The Carbonara Florentine recipe was no piece of cake but it was worth the hassle since I wanted my angel’s twenty-sixth birthday dinner to be perfetto.
I came home to an empty condo after work, changed into my frock and scrambled around the kitchen hoping to have Rebecca’s favorite-but-complicated-to-prepare dish ready by the time she returned from wherever she’d gone.
Everything was set by seven, with the pasta warming in the oven and gifts arranged throughout the living room. A huge “Happy Birthday” banner hung on the wall where Rebecca would see it as soon as she walked through the front door. Candles flickered. Whispers of lilac essential oil puffed from the diffuser.
With the condo transformed into a shrine honoring my Princess’s special day, I changed out of my housecleaning frock and into my formal maid’s uniform. Although I was caught up on all my chores, I bustled around wiping, polishing and rearranging knickknacks anyway, anxious for my mistress’s return.
The wait was still on at eight. Nine o’clock came and went. Ten bowled me over. When I turned on the eleven o’clock newscast, the anchorman announced: “This just in: Rebecca isn’t coming home tonight, dumbass.”
Like a sap, I kept dinner warm until midnight. Then, with tears in my eyes, I stowed the food in a Tupperware container, ate a lonely cup of yogurt and trudged to the “maid’s room,” where I lay in the dark tossing and turning on my pink-sheeted mattress, wondering, wishing, bawling and chiding myself.
What the hell had I been thinking? Her birthday … on a Friday night? There was no way Miss Popular would’ve wanted to celebrate it with her lovestruck little maid. Still, I’d hoped she might at least have dinner at home before traipsing off to the clubs with her vampire girlfriends — but as I lay in bed trying to get some sleep, I felt foolish for having been such an optimistic chump.
I spent a good part of the evening crying in the darkness of my sad little room, something I’d been doing fairly often since embarking on a life of service to my spoiled princess. To be sure, I was living a dream and had never been happier — but a year after entering our strange relationship, I’d come to realize that even with Karl out of the picture it wasn’t easy being Rebecca Ann Strickland’s slave. Tears came with the territory.
The first thing I did after rolling out of bed Saturday morning was check to see if Rebecca’s keys and purse were in their usual spot on the floor for me to pick up. With a sigh, I noted that the carpet was bare.
I fixed myself a light breakfast and watched TV for a few minutes, but since I couldn’t get Rebecca out of my mind anyway, I decided to make use of the time by doing something nice for her. It had been a few weeks since I’d polished her shoe collection, so I gathered my cleaning gear, laid out newspapers, sat on the floor and got started.
Just before noon, as I was buffing a high gloss onto her tan boots, Rebecca stumbled through the door holding her head. She plopped on the couch and kicked off her pumps.
“Ugh, Diet Coke, Chrissie, and hurry up.”
“Yes, Miss,” I whispered since my mistress was obviously suffering a hangover.
After rushing into the kitchen and serving her drink, I teetered near the couch in my 4’ heels, hands folded in front of my apron awaiting my next order. My mistress scrolled through her cellphone sipping her soda for several minutes before finally addressing me.
“What’s there to eat, Chrissie?”
“Uh, I made Carbonara Florentine last night for your birthday, Miss — your favorite.” I shifted. “Um, Happy belated birthday, Miss.”
Rebecca leaned back on the couch and groaned. “Ugh, I drank too much. Gina kept buying me Jell-o shots.”
“Um, sorry, Miss.”
“I always let her talk me into stuff.” She stretched and yawned. “That Florentine sounds good, Chrissie; go microwave me a plate.”
“Right away, Miss. Um … do you want your presents now?”
She scowled and waved her hand. “I ain’t in the mood for all that crap; can you just bring me my food like I asked you to?”
“Y-yes, Miss.”
I hustled to the kitchen, sniffing back tears, crushed at how my cranky mistress had just blown off everything I’d done the night before to try to make her birthday special. But Rebecca had made it clear early on that she didn’t want me crying about my “sissy problems,” as she liked to put it, so I’d learned to keep my sobs to myself and put on a fake smile.
Rebecca was on the phone when I got back with her plate.
“Yeah, hang on,” she said into the receiver before looking up at me. “My mom wants you over there today; Randy tracked grease all through the house and she don’t want to wait till Monday. Leave now.”
“Yes, Miss.”
Without acknowledging me, my mistress started eating her birthday leftovers while continuing her conversation. Sighing, I slogged to my room and slipped on sweats.
Rebecca’s childhood home, where she’d grown up with her mother Marlene, stepdad Randy and little sister Emily, was about fifteen miles away. With no weekend traffic, I made the drive in just a few minutes.
Emily answered the door with a smirk.
“Hi, sissy.”
“Um, hello, Miss Emily.”
The eighteen-year-old vixen grinned. “I left a you present in my room.”
“T-thank you, Miss Emily.”
“Don’t you want to know what it is?”
“Um, y-yes, Miss Emily.” I braced myself.
“It’s three whole bagfuls of my new boyfriend’s laundry. Isn’t that a great present?”
“Y-yes, Miss Emily. T-thank you, Miss Emily.”
“Ian couldn’t believe it when I told him my sister has a slave who’ll do whatever I want. He said you can come over and clean his apartment, too; I’ll see what Becca says.”
Marlene called from the living room: “Em, leave that damn sissy alone; he needs to get started on these grease stains.”
“Bring me a beer first, Chrissie,” Randy ordered from his spot on the La-Z-Boy.
“Yes, sir.”
As I headed to the kitchen I took inventory of the damage. Black marks scarred the carpet across the living room, fading as they continued up the staircase. With slumped shoulders, I realized it was going to take hours to clean the mess.
I served Randy his Corona, changed into my housework uniform and got started on the carpet while he relaxed nearby watching college football. Marlene and Emily, who had left the living room shortly after my arrival, returned minutes later, dressed to go somewhere.
Marlene leaned down and kissed her husband. “We’re headed out shopping, honey; see you in a little bit.”
Emily scowled at me. “You better not leave before Ian’s clothes are done, Chrissie.”
Randy chuckled. “Oh, Chrissie will still be here when you guys get back; when he’s done with this floor, he’s gonna be detailing my truck, and that’ll take at least a couple hours.”
“Well, whatever, Ian’s clothes better get done, you hear me, sissy?”
“Y-yes, Miss Emily.”
Marlene touched her daughter’s shoulder. “Come on, hon, let’s go.”
As soon as the ladies were out of the house, Randy winked at me.
“Hey, Chrissie. We’re all alone now. Know what that means?”
I bowed my head. “Y-yes, sir.”
“Did you bring your lipstick?”
“Yes, sir.”
He snapped his fingers. “Then put it on, sissy, and then come and give your daddy some lovin’.”
Slipping into autopilot mode, I floated like a phantom carrying out what was probably the most distasteful aspect of my service to Rebecca — having to orally serve her bisexual pig of a stepdad. Since I’d started my weekly Monday night cleaning of Rebecca’s parents’ home shortly after my angel moved in with me, Randy had taken every opportunity to maul me. He did it whenever we were alone, and sometimes after Emily had gone to bed or wasn’t home. Marlene didn’t care; she hated giving blowjobs, and was more than happy to let me take over that duty. Sometimes I’d spend an hour or more fellating her husband while she relaxed in bed next to us watching TV or playing card games on her iPad.
After applying the apple-red lipstick Randy preferred, I knelt in front of the La-Z-Boy, closed my eyes and started sucking his dick. He relaxed and watched football, clicking from game to game, sipping beer and, every once in a while, farting in my face. At one point, when I’d subconsciously quickened my pace, probably because I’d wanted to get the nightmare over with, he cuffed me on the ear.
“Slow down, bitch. What’s your hurry? You got a train to catch?”
It must’ve been an hour and a half before Randy finally grabbed my hair and started face-fucking me until shooting his load down my throat.
He shoved me away. “Good job, sissy. Now, you better hurry up and get back to them stains — Marlene’s gonna be pissed if she gets back and they’re not cleaned up.”
“Y-yes, sir,” I said, wiping my mouth.
Randy chuckled. “Yeah, I spilled some damn grease in the shop and it made a big fucking mess. Sorry ‘bout that, sissy. You’ll have to get it out of my truck carpet, too.”
“Y-yes, sir,” I said, calculating in my head how many hours of work awaited me, and not liking the answer — between finishing with the carpet stains, getting all the regular housework done, doing Emily’s boyfriend’s laundry and detailing Randy’s truck, I figured I wouldn’t be getting home until at least 10pm.. That meant my hopes to spend the Saturday with Rebecca were shot.
I tossed the first load of laundry into the machine before getting back to the grease stains. It took about three hours before the carpets were clean, and then I started on the regular chores — scrubbing the kitchen and bathroom, cleaning everyone’s bedrooms and doing windows. As I worked, I darted in and out of the laundry room to keep up with the wash while fetching Randy’s beer refills. After a year of being Rebecca’s overworked slave, with her pimping me out to her family and close friends for housework and other errands, I’d become quite adept at juggling.
Marlene and Emily returned from their shopping excursion while I was detailing Randy’s truck, having thrown my sweats over my maid’s uniform.
“Bring our bags in,” Marlene said, gesturing toward her SUV before she and her daughter waltzed into the house.
I scooped up the ladies’ purchases and hurried inside.
“Carpet looks good, sissy,” Marlene said.
“Thank you, Ma’am.”
Emily frowned. “Did you get Ian’s laundry done?”
“Oh, yes, Miss, it’s all folded up real nice for him, Miss.”
She sniffed. “Aren’t you a little brown-noser? You know, Becca says you get on her nerves sometimes being such a kiss-ass.”
“I … uh, I’m sorry, Miss.”
Marlene leaned back on the couch and stretched her legs. “Ugh, I did a lot of walking, Chrissie; I could use a foot rub.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
I hustled to retrieve Marlene’s favorite lotion, and for the next forty-five minutes, I sat on the carpet in front of the couch, massaging Rebecca’s mom’s feet while she relaxed and played solitaire on her iPad.
The foot massage set me back even further on my chores and I didn’t finish everything until after midnight. The family was asleep by then, so I let myself out and locked up behind me.
Every bone in my body ached as I climbed into my car and headed homeward — but I forgot all about my physical pain when my phone dinged, and I absorbed the soul-crushing text message:
“Stay gone till I txt u back”
I knew exactly what that meant: My angel had a guy over.
With my bottom lip trembling, I drove to Nick’s Diner, where I sat in my usual booth sipping my usual pot of coffee, and wiping the usual tears from my eyes. I held out until three am before giving in with the usual sad sigh.
I paid the bill, leaving my usual big tip, and drove to the Hilton, where I paid for the same suite I’d rented that fateful night a year earlier, when I’d saved Rebecca from her brute of a husband.
After pulling the comforter and a pillow from the king-sized bed, I curled up on the hard floor and cried all night.
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My burger tasted like boogers. The sky made me cry.
The view out my hotel room window should’ve been spectacular, with the North River glimmering beneath a purple-orange sunset. The BBQ Bacon Burger Deluxe from Hilton’s room service menu had set me back $36.99, not counting the tip, so it should’ve at least been halfway decent.
But everything looked, smelled and tasted like shit because it was past 8pm and I hadn’t heard back from Rebecca. That meant I couldn’t go home. Worse, it meant she was still hanging out with whatever dickhead she’d hooked up with the night before.
Although the word “slut” wasn’t an accurate description of my angel, she was definitely no wallflower, either. With an abundant cash flow (thanks to me), and nothing but free time on her hands after quitting the Best Buy job, Little Miss Newly Single Twenty-Something had been hanging out at the trendiest clubs several nights a week and enjoying an active sex life. She hadn’t told any of her lovers about our Mistress/slave relationship, although when the subject of her living situation would come up, she’d explain that I was her gay roommate. That was highly embarrassing for me, but Rebecca and her friends thought it was hilarious.
Being a recent divorcee, my angel wasn’t looking to get serious with anyone, and thankfully her flings had all fizzled after a few dates. Rebecca didn’t like me being there when she brought guys home because she didn’t want them feeling uncomfortable. The first few times she dragged someone back from the bar, I was forced to roll out of bed in the middle of the night and hustle off to a hotel. After a while, I begged her to let me sleep in my own bed during her spur-of-the-moment late-night romps, and she agreed as long as I remained silently in my room with the door closed. Still, if at all possible, Rebecca preferred that I not be home when she fucked her bar studs.
My angel had four platinum credit cards in her name and could have afforded the finest hotels in the world, but she insisted on bringing these idiots home because she was paranoid that hotel rooms were all equipped with hidden cameras. I’d never interacted with any of her studs, other than one evening when she was out shopping and some palooka returned to the condo to pick up the jacket he’d left behind. Our encounter was brief; after answering the door, I said, “here you go,” and handed the garment to the tall, muscular dude, who grunted his thanks and split. I never did learn his name; as Rebecca’s slave, it wasn’t my place to ask, and she hadn’t offered that information.
By nightfall, there was still no word from my princess, and as I sat gazing out the hotel window at the moonlit river, I was starting to wonder if I’d need to swing by the haberdashery before work the next morning to buy a new suit, since the only clothes I had with me were my sweats and the housework frock I’d donned to clean Rebecca’s parents’ house the previous day.
But at 9:37pm, my cellphone finally dinged, and the message I’d been aching for appeared:
“u can come home pick up dt coke”
I swooned. My angel and her Diet Cokes!
The condo was an absolute mess when I got home. So was Rebecca.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Chrissie.” She giggled at my gasp of horror as I took inventory of the living room, which was littered with beer bottles, empty glasses, many of which had been used as ashtrays, and pizza boxes. At the foot of the sofa, shards of a shattered wine goblet sparkled on the carpet near an elongated burgundy stain. The “Happy Birthday” banner I’d hung up Friday night lay on the floor, and while the gifts I’d bought my angel had been put away, the wrappings lay everywhere.
“Bryce wanted to see the Bears game, and then Gina and Ronnie came over to watch, and they invited Sal and Katie … and the next thing you know it’s a huge party.” Rebecca groaned. “Ugh, we got carried away. Long Island iced teas. Fuuuuuuuuuuck.”
After swallowing my resentment, I stood before my reclining mistress with my hands folded respectfully in front of me. “Um, Miss, I’m so sorry you’re not feeling good; is there anything I can get for you before I get changed and start cleaning?”
“Yeah, we’re out of Diet Coke,” she snapped. “That’s on you, Chrissie.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss; I bought four cases last time I went shopping—”
She waved her hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know, my asshole friends drank it all, and it’s all my fault. Now, can you shut up and go pour me a glass? Can you do that?”
“R-right away, Miss.” I hurried to obey, lamenting how unfair and bitchy she’d become. She knew damn well I had nothing to do with her friends gulping down all the soda I’d bought, but she reamed me out about it anyway, just because she’d had too much to drink as usual and needed a whipping boy.
Being a submissive soul, though, my indignation at her nastiness quickly morphed into lust. After reaching beneath my panties and giving myself a quick diddle in the kitchen, I shoved those naughty feelings aside and fetched my mistress’s soda, changed into my work dress and started cleaning while Rebecca relaxed on the couch watching TV.
I was on my hands and knees near the sofa tackling the wine stain when my angel smirked down at me. “We left a mess for you, didn’t we, Chrissie?”
“Um, yes, Miss.”
“Wow, what a birthday. Oh, hey, I loved the necklace you bought me, Chrissie.”
I perked up. “Thank you, Miss, I’m so, so glad you like it.”
She smiled. “The candy was good, too — although Bryce ate most of it, the pig.”
Unsure what to say, I focused on scrubbing the stain while she continued.
“He’s kind of an asshole, I don’t know,” she mused. “I mean, he’s great in the sack, but I get so tired of these macho types who act like they’re the king of the world just because they got a big dick. You know?”
“Um … uh, yes, Miss.”
“I mean, I married an asshole like that already. Ugh. Bryce is good for a fuck, but that’s about it.”
“Y-yes, Miss.”
“Gina says she wants dibs on him when I’m done with him. By the way, she told me you should plan on being there late Tuesday; she’s got a whole bunch of ironing she says she wants done.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Oh, and my sister called earlier; she wants you to start swinging by her boyfriend’s place once a week to clean. So, get the address from her.”
“Yes, Miss. Um, I can’t do it Mondays or Tuesdays because I’m at your mom’s and Gina’s.”
“Well, whatever, work out a schedule with Em, but make sure you run it by me first.”
“Yes, of course, Miss.” I gritted my teeth at the prospect of even more work.
Rebecca snorted. “So, Mom and Em went out shopping yesterday, and left you alone with Randy?”
I averted my eyes. “Y-yes, Miss.”
“And how did that go?”
I gulped. “Um … he … he had me … do him.” The last word cracked.
Rebecca tittered and shook her head. “He’s such a perv. Ma says you’re a godsend, though; she hates doing that.”
“Um, t-thank you, Miss.” Wanting nothing more than to end the conversation, I refocused on the carpet stain, struck by the contrast between the world Rebecca grew up in and mine. Both my parents were deceased, but I couldn’t fathom them ever having discussed their sex lives with me — but in the Strickland family, the fact that Marlene didn’t like giving blowjobs was such an open matter that she felt comfortable asking her daughter if her sissy slave could perform that duty on her husband.
It was an entirely different culture than what I’d been used to, but since Rebecca was my love and my light, I’d made the decision to put my shoulder to the grindstone and try to figure it all out — and, in the process, endure the humiliation of giving regular blowjobs to her slob of a stepdad. Afterward, I’d hate myself, convinced that my infatuation with Rebecca had gone way too far.
And then, eventually, Rebecca would flash that little smile, or do something else to make me fall deeper in love with her, and I’d end up thanking the stars for the opportunity to serve such a beautiful, wonderful woman. My unfair, one-sided relationship with Rebecca made my life feel complete, despite the sometimes-horrific debasements that came with it — and also because of them.
My angel went to sleep just before midnight, and I continued toiling quietly until three am. When the condo was spotless, I trudged off to the maid’s room and crashed, physically, mentally and spiritually exhausted, but with a smile on my dick-sucking lips.
