We met on a hot summer afternoon at the Frick museum. It was all but deserted, and after wandering around for a while, I sat down on a bench in front of a huge Fragonard. While I was surrendering to the cool lush pastels and grandeur of the painting, a woman sat down beside me.
She was wearing a dark gray skirt and a white chiffon blouse sheer enough to show off the lacy cups of her white brassiere. She had her hair gathered into a loose coil at her neck. Her legs were long and elegant, and the hands resting calmly in her lap were tipped with manicured red nails.
There was something in her manner, some quality of self containment, that at once intimidated me and turned me on. I was in a horny, antsy mood, partly because of the languorous heat and partly because I hadn’t masturbated in a week or more. In any case, a little glow of desire started seeping into my belly.
The room we were sitting in was quiet and empty, and the silence between us began to seem strained. Perhaps she felt it too, because she suddenly smiled at me and made a comment about the Fragonard. I stammered out some sort of response and, the ice broken, we introduced ourselves and spent the next few minutes idly talking. A small smile kept tugging at her lips, and she kept her limpid brown eyes fixed on me with an intensity I found unnerving. I had the uncanny feeling that I was transparent to her made of glass, with nothing whatsoever hidden from her knowing gaze.
Finally Martine glanced at her watch, then opened her purse and took out a pair of sunglasses. If she’d left at that moment, I would have forgotten about her soon enough. But just before standing up, she casually pulled her skirt hem up to mid thigh and undid the snaps of her garter belt. Extending one leg, then the other, she tugged up her stockings, once again fixing each with the tabs.
The whole incident couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds. But by adjusting her stockings like that, showing me the length of her legs and the fullness of her thigh, she’d created a charged intimacy between us. The fact that she’d done it in a public place only increased my excitement, and I could feel my cunt melting in my panties.
Taking out a pen and paper, she wrote down her phone number and handed it to me. “I’m free on Sundays,” she said. “Give me a call if you like.” Before I could respond, she gathered up her things and walked briskly out of the room. I sat there frozen, listening to the click of her heels diminishing in the empty room. When the sound vanished, I looked down at the paper in my hand and blinked my eyes a few times. Something had happened something unspoken had passed between us. But it was all done so adroitly that I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it or not.
Feeling jangled and confused, I left the museum and walked across the park to my West Side apartment. As soon as I got inside and closed the door, I sat down on the floor and lifted my dress, then put my hand down my panties and ran two fingers into my buttery vagina. While I leaned back against the wall with my eyes half closed and my lips parted, I thought about the way Martine had pulled up her skirt and fixed her stockings. In my mind, I once again watched her extend one leg and point the toe of her black pump. Remembering the slight hissing sound her hands made as they moved along her stocking, my cunt tightened and I came immediately.
By Sunday, I was desperate to see her. Smoking one cigarette after another, I finally worked up my nerve and called her around noon. She was pleased to hear from me, and after we had talked for a moment, she suggested I come to her apartment right away. Nervous as a cat, I hurried out the door.
Martine lived on the ground floor of a brownstone near Gramercy Park. She met me at the door of her apartment, her dark hair pinned on top of her head and a fleecy white towel wrapped around her torso. Barelegged and without any makeup, she looked softer, less imposing. I realized with a slight shock that we were about the same height. Somehow, I seemed to remember her as taller, more angular not as she appeared now.
“I was just running a bath,” she smiled. Closing the door, she took my hand and led me through an airy white living room and into her bedroom. Pointing at a dress box lying on the bed, she said: “That’s for you. Try it on while I bathe.”
Without any further explanation, she walked down the hall and into the bathroom. She kept the door open, and I could hear her stepping into the tub and easing herself into the water. Thoroughly mystified, I put down my backpack and opened the elegant box. Beneath a layer of tissue paper was a starched French maid’s uniform black, with a frilly white collar and a matching white apron. I lifted the dress and held it up at arm’s length. My heart started hammering, and part of me was astonished and angry.
But the deeper, truer part of me was terribly excited. She knew who I was knew me more completely than I knew myself. After hesitating for a moment, I nervously stripped my pink nipples had gone erect and I was embarrassingly wet between the legs.
Moving in a daze, I picked up the maid’s dress and pulled it over my head, then reached behind me and fastened the back. I tied the stiff white apron around my waist, took off my sandals and went over to a full length mirror on the door. The hem of the skirt was extremely high just a few inches below my cunt and when I turned and bent over slightly, most of my ass was exposed. Straightening up again, I looked into my reflected face and flushed beet red.
Before the blush had faded from my cheeks, Martine called and told me to come into the bathroom so she could take a look. I was dizzy with excitement as I went down the hall. Stepping into the open doorway, I felt as if I were standing on a high and dangerous ledge.
Martine was reclining in an old fashioned tub that stood on four metal claws at the far end of the bathroom. A few strands of her pinned up hair had come loose and were dangling in wisps around her face. She was wearing a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and holding a paperback book in her hand. My cunt contracted at the sight of her beautiful breasts. She reminded me of one of the classic paintings by Degas of beautiful women at toilet.
At the sound of my step, Martine put down her book and looked at me over the top of her glasses. Her eyes had a triumphant gleam, and after a moment she nodded in approval. Glancing down at my bare feet, she told me to stand on my toes, so she could see how I’d look in heels. I put one hand on the doorknob and lifted myself onto my toes. I could feel the muscles in my thighs trembling as she ran her eyes up and down my legs.
“You’ll have to bring proper heels next time,” she said.
Her saying “next time” casually, as if she already owned me made my heart leap up, and I felt myself blushing again. I wasn’t sure what she wanted me to do, so I stood there frozen while she picked up her book and began reading. The seconds stretched into a minute, then two. Martine turned the page of her book, now and then shifting her body slightly, so that the water lapped against the tub and her breasts bobbed.
I realized she was testing me, to see how long I’d stand there on my toes. Determined to pass the test, I breathed carefully through my parted lips and tried to keep still. I had my knees close together, and I could feel how sticky my pussy had become. Finally, after about five minutes of silence, I threw a quick glance down at my legs.
With the acuity of a mind reader, Martine looked over at me. “Are you wet?” she asked softly.
When I nodded dumbly, she gave me a thin smile and beckoned me over to the tub. She put her hand beneath my dress and pressed her fingers against my slit, wiggling them slightly so that the petals of my pussy opened up. When the tips of her fingers slid inside me, I whimpered with pleasure and tightened my cunt muscles.
“Don’t come,” she warned me. I closed my eyes and bit my lower lip. She had two and then three fingers sliding in and out of my vagina, and I could feel sweat break out on my forehead as I struggled to suppress my climax. “Stay up on those toes and don’t come,” she said again, and she kept repeating this while she ran her fingers in and out of my cunt.
Martine had begun to pant a little. Opening my eyes slightly, I could see that she was fingering herself and at the same time she was fingering me. She had her head thrown back and her knees were wide apart, with her hand making a busy flurry between her legs. When she was too hot to concentrate on me anymore, she buried three fingers in my pussy and let out a throaty cry and went over the edge.
She rested for a moment, breathing peacefully with her eyes closed and the fingers of her right hand still impaling me. I was quivering all over, and my own orgasm kept rising up and threatening to overpower me. Finally Martine took her fingers out of my slit and in a dreamy voice told me to go into the bedroom and wait for her. I was so near coming that I could hardly walk, and when I got into the other room, I sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to calm myself.
When Martine walked into the bedroom, she was naked, rubbing lotion onto her arms. I noticed for the first time that her cunt was clean shaven, with dark pink lips much larger than mine. When I lifted my eyes to her face, I could see that she was annoyed because I was sitting down. Flushing with embarrassment, I quickly jumped to my feet.
Without speaking, she went over to her dressing table and took out her hairpins, then indicated that I should start brushing her shiny chestnut hair. The brisk movement set her breasts in motion, and her brown nipples became erect. My own nipples were tingling from the crinkly material of my starched dress. While I stood there brushing her hair, Martine quietly told me what our “arrangement,” as she put it, would entail.
She expected me to show up at he apartment each Sunday at noon. I’d clean house and act as her personal maid. If it suited her, she said, she’d also discipline me occasionally. She had a list of rules she insisted I follow in addition, I was to address her as “Ma’am” at all times. When she finished, she paused and looked at me. It was time, I knew, to make a decision.
For the first time, I used the words.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, and lowered my eyes.
“Fine,” she murmured. “Now give yourself a quick orgasm, and then we’ll put you to work.”
My cheeks flamed. Did she want me to masturbate right there? I was afraid to ask her what she meant. I’d never masturbated in front of anyone, and even though I was fully in heat, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to come standing there so open, so vulnerable.
In a shaky voice, I finally asked her if I could sit down. Martine picked up some eye shadow and leaned toward the mirror. Without even glancing at me, she said, “If I wanted you to sit, I would’ve told you to sit.”
Completely humiliated, I lifted my little skirt and pushed two fingers into my wet slit. Instinctively, I clamped down with my inner muscles, tugging at my fingers as I stroked in and out. I was about to touch my clit when tremors rippled through my belly and my legs went weak. The next moment, only seconds after I’d begun fingering myself, a painfully sharp orgasm pierced the depths of my cunt. Grabbing the bed to steady myself, I cried out and then stood there panting heavily.
Without even giving me a chance to catch my breath, Martine got to her feet and beckoned me with her finger. As weak as a kitten, I followed her into the bathroom. Pointing to the clothes hamper, she told me to gather up all her hand washables and rinse them out in the sink. And when I was finished washing her clothes, I was to scrub both the floor and the toilet.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I whispered. When Martine left the room, I quickly rummaged through the hamper and removed her stockings, bras and panties. Piling up her underthings, I went about the tedious task of washing each item one by one.
After hanging the wet clothes, I found a plastic scrub bucket and cleanser beneath the sink. While I was filling the bucket with hot water, Martine came walking into the room. She’d finished putting on her makeup and she was wearing black lace panties and a very d collet black bra and heels.
Standing there with the bucket in my hand, I couldn’t take my eyes off Martine’s beautifully pushed up breasts, now practically at my eye level. She stamped her foot impatiently and told me to take off my uniform before I scrubbed the floor. “Don’t you dare spoil that outfit,” she said sharply.
I didn’t dare show my annoyance, but as soon as Martine left the room, I irritably pulled off my apron and dress. Bitch, I thought. A moment later I felt myself smiling slightly. Of course she was a bitch if she wasn’t a bitch, she wouldn’t have me on my hands and knees, nude, scrubbing her floor. And if she weren’t a bitch, I wouldn’t be so utterly enthralled by her.
By the time I was done with the bathroom, my back ached and my knees were red from kneeling on the floor. As I stood up and reached for the maid’s uniform, I suddenly hesitated. Suppose Martine didn’t want me to get dressed again? She hadn’t actually told me to, after all…
Biting my lip, I stood there for a long moment, trying to make up my mind. I was aware of how absurd the situation was. I was an intelligent, mature woman and yet Martine had me so intimidated that I couldn’t make a simple decision without her approval.
Still naked, I shyly opened the door, padded down the hall and stood at the entrance to the living room. Martine was stretched out on the couch in her bra and panties. She had her long legs extended, and she was smoking a cigarette and chatting on the phone. Putting one hand over the receiver, she looked at me and raised an eyebrow. Instinctively, I stood on my toes.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” I stammered. “I’m finished, and I wasn’t sure if…”
In a curt voice, she interrupted me and told me to get dressed, then stand in the corner and wait on her. Dipping a curtsy, I hurried and got back into my uniform. Then I simply stood there, waiting for Martine to summon me.
The minutes passed. I was dying for a cigarette, and I was also dying to sit down. I really don’t know how much time went by, but I’m sure it was at least an hour. As tears welled up in my eyes I thought surely she couldn’t have forgotten me!
At long last I heard Martine call my name, and I approached her where she lay, regal as a lioness. Looking into her lovely brown eyes, I felt myself melting again.
“Go into the bedroom,” she said softly, “and bring back some red nail polish. I want you to do my toes.”
I spent the next half hour or so kneeling on the floor in front of Martine. She sat up and placed her slim feet high on my bare thighs. While I bent over and carefully painted her toenails with the red enamel, Martine lit another cigarette and talked to me about all the Sundays we’d spend together. In a dreamy voice she told me that she wanted my obedience, but also my love. “One without the other is useless to me,” she said.
Her toenails were dry now. I capped the polish and sat back on my haunches, then straightened my uniform bodice and looked into her face. Smiling again, Martine took my wrists and drew me to my feet, then pulled me facedown over her lap. I felt her hand lifting my skirt, bunching it around my waist. As I lay trembling, she ran her palm over my ass and squeezed the soft flesh.
I was about to come in her lap when she startled me by suddenly bringing her hand down hard across my rump. The first few slaps didn’t really hurt, but after awhile, as she kept spanking me, my ass began to redden and burn. I was squirming in pain now but was brimming with the thrill of intense pleasure. And then the pain and pleasure merged and ran together as she jammed several fingers into my raging cunt and forced a ravishing orgasm to blossom between my legs.
As I came down from the euphoria I noticed that Martine had leaned over and was brushing her cool lips against my hot, tingling ass. It was a gesture of such unexpected tenderness that my eyes blurred with tears. Breathless from the excitement of coming, I cried out in a rush of happiness and obedience, knowing that I was truly in love with my mistress. And she in love with me.