Rebecca was in the lavender haze when she returned home from her date. It made me want to puke.
Prior to my mistress’s arrival, I’d spent a quiet Sunday evening hand-washing her delicate garments and peering out the laundry room window that overlooked the condo parking lot. When Rebecca’s SUV finally pulled up, I hurried to the kitchen and placed an ice-cold glass of Diet Coke on the silver serving tray along with a vase with a red rose. After checking my makeup in the mirror, I stood near the door offering the tray with a smile, eager to greet my mistress with humility and style.
She breezed right past me and plopped on the couch. I followed her into the living room and set the drink on the table in front of her while she kicked off her pumps and dialed her cellphone.
“Hey, girl,” she said as I bent to retrieve her shoes. “OMG, I think I’m in love.”
Rebecca snapped her fingers and pointed to her feet, indicating that she wanted them rubbed. I dashed to the hall closet, retrieved the lotion, sank to my knees and went to work while my mistress reclined on the couch and gabbed.
“He’s a little older than what I usually go for, but this guy’s got class, Katie. The exact opposite of Bryce, Matt, and the rest of those assholes. Tris owns his own company; some kind of stock trading stuff. Hang on a sec.” My angel squinted down at me. “Chrissie, you ever hear of a company called TBH Advisors? I think it’s the same kind of stuff you do, investments and whatnot.”
Blood drained from my face but I shrugged off the shock and provided the correct answer: “Um, yes, Miss, uh, TBH is one of the fastest-growing investment firms in the city.”
Rebecca beamed. “You know Tristan Huxley?”
I blinked. “Um, I … I don’t know him personally, but I’ve heard of him. He ... he was on the cover of Investor’s Monthly not long ago.”
“OMG, you got a copy?”
“I … I might have one at work, Miss.”
“Well, when you go to work tomorrow, look for it. Ain’t he hot, Chrissie?”
“Um, yes, Miss … from his picture, he’s … very handsome.”
“You got that right.” She chortled at something Katie said and forgot about me as she resumed her conversation.
I continued rubbing my mistress’s feet, although my mood had suddenly soured. Of course, I’d heard of TBH Advisors and their swashbuckling, maverick owner Tristan B. Huxley — we’d been losing clients to him since his company’s formation two years earlier. TBH had appeared out of nowhere and quickly lapped the more established firms, including mine, thanks to Huxley’s astute investing. His market maneuvers were criticized as reckless by the “investing establishment” before a string of bombshell successes completely silenced his critics and made him the Golden Boy in my field.
The thought of Rebecca seeing Tristan Fucking Huxley — and her use of the “L word” after one lousy date — made me sick to my stomach. Her ex-husband Karl and the other guys she’d dated after the divorce were all braindead, musclebound party boys who knew how to fuck but were broke. Tristan Huxley? Shit, he had ten times more money than me, which negated the one thing I could offer Rebecca that the others couldn’t: financial security.
As I worked lotion into my princess’s soles, I had to remind myself that in addition to unlimited spending money and free room and board, I also provided her with service and submission. Rebecca had repeatedly told me how much she adored having a slave, and that she got a kick out of teasing and abusing me. Focusing on that calmed my fluttering stomach somewhat. I still felt nauseous, but was able to give my mistress a top-notch foot massage while she jabbered with her girlfriend about her “dreamy” first date.
Rebecca finally hung up and smiled down on me as I slavishly tended to her tootsies.
“You happy for me, Chrissie?”
I faked a smile. “Y-yes, Miss.”
“I think it’s fate that we met; he said he don’t even go to bars, but he stopped off at Charro’s to meet the owner for some business thing, and we just couldn’t take our eyes off each other.” Rebecca sighed. “He finally came up to talk, and … wow! I mean, this guy ain’t like anyone I ever been with, Chrissie. And he seems pretty open-minded, too; I’m gonna tell him about you the next time we get together.”
“Um, er … ah … okay, Miss.”
“I swear, I really do think this is love at first sight. I can tell he thinks so, too. I never felt this before. We just sat there looking at each other, not saying a word.”
“Buh, buh, buh …” I couldn’t keep my lip from quivering, and I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.
She frowned. “What? Something wrong, Chrissie?”
I had to turn away. “Noth…” The word wouldn’t come out.
Rebecca stared at me. “Listen, you had to know I’d eventually find someone again, right? I mean, we’re not exactly boyfriend/girlfriend here — and, frankly, your attitude is pissing me off. Instead of being happy for me, you’re feeling sorry for yourself again. I thought you were done with all this moping-around shit.”
“I … I’m so sorry, Miss … I am happy for you, I am. It’s just … well, it’s just—”
She held up her hand. “I don’t want to hear it, Chrissie. ‘It’s just’ nothing. I ain’t interested in your opinions on this. If your feelings are hurt, deal with it. You serve me; who I date or fall in love with is none of your business. Understand?”
“Y-yes, Miss. Of course, Miss. I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes were cold and she didn’t reply as she started thumbing through her cellphone. I redoubled my efforts, working my aching fingers into her deep foot tissue, trying desperately to please my snooty, lovestruck mistress, who completely ignored me the rest of the evening until she drifted to sleep.
I continued the massage for a while before lifting her legs onto the couch and nudging her into a prone position. Sometimes when I did that she’d wake up and stagger off to bed, but this time she was exhausted after her big date and remained conked out. I covered her with a blanket and slinked away to my small maid’s room, where I squirmed in bed all night thinking about my angel and the dashing Tristan B. Huxley — and having to admit that, in my mind’s eye, they made a beautiful couple.
\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\//
I didn’t sleep, but with the help of coffee, I managed to get through work Monday, although I spent half the day monitoring the activity of TBH Advisors instead of paying attention to my own clients’ portfolios. After the final bell rang, I splashed water on my face, sucked down one last cup of joe and drove to Rebecca’s parents’ house for its weekly cleaning.
Emily’s boyfriend Ian answered my knock.
“Hey, fag.” He stepped aside and I tiptoed past him into the house.
“H-hello, sir.”
“You need to get over to my place before Wednesday; I had a party and it’s a fucking mess.”
I cleared my throat. “Um, sir, I don’t think I can. I have to clean here tonight, and then on Tuesdays, I go over to Rebecca’s friend’s place to clean after work. I’ve got Wednesdays set aside for you, sir.”
The cocky eighteen-year-old smirked. “Well, since I’m crashing here tonight, you can go to my place when you get done. I’ll give you the key, and when you’re finished, you can bring it back here and leave it in the mailbox. That way, if you get my place nice and clean tonight, you can have Wednesday night off. See, faggot? Ain’t I nice?”
“Um, y-yes, sir, thank you, sir.” As exhausted as I was, I realized this new edict meant I wouldn’t be getting much sleep, although I swallowed my sorrows and followed Ian into the living room, where he fell onto the couch next to Emily.
Marlene, who was relaxing on her La-Z-Boy, jerked her thumb. “Randy wants you out in the garage before you get started in here.”
“Y-yes, Ma’am.” My heart sank. I knew what was coming as I plodded through the kitchen to the garage, where Rebecca’s stepfather was hunched over the hood of his truck.
“There you are.” He straightened up and pointed with a wrench. “You need to take that steel wool over there and scrub all the gunk out of that goddamn carburetor. It’s stuck in there pretty good, but I want it done. Oh, and I spilled some oil there, so you’ll need to get that up, too.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
His lip curled. “But you know what?” He stepped forward, unzipping his jeans. “While we’re alone, we might as well make the most of it.” He nodded at my gym bag. “You got your sissy shit in there?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Well, then, hurry up and make yourself pretty, and then come give Daddy some lovin’.”
“Y-yes, sir, thank you, sir.” I wasn’t feeling very thankful, but such sucking-up was required. Literally and figuratively.
Using the compact mirror, I was able to quickly apply the face Rebecca preferred; she called it the “doll look,” with round, ridiculously rosy cheeks, ruby-red lipstick and light eyeshadow offset by dark eyeliner. After slipping on my curly “Shirley Temple” wig and donning my cleaning frock, I knelt on the concrete garage floor and looked up at Randy. He sneered, whipped out his dick and yanked my ears forward, causing me to yelp. With no regard for my comfort whatsoever, he began face-fucking me as hard as he could, his cock poking my tonsils as I gagged in rhythm with his thrusts. Through my peripheral vision I could see black tears slithering down my cheeks, and it dawned on me that I’d have to redo my makeup later — an odd thing to think about in the middle of such a terrifying oral assault.
Randy finally tensed up, wrenched my ears harder and shot his load down my throat before wiping his dick on my wig.
“Good job, sissy. Now, clean yourself up and get started on that damn carburetor.”
While Randy worked on his truck, I sat on a bench nearby, scouring the caked-on muck from the carburetor, which, as promised, was incredibly difficult to remove. The job took nearly two hours, with the final half-hour spent alone in the garage after Randy finished his tinkering and headed inside.
When the carburetor was polished to a high gloss, I fixed my makeup and teetered through the kitchen door that led to the garage. The clacking of my heels on the linoleum caused the occupants of the living room to look away from the movie they were watching.
“That carburetor all set?” Randy asked from his easy chair.
“Yes, sir, it’s clean, sir.”
“Good job, sissy, bring me a beer.” He turned back to the adventure movie blaring from the TV.
After I fetched his Corona, Marlene nodded toward the kitchen. “I want that refrigerator cleaned out real good tonight, Chrissie, and the stove, too.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Inwardly, I sighed. More work, meaning less sleep for me.
Emily hit her vaping pen and frowned. “There was a huge smudge on the heel of my red boots, Chrissie; didn’t you say you polished all my shoes last week?”
“Um, I … I did, Miss. I’m so sorry; I must’ve missed that.”
“Well, next time do it right, loser.”
“Y-yes, Miss. I’m sorry.” The bitchy 18-year-old was so haughty, it made me horny and caused my little dick to swell inside my cage — bringing excruciating pain from the needles. I managed to keep my whimper silent, having had much practice after two months of imprisonment in the dastardly device.
Other than calls for drink refills, nobody bothered me further as they got back into their movie while I scurried around them cleaning. The entire time, I was haunted by the vision of Rebecca snuggled in the arms of Tristan Fucking Huxley, whose square-jawed features had graced the cover of my industry’s largest trade publication while I toiled away in an obscure cubicle. I kept wondering how tall he was, hoping he might be a shrimp like me, but knowing in my heart that he was probably 6’4, as well as being handsome, successful and rich.
Because I’d been cleaning the Stricklands’ house weekly, there wasn’t a ton to do after finishing the stove and refrigerator, so I managed to have the whole place done shortly after their movie ended. Emily and Ian retired to her bedroom upstairs, and it wasn’t long before I could hear their groans and the bedsprings squeaking. In the household Rebecca grew up in, there was nothing unusual about an 18-year-old girl dragging her boyfriend home and loudly fucking him while her parents were right downstairs.
Nor was there anything unusual about what happened next:
I had just finished cleaning and was removing my wig, ready to change clothes and head over to Ian’s to start on his place, when Randy shook his head and pointed to the staircase.
“Uh-uh, put that wig back on; I want you in the bedroom, Chrissie.” He grinned. “You ain’t getting off that easy.”
With my head hung low, I followed him upstairs to his room, where Marlene was kicked back in bed playing a game on her iPad.
Randy joined his wife on the mattress and leered at me. “We’re gonna make this one nice and slow, okay, sissy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I fall asleep, go ahead and let yourself out.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Marlene scoffed. “I’m glad you’re here to do that, Chrissie, because there’s no way I’m gonna.”
I blinked twice to acknowledge her but by then she was focused on her tablet.
With a defeated sigh, I started sucking Randy’s dick while he relaxed next to his wife watching TV. After about an hour, both of them were snoring, so I slipped off the bed, wiped my mouth and headed downstairs to change. I drove to Ian’s apartment, where I cleaned into the night, dragging ass the whole time. The kid was a fucking slob; in addition to the place being trashed from his party, there was dogshit in the living room that had obviously sat there for days. Luckily, Ian’s pit bull Sarge was either too old or too lazy to do anything but growl when I got near him, and the beast didn’t otherwise molest me.
It was past 4 am when I finally stumbled home. My exhaustion turned to heartache when I saw no sign of Rebecca, and realized she was most likely spending the night with Mr. Wonderful.
I wobbled around the foyer for a few seconds before dashing to the bathroom. Lifting the toilet seat, I puked my guts out.
\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\//
Rebecca danced in the mirror, fluffing her hair and singing a bubbly Katy Perry tune that sounded more like a funeral dirge to me.
“Cuz baby, you're a firework / Come on, show 'em what you're worth / Make 'em go, "Oh, oh, oh" / As you shoot across the sky”
Firework, my ass, I grumbled under my breath as I sat on the carpet just outside the master bathroom polishing my angel’s flats and peeking up at her every few seconds to watch her primp. Her new boyfriend was coming over for the first time to enjoy a romantic dinner, and I had been tasked with cooking and serving it. While that made my princess happy, it sucked for me, and her cheerful warbling was only making it worse. I sure as hell wasn’t looking forward to facing this asshole, although according to Rebecca he was fascinated with her having “a little sissy slave,” and was dying to meet me.
In the week-and-a-half Rebecca had been dating Tristan Huxley, I had been on edge, and often scared to death. My mistress was in love. And this Huxley guy didn’t just have everything — he had the Super Deluxe version of everything, with extra pickles and a side of coleslaw.
Looks? He was a square-jawed movie star with piercing blue eyes, according to the dozens of pictures I’d obsessed over online since my angel had first mentioned the name Tristan Huxley.
Sex? Rebecca kept telling her friends that the man had a huge schlong and was a king in bed.
Money? After 10 years as a broker, I had managed to save close to $3 million. Huxley wiped his ass with $3 million; he probably cleared that in a month.
Gee, what else did he have that I didn’t? Rebecca’s heart? Duh. I knew that was forever off-limits to me. Oh, sure, she loved me in her own way — like a girl loves a kitten, perhaps — but I knew if I were to try to rise above my servile station and ask her to be my girlfriend again, she’d roll over laughing. No, her heart belonged to Tristan. For the past two weeks, all she’d talked about was how she was in love with this guy; how it was meant to be … that it was written in the stars. Fate. Karma. A bunch of Zodiac crap. I would smile and nod, biting back my jealous tears until bedtime, when I’d cry myself to sleep, trying my best to keep quiet by burying my face in the pillow.
Not only was Rebecca completely besotted by this asshole, but he was my professional competitor, as well — although in reality, I was no competition for Tristan B. Huxley, the Golden Boy of the stock market who took ridiculous risks and won every time.
Tristan B. Huxley had balls of steel. I had a Kevlar cock cage.
Tristan B. Fucking Huxley had me beat at everything. Well, not exactly everything. When it came to being Rebecca’s servant, nobody did it better than me. I tried to take solace in that, and reminded myself that I occupied a valued place in her life. It didn’t work.
In addition to Tristan’s physical, sexual and financial attributes, Rebecca had been gushing nonstop about his open-mindedness. Not only was he cool with her living with a sissy slave, but according to her, “he says it kind of turns him on.”
When she told me that, it made me shiver, sending my imagination spiraling into all sorts of unsavory places.
Rebecca had also told Tristan where I worked, and she informed me that he didn’t think much of my boss, Jeremy Colburn, whose grandfather had founded Colburn & Partners in the 1940s. Tristan apparently thought that Colburn was a dumbass who’d inherited everything and was fucking it up. I had to agree my boss wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, although he’d always been nice to me, and I felt miffed that an outsider was badmouthing him — especially some guy who was running circles around our company and fucking my angel.
As I sat on the carpet polishing Rebecca’s shoes, I reflected on what a long shot it was for her to have ever crossed paths with Tristan Huxley in the first place. They certainly didn’t mingle in the same circles; she hung out with the beer-and-darts Young Country barroom crowd, while, according to her, Huxley rarely went to bars, and certainly not the places Rebecca frequented. But one of his clients was the bar owner, who’d invited him over for a business lunch; she says she locked eyes with him from across the room, “and the rest is history.”
Since she’d broken the news, I’d fluctuated between jealousy and concern for my angel, being somewhat suspicious of Huxley’s motives. Rebecca wasn’t exactly “high society,” despite her natural beauty and grace, so why was a big-shot like Tristan Huxley spending so much time with a woman from the other side of the tracks who said “ain’t” all the time and couldn’t spell for shit? Was he using her just for sex? Was this asshole going to break her heart?
Those thoughts would linger for a few seconds before common sense bitch-slapped them out of existence. It was patently obvious why anyone, from the President of the United States on down, would fall head-over-heels in love with Rebecca Anne Strickland. She was the most wonderful, gorgeous, vivacious, breathtaking, beautiful woman in the world — even if she didn’t know the difference between “too,” “two” and “to.” Syntax notwithstanding, Rebecca was no dummy and certainly nobody’s fool, as anyone who ever tried to manipulate her quickly learned.
I looked up at my angel and smiled. Nah, if any hearts were going to be broken, I thought, it would be Tristan Fucking Huxley’s.
As I worked a tiny grain of glass from the sole of my mistress’s shoe, it occurred to me how it had also taken a lucky set of circumstances for she and I to have met. I’d bought a new large-screen television from Best Buy and the cashier, a gorgeous blonde, rang up the wrong price, undercharging me by almost $400. I didn’t notice the discrepancy until I got back to my car, and I went back into the store to fix it. The cashier flashed a devastating smile and told me it was nice to see that there were honest people in the world. That gave me the confidence to ask her out. She accepted. The rest is history.
When Rebecca’s shoes gleamed top to bottom and toe to sole, I knocked on the bathroom door.
“Um, Miss? I’m done with your flats.”
She continued applying eyeliner for a few minutes before glancing at me through the mirror.
“What are you doing standing there, Chrissie?”
“Um, I’m done … with these.” I presented the shoes to her, realizing she’d been too wrapped up in her thoughts to hear me the first time.
“So?” She frowned. “Put ‘em down and go do something. I don’t want you hovering around me while I’m trying to get ready — it gets on my nerves when you do that.”
“Sorry, Miss.”
“Nobody wants a sissy moping around. It’s annoying.”
“Sorry, Miss.”
“And go put on that fancy maid’s dress; I know you ain’t planning on wearing that thing when he gets here.”
“Oh, no, Miss. I was just—”
She showed me the hand. “Whatever, Chrissie. Go.”
“Sorry, Miss,” I said a third time before retreating to my bedroom to change clothes. Little Miss Priss clearly was nervous about her boyfriend coming over and was taking it out on me.
I shrugged it off. I was used to being her whipping boy.
I’d been fussing with dinner for a few minutes when the doorbell rang. When I looked in the peephole, I gasped. It was Tristan. He was a half-hour early.
Fuck.
Panic set in.
