arm twisted behind his back, with both girls sitting
on him. Emily had taken advantage of the situation and had set about
tickling him with horrible skill until he had howled and begged her
to stop.

And oh, how he longed to get out of the penis restraint. His need to
come was overwhelming now. The uniforms they made him wear were
impossible to ignore. All that silk and lace and petticoats that
flounced around his waist. And every time he caught sight of his
bimbo like figure and perfectly made up features in a mirror, he
longed to press his hand between his legs and bring himself to
orgasm. Many times he had tried, even with the restraint in place,
and always without success.

He had to find Gemma. He had to speak to her in private. When she
finally realised what had happened to him she would put a stop to it
all. He had to find her.

                                (Four)

He caught sight of her again just before midday. "Gemma!" Dean
hurried clumsy on the pair of heels, desperate to talk to his
secretary before Miss Tyson returned. If she caught him talking to
Gemma instead of working... he didn't like to consider the
seriousness of the consequences. But this was his only chance to get
out of here. At first Gemma didn't turn around when Dean called her
name. "Miss Layton," he called out, and was relieved to see her turn
around. At first she didn't seem to recognise him. What she saw was a
typically attired hotel maid in the short dress, apron, lace cap and
heavy make up. Apart from some minor differences in hair styles and
colour, they all looked the same to her.

"Yes? What is it? I'm rather busy?" Gemma looked very professional
now. She had treated herself to a very expensive trouser suit from
the boutique. It was elegantly cut and very smart and cost $13,000,
not that she had spent a penny in the process of course. It was also
dignified in the way a secretary's short skirt and blouse could never
be. People would take Gemma seriously now. She had the air of an
executive in an important company. The last few days had been very
productive. Despite Gemma's sex, she had earned Mr Grimm's grudging
approval for her sound business sense and professional approach to
making good decisions at a board level. There had been serious hints
that under the new corporate regime she would enjoy an influential
position. Furthermore, Mr Grimm was talking about a further role
within Amalgamated Amalgamations.

"Please, it's me! Dean."

"I'm sorry? Who?" Gemma didn't seem to recognise the name.

"Deanna Prentice." He reverted to the name she had given him when
they had switched roles a couple of days ago. "Your secretary!" He
stamped his foot in a petulant manner. What was wrong with Gemma
today?

"Oh, Mr Prentice!" Now she was surprised. "I was wondering what
happened to you. You haven't called, or stopped to say hello, and...
is that a maid's uniform you're wearing?" She stared at him in total
bewilderment. Why on earth was he dressed up as a maid?

"Yes, yes, it is. But I didn't have any choice. They made me wear
this! They think I'm Albanian and..."

Gemma peered closely at Dean's name tag. "You're called Ariana?"

"They think I'm Ariana, an Albanian girl with a work permit and..."

"Mr Prentice, really." She touched the hem of his skirt and lifted
it an inch or two to expose the flouncy petticoat and the pretty
stocking tops. "You never told me you wanted to be a maid." She
frowned. This sort of thing wasn't something real men should do.
Could Mr Prentice be one of those men the girl in the cross dressing
shop had warned her about? She thought back to some of the things she
had been told but frankly at the time hadn't believed might apply to
Mr Prentice.

"You're not listening to me," pleaded Dean in fright. "I sleep in a
room with two other maids - they're both foreign workers too, and
they're really cruel to me, and they make us get up at five in the
morning, and we work all day, and Miss Tyson, she threatens to send
me back to Albania if..."

"You're Albanian?" Gemma looked very confused. "You never mentioned
to me that you were Albanian. How did they find this out about you?"

"They didn't find out anything! I'm not a..."

"MAID!" Miss Tyson's voice made Dean jump. A cold shock ran through
his body as he heard the unmistakable sound of her hard, flat, steel
toe capped shoes clicking down the polished floor. Before he knew
what was happening, she was standing there, a snarl on her face as
she regarded him. Then, with a far more polite expression, she turned
her attention to Gemma. "I'm sorry Miss, but did this Maid initiate
conversation with you?" Miss Tyson was showing polite respect to
Gemma on account of the fact that she was a guest of the hotel. Gemma
in turn seemed surprised by the question.

"Yes she did."

"I see." Miss Tyson turned now to stare coldly at Dean. It was a
stare that seemed to promise harsh reprimands later on in private.
The maids have been told not to bother guests while they're working."

"Really?" Gemma regarded Dean now with a measure of curiosity. "Is
that right..." She scrutinised the name badge pinned above Dean's
right breast again, "Ariana?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"Silence, maid!" Miss Tyson suddenly slapped Dean across the back of
his stocking-clad legs, eliciting a sharp, but breathless yelp from
him. "You don't talk unless we ask you a question. One more word out
of you and you really are going back to Albania."

"Is she Albanian?" asked Gemma. Dean had never mentioned that to her
in all the years she worked in his office. She couldn't help but feel
disappointed. After all, if a manager can't confide such things to
his secretary, what sort of working relationship do they truly have?

"Yes Miss. We have a lot of girls from places like Africa and
Albania and the Far East who apply for work here. They're eager to
work in the West and we don't need to pay as much as we would for
American or European girls. And if they don't work out we can simply
send them back home. They're so keen to stay in the country that they
strive to work hard and retain their jobs. But this one..." She
glared again at Dean who shrunk back from her gaze. "She may be on a
plane back to Albania before she knows it. All it will take is one
more outburst in front of you."

Gemma tutted as she glanced back at Dean. "You've been breaking
hotel rules?"

"A guest has just asked you a question!" snapped the fearsome Miss
Tyson.

"Yes Miss," replied Dean.

"Curtsey!" ordered Miss Tyson.

Dean gripped the hem of his skirt in humiliation and dipped into a
formal curtsey with one dainty heeled shoe in front of the other as
he replied once again "Yes Miss, I broke the rules for hotel maids.
I'm not supposed to talk to guests unless they talk to me first."

Gemma shook her head. She was very disappointed that Mr Prentice
couldn't follow simple rules like that. Frankly it made her look bad.
What would people think if they knew Mr Prentice was her employer?
"Don't you have any work to do?"

"Yes Miss, I do." Dean desperately wanted to plead with Gemma. She
didn't seem to understand the seriousness of his situation. But how
could he say anything more with Miss Tyson standing there?

"Well, perhaps you should get on with it then." Gemma thought this
was the best solution to the matter. She couldn't understand why Mr
Prentice seemed intent on playing around as a maid while he stayed
here, and to be honest she found it all a bit embarrassing to watch,
but if that's what he wanted, who was she to stop him? Obviously he
was getting into trouble talking to her, so it seemed the sensible
thing to send him away back to work, so Miss Tyson wouldn't grow
angry with him.

"But..."

"No buts!" snapped Miss Tyson. "You can make the beds and tidy the
rooms on the third floor. Quick now." She switched the back of his
legs again, forcing Dean away from Gemma. "Quick! Quick! Quick!" she
swished the short switch in the air, prompting Dean to take quick
mincing steps back down the corridor towards the stairwell. Tears ran
down his cheeks as he saw a puzzled Gemma turn and walk away.

                                (Five)

Dean had been surprised to learn the next day that he had been
excused from cleaning the rooms and making the beds and would instead
serve guests in the 'Versailles' restaurant.

"Not my choice," said Miss Tyson with a frown. "Personally speaking
I think you're still far too clumsy. Sometimes I think you've never
worn high heels before! But a couple of our usual girls are ill with
flu, so you'll have to make do.

In a way Dean was quite pleased to change duties. For one, waiting
at tables couldn't possibly be as gruelling as cleaning room after
endless room, and secondly, there could be opportunities to sneak
away and find Gemma. His last encounter had started off on the wrong
foot, and just when he was about to make the situation clear to his
dumb secretary, Miss Tyson had intervened. But this was a new day and
therefore a new opportunity.

Dean had only been serving tables for half an hour when Miss Tyson
directed him to bring wine and glasses to table number five. Treading
carefully in his high heels, ever mindful of the scandalous manner in
which his petticoats tended to ride up his thighs, Dean made his way
towards the window table, only to stumble to a terrified halt. For
seated there were not only Gemma Layton and Mr Grimm, but Dean's
wife, Charlotte Prentice. His hands dipped slightly just for a
moment, and before he could control himself, the bottle of wine and
three cut crystal glasses slid off the tray. In horrible slow motion
the objects surrendered to gravity and exploded on the tiled
restaurant floor. One by one the three heads turned to face him.
Slack jawed, and trembling in his stockings and tight heels, Dean
came face to face with his wife.

The facts of the matter were these. Charlotte Prentice, aged 23, was
born Charlotte Mitford, pampered only daughter of the wealthy
Ashcroft Mitford who had the honour of being the most successful
Ostrich farmer in Southern California. It was said that the sprawling
Mitford Ostrich farms supplied approximately 83.78377% of America's
premier Ostrich burgers. Educated at elite schools, Charlotte wanted
for nothing until the tragic day when her father, after accepting
badly timed advice from his wealthy golfing partners, decided to
invest the family fortune in Pork Belly Futures a day before the
infamous Pork Belly Futures crash of 17th October 2003. Now
penniless, the Mitfords were forced to downsize to a trailer park.
Plucked from her privileged school at the age of 16 and expelled in
front of all the lesser girls that she had spent a fruitful and
enjoyable five years ridiculing for imaginary defects in their looks,
hair, accents, father's comparatively lesser wealth and anything else
she could think of, poor Charlotte was forced to leave school and
work in a local Ostrich burger fast food diner - Ostriches4U - to
supplement the meagre family income after her father contracted a
rare psychological disorder that prevented him from doing anything
classed as work. A lesser girl would have taken to hard liquor, and
in fact this is what young Charlotte Mitford did indeed do but,
determined to pull herself out of poverty, she also made the most of
her natural assets and entered a series of beauty contests until she
earned a place in the coveted annual Miss California contest,
sponsored by Beaver! magazine. She came fourth, a position that is no
mean achievement in itself, but one that would come to haunt
beautiful Charlotte soon after. Nevertheless the fourth place brought
her to the attention of the stylish and very eligible young bachelor,
Dean Prentice, the resident heir to the powerful Prentice Industries
group of companies. A whirlwind romance led to a swift marriage, and
within months Charlotte Mitford was Mrs Dean Prentice. Only one thing
stood in the way of her access to vast wealth and that was Dean's
successful mother, Eloise Cynthia Ravenscroft Prentice.

The facts of the matter were these. Eloise Cynthia Ravenscroft
Prentice had built her vast umbrella of companies from the ground
upwards, through a series of brilliant business decisions that drove
her competitors out of the market. Awarded Business Woman of the Year
in 1978, 1985, 1993, 1995, 1997, 2001 and, due to a misprint, 2015,
by Forbes Magazine, her success hid a dark and tragic secret. The
stress of life in the fast lane had left her with a delicate heart
condition that threatened to end her life at any time. Her kind
elderly German doctor, Heinrich Mengel, had warned her that her body
could no longer cope with the rigours of sexual excitement. Even
viewing a steamy sex scene on TV could get her pulse racing
dangerously. Learning of this, Charlotte secretly filmed the dirtiest
and kinkiest sex session she could possibly conceive of with her
husband, and substituted the DVD for an episode of Eloise's favourite
TV show, American Pop Idol. On viewing her son and daughter-in-law
cavorting together in flagrante delicto, Eloise's weak heart gave in
and she promptly died.

Now with access to her husband's inherited wealth, Charlotte settled
down to enjoy a lifestyle that was by rights always hers. But bitter
memories of coming fourth in Miss California 2008 would continue to
cloud her mind to the point where she dedicated her spare time to
tracking down the third place, second place and first place
contestant winners via disreputable but experienced private
detectives and paying them large sums of money to continually ruin
the women's lives to the best of their professional abilities. This
gave her a small sense of satisfaction over and above sleeping with
the well endowed Puerto Rican gardener who tended the Prentice lawns
in her husband's absence. For Charlotte Prentice too had an awful
secret.

The facts of the matter were these. Charlotte suffered from a rare
and difficult sexual condition called Nympholibris which meant that
she could only orgasm while reading paperbacks. Unfortunately, while
Dean was prepared to try all manner of kinky sexual positions, he
wasn't likely to enjoy dry humping his wife while she read a chick-
lit book over his shoulder. And so Charlotte turned to Raoul the
gardener, with his poor grasp of English, as a substitute to her
husband to ensure sexual relief, for Big Raoul was a man capable of
thrusting inside her long enough that she might finish a complete
chapter and thereby come like an express train with its brakes cut.
That she was being unfaithful to her loving husband on a regular
basis mattered little, since Charlotte suspected he too was having an
affair - with his slut of a secretary.

The facts of the matter were these. Charlotte Prentice was
permanently suspicious of any beautiful woman she met, as a result of
coming fourth instead of first in Beaver! magazine's annual Miss
California contest. It was obvious upon meeting the incredibly
beautiful Gemma Layton that Dean was fucking her at every chance he
had. Gemma's clean living image didn't fool Charlotte in the
slightest. The more she imagined Dean bending his secretary down over
his office desk and thrusting deep inside her, the more she would
book Raoul to tend to her hedge.

Through this, one thing is very clear. Charlotte Prentice despises
Gemma Layton.

And Gemma Layton isn't very fond of Charlotte Prentice either.

Beautiful Women are like that.

Now read on.

Dean stared in horror at the sight of his beautiful wife, Charlotte.
as she unexpectedly joined Gemma and Mr Grimm for dinner. She had a
soft west coast tan and perfectly cut dark brown hair that framed her
shoulders like an upside down candle flame. But what was she doing
here? Dean blushed bright red. His legs were trembling as she slowly
looked round.

"What a clumsy maid," said Charlotte with the familiar curl of her
upper lip that she reserved for the sight of incompetent menials
bumbling about their duties. Dean stood there, mortified, in his
petticoats and tightly fastened uniform, praying to a God that he
didn't believe in that he would prove to be unrecognisable to his
wife.

"Is there a problem?" At the sound of the crash, Miss Tyson was over
by the table in an instant.

"Clumsy maid," said Charlotte with a sniff of derision. "Can't even
hold a tray of drinks properly. Deserves to be spanked, if you ask
me." She turned her attention to Mr Grimm and offered him a warm
smile. "Delighted to meet you, Mr Grimm."

"Hmmpf." He rose in his tight pin stripe suit, muscles bulging
beneath the tailored material, and kissed Charlotte's outstretched
hand.

"And little Gemma..." Charlotte smiled, but the smile was frosted at
the edges with ice. "Oh, but don't you look nice tonight..." She
strained to keep the smile in place while she mentally calculated
what Gemma's designer dress and matching jewellery must have cost.
Obviously gifts from her no good cheating husband. So that was what
he spent their money on when she wasn't around to object. The
unfaithful little bastard. And the little slut of a secretary dared
to wear her gifts in public in front of Mrs Dean Prentice! Charlotte
was livid.

Dean's state of panic began to subside as it became clear that
Charlotte did not recognise him, and why would she? From head to toe
Dean looked every inch the slutty maid. He bobbed up and down
automatically in a demure curtsy as Miss Tyson loomed over him.
"Clumsy maid!" she hissed. Dean shrunk back. "Someone's prissy little
bottom is going to be very sore in a couple of minutes time!"

"Please, Miss Tyson, don't spank me!" cried Dean.

Charlotte glanced round, looking very intrigued. "You're really
going to spank her?" Her eyes lit up.

"Yes Miss." The dreaded Tyson switched on her charm in front of a
rich guest. "It's hotel policy with the maids." As always Miss Tyson
wore a belt around her dress, clipped to which was a long wooden
crop. There was a sharp click as she removed it from the belt hook.

"I'm so sorry! Please don't beat me!" Dean's shock at unexpectedly
meeting his wife was made much worse by the fact that he was about to
be spanked in front of her.

"Stop blubbering, girl, or it'll be much worse for you," hissed Miss
Tyson into Dean's ear. She quickly bent him over a spare chair and
pulled his skirt and petticoats up and tucked them neatly under his
apron strings. Charlotte had turned her chair round to get a good
view. Now Miss Tyson raised the crop as Dean waited in trepidation
for the first blow to fall. Seconds ticked by, but nothing happened.
His hands gripped the sides of the chair and sweat broke out on his
forehead. But still nothing happened. And then - CRACK! He jumped
where he lay and squealed in pain. CRACK! Another blow rained down,
followed by another, and another. Dean squirmed, howling with each
vicious crack of the switch until finally, after seven sharp blows,
the punishment ceased.

Charlotte was breathing heavily from the sight of the unexpected
public beating. She hadn't been this excited since she had read
chapter four of 'White Bikini Panties' by chick-lit author Kelly
James-Enger with the book resting on Raoul's naked back. That was a
really good chapter, she recalled, though she couldn't remember
anything that actually happened in it. Chapter five on the other hand
had been very dull, because Raoul complained he was worn out by then.
That was always the problem with men. As Miss Tyson pulled the maid
upright and angrily pulled down the petticoat and skirts, with a
savage admonishment of, "sort yourself out, you little tramp,"
Charlotte became aware that she felt something she hadn't felt in a
long time - the desire to find a book when Raoul wasn't present. For
she had tried many times to masturbate while reading, but the reading
only seemed to work while someone was physically penetrating her.
Reading while playing with herself always but always failed to bring
on an orgasm. But just now... the beating... the slutty maid being
forced over the chair - her petticoats being hoisted up, and then the
sharp hard spanking with the switch. Well, Charlotte felt very hot
all of a sudden. If she had a book to hand... and some privacy...
Charlotte rubbed her thighs together in frustration under the table
cloth. Yes, she was actually wet. She nibbled at her lower lip.
"Excuse me? Excuse me?" she called out to Miss Tyson as the
supervisor finished adjusting the maid's skirts.

"Yes Miss?" The supervisor looked round.

"Do you really think seven was enough?" Charlotte casually let her
left hand slip under the table. She was wearing a tailored black silk
jump suit which made actual access to her sex difficult, but
nevertheless she began to rub herself discretely through the fabric.
Yes - there was sensation there - just like when Raoul played with
her and she was on to page two or three of whichever chapter she was
reading. But with the beating finished, the lovely warm feeling was
rapidly fading. She had to get it back. She had to!

"Well, seven is our usual number for first offences."

"Oh." Charlotte looked upset. "I thought... maybe ten would be a
better number?"

Dean turned round and glared at his wife. What the hell was she
playing at? He rubbed his sore bottom and winced. Another three would
be very painful.

"Well..." Miss Tyson thought about this for a moment. "Seven is more
a guideline rather than a firm rule." She rubbed her chin, oblivious
to the little whimper of despair that emanated from the mouth of the
maid. "Managers do have a certain amount of discretion in such
matters."

Charlotte nodded eagerly, her hand still hidden under the table. "Of
course you do. That's how it should be."

"Bend over, maid!" barked Miss Tyson as she rounded again on a
startled Dean. The sharp crop swished its way up into the air again.

"One of her stocking seams isn't straight," pointed out Charlotte
with noticeable enthusiasm. "That must be worth another two." She
considered this. "At least."

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Dean was howling again and the sound was music
to Charlotte's ears. Yes! Yes! She could feel something. At last! Her
left hand moved quickly, rubbing the silk against her sex. Yes! She
probably still needed a book of course, but this meant she could do
without Raoul. To be honest men were really inconvenient. They became
very heavy after a while, lying on top of you, and it was difficult
to rest a book on their shoulders and read, because the angle was
never right and they almost always fidgeted while they thrust in and
out, in and out. And then they would always insist on asking you 'how
it was' and 'did you come' and 'did they do it right' and so on.
Tedious. Charlotte was getting a familiar tingle now, of the kind she
associated with reaching pages four to five of an average chick-lit
chapter. She bit down softly on her lower lip, fixed her eyes on the
glorious riding crop as it swished down for blow number eleven and
tried to encourage the sticky-fingered moment. The maid yelped again
and Charlotte squirmed in her seat with delight. It was like a Mozart
symphony covered in chocolate. CRACK! A twelfth blow and Charlotte
knew this was working. The crotch of her silk jumpsuit was damp now
to her fingers. Perhaps if she was able to thrust her fingers deep
inside herself... but the silk was in the way... would it be like
Raoul's big cock? She squeezed her thighs tightly together against
her hand. Don't stop! Give the maid another blow!

But Miss Tyson suddenly stopped. "Twelve," she said with some
satisfaction as Dean lay sprawled over the chair seat, crying again.
Charlotte squinted her eyes in frustration. She needed more!
Furiously she continued stroking herself through the silk material,
but without the maid being beaten, the lovely sensual feeling was
quickly fading, to be replaced by that familiar dull numbness she got
when a man fucked her and she didn't have a trendy supermarket
paperback to hand. She felt like crying in despair. So close... so
very close. What was worse... not being able to orgasm or getting
close to orgasm and then seeing it fade back out of reach? Charlotte
squirmed in her seat, unsure of the answer.

"So..." with the interlude out of the way, and as the maid was being
made to clean up her mess around the table, Mr Grimm addressed
Charlotte. "I asked Miss Layton to invite you here because I wanted
to meet the Prentice in charge of Prentice Industries. Miss Layton
has been doing a splendid job of smoothing the takeover, but
obviously I wanted to met the name behind the brand."

Charlotte raised a curious eyebrow. "Well, my husband..."

"Is away skiing," said Gemma quickly. "Remember, Mrs Prentice? Stuck
in the Alps due to an avalanche." She smiled sweetly. "We hoped you
could cover for him. Time is of the essence after all in completing
the deal."

Dean listened in carefully while he cleared away the last of the
broken glass and mopped the floor with some rags. Of course, Gemma
would need a Prentice to sign the paperwork, and since he couldn't
show his face... He understood now why his wife was here. Clever
girl. Of course he was still going to fire her as soon as he was back
in trousers. This was all her fault. He could never forgive her for
the utter humiliation he had experienced to date.

"I don't normally get involved in the business side of things," said
Charlotte as she eyed the whip crop on Miss Tyson's belt with
frustration. As she watched, the manager drifted away to supervise
another table setting.

"Miss Layton can handle the details," explained Mr Grimm.
"Ultimately all we require is your signature at the end of the
negotiations. In the meantime you get to enjoy a comfortable few days
in a top quality hotel with all modern conveniences, and of course
the very finest food.."

"Whatever," said Charlotte, her mind solely occupied with the
thought of soft, pink maid bottoms being exposed and whipped soundly.
It had been a revelation to her, the joys of watching a punishment
being inflicted, and one she intended to explore again. She gazed
around the lavish restaurant and counted the number of bottoms. So
many bottoms just begging to be whipped. Yes, let Gemma work hard and
sort out the details. And then once the deal was done, Charlotte
would enjoy seeing her go back to her wobbly secretarial chair where
she belonged. In fact, Charlotte would see about getting her moved to
the typing pool on some pretext. Dean was so obviously fucking Gemma,
and Charlotte had no intention of putting up with it any more.

"How is the wine, Mrs Prentice?" asked Gemma politely.

"It's all right I suppose," she stared disdainfully at her rival for
her husband's affections as she drank another mouthful of the $475 a
bottle white Burgundy while she consulted the menu and read from the
description. "I think we shall all order the shaved strips of Kobe
beef 'from cows that are fed only beer and massaged by hand by Thai
lady boys to ensure a tenderness and marbling beyond compare' for
starters followed by lobster marinated in cognac, venison medallions
and Devon crab and white truffle and a half tomato filled with Beluga
caviar and dressed with gold leaf. And since it's a special occasion,
a whole Scottish lobster, killed by traditional methods involving
drowning it in a barrel of Glenlivet whisky, also coated with gold -
the lobster that is, not the barrel of whisky - complete with four
abalone and four shelled and hollowed quails' eggs filled with even
more caviar to round out the dishes." She clicked her fingers for the
maid and handed the menu to Dean as he appeared at the table. "Did
you get all that, you stupid maid?"

"Yes Miss," said Dean as he bobbed into another curtsy. He
desperately tried to remember the variety of dishes. His bottom
throbbed painfully, masking even the sensual feeling of his stocking
clad thighs brushing together.

"You have quite an appetite," said Mr Grimm as he stared curiously
at Charlotte's slim figure.

"Oh, I just pick at my food, but I like plenty of choice." Charlotte
sighed again with the unbearable lightness of being rich. "And some
chips to go with the order," she added as Dean turned to leave with a
swish of his starched petticoats.

(Six)

"Maid service," said Dean through the closed door of suite 515 as he
knocked hesitantly, the silver trolley laden with a tasty breakfast
at his side. It was eight in the morning, but already Dean had been
working hard for two hours and had been awake for an hour before
that. It was his fourth day of drudgery in the hotel as a maid, and
he was beginning to see no end to it. The heels by now were making
the calves of his legs ache to the point where he found himself
shifting weight from first one foot and then the other.

"Come in," answered the familiar voice of Gemma Layton. Dean found
her lying in the King size bed, rubbing sleep from her eyes, hair all
tousled and wild as she sat up against the padded headboard. To
Dean's surprise a young and very buff looking man lay curled up in
bed beside her. He looked familiar. Dean had seen him at work earlier
in the day - he was the handsome lift attendant who pressed buttons
when the hotel guests moved between floors. Dean had seen many of the
well healed female guests eying up the young man in his tightly
buttoned red uniform and cap throughout the day. As the handsome lad
rolled over on to his side to reveal a buff, well toned body, Dean
only took a few seconds to decide he really didn't like him.

"Deanna is that you?" said Gemma in surprise. What are you doing
here? This is my hotel suite!"

"Yes Miss." Dean dipped into a modest curtsey as Miss Tyson had
taught him. He didn't want to, but already the tanned man with the
washboard stomach had slid up out into a sitting position against the
headboard and was gazing up at the hotel maid that had disturbed his
sleep. Dean had hoped to take the opportunity of personally
delivering breakfast, to speak to Gemma privately, alone, and get her
to sort things out on his behalf, but here she was with some trophy
man in her suite. Dean couldn't help feeling indignant. While he was
enduring a nightmarish and humiliating existence, Gemma was enjoying
all the pampered luxuries of hotel life and lots of sex. And anyway,
what did she see in that toy boy? "I've brought your breakfast, Miss."

"Oh, well that's splendid. Did you hear that John? Breakfast." Gemma
clapped her hands with pleasure. Breakfast in bed. Could it get any
better?

The young man stirred and sat up with the bed linen entangled around
his legs and waist. "What time is it?"

"Eight o'clock, sleepy head," said Gemma as she playfully messed his
hair with her right hand. "Looks like I tired you out last night!"
Gemma looked very sexy, sprawled half in and half out of the sheets,
dressed in a beautiful silk and lace nightie that could best be
described as modestly flirtatious, that caused Dean's penis to stir
and protest in its tight plastic restraint. He briefly caught a
glimpse of a beautiful long leg, smooth and perfectly sculpted,
unexpectedly exposed where the night slip had ridden up on Gemma's
body. It was so unfair! Being dressed like this was already enough to
keep him feeling aroused, but now that Gemma was displaying her ample
charms, clad in wispy sleepwear... it was so very frustrating.

As Dean watched, 'John' reached a hand out towards one of Gemma's
firm breasts. She gave him a very cross look and quickly slapped his
hand out of the way. "Behave yourself!" she said in a determined
voice. "No touching unless I tell you to. I warned you about that
sort of thing last night." She wagged a finger by way of warning.
"I'm not that kind of girl."

"Please Miss," said Dean as he squirmed in his panties. "Can I speak
to you in private?"

"In private?" Gemma looked surprised. "What ever are you talking
about? Serve the breakfast, maid." She tapped the bedside table.
"Anything you want to say you can say in front of John."

"But Miss..." Dean was frantic. He had to get out of this penis sheath
and get back into proper male clothes. He couldn't face the prospect
of staying dressed and primped as a maid any longer.

"Didn't you hear her?" John sat up and stared at Dean. "Serve the
breakfast! I thought this hotel prided itself on good service."

You can shut up, thought Dean as he walked carefully across the
carpeted floor, wheeling the trolley before him. The man looked like
an arrogant prick, but Dean thought better of antagonising him while
he was wearing a hotel maid's uniform. The last thing he wanted was
for the dreaded Miss Tyson to be summoned to hear a complaint.

"I'm sorry, Sir." Sir! This was unbelievable, having to defer to the
man. "Would you care for coffee?" Dean could feel the lace edging of
his petticoats swishing around the very tops of his stockings. He had
to be so careful when walking so as not to reveal them by mistake.
And unless he was very much mistaken, John's eyes were glued to his
legs, his gaze following Dean around the room. No... Dean realized he
wasn't mistaken. The buff lift attendant was checking out his legs in
their sheer uniform stockings.

The man winked at Dean as he rose and lifted himself out of bed.
"You girls can chat together if you like. I'm going to take a shower
before I eat." He yawned and stretched as he made his way towards the
en-suite facilities. Only when John disappeared and locked the door
from the other side did Gemma also climb out of bed. She shrugged on
a silk negligee over her modestly revealing teddy. This gave Dean the
opportunity while pouring and serving coffee, to brush close and
whisper urgently by the side of her head. "Gemma... I have to talk to
you. It's important."

"Isn't it always," she sighed, visibly annoyed. "I can't even have a
peaceful breakfast, can I? What?"

"Gemma, look at me! Look what I'm having to wear. I'm a maid!"

"Oh for goodness sake, is that what you had to tell me? You think of
no one but yourself do you? It's always, 'look at me, look at me,'
like some spoilt child."

"Gemma, this has got to..."

"Enough!" Now she wagged a finger at him as she picked up the phone.
"You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to phone the front desk at
reception."

"Good." Relief spread quickly. He'd got through to his stupid
secretary at last. Now she realised her mistake and would do
something to get him back to normality.

"I'm going to tell them that you're really a man and that you've
been impersonating a girl so that you can get to prance around in a
maid's uniform and share a room with real girls."

"What? You can't say that!" Dean's face would have gone pale had it
not been for the heavy foundation.

"Well, I've had enough of covering for you so that you can have
whatever perverted fun you seem to enjoy."

"Enjoy? Gemma!"

"Yes, I've kept quiet while you embarrass me by dressing up as a
maid in frills and lace. I've let you have your fun, but that's not
enough for you is it? Oh no, you have to keep moaning whenever
something isn't quite right. Well it can end right now." She dialled
the number for reception and said into the mouthpiece, "Suite 515.
Please put me through to the duty manager."

"Gemma! Please! No!" The humiliation and embarrassment at being
found out by hotel security would eclipse anything that had happened
to him so far. They would parade him downstairs as some sort of
sissy, and probably call the police. His name and picture would be in
the papers. No, that would be the complete end of him. He would never
be able to face family or friends again. "Please put the phone down,
Gemma, please..."

"It's gone too far, Mr Prentice. You barge in here on the pretext of
delivering my breakfast, which I'm happy to accommodate if that's
some sort of fantasy of yours, but then you had to act up again and
ruin my morning, not to mention John's."

"I'm sorry!" His skirts swished around his thighs as he squealed and
begged her to put the phone down.

"Well we can let hotel security sort things out. What's the name of
your Manager again? Miss Tyson, was it?"

"Please don't call her! Please don't call her!" Dean looked very
pitiful as tears rolled down his perfectly made-up cheeks.

"And look..." Gemma sighed. "Your seams aren't straight." She tutted
as she cradled the phone receiver against her shoulder. It was true...
the damn things seemed to have a mind of their own. Dean had lost
count of the number of times this morning that he had stopped down to
straighten them, his ruffled skirt rising each time to expose his
pink panties.

"I'll fix them, I will. But please don't speak to Miss Tyson."

"I really don't know." Deep down Gemma still felt some loyalty to
her overbearing boss. She really didn't understand why he seemed so
keen to frolic around the hotel in stockings and heels, making beds,
dusting and serving drinks, but it was a free country and who was she
to tell him it was wrong? "If I put the phone down I'll expect a
serious change in your behaviour from now on. No more pulling me
aside to have a word in private. No more complaining about the length
of your skirt. I'm working very hard while you're just enjoying
yourself. I can't accommodate your mood swings at the same time, Mr
Prentice. So long as you insist on wearing that ridiculous maid's
uniform, I'll expect you to act like a maid and not remind me whom
you really are. It's embarrassing for me to constantly be reminded
that you're my boss when you act like that."

"Gemma..."

"Oh hello," said Gemma suddenly into the phone as the reception desk
at last connected her to their back office. "Miss Tyson is it? This
is Miss Prentice from Suite 515." Dean did the only thing he could
think of - he dropped to his knees and pressed his hands together,
pleading silently. Gemma frowned. It was difficult to remain angry
with a sissy who insisted on kneeling before you. "Yes Miss Tyson,
there is a problem." Now Dean began kissing her slippers, his pink
panty-clad ass peeking out from beneath the layers of frilly
petticoats. "But I think on reflection I can resolve it on my own.
Thank you for your time. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

"Oh thank you, thank you, thank you." Dean wept tears of gratitude.

"This really is your last chance, Mr Prentice," sighed Gemma as she
replaced the phone receiver. "Your very last chance."

All thought of demanding to be let out of his penis restraint was
temporarily forgotten as Dean could concentrate on nothing less than
the narrow escape he now enjoyed. To be discovered and exposed in
frills and lace would have been the end.

"Tina at the store warned me that this might happen. Once you put a
man in a dress he can't control himself. That's what she said." With
a degree of reluctance Gemma reached for a long wooden ruler and
moved round to where she could easily reach Dean's panty-clad bottom.
To his horror Dean realised she meant to punish him again.

"Gemma, please... not another spanking..."

"I don't like it any more than you do, Mr Prentice. But Tina advised
me it was the only way to control a sissy. It's for your own good.
Now don't move, or I'll add another six strokes."

"But I don't want to be spanked!" sobbed Dean, jut as the bathroom
door opened and John returned. He stood there, open-mouthed,
astonished, at the scene that presented itself: the hotel maid
crying, on her knees, bottom up, ruffled panties exposed, about to be
spanked by a wooden ruler.

"What's happening..." said John. He had freshly showered and stood
there now with just a pink guest towel around his waist for modesty.
There was barely an ounce of fat anywhere on his perfectly sculpted
torso. Dean really, really hated him.

"I'm spanking the maid," explained Gemma matter-of-factly, as if it
was a perfectly normal thing to do. "Now you just hop back in bed
like a good boy." When John didn't immediately move she raised an
eyebrow and added, "don't tell me I need to spank you too?"

Dean howled as the first couple of strokes landed. Hearing this
broke John out of his trance. Three, four, five, six strokes, and
John just stared in amazement as the steady beating progressed. Gemma
didn't stop until she had swung the ruler ten times. Only then did
she pause, eyes a little glazed, long strands of hair draped over her
nose. "Well?" She asked, as she noticed John hadn't done as
instructed. Flushed and feeling strangely satisfied, Gemma had come
to realise something about herself - namely that she actually enjoyed
spanking men. It was something she had never even considered before,
but she found there was an almost Zen like sense of exhilaration as
she brought a ruler or cane down hard on a soft and yielding bottom
and heard the squeals of protest combined with cries of pain. Now she
regarded John as a diner might consider a second course.

"Well what?" came the reply.

"I see you're not in bed like I said. Obviously the maid isn't the
only girl here who needs six of the best. Drop the towel and touch
your toes." She clicked her fingers.

"No way!"

"Well it was going to be six for you, but you've just made it eight."

"You may have smacked the maid, but no way you're going to..."

"Ten then. And you will touch your toes or I'll inform a manager
that one of their elevator attendants is seducing guests in his spare
time. I'm sure that's a serious disciplinary offence. You'll probably
lose your job."

"You bitch!" John knew very well it was a serious disciplinary
offence.

"Well that's twelve now... no, let's say fourteen. Towel!" She clicked
her fingers again. Yes, she was definitely enjoying this new found
sense of power and authority. There was a slight hesitation and then
John discarded the towel with a stern look of resentment. Dean was
already up and rubbing his panties as he watched the new developments
unfold. Serve the prick right, he thought. If anyone should be
spanked it should be him. He watched as the furious member of staff
bent over and touched his toes. Dean did a double take as the man's
towel slid down past his legs, revealing the biggest penis he'd ever
seen.

"Good." Gemma regarded the perfectly unmarked bottom with the same
sense of anticipation that an artist might observe a virgin canvas.
For a moment she considered the best place to deliver the first
stripe. It was bound to be the first time John had been beaten by a
woman, so she felt duty bound to ensure it was memorable for him.

(Seven)

"Well Ariana, this doesn't look good, does it? No, it doesn't look
good at all."

Dean stood in the personal office belonging to Miss Tyson. He had
already performed two curtsies since stepping through the door in his
shiny high heels, and now he stood quietly in front of her desk as
she scrutinized a series of work reports. As she read some recent
comments pertaining to Dean's inability to remember the correct food
and drink orders for large tables of hotel diners Miss Tyson wrinkled
her nose in disappointment.

"You score bottom of all the maids who work here in every category
except two."

Dean's curiosity got the better of him. "Which categories are those,
Miss Tyson?"

"Well now." She ran her finger along the relevant row of figures.
"Perkiest pout and sexiest legs. But in every practical category... bed
making, dusting, polishing, curtseys, taking orders in the
restaurant... do we even have to mention dropping bottles of wine and
cut glass crystal?" Miss Tyson sighed. "You really aren't very good."

That's because I'm not a maid, you stupid woman, thought Dean
silently to himself. His legs were aching again from standing still
for so long. How did women cope with wearing high heels all the time?
Without thinking, he shifted his weight from his left foot to his
right to ease the discomfort. Miss Tyson's peripheral vision was
excellent and she spotted the subtle movement like a cat watching out
for mice.

"Don't fidget, girl!" she snapped.

"Sorry, Miss Tyson." Dean dipped down into a feminine curtsey before
he realized what he was doing. Damn the woman! He was beginning to
respond to her voice without thinking. He watched as she wrote
'fidgets when told to stand still' under the 'supervisor comments'
section.

"You do have nice legs though, girl." Miss Tyson leaned forward on
her elbows to take a good look. "I suppose you must be very popular
with the men. You're such a slut." Miss Tyson shook her head
disapprovingly. "Well, anyway, to the matter at hand. I've reviewed
your progress, and I'm afraid it's just not acceptable." She placed
the report back on her desk and neatly adjusted where it lay so it
was level on all sides with the edge of the blotter.

Dean flinched. Was she going to punish him? He gazed in fear at the
long curved-handled cane that hung on the wall behind Miss Tyson's
chair. Deep down he knew it wasn't there as an ornament.

"We're going to have to dismiss you, Ariana. Yes we are. You simply
don't meet the minimum standards we require in this hotel. I know
this will come as a grave disappointment to you, but if you go away,
study hard, learn some useful maid skills, in time you'll probably
find employment in a first class hotel again. It's not the end of the
world."

Dean couldn't believe he was hearing this. That was it? He could go?
Simply leave? And no one would stop him? After all these days
scrubbing floors, making beds, being trapped in this horrible corset,
that's all it took to get away from this nightmare and get back to
his normal life? "You'll... let me go, Miss?" Relief washed over Dean.
It was over. This entire nightmare was over. By this time tomorrow
he'd be back home, in his own clothes, and running his corporate
empire again.

"I'm afraid so." Miss Tyson steepled her fingers under the lip of
her mouth. "You simply aren't good enough, Ariana." Pushing her chair
back on its wheels, Miss Tyson opened the bottom drawer of her desk
and selected a form with dense, tiny print from one of the partition
files. It was a form 33b and it related to the discharge of maids in
the case of poor performance. She slid it across the desk and placed
a fountain pen on top of the paper. "Form 33b requires your discharge
signature."

Dean grasped the fountain pen eagerly. The top of the page read
'Discharge of Maid for failing to meet minimum work standards'. Oh,
happy day! He quickly scrawled 'Ariana Demisovski' along the dotted
line and dated it. Freedom from the corset, penis restraint and high
heels beckoned. He felt light headed all of a sudden.

"And now form 117d that confirms you are in agreement with your work
assessment and that you waive your right of appeal." Miss Tyson
sniffed. "Technically you do have the right to appeal your dismissal
if you want to, but..."

As if he would! Nothing was going to dissuade him from leaving here.
Dean seized the second form and scrawled his signature before Miss
Tyson could change her mind.

"Form 55755a relates to a six month extension of your visa, so that
you don't have to return to Albania at the point of termination of
your work here..."

Of course. They still thought he was Ariana the Albanian girl, who
was only supposed to remain in the USA while working. They would
never have bundled him on a plane anyway, but Dean was happy to sign
the visa extension to be on the safe side. Now he could simply return
home and become the important Dean Prentice again.

"Form 1188a..."

How many bloody forms were there, thought Dean as he impatiently
seized the fourth paper before Miss Tyson could bore him further. He
signed his name, dated it and slid it back along the desk before she
finished her sentence. When she did finish her sentence, it was
several seconds before the significance of what she said processed
itself through Dean's bimbofied brain.

"... which enrolls you into our academy school."

"What?" Dean blinked and shifted his weight from his right foot to
his left. God, these heels were a living hell to wear. "Academy
school? What?"

Miss Tyson took the fourth form and placed it with the other three.
"Why, the Silk and Lace Formal Academy for Girls. The high walled
school grounds lie beyond the edge of the hotel. You must have seen
the nearby walls topped with sharp barbed wire when you arrived at
the hotel?"

"I don't understand..." Dean felt a familiar sense of panic. "Wait...
did you say barbed wire?"

"To discourage filthy minded boys from sneaking into the academy
late at night. We have a strict 'no dating' rule except for on Disco
Night, when the girls are obviously encouraged to flirt with boys for
a few hours. So, what don't you understand? You've failed to meet the
minimum standards here at the hotel, so obviously you need training.
Luckily we have our own academy close at hand. It's a very formal
school that caters exclusively for young women such as yourself and
trains them in all manner of useful skills from needle work to making
beds and baking and typing. Not to mention proper deportment and
other social skills befitting a young woman who has succumbed to
slovenly 'modern ways'." She tutted at the thought of some of the
slovenly 'modern ways'. "Apply yourself well, study hard, and I'm
confident that at the end of your six month course you'll be ready to
reapply for a maid's job here at the hotel."

"But... I thought you were sending me home?!" The feeling of panic was
getting much worse. Six months? A formal school? Reapply to be a maid?

"Home? To Albania? Why on earth would you want to go back there?
Every other Albanian girl is desperate to leave the country. Well
anyway, it's out of the question. You're still under contract with
us. We need to recoup our initial investment in relocating you to the
US. Why, if every silly maid who changed her mind just flew back home
at our expense when she felt like it, we'd soon be out of pocket. Do
you think we run this place as a charity?"

"But I don't want to go to school..." Dean began to cry, making his
thick mascara run.

"Well, you should have thought of that before you waived your right
to appeal." Miss Tyson tapped form 117d with its tiny type face.
"Honestly, you maids are so scatter brained at times."

1 comment:

  1. I have an idea, what i'm going to do too my panty-waisted,boyfriend? Slutty maid? Sherry M.

    ReplyDelete