“Whose are these, Mr Benson? You naughty man!” Hannah, my nineteen-year-old cleaner, was standing in the doorway of my lounge. She had a wry smile across her face, and her right forearm was pointing upwards, as was the index finger of her right hand. And dangling from the end of that finger was a pair of pale-yellow panties. “They were under the bed,” she explained, “showing I do clean under there, despite what you might think!” She cheekily stuck her tongue out at me and then gave me one of her cute smiles.

Why do I put up with her? Because I'm besotted with her, that's why. She was exactly the sort of young woman that I fantasised might dominate and control me. Her appearance, her directness and her assertiveness fitted the vision I had in my mind of a young dominatrix. But, deep down, I knew it was never going to happen, not least because I was too shy and timid to humiliate myself in front of a woman. It was just a fantasy that existed in my mind, but a man can dream.

But, at that moment, domination was far from my mind. I felt my face flushing at what she was holding. “Er... they're not mine,” I stuttered.

She broke out laughing. “Obviously, they can't be yours. They belong to a woman, you silly man! Hasn't she missed them? Did she go home commando?”

“Erm... yes, I suppose she must be missing them,” I lamely replied. “I must return them... when I... when I see her next.”

“What's her name, Mr Benson?”

Why was she asking me these questions? She needed to shut up and get on with the cleaning.

“Who is she? Hmm?” she asked, not giving up her search for an answer. Why did she need to know?

“Erm... she's... er... called Han—no! Sorry! I mean, she's Angela!” I was getting flustered.

“You don't seem certain, Mr Benson. I thought for a moment you were going to say they were mine!” She laughed while I went a deeper shade of red. “I do wear something like these, you know.”

Yes, I did know—sort of. They were in a bikini style, and often, when Hannah had been bending over dusting, I would surreptitiously stare at her bottom and at the outline of her panties, which told me that she favoured that design. I felt my penis stiffen. "Get a grip," I told myself! You can't allow yourself to become erect in front of this young woman.

“How old is she, Mr Benson?” Hannah asked, snapping me out of my daydream. “These are really sexy, so I think someone a lot younger than you would be wearing these.” She now had the knickers stretched out for closer examination.

“What do you mean? I wasn't wearing them!” I laughed, unconvincingly.

“I didn't say you were! You've told me they were Angela's... Didn't you?” Her smile had been replaced by an expression of curiosity. Did she suspect something?

“Look, Hannah, please, I need to get on. I'm very busy this morning.”

“Yes, I can see that there's a lot to read in that newspaper,” she sniggered.

I dropped the paper onto the floor. “I... I need to know what's going on in the world,” I mumbled.

“I'm keener to know what's been going on in your bedroom,” she giggled.

I should have told her it was none of her damn business, and she needed to resume work. Or I should have fired her for impertinence. But this is 2026, and young people are much more outgoing and direct than they were when I was her age. My own daughter, the same age as Hannah, was just the same. They say what's on their minds, no holds barred, and when it came to outspokenness Hannah was top of the league. But, as I've already alluded to, the real reason I didn't wish to dispense with her services was that I held this image of sexually submitting to her while she humiliated me. When I masturbated, it was Hannah who occupied my thoughts.

She was slim, with a sweet smile, blonde hair, pert breasts and a shapely bum. A few months earlier, when I was seeking a cleaner to come in every Saturday, I'd been smitten by her beauty and personality, and I'd offered her the job on the spot. She was a student at the local university and needed parttime work to help pay her tuition fees and living expenses. I should have checked her references, but I didn't. I just wanted her to be in my house—I wanted to engage with her and fantasise about her, despite knowing that she would have no sexual interest in me, what with the age gap.

I quickly discovered she was a poor cleaner, spending much of the time on her phone and the rest doing a half-hearted job. During her first couple of visits, I had tactfully tried pointing out areas she had missed with the dusting or explaining how she needed to move the furniture when vacuuming, but it all fell on deaf ears, and I saw no improvements. She had quickly detected my meekness, and she sussed that I was attracted to her, although she didn't know the true reasons.

On her third visit, she audaciously asked for a substantial pay rise, which I agreed to without setting any conditions. That was the point where she must have known beyond all doubt that she would never get fired. She had a Saturday job for as long as she wanted, no matter how inadequately she performed—or how cheeky she was.

I was miles away with my thoughts, but she brought me back to the real world. “Am I embarrassing you, Mr Benson?” she queried with a smile. She tossed the panties over to me, and I grabbed them mid-air.

“One of us has work to do, so I must carry on,” she concluded, before disappearing into the hallway, probably to fiddle with her phone.

I was going to have to be more careful, and I kept out of her way for the rest of the morning, whereas usually I liked to follow her around, on various pretexts, none of which was especially convincing, not that she ever objected.

oooOOooo

The next Saturday she was back again, dressed as she usually was in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, with a bare midriff. Through her top I could make out the outline of a white bra, but I forced myself not to stare—after all, there would be opportunities during the morning to covertly observe her while her eyes were focussed elsewhere—on her phone, most likely!

“Have you still got those panties, Mr Benson?” she enquired, after a while, as she haphazardly polished a mirror, noticeably missing the corners.

I faked surprise. “Er... what? What are you talking about... Oh... oh, you mean those belonging to... er... Angela? No, I've given them back.” I thought I'd handled that quite well, but she turned to look at me with raised eyebrows. A glint in her eyes told me she had grasped I was lying.

“Oh!” she ambiguously concluded, leaving me mentally scratching my head looking for insight into that word.

“Obviously, I've given them back. I wouldn't want to keep them, would I? They're no use to me,” I laughed, my face reddening.

“Hmm?” she cryptically replied. “Do you know what I'm studying at uni, Mr Benson?”

“Er... no, I don't think you told me.”

“Psychology. It's the study of the mind and human behaviour.”

“Yes, I do know what psychology is, Hannah! I'm not stupid!”

She smirked at me, as if to say she thought I was very stupid. “My last module was on sexual deviancy, Mr Benson.”

“What?! Why are you telling me this, Hannah?”

“It was fascinating, that's why. Did you know there are men who wear female underwear?”

I felt my face burning up. What had she discovered? “Yes, I've heard of that. It's repulsive!” I shook my head, feigning disgust, causing her to grin. “They must have mental health issues, Hannah.”

“Don't say that, Mr Benson! It's a harmless fetish. I have to do a dissertation next term, and I'm thinking of doing it on men who wear knickers. Is that a good idea, Mr Benson? I'm dead keen to explore why men want to wear female undies. What's the psychology that's makes them want to do it?”

“Er... it seems a ridiculous topic for a dissertation. You should choose something more sensible. And... and, look at the time, shouldn't you be getting on with the cleaning, Hannah?”

She laughed, ignoring my request. “I bet you're wearing panties now, Mr Benson. Am I right? Admit it! It's nothing to be ashamed of. I honestly won't laugh.”

“What?! Of course I'm not wearing panties! Why do you suggest such a crazy thing?” I gasped.

“Because I looked through the drawers in your bedroom. There were hardly any boxers but countless pairs of knickers. And, oddly, there was a pale-yellow pair of panties exactly like those that belonged to... er... what was her name? Angela! Same size, same design, same label... What an amazing coincidence!” She could barely contain her excitement.

I was stunned, and it took me several seconds to absorb what she was saying. “You... you... shouldn't be looking through my private stuff. Are... are you trying to blackmail me?”

“No! I'm not, honestly, I'm not. But it fascinates me that you have this bent for lingerie, Mr Benson. I want to figure out why.”

“They're trophies, that's all!” I loudly exclaimed, without thinking how stupid I sounded.

Sure enough, she laughed loudly. “Trophies? Stop being so silly!” She shook her head in disbelief. “No! You get off wearing panties, don't you? Be honest and open up.”

“Stop talking nonsense! I don't—”

“I bet £5 that you're wearing panties now, Mr Benson. I bet you wear them every Saturday when I come to clean. I bet you only wear the boxers to the office.”

“No! Why would I want to wear panties?”

“A lot of men do, Mr Benson. There's nothing wrong with it. I'll tell you what, if you can prove you're not wearing panties, then you don't need to pay me today.”

“I'm inclined not to pay you anyway, as you don't do any damn work!” I retorted, with mounting anger.

“Oh, that's unkind, Mr Benson. That's a nasty thing to say! Look, this mirror is sparklingly clean.” She gave me one of her sweet smiles, while my eyes were focussed on the smears she'd left in the corners. “But if you show me you're not wearing panties then you get your way, and you don't pay me.”

I shook my head from fear of embarrassing myself, forcing her to up the ante.

“If I show you what I'm wearing, will you show me what you're wearing? Is that a deal? You want to know what I'm wearing, don't you? Any man would. Colour? Style? Material? Hmm?”

“No!”

“You're getting a stiffy, aren't you?” She pointed down at my groin. I didn't need to look because I could feel my penis growing erect and pushing against my trousers. Should I drop my defences and submit to her? Perhaps she could make my dream of domination come true. But, equally, I might just become a laughingstock. Yes, that was the more likely outcome.

“This lunacy has gone too far, Hannah! I'm not putting up with your rudeness any longer. Leave now and never come back. You're fired. Get out!” I blustered. “Go, for God's sake!”

She completely ignored me. “I'm wearing pink, Mr Benson. You want to see them, I'm sure you do.”

Of course, I wanted to see! But I wasn't keen to reciprocate.

She seized the initiative. “Look here!” she directed. Seductively, she undid the top button of her jeans and then slowly slid the zip halfway down, revealing a small triangle of pink. Then she paused and stared at me. I glanced down at the revelation and felt my penis stiffening further.

“Now, you do the same, Mr Benson, show me the colour. Then, I'll pull my jeans down for the full reveal. You want to see them in their entirety, don't you? Admit you do. What man wouldn't?” She sensually licked her upper lip, well aware of the effect it would have on me.

I was getting increasingly aroused by her flirting and teasing, but was this tomfoolery sensible? The brain in my head was saying, no, this is bloody stupid, while the brain in my groin was telling me to get a move on. My second brain won—I tore down the zip of my trousers, and I was powerless to stop my erection pushing the fabric of my panties indecently through my open flies.

She smiled alluringly. “Pale blue satin, Mr Benson. Very becoming...” As she said it, she yanked on her jeans which slipped further down, fulfilling her side of the bargain. She was wearing lacy pink panties. They were so sexy, made more so by the way they clung to her slim hips. And was that a shadow I could detect, or was she becoming damp?

“Come on,” she urged. Despite being highly aroused, I was still embarrassed at the prospect of fully revealing what I was wearing. But it was too late to back down. I'd already given too much away, so I gently pulled my trousers down exposing my panties, which, as well as having a satin front panel, had delicate lace around the edges and were cut in a skimpy, bikini fashion.

“Wow!” she exclaimed. “I wish I could afford those! A pity about the stiffy, though. Ugh!” She pulled a face, and justifiably so, as the head of my penis was now protruding obscenely over the waistband of my panties.

oooOOooo

For several seconds, though it seemed like minutes, we stood facing one another. In contrast to my acute discomfiture, she was relaxed and enjoying herself. There was no sign of her face flushing, while mine must have been scarlet.

What had I been thinking engaging in these shenanigans with a girl the age of my daughter?! I reached down to pull up my jeans. “No! Leave them!” she sharply commanded. “Step out of them—now!”

Her tone had changed. Gone were the gentle ribbing and the flirting, replaced by a much sterner voice—a voice that oozed authority and brooked no dissent. My erection hardened further and I felt a compulsion to obey. My dream of female domination might be coming true, but, in real life, could I cope, or was it simply a fantasy?

Wondering if I was doing the right thing, I completely removed my trousers. As I did so, she pulled up her jeans and did up the zip. She had created a power imbalance. I was still her employer, but she had taken charge. I looked at her, wondering what her next move would be. And still I had a pounding erection.

Belatedly, my upper brain had second doubts, telling me I was making a total fool of myself, so I bent down to grab my trousers. “No! I have not said you can do that, Mr Benson,” she explained. She spoke quietly, but authoritatively. I stood up straight again, having been put in my place.

She stared at me thoughtfully for a few seconds. “This is really interesting, Mr Benson. In my studies, I've learnt there are men who feel compelled to submit to the commands of a woman. They do so without question, like a slave would. Do you feel the need to submit to me?”

Clearly, I did, but what was the correct response? “Er...” I mumbled.

She grinned. “You hesitated! So, yes, you do!” I gulped and nodded in agreement.

“It's nothing to be ashamed of, Mr Benson. I learnt that some men are naturally submissive towards women—or at least towards women for whom they feel a sexual attraction. That's you, Mr Benson, isn't it? You find me attractive, don't you? Sexually attractive?”

I shook my head wildly. “You're... you're the same age as my daughter, Hannah!”

“So?”

I paused, aware she was backing me into a corner. No man would not find her sexually attractive. Breathing heavily, I simply nodded my agreement.

“And you have an undeniable urge to submit to me, don't you? To humiliate yourself in front of me?”

Yes, she was spot on with her diagnosis, but I didn't wish to admit it. “No! You're wrong, Hannah.”

“No, I'm not wrong, Mr Benson... you know I'm not wrong. Stop panicking. I promise you I'm not blackmailing you—I just want some fun, and you can have some too. We can have fun together while I gather material for my dissertation, which I've now decided is about male submissive tendencies.”

“No, I'm not subm—”

“You have five seconds to get on your knees!” she ordered, glowering at me. “Five... four... three...”

My penis gave a twitch in response to how she was talking to me, and I dropped down. “That wasn't so difficult, was it, Mr Benson?” she remarked, sarcastically.

I stayed quiet, too humiliated to reply. “Put your hands on your head and then admit that you're submissive!”

My penis gave another jerk, and I followed her instructions. Kneeling in front of her with my hands flat on the head there was really no need for me to verbally agree with her. Actions speak louder than words. But she started another countdown. “Five... four... three—”

“Yes!” I interrupted. “Yes, I'm submissive towards women, Hannah.”

“Miss Hannah!”

“Sorry, Miss Hannah.”

She sat down on my favourite armchair. “Come over to me, on your knees. Keep your hands on your head.”

I wobbled over to her, and I could see she was pleased with my obedience. Then, she reached forward, pulled down my knickers and started furiously stroking my cock. It took no time at all before I reached the point of no return. She sensed it as accurately as I did, and she instantly stopped her rubbing. Instead of the immense climax I was expecting—that I was hoping for—instead my jism dribbled out while my penis quivered in search of stimulation. She had delivered a ruined orgasm, and very unsatisfying it was.

I stared at her. My libido had nose-dived, I was no longer as submissive as I had been a minute earlier, yet I had crossed a threshold from which I could not return. It was pointless me uttering any further denials. And she understood my situation perfectly!

“Well, Mr Benson, you're going to provide me with a wealth of material for my dissertation, aren't you?” she smiled. It wasn't a malicious smile, but it was one that told me she was now in charge.

“You'd best clean up your mess,” she explained, pointing unnecessarily to my spunk which had trickled down on to the carpet. “And then you can clean the bathroom and do the vacuuming. I need to make some notes.”

I had lost the ability to speak—my throat was too dry, but I meekly nodded.

“And I'll be checking whether you've done a proper job, Mr Benson. I've learnt that some men serve strict mistresses who punish them when they fail to meet expectations. Hmm? I'm sure I've lots more to discover about you, Mr Benson.”

I looked at her, open-mouthed.

“Stop doing an impression of a goldfish! Pull your panties up! ... No! Keep your trousers off... Get cleaning!” she commanded, leaning back in my comfy armchair, phone in hand.

She had taken over, and I was now to be the cleaner and she the boss. But I felt driven to obey, wondering what lay in store.

THE END