aoififi:controlandsurrender:There’s not much to her uniform, but she’s not much of a maid. Which is
aoififi:controlandsurrender:There’s not much to her uniform, but she’s not much of a maid. Which isn’t to say she doesn’t have her uses around the house.My job? I’m beginning to think my job is just to be a decoration. A toy. A pretty doll to watch, touch, fuck. Certainly, it’s not to be taken seriously - I can tell you that much. Sir has made that all but impossible, has driven home what I am now. My outfit changes, but never strays from the theme. He chooses based on what he thinks will humiliate me the most. Some days I’m wearing nothing but skimpy lingerie, gloves, a little apron. Some days I’m wearing a full, ridiculous uniform, with layer upon layer of noisy petticoats. Some days I’m wearing nothing - just a collar, a cap, heels. But always, always am I aware of what I am - of what he made me.I’ve learned to prance and strut just like he likes. To bend just like he likes. To look up him while sucking his cock just like he likes. To moan and whimper just like he likes. To answer just like he likes. Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. He’s been ‘Sir’ for so long that hearing him respond to any other name is strange to me. I can’t bring myself to call him anything else, or think of him as anyone else, anymore. Sure, I’ve tried, but after the croppings, the whippings, the spankings, the gags, I’ve learned that Sir is Sir, and I am…I am whatever Sir decides I am. Again, it changes at his whim. He’s fond of inventing ‘maid names’ - Fifi, Coco, and so on, but just as often he tells me my name is simply ‘Maid.’ Or, more likely, just ‘Slut’ - ‘Sir’s Slut,’ if asked. And I answer. Every time, I answer. Maybe I could put a stop to this. Maybe I could walk out the front door, when I’m not leashed or tied down. Maybe I could escape my ‘Master’ and his degradations. But every time I try, I hesitate. Every time, he’s there, smiling calmly, watching me squirm before ushering me back to my duties with a pat on the ass.Maybe this is my life now. Maybe the old, strong, independent me has been buried under layer after layer of training. Maybe all that’s left is a pretty decoration. A toy for the enjoyment of real people. A doll that plays at being a maid, before being put to better use. That’s what Sir says, at least. And I am… I am whatever Sir decides I am. -- source link