Figure of Eight Club

The voice of The Marquise drilled straight to my core. Through instinct born of her long and arduous training, my knees buckled and I prostrated myself at her Gucci-clad feet. Her shining heels threatened to overcome all before them. My Mistress's slim yet curvaceous form towered over my trembling body. Her fitted Edwardian dress of the rarest black silk did little to conceal the powerful femininity which had reduced me to this state of abasement. Immediately my cock started to throb and I began to worry she would see and realise just what filthy thoughts were stirring within my imagination. I knew it was not my place to think of Her in this manner and yet I was caught helplessly somewhere between my libido and her torturous beauty.

I tenderly kissed her elegantly shod feet. It briefly occurred to me that at one time I would have hoped this was merely a prelude to rather more intimate caresses. Now, of course, I counted myself extremely fortunate to be allowed even this brief contact with The Marquise.

"Well, for The Goddess's sake, stop acting so jumpy! When I ask you a question, you answer. You're as nervous as if I was going to slap you across the face just for answering. Get one thing clear: if I choose to discipline you, I will. Understand? So relax and concentrate on serving us to the best of your abilities. If you do that, I won't need to beat you. There may even be some rewards if you please us."

It was this "us" that worried me. I had grown accustomed to serving my Mistress: it seemed the most normal, even fulfilling, thing in the world for me to cater to her every whim, no matter how petty her instructions would initially seem to such an unimaginative creature as he now grovelling before her. Of course, in time I had learnt that nothing The Marquise did or said was without thought: by giving me the most banal of tasks she had successfully reinforced my status as her lackey. Had she always given me tasks of some importance, I may well have begun thinking I was invaluable, indispensable. And what male could possibly be that to one so fine as my Mistress?

"Stop dreaming. You are annoying me now. Your nervousness will affect the relaxed ambience of the evening. Nothing can be allowed to do that. You are not a schoolboy who has been sent to the Headmistress's office. You came here by choice. You have been carefully vetted for your skills. Have some confidence in yourself; we certainly have to approve you. Don't insult me by performing below par, thus implying I have made a mistake. On no account let me down in front of the others. You are here on my personal recommendation."

This gave me just enough self-confidence to believe that i could be of some use to The Marquise. Her training had tutored my male ego out of me, but she always managed to give me just the right amount of encouragement to achieve whatever she wanted me to do, whilst still leaving me in no doubt as to the servile nature of my place in her world.

"Would it help if I told you that the first time you come here some anxiety is normal, and that eventually you will crave to be allowed to wait on us? You have no idea how tangled you are in my web. If my good judgement on this occasion has failed me, that is your problem, as we can choose from a phalanx of slaves who yearn to serve us here at The Figure of Eight Club. Practise telling us what your name is."

"My name is Stephanie," I said. "It is my pleasure to serve you, ladies. I exist only to do your bidding and learn the lessons that in your wisdom you give me."

"Very good. We prefer slaves to serve us in a French maid's outfit, whether they like it or not. Some submissives put their uniforms on compliantly. But some let their male egos get the better of them. You know what happens to them? They are punished in the worst possible way. Which reminds me. my little pet. It's my responsibility to make sure you are dressed properly to perform your duties tonight. So get your work costume off and I will help you into your real clothes, the clothes that truly fit you, your sissy maid uniform. Strip."

I began to peel away the protective layers of my day costume. I had ceased some time ago to think of my male clothes as anything more than this. A costume as ridiculous as that of the sheep I had played many years ago in my school Nativity play. Somehow, that now seemed, if not exactly poignant, then certainly appropriate. As I stripped, her steely tones sheared my masculine pride.

"I know the truth about you. You hate wearing those nasty masculine clothes, don't you? Deep down inside what you were born to wear was silk and lace. So stop fumbling around and take those silly clothes off."

Shame washed over me. My Mistress, as ever, saw straight through my social defences. She unerringly saw to the heart of me. The very centre of my humiliation. I had always been such a private person, how could she know so much about me? It had been such a long time since I had served other women. I had grown accustomed to the capricious desires of my Mistress, and considered I had improved immeasurably under her stern discipline. But this was different; it was like admitting my slave nature all over again. To strangers. The old fear of being taken to new and different places was rising within me once again. How would I be able to adapt to the varying tastes of the other women? I resolved to make my beloved Mistress proud of her slave. At all costs. My humiliation at her hands was a small price to pay for a glimpse of that satisfaction flitting across her cruelly perfect face. Of course, I had no idea what was in store for me.

"Hesitating, how absurd....are you ashamed of something?"

I quickly pulled of my pants and dropped to my knees.

"The fact that I'm making you kneel naked before me so I can collar you? Laughable. I'm not at all interested in your nakedness in the way your sordid little mind thinks. This has no relevance to what is laughably known as your penis. I don't fancy you, you absurd little man. When I take a paramour, I date a real man, and we know, because we know all about you, that you just don't measure up. We laughed so much at the photo in your file of your tiny cock. Your dossier makes interesting reading: the rise in your career can't be disputed but other areas don't measure up, do they?"

I remained silent for a moment, unable to argue, but also reluctant to agree to such painful words. The Marquise's leather-clad fist grabbed my hair and twisted hard. I grunted in surprise as much as pain. She relaxed her grip. The pain had made me look up for a moment and take in the long hand-made opera gloves which graced Her arms. The leather skin made her seem invincible, untouchable.

The light filtering into the large room through heavy drapes cast her in deep shadow and contrasting dazzling sunlight. She was, and always would be, a creature of such exquisite mystery as to render me speechless.

The toe of her boot played dangerously with my cock and balls; a gesture which appeared almost absent-minded in its casual nature. A shudder passed through me, paralysing my thoughts, rooting me to the here and now.

"Look how minute that thing is! It would be almost cute if it didn't hang limply down like a worthless worm! It's not a penis at all, is it?"

"No, Ma'am," I replied. This time there was no hesitation: I was well aware that with the minimum of movement she could bring her full weight down on my feeble manhood. I would strive to give her no reason to do so. Not that there were ever any guarantees of course....

"It's more like a clitoris. That's what you've got between your legs.. It confirms what I've thought about you all along. You're not really a man at all, are you? It will be easy to view your tiny cock as a clit. No nasty bulges to disturb the line in your panties."

To my embarrassment, this talk was making my little cock, my clitoris, swell once again. I tried to hide this, to think of something to drive these thoughts out of my mind, but it was no use. Her voice pierced all my defences and gave me no choice but to accept that the only control I could ever rely on was hers.

"You have to play-act all week long, pretending you're a man. You're on automatic pilot being someone who makes decisions and likes a drink with his pals, when the truth is you're just a prissy little sissy. Aren't you?"

"Yes, Mistress." I longed to throw myself down and lap at her feet. To prove myself a man just this once - that is, if I could remember what that entailed.

"You'd rather be taken out shopping for lingerie than be in a locker room, wouldn't you? I am not surprised. You couldn't get this puny prick out there! You'd be a laughing stock."

"Please, Mistress," I gasped, her words hurting me with unerring precision, deflating my manhood, annihilating whatever was left of my ego.

"Poor you! Crushed by my teasing and your mind rebelling against the indignity. Might as well get used to it, as the others will give you the same treatment. We are here to advance ourselves, not you."

Again this reminder of the evening to come. Who were these other women she spoke of? Would they ignore me? Laugh at me? Tease or torture me? I had heard their names many times and even heard their voices briefly when answering my Mistress's phone to them. Mistress Isabel, Princess Midnight and the one I feared most, Mistress Cila. I took a deep breath and realised I simply had to rely on The Marquise's judgement to protect me from real harm. This provided some solace but not quite enough to take the knot out of my stomach.

"Still, as a maid you might be able to please us. It's time I put you into your uniform for the evening. Look at the pretty panties I got for you. They're soft and silky with the cutest little lace trim around the leg and waist bands. Now stand up and lift your legs one at a time so I can put you into your panties."

Burning with shame and humiliation, head hung low, I lifted my leg. I felt like an animal. She tapped my knee impatiently indicating I should lift higher, before slipping first one foot and then the other into my black silken panties with their white lace edging. For a moment I caught myself wishing that my new underwear was as classically stylish as my Mistress's. What kind of thought was that for any self-respecting male to find himself contemplating? As fast as I thought it, I realised that the cheaper, rather more gauche panties I now found myself wearing were far more appropriate for a maid.

"That's the sissy. There. You look so precious in your panties! Turn around so I can give you a little pat on that cherubic behind of yours. Here's a butt plug to remind you of your place in our world."

Before I had time to think, The Marquise had deftly separated my cheeks and slid the plug deep inside me. With shame, I realised that her training had made me so loose that this time she hadn't even needed to lubricate me. Even the brief moment of pain had become something I no longer thought twice about. As the panties snapped back into place around my buttocks, I realised this plug was inserted for the evening. I felt like a stuck pig, with this over-sized phallus filling me deep inside. It was as if my Mistress had effortlessly turned me inside out. Worse, if my cock was to be believed, and it has never lied before, I loved it.

"This group is a glimpse of the emerging female power. It won't be fully realised in our lifetime but it will happen. You are privileged to see this early stage of its evolution. You have our respect in that you want to be part of our movement. You know that there is no point in fighting the inevitable."

"Yes, ma'am," I gasped, as the plug settled inside me. Next came the stockings. She rolled the sheer black nylon up my legs. My cock raged, watching my Mistress's red nails delicately smoothe the nylon across my skin. I looked alarmingly female. The Marquise raised my hands over my head before pulling a tight-fitting black satin maid costume down over my chest. She smoothed it out around my hips and patted my ass again. I could tell she was pleased with her work: I looked quite as foolish and pathetic as she had anticipated. The only thing amiss was the small bulge in the front of my short skirt. "I bet all this reminds you of that time when you were a little boy and mummy caught you trying to use a pillowcase as a skirt. Remember? Do you recall how you felt, lying there, trying to cover your little privates, while your mother made a hasty retreat? What she should have said was sneaky little sissies deserve to be spanked; even though she didn't say it, you know you deserved a good paddling over the knee. I'll bet you also remember what you did afterwards, when she told you to say your prayers and go to sleep: you continued to climb into the pillowcase and imagine it was a skirt and then like the little slut you are you did a very naughty thing, didn't you?"

It was a rhetorical question but The Marquise waited for my answer, placing a pair of black patent heels in front of me and gesturing for me to step into them.

"Yes, Mistress." I hung my head and stepped into the shoes. As I concentrated on balancing, I couldn't help but notice how they improved the line of my calves. She pointed to the floor at her feet and obediently I resumed my position on my knees.

"Even as a child you knew you were destined to be a ladies' maid, didn't you? That pillowcase does indicate a certain insight into your future...... orientation. Doesn't it, Stephanie?"

I told her that anecdote some time ago, never dreaming she would use it to subjugate further my manhood to her will. These memories, these moments of cheap epiphany, were hers now. No longer did I have private thoughts to muse over. My own past was reflected back through my Mistress's harsh words. It didn't look good from where I was kneeling. And she knew this.

"Well! We will not tolerate any sluttishness this evening. You will be on your best behaviour. Those pristine panties had better stay clean all evening while you are serving my dominant friends and me. We have important issues to discuss. Here is the agenda which you will read out. Six areas of discussion.. Read them in a falsetto voice. Try it out now."

The Marquise placed a beautifully calligraphed page under my nose. I swallowed and put on the ridiculous high-pitched voice that she often bade me use to amuse her. Only last week, in the office, I had found myself inadvertently beginning to address a colleague in this manner. She had looked quizzically at me for a moment before I managed to cover things up with a manly cough and continue in my normal voice.

My falsetto rang out: "Items on the agenda are ASS WORSHIP, BOOTKISSING, CHASTITY, CUCKOLDRY, OBEDIENCE TRAINING and GODDESS WORSHIP."

"Good." She patted me on the head. "In fact, just to make sure that we are able to discuss such important subjects while you take the minutes and scurry around filling our glasses, I will permit you to get rid of all that nasty sissy goo for me."

I glanced up at her, unsure quite what to do. Her face was completely composed as she gently placed her foot on my testicles and began to shift her weight.

"Right now."

I grabbed my cock and began to caress the tip before she changed her mind.

"Wank for me, so you can concentrate on your secretarial and serving duties without any of your selfish male tendencies getting in the way. Use the hand other than the usual one, and stick the finger of that hand up your ass."

The combination of her instructions and the stimulation that was taking over my mind, made me slow to cum. Again a little more weight came down on my balls.

"You heard what I said, you wimp! What a simpering, mincing little slut you are. And don't you dare get any on those knickers."

I pushed my finger under my skirt and panties and hard up against the butt plug resting inside me. As I pushed against the plug I could feel myself desperate to climax. My clitty was so hard as it was a rare thing for my Mistress to let me cum. I knew she never did it without good reason. And reason was exactly what was deserting me right now in a flush of sexual ecstasy.

And then from somewhere distant I heard the sound of the doorbell ring.

Marquise