Sissies are Maid to Serve

Ready to serve, but quietly awaiting her instruction, I stood by while Mistress sipped her drink. Even after spending the entire day working as a maid to my Mistress, I still felt oh-so deliciously frilled and feminine. There really is nothing else quite like wearing a French maid uniform with thigh high stockings exposed under a full petticoat filled skirt and apron. With limp wrists and anticipation, this sissy dreamed of what Mistress had planned for the evening while patiently waiting for her next command.

When Mistress fininshed, she got up abruptly, handed me her empty glass, and moved toward the stairs.

"I'm going to freshen up, sissy. You will tidy up this mess," and with that she swayed out of the room, her fine round ass moving briskly from side to side as she strutted away. Turning at the foot of the stairs, Mistress added, "Oh sissy, when you're done make something to eat. You know, you're a far better sissy maid than you ever were a husband -- I just might keep you."

I just stood, thinking about Mistress' words.

"You're dismissed. Now run along," she commanded, her control emphasized with the sweeping gesture of her hand. Mistress then walked slowly up the stairs not looking back, and I trotted off to the kitchen with her empty glass in hand.

Making something to eat was defintely not in my comfort zone, but I knew I had but one chance to please Mistress, so I would do my best. After quickly putting away the liquor, I added Mistress' glass to the dishwasher but I didn't run it. Mistress was very particular about wasting water and energy.

Wanting to be the best sissy maid I could possibly be, I turned to go cook something . . .

I really had no talent in this area, but I was open to learning. I had watched Samantha in the kitchen before, usually paying much more attention to her fine round ass or high-heeled feet than whatever was on the cooktop, but I had also helped from time to time.

I decided to start with something in the oven, a dessert. It was something I knew I could do, so I doled out the cookie dough and put the sheet in the oven.

The main course would not be so easy. But, for better or for worse, I decided to make the one thing that I had cooked before, omlettes. I cut everything up and got it ready so that when Mistress came down I'd be ready. I also set the table, and then, midly pleased with myself, I returned to the bedroom to assist Mistress.

When I arrived in the bedroom, Mistress was just finishing her preparations. "Come here, Crissi," she said, gesturing for me to come near. "Is dinner ready?"

"It's minutes away, Mistress. I was just waiting to serve you."

"Oh, such a good girl. Go get things ready then; I'll be right down."

I rushed back down the stairs and quickly finished the meal. Swishing and swaying, I was filled with excitement as I served my first home prepared meal to my Mistress.

"Thank you, Sissy," was all Mistress said as she started to eat. She then looked up at me, as if to ask why I was still standing there. I responded by quietly turning and mincing back to the kitchen.

But I didn't eat. My tummy was nervous, no doubt from the tension of pleasing Mistress. Instead I lifted myself up and sat on the counter, my skirt pulling back to further expose my stockings and garter straps. I felt so feminine sitting there, so girlie. My heart immediately beat faster as I ran my soft hands along my silken thighs. My breath shortened and I felt the inevitable swelling of my clitty.

Of course, being a pathetic little sissy, I couldn't resist the temptation, and a moment later had my panties pulled to the side. I just sat there, one room away from Mistress, enthralled with the feeling of feminine satin, engaged by the site of my stocking tops and heels, and I slowly started stroking my little clitty.

"Sissy . . . come here, sissy," Mistress beckoned me back to the dining room.

I firmly squeezed the head of my hardening clit, as I attempted to conceal it again between my legs. I straightened my panties, smoothed my skirt and tried to regain my composure before I approached Mistress.

"You've done well today," Mistress began. She then sat back in her chair and gestured with both hands for me to clear her plate. I moved immediately to tend to her need.

Reaching out, Mistress clasped my hand and held it in both of hers, "You know, Crissi, where you completely fail as a male lover, you really are quite the efficient and attentive little sissy," and she kissed my hand.

To say I was surprised is a gross understatement. I just stood there for a moment, thinking about all her words meant. I was in heaven, feeling so sexy and feminine, a French maid in high heels and stockings. I also felt pride that she saw value in me, but as sexy as I felt, as much as I loved being a fucking frilly bitch -- I was also troubled that I was so pathetic as a man.

Caught up in my inner thoughts, I turned, still pondering my situation. As I walked toward the kitchen, I wondered what Mistress Samantha really thought. I tried to envision where our relationship was leading. Lost in contemplation, I was absent minded when suddenly the doorbell rang and woke me from my inner world.


"Oh my God," I thought, my heart already racing, my hands starting to shake.

"Get the door, Crissi," Mistress comanded from the other room.

In my first show of anything more than total submission, I briskly slid back into the dining room. "I can't get the door," I pleaded. It wasn't anything resembling strength, but I was speaking up -- even though it was out of pure fear.

"Please Mistress, don't make me do this," I begged.

But Mistress was not in a lenient mood. "Listen you little bitch," she started. "You're either here to please me or you're not. Now which is it?"

"You know I want to please you, Mistress."

"Then please me, BITCH!" she said plainly getting irritated.

Ring . . . ring -- the doorbell sounded again.

"Get the fucking door!" she commanded.