Lawyer2maid

Synopsis: Still more humiliations and subjugation of once powerful attorney, now maid, along with fellow submissives.

Following Labor Day weekend, the parties didn't cease, but were less frequent and smaller in size. Ryan was able to secure an entry-level position with a hedge fund in Manhattan. After much discussion, Lauren and Jason decided to purchase Amanda and Ryan a 3000 square-foot "starter home" in Southampton for $3 million (the $25 million I had managed to amass in my brokerage account before my forced retirement had increased to $28 million with the strong stock market, so this was well within their means). Given her pregnancy, Amanda decided to delay pursuing her career for the time being to focus on her pregnancy and then child rearing.

It was determined that I would split my time between Lauren's and Jason's mansion and Amanda's in Ryan's new home nearby, likely spending more time at the latter in the immediate months after Amanda gave birth. So, going forward, I would be responsible for cleaning not one, but two homes. I was hopeful that I would eventually get some sort of reprieve with respect to my proofreading duties, or the biweekly cleanings of my old firm's offices in the city--or, at the very least, the semi-regular cleanings of Forrest's and Jane's home.

Meanwhile, Shyla's parents purchased her a 6000 square-foot home in Sagaponack and a 3000 square-foot condo on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Rebecca was going to be exceedingly busy as well. I overheard Ryan tell Amanda that Shayla also planned on sending her up to Rhode Island once a month to do a deep cleaning of her old sorority house under the direction of Julie, who had succeeded Shyla as sorority president.

Jason's amping up of my humiliation began gradually before later events caused it to accelerate like a rocket ship. After hearing from Amanda and Ryan about the dungeon in the basement of Shyla's parents' home, Jason began converting an old storage room in the basement of the mansion into a dungeon. He mounted an X-shaped St. Andrews Cross to the wall with leather wrist and ankle cuffs. He purchased a leather spanking bench. He also attached a bar with cuffs and a pulley to the ceiling similar to the one used by Shyla when she whipped Rebecca; the pulley allows the flagellant to twist and turn a full 360°. Jason hung up the whip rack that I had bought him the prior Christmas next to the St. Andrews Cross, adding a second rack on which hung many new instruments of torture: cat o' nine tails, bull whip, floggers, straps, nipple clamps, leg irons, etc. I watched with a mixture of fascination and terror the accumulation of this paraphernalia, realizing all of was intended for little old me.

Meanwhile, Lauren and Amanda began forcing me to wear my posture collar for at least an hour a day. I have noted how much I detest wearing even a buttoned dress shirt or choker around my neck; so, you can imagine how I felt about wearing a restrictive 4 inch leather collar that forced my chin upwards. I was compelled to wear this while serving drinks in my formal uniform. Because it was difficult to bend my head to see what I was holding or placing on a serving tray, I had to move with extreme care, so as not to spill anything (which, unmistakably, would result in punishment). Increasingly, I was forced to wear my posture collar together with my new lockable corset, either with my uniform or with thigh high stockings, garters and panties. Even though I had probably lost 50 pounds since my subjugation started, the corset took another 3 inches off my waist. Lauren or Amanda would lace me tightly for hours at a time. On one occasion, when I meekly protested that it was difficult for me to breathe, I was told in no uncertain terms by Lauren that I was being corset trained, and that my body would adjust over time. She encouraged me to suppress any future urges to protest by administering several sharp smacks to my bottom and balls with a wooden spoon.

Lauren and Jason planned a large Halloween party at the mansion. The guest list was to be pretty extensive, including most of the attendees of last year`s garden party as well as Paolo, Shyla, Kyle and former college classmates of Amanda and Ryan. It won't surprise you to learn that service was to be provided by Rebecca, George and yours truly.

There were many outstanding costumes, including:

• Lauren as Cleopatra and Jason as Mark Anthony

• Amanda as Harley Quinn and Ryan as the Joker

• Paolo as Jabba the Hutt with a chained Rebecca as enslaved Princess Leia (for

which she had the perfect body)

• Shyla as a sexy vampiress

• Samantha as Catwoman and her boyfriend as Batman

• Forrest and Jane as a warlock and witch

But it was Penny and her entourage that made the biggest splash when they walked into the living room. It was not really her costume that impressed (she was wearing a little black dress with black stockings and heels, along with a carnival mask). Rather, it was the spectacle of the foursome of which she was a part that was startling. She walked walk arm in arm with a huge, chiseled shirtless male (thighs like tree trunks, enormous biceps, a torso of pure muscle)--another whole level of jacked than her pro wrestler boyfriend, Kyle. The contrast was easy enough to see because her new companion was leading Kyle, dressed solely in pink wrestling trunks and white boots, by black collar and leash. Kyle, in turn, was leading poor George (clad simply in sheer, pink footed tights) by pink collar and leash.

Lauren said, "Penny! You are incredible! You're going to steal the show."

Penny smiled shyly yet proudly. "I hope you don't mind that I invited another guest. This is Dustin. He's a UFC fighter. UFC means ultimate fighting champion. He was the heavyweight champion two years ago."

Amanda said, "But I thought Kyle was a heel and that only jobbers wear pink."

Penny replied, "Well, there are heels, and then there are heels. It turns out that pro wrestling is pretty much all fake. UFC fighting is the real thing. Dustin came up to me after Kyle beat up a jobber on Monday Night Raw. He saw me kissing Kyle after the match. When Kyle went backstage to change, Dustin asked me if I'd like to see someone--namely, him--dominate Kyle in the ring. I have to admit that, looking at him, I was intrigued. They agreed to a match, with me as the prize. It was no contest; Dustin absolutely DESTROYED Kyle. Kyle, Georgie and I moved in together a month ago. Normally, Kyle is the alpha male at home and Georgie is the maid. But that all changes on the nights that Dustin visits, doesn't it, Kyle?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Kyle, sheepishly.

"Maybe we can give you a little demonstration later," said Penny.

"You are amazing Penny," said Amanda.

Rebecca, George and I served the guests all evening--Rebecca in her Princess Leia slave girl costume, George in his pink tights and me in a custom made, orange and black satin maid's uniform with black seamed, sheer black stockings and 4 inch heels.

Later that night, after many guests had gone home, Kyle wrestled hapless George, quickly putting him in a submission and forcing him to kiss his foot to signify his defeat. Immediately thereafter, Dustin manhandled Kyle, toying with him for 15 minutes. Dustin finally pinned Kyle, with his balls pressed against Kyle's chin. After repeatedly slapping his face and making Kyle cry "uncle", Dustin stood over him in classic victory pose, one bare foot on Kyle's crotch and the other on his throat.

Afterwards, Amanda said, "Mom, it's Saturday night. With the party, we forgot father's maintenance spanking,"

Lauren replied, "No time like the present."

"Father, after you refresh everyone's drinks, go put on your new black and orange punishment tights and report back here."

"Yes, Miss Amanda." I curtsied deeply.

The Halloween party concluded with me across Jason's lab receiving 50 hard smacks with his bare hand on my bottom, followed by my classic penance position before the crowd, my cock shamefully at full mast.

Penny's foursome (or quartet, I'm not sure what to call it) remained the leading topic of conversation the next morning as I served Lauren and Jason breakfast. I had gotten up at 5 AM to begin cleaning up the mess from the party in my working maid's uniform, but had changed into a serving uniform for breakfast. Immediately afterwards, I would change back into my working uniform, eat my breakfast in the kitchen and then resume cleaning.

"That Penny is incorrigible," said Jason, with a smile.

"She's a force of nature," said Lauren. "I really love how she has embraced our lifestyle."

"I wonder if, at the next party, Georgie will have an even more submissive creature on a leash, and there will be five of them?"

"I think Penny would be hard-pressed to find a more submissive creature than Georgie," laughed Lauren. "Penny told me that she had originally thought of coming to the party with a Dr. Seuss theme, with Kyle as Cuck One and Georgie as Cuck Two. But she wanted the three of them to wrestle for us, so she thought she should stick to how they usually dress at her place. It probably would've been challenging to make the costumes anyhow. She also shared with me some of the more salacious details of what goes on when Dustin spends the night."

"Pray tell."

"Well, apparently, Georgie usually serves Dustin and Penny dinner in one of Gregory's hand me downs I gave her, while Kyle either washes Dustins car in his pink trunks or does Dustins laundry. Then they often watch a movie, during which Kyle and Georgie give Penny and Dustin foot massages. Sometimes Dustin has Kyle working on one of his feet and Georgie on the other while he and Penny make out. Then Penny gets to enjoy some submission wrestling and fighting on her behalf. Dustin always wins. Later, when they go to the bedroom, the preferred position is Dustin on top of Penny with Kyle underneath them, either licking Dustin`s balls or his shaft as he goes in and out of her. At the same time, Georgie--as befits his position at the bottom of the hierarchy--is usually either sucking Kyle's toes or his cock. Obviously, they change things up a bit, but you get the general idea."

"Sounds complex, but fun for Penny--and Dustin," said Jason.

"Penny said that when Dustin is not around and it's just her, Kyle and Georgie, the dynamics are more like what we have with Gregory."

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, honey, but I have no intention of submitting to anyone, in case you were hoping to emulate Penny."

Lauren laughed. "I know you don't darling. One of the things I love about you is that you're submissive to no one. I am quite content with our little ménage à trois as is."

Jason replied, "But keep in mind, you're going to have to share Gregory more and more with Amanda and Ryan with the baby coming. In addition, he's not getting any younger. We may want to consider acquiring some new submissive at some point."

"What did you have in mind? Male or female?"

"I'm not really sure. It's just something to think about. Jenkins' health won't hold up forever."

"I'm not too concerned. With your exercise regimen, Gregory seems to be in the best shape I can ever remember him."

"I know, but things can start to change when someone gets into their mid 60s. Just keep it in mind."

Obviously, this discussion was a source of genuine anxiety to me, both because of the reality of what Jason was saying with regards to my health and endurance, and because of the possibility that another individual might enter my submissive domain and replace me.

Lauren had enlarged and framed some of the photographs from the wedding and displayed them prominently on the credenza in the foyer of the mansion as well as on another shelf in the main living room. Obviously, pictures of her and Jason and their wedding party were featured. However, off to the side were the pictures of me curtsying to and kneeling beside the bride and groom. As a present, Lauren had similarly enlarged and framed the companion photos from Amandas and Ryans wedding to be displayed in their new home. The closing date for the purchase of their new house was set for early November, and they hoped to move in before Thanksgiving. I suppose that I should be grateful that me being part of the family was represented somehow in the mansion I once owned, as all other photographs of me had long since been removed. The only pictures now were these few that so unambiguously showcased my servile status.

Another present involving a representation of me was given by Lauren to Amanda for her birthday on November 9th. Since she was a girl, one of Amanda's favorite paintings had always been Il Saltimbanco by Antonio Mancini in the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It is a quite striking portrait of a young male street or circus performer. Standing on display on a small table, the boy's arms are folded, and he dressed in tights, a sort of frilly leotard and what appear to be ballet slippers. He clearly has a distressed, perhaps even ashamed, expression on his face. Some art scholars believe that Mancini was trying to convey a secondary meaning, drawing a parallel between the sufferings of Christ and man. I rather think that there is a more straightforward explanation for the pained expression on the boy's face: simply that Mancini's favorite model, Luigiello, was humiliated beyond belief at having to stand for hours in that ridiculous costume, aware of his friends or even his rivals staring at him from the street through the window of Mancini's studio--pointing at him, laughing at him and later teasing him unmercifully. Whatever the explanation, it is no doubt a masterpiece.

Lauren commissioned an artist, a young Italian woman who recently graduated from the Rhode Island School of Art and Design, to paint a reproduction of it--with me in the place of Luigiello--for Amanda to hang on the wall of her and Ryan's new home. Of course, the painting would not be completed in time for Amanda`s birthday, so Lauren instead gave Amanda a birthday card containing a postcard of Il Saltimbanco, the artist's business card and an explanation of her intention.

Amanda was overjoyed.

The artist, Alesia Agostini, was an attractive 23-year-old woman who had studied classical art at RISD. While still early in her career, she was already developing a reputation for her mastery of classical technique in reinterpreting old masterpieces in subversive, sometimes whimsical ways.

When Lauren first met with her, I served them both tea in one of my formal serving uniforms.

"So let me get this straight. You want to commission me to do a portrait of your maid, who used to be your husband, as a gift for your daughter. The maid is also your daughter's maid, as well as her father. You want me to paint this 62 year old man dressed identically to the preteen circus acrobat in Mancini's Il Saltimbanco. You want the painting to be an exact reproduction, except for the face and the figure, where I can use my artistic license," said Alesia.

"You summed it up well. What do you think? Is it too bizarre for you?" asked Lauren, uncertainly. "I've already had the clothes custom-made to fit him."

`"Are you kidding? I absolutely love it! My price is $100,000. It will take me at least two months, during which he will have to pose at least 2 hours a day."

"I'm so happy. I couldn't imagine anyone else doing it but you. I'll get my checkbook now. Is a $50,000 deposit okay, with the balance upon completion?"

"Perfect. I can get started next week."

"Given how much you will need him to model, wouldn't it make sense for you to live here with us while you're working on your painting? We can provide you a studio with plenty of light, all of the art supplies you need, and all your meals. Gregory, your subject, has turned into a wonderful cook."

"That sounds like a great idea," said Alesia. And so, the deal was sealed.

When Alesia moved in the following Sunday, I greeted her at the door with a deep curtsy and brought in her bags and art supplies. Lauren gave her one of the more comfortable guest bedrooms on the second floor and converted a sunny, corner guest office on the third floor into an art studio. Alesia was beautiful, talented, mercurial and not lacking in confidence. Lauren and Amanda (and Jason as well, I believe) were quite taken with her, and soon she was a regular presence at cocktail hour, meals, watching movies in the home theater, etc. I was worried about what other household rituals she might be invited to participate in...

Alesia was fascinated by my story and my submission. Lauren made it crystal clear to me that I was to obey her completely--not only in modeling for her but in any way she desired, as an honored, long-term guest at the mansion. So, I was Alesia's maid, cook, model and whatever else she wanted me to be. She fell effortlessly into the rhythm of the house when it came to ordering me around and humiliating me, constantly summoning me with one of the little bells spread throughout the mansion to bring her this or that. I generally posed for Alesia between 2:30-4:30 PM, when she felt the light was optimal.

The Saturday afternoon before Thanksgiving, Amanda and Lauren watched her paint as I stood on the table in my absurd street performer garb, arms folded and the requisite humiliated, distressed expression on my face. Highly uncomfortable and ashamed, I did not have to act to achieve the desired look on my countenance that afternoon.

"Even his hair is thick and curly like Luigiello's," said Alesia.

"Gregory has always had thick hair, and it tends to curl when it gets longer. However, if we didn't have it colored regularly, it would be almost white by now," said Lauren.

"The salt and pepper look is perfect," said Alesia.

Amanda said, "But what about his erection. He's pushing out the leotard in a way Luigiello never did. Mom, maybe you should lock him in his chastity cage when he's posing."

"No, I will paint his little erection just as I see it," said Alesia. "It will all be part of the contrast--along with your father's gray hairs and the wrinkles in his face--when my interpretation hangs on your wall next to a reproduction of the original."

"The chaste, beautiful boy circus performer juxtaposed with the horny, decaying old circus performer," said Lauren. "Brilliant, Alesia. I can't wait to see the finished work."

As they all talked about me, I felt my erection grow still harder in my tights. It was clearly visible again that evening when Alesia joined Jason, Lauren, Amanda and Ryan for my weekly maintenance spanking--this time 25 strokes of the hairbrush over my son-in-law's knees, me in a new pair of maroon punishment tights. This was followed by 30 minutes with hands interlocked behind my head, legs spread, facing the five of them. I saw Amanda and Alesia exchange grins as they stared at my cock pushing out the nylon fabric.

However, the following day when posing for Alesia, for whatever reason I was uncharacteristically limp in my tights, much to her annoyance.

"I'm trying to get the contours right for your little stiffy and now, for once, you're soft. Great timing. Not."

Alesia walked over the table, reached her hand under my leotard, and began rubbing my cock and squeezing my balls through my tights, looking me in the eyes as she did so. I had to think that, classical art scholar that she was, she must have been aware of all the male artists over the centuries who sexually molested or assaulted their female (and probably not a few male) models. Perhaps she believed she was keeping with tradition or possibly she felt she was evening the score a bit, but she clearly enjoyed the control she had over me. Some more irony in my now irony rich life: when I ran the law firm, I often spoke disparagingly of women's empowerment, but in my new life, I was very personally contributing to the empowerment of several young women on regular basis.

In any case, Alesia's ministrations had their intended effect that afternoon and she had a productive two hours of sketching.

Alesia joined us for Thanksgiving dinner as did all of the same guests from last year (including my two teenage tormentors from the South) and Lauren's mom, Helen. All and all, it was a successful meal and, being careful to be on my very best behavior, I fortunately escaped any major punishment such as occurred the prior year. That is far from saying that I escaped moments of acute humiliation.

On Thanksgiving day, as was usually the case, I had to make repeated trips in my Subaru to the East Hampton IGA to pick up missing ingredients for the various dishes that my sister Sharon, my niece Olivia and I were preparing. I was wearing a pair of turkey patterned polyester and lycra leggings along with sneakers and my "Amanda's Puppet" sweatshirt (Lauren thoughtfully had sweatshirt versions made for all of humiliating T-shirts for cold weather days). To minimize the breadth of my humiliation, I tended to pick the same cashier each time.

On my third visit (to buy some heavy cream and garlic), the checkout girl (pretty, If slightly overweight, probably about 19), smiled at me and said, "Back again, already?"

"Yes, miss." I looked down at the conveyer belt.

"Whoever Amanda is, she's certainly pulling your strings a lot today, huh?"

`"Amanda is my daughter, miss."

"I understand. I have my daddy wrapped around my little finger too. But I don't think he'd ever dress for me the way you do. I like the leggings, though. Very festive." She grinned.

"Yes, miss. Thank you, miss. Happy Thanksgiving."

As I hurried out of the market, she said, "Happy Thanksgiving. But I'll bet you'll be back within an hour." Indeed, she was correct, as I needed to return for more pancetta 40 minutes later.

A few other humiliations I suffered that weekend:

• Ethan greeting me with, "Hey, maid unc! I've got you for full two

weeks this coming summer and have some exciting new business ventures

planned. I was worried that with Amanda having a baby, she would need

you to work for her so you wouldn't be able to visit us. But when I

called her last week, she said she wouldn't think of depriving you

of your vacation. Your working vacation, I should say. Ha ha."

• Receiving a sharp smack on my bottom with a spatula from Sharon when

I burned the brussel sprouts.

• Washing Bill's oversized pickup truck--apparently a new Thanksgiving

weekend tradition--dressed in the same turkey patterned leggings.

Ethan and Isabella again helpfully supervised my work.

• Giving all of the women of the family as well as Alesia extended

pedicures as they watched a double feature of Wonder Woman and

Legally Blonde in the home theater.

• Rubbing a moisturizing lotion into the feet of all the men of the

family, including Ethan, as they watched a football game (the lotion

was a gift from Nicole: "I'm tired of feeling Bill's dry feet rub

up against me in bed, and I bet Lauren and Amanda feel the same

way." In point of fact, Jason's and Ryan's feet were now as smooth

as babies' bottoms thanks to my regular pedicures, but neither one

wanted to miss an opportunity to bond with Bill and Ethan in my

ritual humiliation).

• On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, for my maintenance spanking,

receiving 10 smacks of a wooden spoon in my maid uniform from each of

the males of the family (Ethan included) as the females of the family

and Alesia looked on with delight.

And then, I had December and Christmas to look forward to.

Amanda and Ryan ended up closing on their new house the first week of December. They planned to move in about two weeks later, after it was painted and I gave it a deep cleaning. On the second day of this laborious, three-day effort, while Amanda was furniture shopping with Lauren, my son-in-law came over to the house, ostensibly to plan room layouts, but in reality to supervise my efforts and to torment me. His true intentions were apparent to me from the moment he walked through the door, as a riding crop typically isn't necessary in determining the proper placement of furniture.

Wearing tight jeans and the ankle boots that he was given by Amanda last Christmas--which I had polished three days earlier as he watched TV with her-- he walked around me, his heels clicking on the hardwood floor, as I scrubbed the baseboards on my knees in my working maid's uniform.

"Well, old man, I suspect we're going to be seeing a lot more each other when you're working as a maid in MY house."

"Yes, my Lord," I replied, keeping my eyes focused on my work. I couldn't help but think of the irony of him referring to it as his house--a home paid for fully by his new wife's mother and stepfather with proceeds that I had amassed through decades of hard work as an attorney.

"I see that you're wearing kneepads. I often think that Jason and Lauren go too easy on you."

"I have knee problems, especially my right knee, my Lord. I believe that Master Jason and Lady Lauren have concluded that I can be of service longer to them if I am not required to have knee surgery."

"I suppose that makes sense. But don't expect to be coddled when you are a servant in my house." As he said this, he lifted up the skirt of my dress with his riding crop and began rubbing it across my panties, down the crack of my ass.

"No, your Grace.''

"I plan to work you like a dog. Speaking of which, you and I haven't exercised together in a while. I think we're overdue for some hoop jumping, don't you, old man?" By this point, Ryan was tapping my balls with the tip of the crop, causing me to be quite circumspect in my choice of words in replying to his question.

"Yes, your Grace. I am most grateful for your efforts in maintaining my fitness."

"Why don't you express your gratitude by kissing the bottoms of my boots."

"Yes, your Grace. Thank you, your Grace." He lifted up his right boot, and pressed its sole up against my lips, looking down at me with a self-satisfied smile as I completed my act of abasement.

After I kissed his other boot, he said "Don't mention it, old man. I will have plenty of future opportunities to whip you into shape--quite literally". As he said those final words, he slashed my bottom twice savagely with the crop.

He then walked around the house for about 20 minutes, at least making a pretense of writing a few notes in his notebook. Before leaving, he relieved himself in the powder room near the entranceway that I had meticulously cleaned earlier that morning. His parting words to me were, "There's urine on the floor and on the toilet seat. You better scrub that bathroom well, if you know what's good for you."

"Yes, my Lord. Thank you for pointing it out to me."

I had sincerely hoped that the chip on Ryan's shoulder would have diminished, if not disappeared, following his and Amanda's wedding, when his position of authority over me had become official and permanent. Unfortunately, that clearly did not appear to be the case.

I was back at the mansion by 2 PM to get ready for my modeling session with Alesia. Exhausted from my seven hours of cleaning, I drooped and fidgeted more than usual while posing on the table, thus incurring Alesia`s wrath. Because of my fatigue, my torso was not the only part of my body that sagged.

Frustrated, Alesia complained to Lauren, who said to me, "Gregory, I don't understand what's wrong with you. You seem to have a perennial erection, even when it is of no use to anyone and most unwelcome. Now, when we actually need you to have one--in the cause of art--you let us all down. Quite literally. To me, this seems willful on your part. It will be addressed on Saturday night when your maintenance spanking shall be a punishment spanking. Meanwhile, take this pill."

Being punished for NOT having a shameful erection, it seemed to me that I truly could not win for losing. As I swallowed the pill Lauren handed me, Alesia said, "I assume that's Viagra."

"Yes. It's supposed to kick in after about 30 minutes."

Alesia replied, "I dated an older guy once who used to take it. It doesn't work by itself. The user still needs to be sexually aroused. Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

Lauren said, smiling, "You're the consummate professional, Alesia," as she left the room.

Alesia removed her shoes and socks, and propped her bare feet up on the table that held her paint and brushes.

"Kneel next to the table and put your nose right up to my toes, but don't you dare touch them unless I tell you to. If I point to my foot, you will place your nose under my toes and inhale deeply. If I snap my fingers once, you will gently lick my toes. If I snap them twice, you will eagerly suck them. When I want you to stop, I will slap your face with my foot. You will remain at all times silent."

"Yes, Miss Alesia." I curtsied to her in my circus performer attire and did as she instructed.

She picked up a novel (an untranslated copy of Death in Venice), and completely ignored me as I knelt with my nose about a half an inch from her toes. He olive feet with blue nail polish were quite lovely. After about 5 minutes, while continuing to ignore me facially, she pinched my nose between her big and long toes. She then moved her other bare foot under the table and began lightly kicking my cock with it, alternately pressing her toes into my balls. Within 5 minutes, I was rock hard--how much due to the Viagra is hard to say, as I'm quite certain that Alesia's efforts alone would've been more than sufficient. That said, after resuming my pose, I remained rock hard for the duration of the session, so perhaps the viagra was due some credit after all.

As I stood back up on the table, she said to me, "Now, if you continue to fidget as you did before, I'll complain to Jason so much that you won't be able to sit for a week."

While I did experience some skin flushing and back pain not uncommon to new users of the drug, I was extremely careful to remain still and upright for the remainder of the session, keeping Alesia's warning top of mind.

With mild variations, me taking a Viagra tablet followed by being teased and prodded by, or worshiping, Alesia's feet became the prelude to my all of my remaining modeling sessions over the next six weeks until the portrait was completed. Sometimes, as on the first occasion, her feet were bare. Other times, she wore socks or nylon stockings, often quite moist with sweat and pungent (though not unpleasantly so) from wearing her winter boots. Usually my interaction with her feet took place on my knees; on other occasions, she had me lay prostate on the floor and she would rest her feet on my face. The common denominator was that she almost never looked at me or spoke to me, no doubt correctly calculating that her intentional disregard of me was in itself an aphrodisiac.

My limpness was never an issue again.

Alesia was indeed a pro.

The weekend before Christmas, Penny, Kyle and George were invited to spend the day shopping and hanging out at the mansion with Lauren, Jason, Amanda, Ryan and Alesia (Dustin was fighting a match in Kansas City). Penny had asked Lauren if I could give George lessons in proper maid deportment, including how to curtsy properly, the correct way to address superiors, cleaning tips, etc. He was later to receive pedicure lessons from the true expert in that domain, Rebecca.

While the three couples and Alesia were shopping in East Hampton village, I tutored George in the kitchen. I already felt at somewhat of a disadvantage, as George was wearing one of my former formal, black and white serving uniforms, whereas Amanda, in her usual fervor to embrace the spirit of the season, had insisted I wear my frivolous red satin uniform with sequined fishnet stockings. While a reluctant student, George was naturally far more tractable than Rebecca and picked up the proper curtsy technique pretty quickly. When they returned from shopping, George and I served everyone lunch, giving him ample opportunity to demonstrate his new skills.

After lunch, Amanda and Penny decided that it would be entertaining for George and I to wrestle one another. Jason spread a large mat out on the floor of the gym (which already had comfortable chairs set up on its periphery for people to enjoy watching my personal training sessions with Jason and/or Ryan). Penny had helpfully brought along bright yellow (George) and pink (me) nylon thongs for us to wear for the match. The stakes set by the couples for the two combatants was that the loser would submit to a strapping from the winner and also would be the junior maid to the winner for the rest of the day.

From having witnessed Kyle, Dustin and George wrestle previously, I had a rough idea of how to start the match. There really were no rules and no referee. The matches began like amateur (i.e., real) wrestling matches, but could quickly degenerate into the type of nonsense one witnessed in the "professional" wrestling matches on TV. Jason warned me and Kyle warned George that they expected an all out effort from each of us to win the match or that there would be hell to pay--likely a session on the St.Andrews Cross in Jason`s newly constructed dungeon. While I'm fairly confident that I am stronger than George, he is half my age and had quite a bit of wrestling experience from his many defeats at the hands of Kyle and Dustin. Therefore, although I fought very hard (was drenched in sweat, as was my opponent), he was able to pin me after about 25 minutes. At one point, his knee struck my balls--whether inadvertently or not, I cannot say. But the blow basically incapacitated me and allowed him to pin my shoulders to the ground while pulling up my legs.

At Penny's urging, George struck a victory pose, flexing the bicep of his raised arm (eliciting snickers from the audience) and placing his bare foot on my chest.

"Not on his chest, dummy!", said Penny. "One foot on his throat and the other on his cock, just like Kyle does to you."

After George obeyed, I felt my cock harden in my thong under the pressure of his foot (eliciting still more snickers). George was visibly excited by his unaccustomed (probably unprecedented) victor. The cumulative effect of these sad protrusions caused our spectators to crack up.

After the hilarity subsided, Jason brought George a chair and a leather strap (not the dreaded prison strap, mercifully), which was the cue for me to drape myself over his knees.

"Ten strokes. You better not hold back, Georgie, or you'll find yourself over Kyle's knees," said Penny.

"Yes, goddess," replied George.

It was intensely humiliating (no doubt for George as well as me, although I was the one being punished) to feel our hard cocks touch each other through the nylon as I laid across his lap.

George indeed did not hold back, and by the sixth stroke I was kicking my legs. When he was finished, I was compelled to kiss the strap and thank him for correcting me.

As humiliating as this whole episode was, it somehow was exceeded by what followed. George and I showered and then put our uniforms back on to prepare dinner and serve it to our seven superiors. Before moving to the kitchen, I first had to deep curtsy to George in front of everyone, acknowledging his status as the senior maid. So used to being at the bottom of the pecking order, he clearly enjoyed telling me what to do (even after first having to ask me what to do, and then repeating it back to me as an order -- it was quite ridiculous, really). Why, you may ask, did this bother me so much in light of all of the other degradations I had suffered that day and over the better part of the last two years? It's honestly difficult to say. However, I think it's because I was now subordinate to a novice maid--someone I was training that very day, someone half my age--in my home--or rather, what had been my home, but was still the home of my master and my lady, the home where I had hoped my servant status, if nothing else, was sacrosanct.

But clearly it was not. What's more, the wrestling match was such a big hit that it was decided that, when together, George and I would always wrestle each other to determine who was in charge.

Was there to be no bottom to the depth of humiliation to which I would be subjected?

Indeed, I was the lowest of the low. The servant to the servant, that most submissive of creatures, George.

And yet, in the new year, things were to deteriorate from there.

Christmas Eve and Day were quite similar to last year. Alesia had gone to visit her family in Milan, set to return on January 2nd. To avoid a repeat of my Christmas Day punishment of last year, I was very careful to respond without delay and cheerfully (or at least with equanimity) to all of my daughter's frequent demands for me to change outfits. Predictably, Amanda had given me a few new pairs of Christmas-themed, footed tights (to wear around the now two houses) and leggings (to be worn when I was sent out for errands). I spent most of the time dressed as Buddy the Elf or in my Nutcracker ballet dancer costume. I was particularly mortified by having to wear white and red yoga pants with snowflake patterns on the legs and reindeer on the rear end and crotch areas when shopping. I was the recipient of many stares and titters in the supermarket, and was hopeful that, with my long hair and much more slender frame, I would not be recognized.

Based on my negative experience the prior year, I tried to be more judicious in my choice of gifts. My goal was to be obsequious without being self-defeating (as with the Canadian prison strap last year for Ryan). My selection was as follows:

• A somewhat rare bottle of 18 year-old single malt scotch for Jason

that I was able to find in a liquor store in Sag Harbor.

• Sterling silver anklets with o-rings to hold the keys to my chastity

cage for both Lauren and Amanda.

• A looped leather discipline implement known as a Loopy Johnny from

the London Tanners for Ryan. You may question the wisdom of this

choice given how badly the prison strap present backfired on me last

year. All I can say is that I knew Ryan would be disappointed with

any non-punishment gift from me and, while painful, the Loopy Johnny

was supposedly not in the same league as the prison strap based on

the research I had done (I had long since been deprived of my iPhone

and computer, but was permitted to borrow Jason`s iPad on occasion

to do research for my assignments, recipes or gifts). I later learned

that my research on the Loopy Johnny was inadequate (it stung like

hell).

When he opened his gift, Ryan said to me, "I see this is from the London Tanners, maid, and is of high quality. But what is it exactly?"

"It is called a Loopy Johnny, your Grace. It is known to be very effective but quiet. I thought it might be useful if you needed to use it when the baby was sleeping."

"Good, thinking, maid. Although, I suspect you should've given me a gag for you, as well," Ryan chuckled. The only two times I could ever recall Ryan complimenting me or giving me any credit whatsoever were when I presented him with gifts that he could use on my backside.

Like last year, I received gifts as well:

• A deluxe car detailing kit from Ryan.

• Two mainstream novels from Jason, both focused on the subject of

cuckolding: Daryll by Jackie Ess and The Act Love by Howard Jacobson

(with the unspoken understanding that I would prepare critical essays

on both for my stern headmaster).

• An Italian leather bound journal from Amanda to log my demerits

(another dominant/submissive best practice adopted from Paolo and

Shyla in their governance of Rebecca).

• From Lauren, a card containing sketches of two tattoo designs she had

paid for, one for each of my buttocks: Lauren's Lackey and Amanda's

Toady, in cursive script. I had never had any desire to be tattooed,

either aesthetically or due to the pain involved. No matter, I had an

appointment with a tattoo "artist" in Williamsburg, Brooklyn

scheduled for January 16th.

Although I presented and received my gifts from a kneeling position on the floor, as my four superiors sat comfortably, there was nevertheless a certain warmth and coziness to the atmosphere, with the tree lit and a fire crackling in the fireplace. That evening I was even permitted a small glass of eggnog.

Getting the small tattoos was more humiliating than it was painful, with Lauren and Amanda looking on as the smirking male tattoo artist, Alec, worked on my bottom.

Muscular with a goatee and several of his own tattoos, Alec was in his mid twenties and was what I believe is known as a hipster. When he was finished, he addressed his audience: "I'm guessing you're Amanda and Lauren, his owners? Would you like to take a closer look?"

I don't believe Lauren or Amanda had ever been in a tattoo parlor before either, but both were clearly intrigued and amused by the whole situation. They walked up to where I was lying face down on a table and inspected my altered bottom.

Lauren said, "Very nice. Small and tasteful."

"I agree. They're perfectly centered on each buttock, a perfect target for a wooden spoon or hairbrush," my daughter replied with a giggle.

"Just be sure you don't touch the tattoos directly for about a month or so. And keep them dry for 48 hours".

I thought for a moment that at least I would be spared punishment for the next month, before Alec added, "You can use them as targets later, but for the next month or so, avoid them. But it's fine to hit around them or on his upper thighs."

Great, I thought. I was starting to understand why people find hipsters so annoying.

As we were leaving, Alec said to Lauren and Amanda, "Let us know if you need any other work done on your slave. We also do piercings--nipple rings, nose rings, even Prince Alberts." I had heard of a Prince Albert before, and the mere thought of a genital piercing made me shudder.

"Great to know," Lauren said.

January came to a close with the completion of the portrait. It was the exact same dimensions as the original in the Philadelphia Museum of Art and was hung in the living room of Amanda's and Ryan's new home side-by-side with a reproduction of the original. The juvenile, effeminate attire notwithstanding, the old face was quite evidently my own, my erection pushing up the leotard as I stared at the viewer, humiliated. Both Lauren and Amanda were thrilled with the piece, and it appeared as though they had formed an enduring friendship with Alesia.

The final big news of the month came following Amanda's twenty-week ultrasound, when it was revealed that she would be having male and female twins.

Jason approved of the tattoos, but found it challenging to administer my weekly maintenance spankings with the temporary restrictions. Therefore, he determined that they would be suspended for the next month, but that I would receive two per week the following month to make up for it. Any serious infractions in the meantime would be dealt with by bastinado (Lauren disapproves of bastinado, because on the two prior occasions I received it, my cleaning efficiency dropped significantly due to the difficulty I had walking for a couple of days afterwards).

A schedule was worked out where I would spend Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at the mansion and Tuesdays, Thursdays, and alternating weekends, at Amanda's and Ryan's new house. It was anticipated that this schedule might be flipped after the twins were born when Amanda would require more help. Fortunately, the two houses were only about 20 minutes apart (probably double that in the summer), so I could shuttle back and forth in my Subaru (or get a lift from one of my four sovereigns). While Amanda's and Ryan's more modest home did not have a maid's quarters per se, they set up a small room in the basement with a spartan bed and dresser to serve the purpose.

I was kept quite busy between the two houses. Because of this, Jason agreed to scale back my janitorial responsibilities at my old law firm to once a month. However, despite my entreaties, he would not end this obligation altogether as he and Forrest believed it was important for my humility that I maintained some level of servitude to my old employees and colleagues. For that reason, my proofreading responsibilities continued as well, albeit at a reduced volume.

On Valentine's Day, I prepared Dover sole almondine, haricot verts and boiled potatoes for Lauren, Jason, Amanda, and Ryan and served it along with Sauvignon Blanc. Dressed in my red satin uniform with white stockings and my posture collar, I stood at attention by the table as the two couples talked and dined by candlelight.

Lauren suddenly said, "Gregory, I don't like the white stockings. Your black, sequined fishnet stockings look so much better with that uniform. Go change before you serve us dessert."

"Yes, Milady," I replied with a curtsy as I hurried to my room. As I was pulling the finely meshed stockings over my toes, taking great care not to ladder them, I thought to myself how unusual it was to have such a demand come from Lauren rather than Amanda, the latter being much more fickle when it came to my appearance.

As I approached the dining room, I heard the four of them talking in low tones, and suddenly cease talking as I entered the room. This was most unusual, perhaps unprecedented, since I had become the maid. There was really nothing any of the four of them ever thought they needed to hide from me; I was the help--lower still, chattel--and whatever I may or may not feel about anything they said was of no concern to them. This certainly got my spidey senses tingling.

Looking at my legs, Lauren said, "That's much better, Gregory. Now serve us the cheese plate and some port."

"Right away, Milady," I said with a curtsy.

While eating dessert, they spoke of different subjects, but as Amanda and Ryan were getting ready to leave, Jason said, "Jenkins, after my run in the morning, I'm going to leave you something new I want you to read on the kitchen counter, and then we can discuss it after breakfast. Do you understand."

"Yes, sir. Thank you," I replied, followed, of course, by another curtsy.

I had much difficulty sleeping that night. Of course, it was possible that Jason had found a new novel he wanted to discuss with me. Sometimes he even liked discuss politics with me, so perhaps it was an opinion piece or magazine article that he wished for me to read. However, his remark, combined with the strangeness of their whispers and halted conversation at dinner, caused me to suspect that whatever he wanted me to read concerned something of a much greater consequence for me personally.

Jason was already out on his run when I woke up to clean. I was cleaning one of the upstairs bathrooms when I heard the front door close. After after about 10 minutes, I ventured down into the kitchen and looked on the kitchen counter.

And there it was. At long last. The New York Post. It was not the lead story, like poor old Marv Albert many years ago, but it wasn't Page Six either. To to the right of the lead story and in only slightly smaller print (almost like a secondary headline): "Domesticated Viper: Former Top Attorney, Now Lowly Maid" and a box under it in smaller print: "Famed former litigator, Gregory `the Viper' Jenkins, is now maid to his former law firm associate and ex-wife, other family members--even his own daughter! SEE PAGE 4."

I sat down on one of the counter stools and opened to page 4, my hands trembling. There, accompanying the story, were three quite high resolution photographs. One of me at Lauren's and Jason`s wedding, deep curtsying in my most formal serving uniform to the bride and groom. This was not the official wedding photograph, but rather one that had been taken on someone's iPhone no doubt, at a slightly different angle than the one framed in the foyer, but still very clear. Another of me carrying multiple shopping bags, walking two steps behind Jason and Lauren (both of them holding hands), outside of Citarella's market in East Hampton. I was in cut off shorts and my "Jason's Skivvy" T-shirt, clearly legible. The final one of me in my British schoolboy/caddy uniform, walking behind a foursome at my former country club, carrying golf clubs (Forrest's, I believe). Inserted into that was a close up shot of my thighs, beneath the shorts of the uniform, two cane stripes in my flesh plainly visible.

And the article:

The once feared litigation super lawyer, Gregory Jenkins, former managing partner of renowned litigation boutique Jenkins, Johnson & Burrows, apparently has a new career: "sissy maid" to his former law firm associate and ex-wife, and janitor at his old law offices. Known as Gregory "the Viper" for his take-no-prisoners approach in the courtroom and his dictatorial management style, Jenkins (62) is now a domestic servant to his ex-wife, former model Lauren Collins (42), and to his former subordinate at the law firm, Jason Collins (30). The three occupy Jenkins' former 12,000 sq. ft. estate in East Hampton, NY, a property now registered under the joint ownership of Lauren and Jason.

This news at least partly explains Jenkins' mysterious, sudden resignation from the firm in the summer of 2021, when seemingly at the top his game professionally. Jenkins and Lauren divorced in February 2022, and Collins married Lauren this past summer. The ceremony and reception took place at the East Hampton estate, where Jenkins served as a maid to the 40 or so wedding guests (a photo of Jenkins submissively curtsying to the bride and groom is top left). What humiliation! And if that wasn't bad enough, rumor has it that two weeks later Jenkins also served as a maid at the wedding--also held at the East Hampton estate--of his daughter, Amanda Bailey (22), to her husband, Ryan Bailey (22).

The bottom left photograph shows Jenkins shopping with Jason and Lauren this past September in East Hampton, walking behind the couple and carrying their shopping bags (note the T-shirt Jenkins is wearing, "Jason's Skivvy.") The final photo shows Jenkins dressed in a humiliatingly juvenile golf caddy outfit, carrying the clubs for one of the members of the foursome in front of him, which is believed to include Collins and Forrest Johnson, the current managing partner of Jenkins, Johnson & Burrows (and Jenkins's former chief rival at the firm). This shot was taken at East Hampton's exclusive Maidstone country club, whose former powerful members apparently can sometimes end up working as maids.

Is this simply some excessively kinky ménage à trois? An anonymous source from Jenkins, Johnson & Burrows doesn't believe so: "Jenkins even comes in and cleans the offices of the firm once a month, dressed as a janitor. He also does proofreading for Collins and Johnson. I think they must have something big on him, probably something illegal. Jenkins was an incredibly arrogant guy. A real asshole, to be honest. I'm sure arrogant assholes can be kinky submissives, but this whole situation is next level."

One of Jenkins' trademarks was to publicly humiliate those he had vanquished in the courtroom. Those on that long list will no doubt take special joy in his now very public humiliation. How the mighty have fallen!

This is a breaking, developing story-- with more sordid details to come as they are available.

Well, this certainly changed things.

I took a moment to try to compose myself, before reading the article a second time. This time my eyes focused in on the byline: Eddy Bolson.

This was jarring to me. About six years ago, Bolson was an investigative reporter for a leading trade journal for the legal profession. Following a major victory that I won in court--a trial involving stolen trade secrets that resulted in a large M&A deal falling apart and the president of the defendant being criminally prosecuted for fraud and later serving jail time--Bolson wrote a hit piece on me. It was incredibly shoddy journalism, and it only took a couple of calls from me to get Bolson fired from the journal. I still remember the enraged voicemail he left me afterwards, full of expletives and vowing revenge.

Well, apparently he now had it. And I had no doubt that there was more to come.

When Jason came into the kitchen, I quickly got up from the counter stool, as it is not a place where I was typically permitted to sit.

"I'm sorry, sir," I said, curtsying.

"It's okay, Jenkins. I see you read the article. Let's sit down together in the living room and talk."

He sat in his favorite chair (very comfortable, it used to be my favorite as well) and motioned for me to sit down in the chair across from him. I looked at him uncertainly.

"You may sit there, Jenkins. For today at least. I'm sure you've had quite a shock."

"Indeed, sir. I'm still trying to process it."

"Well, I can tell you that, although Bolson says it's a breaking story, he's been working on it for weeks, if not months. Forrest and I threatened them with litigation if they published it. But you know the first amendment case law as well as I do. There's really not much we can do, unfortunately, and The Post and their lawyers know it. Bolson asked me to comment on the article, but I declined. That's how I knew it was coming out today. So here we are."

"Yes, sir. Here we are. But who....?"

"I can imagine that the thought may have crossed your mind that I'm behind this. I can assure you that I am not. I have a few ideas about who might be, but I'm not certain. Forrest and I have been concerned about the potential reputational damage to the firm. However, we disagree about it. He's very worried about it; I am not. If Forrest is right, it could of course cost me my path to partnership, even possibly my job. But we have a friendly wager. I'm betting that it doesn't hurt me or the firm at all. That, in fact, it might even help us."

"You mean, if you were able to bring the Viper to his knees, then you must be the sort of lawyer one wants in one's corner. Is that what you mean, sir?"

"That's about right, Jenkins. It's really becoming all about power; ruthlessness and cruelty are often seen as virtues now, whereas in the past they weren't. We now even have national leaders who manage chiefly through cruelty and intimidation, forcing people to bend the knee to them. The cruelty is the point. Humiliation and domination are becoming acceptable here, almost becoming mainstream. I suppose that's been the case for many years in several countries, but not here so much. But there's been a tectonic shift happening the last 5-10 years. Cruelty and control have become cool. I think that's why the country is moving in an increasingly authoritarian direction. A lot of people don't mind being controlled; they even like it. Some even like being humiliated. That might describe you, Jenkins."

"But what about the sexual aspect of it, sir? Won't that part harm the firm's reputation and your own?"

"Time will tell, of course, but I don't believe so. First of all, the country has become a lot more accustomed to the concept gender fluidity. You can become the national poster child for submissive sissy maids, Jenkins. Secondly, the cuckolding angle could prove beneficial. Cuckolding has become much more mainstream, as we have discussed many times. They call it the intellectual fetish, as you know. You and I are both sort of intellectuals, but on different sides of the coin. You were the cuck and I was the bull. That's still effectively the case, even though I'm now married to Lauren. There's even an interesting political aspect to cuckolding as well. Most cucks come from the liberal side of the spectrum, like you. Even though you were an inveterate asshole, politically you always leaned leftward, for some inscrutable reason. Most bulls are politically conservative, like me. There are exceptions, of course, but that seems to be generally the case. But to answer your question, Jenkins, no, I don't think the sexual aspect of the situation will be a problem. It makes it sexy; it makes it interesting."

"Wasn't Oscar Wilde's quote, "Everthing in the world is about sex -- except sex. Sex is about power', sir?", I asked.

"I believe that you quoted him precisely."

"So, authoritarianism is sexy. Is that what you're saying, sir"

"You seem to think so. Put on those pink panties you wrestled Georgie in and meet me at the St. Andrews Cross in 15 minutes."

Jason tied me to the cross, my backside facing him, and be began swooshing his riding crop in the air.

"Perhaps you should consider calling Bolson and confirming his story, give some kind of statement, Jenkins."

"I wouldn't consider giving that scumbag the satisfaction, sir."

Jason laughed. "You still have some faint residue of fight or dignity left in you, Jenkins. So, I get the pleasure of stripping you even of that."

Jason then proceeded to whip me, methodically but brutally, from the bottom of my legs to my neck. He then uncuffed me, turned me around, and recuffed me facing him, similarly applying the whip across my legs, arms and torso.

"I'm begging you, master. No more. If you want me to contact Bolson, I'll do it. I'll tell him every detail. I'll beg him to film me. I"ll do anything. Please just stop beating me, master. Please."

"You might be onto something there, Jenkins. A documentary. I will give that some thought."

Jason stopped, released me and nodded at his bare feet. Sobbing, I plopped down on my belly and began slathering his toes with licks, sucks and kisses.

Even then, despite my pain, I felt my cock stiffen against the cold, hard floor. Jason knew this was happening without even looking, and smiled down at me

That evening, Jason and I resumed our conversation. I no longer sat across from him in a chair, but rather at his feet, wearing a pair of light blue tights and nothing else.

"So, Jenkins, I'm sure you realize that whether you contact Bolson or not, more details will inevitably come out."

"Yes, master. I am aware."

"Can you endure it?"

"What choice do I have, master?"

"Not much. You could leave us, Jenkins. You have a modest Social Security check. Perhaps you could get a job, although certainly never again as a lawyer after the article. Perhaps you could get a job as a hotel maid. In Tokyo, they have a sissy maid cafe. I heard they may be planning one for New York. However, I suspect that they would find you too old to employ as a waitress; maybe in the kitchen or cleaning the toilets? Lauren and I would give you a good reference. But I must tell you something. Listen very carefully. If you ever do decide to leave here, it is final. You will never have the opportunity to return, no matter what. I've spoken to Amanda and Ryan, and they feel the same way. That decision would be irrevocable. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master."

"Good. Now pour us each a glass of the 18-year-old McCallan. Use those wide, flat tumblers."

I used to be exceedingly fond of fine single malt scotch, but had not had a drop in nearly 2 years.

"Pour each of us a generous portion."

I did as he commanded. As he raised his glass to his lips, I started to follow him, when he said sharply, "Wait. Put your glass on the floor."

Jason dipped his bare toes into my tumbler of scotch, and then brought his foot up to my lips. Knowing what was expected, I began fervently sucking the scotch off his toes. He repeated this process a couple of times, and after about five minutes, placed his toes into the glass on the floor and nodded towards it.

I brought my face down to the tumbler and began lapping up the scotch with my tongue around his toes until the glass was dry, like a thirsty kitten with a saucer of milk. Indeed, as if I was his pet, Jason stroked and patted my hair with his other foot tenderly, almost affectionately, causing me to feel (to hope?) that at least on some level he understood the conflicting emotions, the turmoil, pain, anxiety, fear and sense of loss I was experiencing, now that the details of my degradation and servitude were part of the public record. It's funny how a moment such as this made me feel even more owned than when he was whipping me without remorse.

Looking up at him, I said, "I don't wish to leave, master. I need to stay."

"Of course, you do," he said, now stroking my hair with his fingers. "Now get some rest."

I slept only marginally better that night, plagued by a series of bizarre nightmares.

Going forward, things carried on exactly as before in many respects, but were elementally and permanently altered in other respects.

My day-to-day responsibilities at the mansion and at Amanda's and Ryan's house were unchanged, as was their attitude towards me. Lauren, Amanda and Ryan were all contacted by Bolson, who assured them he was working on follow up articles and asked them to comment. They all refused. For now, I also chose to say nothing to him. Jason didn't really care whether I provided a statement to Bolson or not. When I had told him that I resisted doing so, exhibiting some remnant of pride or spine, he simply wanted to demonstrate to me, under the lash, that it was not my decision to make, that I in fact no longer possessed free will. Once I grovelingly capitulated, Jason had what he wanted and couldn't care less whether I followed through or not.

I racked my brain trying to figure out who contacted The Post and provided the photographs. In retrospect, it's amazing it didn't happen sooner; except for a few perfunctory NDAs early on, it's not like Jason or the others took many precautions to conceal my status. Given the nature of the quotes and the photos, it seemed pretty obvious that Bolson's source must be someone from my old firm. Jason had a couple of theories, but couldn't prove them. He thought it could possibly be one of the younger male associates (who I served at the poker party and who attended the garden party), or possibly the younger female partner who I had passed up for promotion. He was fairly confident that it wasn't Penny (she enjoyed being part of Jasons and Laurens circle far too much to do anything to jeopardize that), and also thought it was unlikely to be Samantha or Alyson. I wasn't so sure about Alyson. For that matter, despite what he said, I had not entirely ruled out Jason as the source. Still, I thought that was fairly unlikely. He would have been taking a very big gamble with his career in making the whole situation public, with the outcome uncertain.

It turned out, however, that Jason handily won his wager with Forrest. His practice, and the firm's business overall, thrived following The Post's article. His proven ability to completely conquer someone as formidable as me, to take from me my beautiful wife (pictures had begun to appear of Jason and Lauren in The Post and other tabloids after the initial article), and to turn me into his feminized servant, convinced prospective male clients that he he was a ruthless alpha male who would do whatever was necessary to prevail on their behalf. Many female clients agreed, or simply found him sexy (and the story of my cuckolding and subjugation, fascinating). I heard him tell Lauren about an attractive, 50-year-old female General Counsel who virtually threw herself at him, begging him to sleep with her and to convert her banker husband into a sissy maid.

The article turned out to be a tremendous boon to Jason's business, positioning him to become the youngest partner in the history of the firm. Most notably, and distressingly for me, Jason won a huge piece of business from Elliot Larson. The hit piece I mentioned earlier that Eddy Bolson wrote six years earlier on me, had to do with a major court case I had won against Larson. As a result of the case, the acquisition of Larson's software company was called off and he ended up getting criminally prosecuted for fraud. He served two years at a minimum security federal prison. I, of course, publicly gloated after his sentencing, saying to the media that I hoped Larson enjoyed his well deserved time at "the federal country club," or something to that effect. After getting out of prison, Larson successfully rebuilt his company and it was now larger and more profitable than ever. When Jason told me he had acquired Larson as a client--one that would propel him to early partnership--I had to think that Larson must have had ulterior motives: namely to get to me, to make pay for what I had done to him.

It turns out that I was all too correct.

Meanwhile, brilliant investigative reporter that he was, Bolson continued his onslaught. Three weeks after the initial article, The Post published a follow up that confirmed the rumors in the initial story that my servitude was not restricted to my ex-wife and former subordinate, but that I also provided maid service at the wedding of my 22-year-old daughter and son-in-law. This revelation was accompanied by another photograph: one of Ryan feeding Amanda a piece of wedding cake, with me standing a few feet to their right, holding two glasses of champagne on a serving tray. It was a full body shot of me, my stockinged legs pressed together, my head held erect above my choker, the attentive expression of a servant upon my face.

The story contained more non-objective commentary by Bolson ("Could anything possibly be more humiliating than serving as a maid at the wedding of your ex-wife to the man she left you for--your former subordinate, no less? We wouldn't have thought so, until we confirmed that the former master of the universe also served as a maid at his very own daughter's wedding two weeks later. Ouch!", and other similar gems).

The article went on to discuss at least three occasions when I was seen caddying and washing golf carts at my former country club, as well as testimony from an anonymous source that Jason put me through humiliating personal training sessions, me clad in tights with he in boots and riding breeches, riding crop in hand. The details on the latter were sketchy and sounded more like a second hand account. The emergence of a photo from Amanda`s and Ryan's wedding did not cause me to abandon the theory that the first leak likely came from someone at my old law firm. By this point, I was sure that the paper was paying good money for additional photos, so it was to be expected that more and more would surface.

The floodgates were now open. Jason had twice already caught and chased away media photographers hiding in the bushes near the gates of the mansion, trying to capture images of me (or of him and Lauren) with their telephoto lenses.

Given the futility of fighting it, legally or otherwise, Jason, Lauren, my daughter, and Ryan instead decided to "own" it, so to speak. Lauren's friend, Marilyn York (who you may recall was present at the garden party last summer along with her husband, Joe), is an independent public relations consultant. Marilyn began lining up a few strategic media outlets, mostly online, to get the story out in a way that was the most flattering to the four of them, if not necessarily to me.

Over time, Lauren and Amanda came to be depicted as feminist heroes--two strong, beautiful women who refused to passively accept the card they had been dealt of an overbearing, neglectful, and misogynistic husband and father. They had taken matters into their own hands, in part by marrying strong, loving men who supported them in bringing the miscreant to heel and showing him the error of his ways. And what poetic justice: the older, powerful, privileged, misogynistic white male was now a maid to those who had been the primary victims of his abuse.

Much later, after Jason's book, documentary and podcast had all been released, I actually read an article in a respected publication make the argument, using me as the model, that Harvey Weinstein should be released from prison and instead have his assets divided evenly between all of the women he assaulted and that he should be forced to rotate between his victims as their sissy maid til his dying day. Far better him in that role, the piece argued, than the underprivileged, often minority women who are typically employed as maids in our society. Never mind that I never did anything remotely as bad as what Weinstein was convicted of. We live in a post truth world. Everyone is now entitled to their own truth. And the truth for many was that I had gotten what I deserved, and that others like me should suffer a similar fate. The article even argued that applying this approach more broadly would help reduce overcrowding in prisons. Sheer madness. Or was it?

Around this same time, a right wing blogger who had simply looked up my and Jason's contrasting political campaign contributions, sung Jason's praises for putting that "libtard cuck" in his place--and suggested that all liberal men should be forced to become sissy maids for conservative alpha men and the liberal men's former wives or girlfriends who had seen the light and now knew what a real man was. That was his truth.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Two months after the article was published, the American Bar Association's annual litigation conference took place at the Harvard Club in Manhattan. As a proud graduate of Harvard Law, I used to be a regular presence at the club. In addition, as one of the most prominent litigators in the country, I used to hold court at the annual ABA conference. This year, Jason brought me along with him to the conference. Dressed in very short navy blue shorts, knee socks a navy blazer and tie, I was positioned in the foyer of my old club as the elderly shoe shine boy. I spent hours polishing and buffing the shoes of the lawyers, both men and women, who used to admire me--or at least pretended to, because of my status--as they sat on their elevated chairs staring down at me with amused derision. At one point there were five people in line, waiting their turn. Many asked if I would also be serving as their waitress at the luncheon or cleaning their guest rooms in my uniform. I kept my replies to their questions and comments to a minimum ("No, sir," , "Yes, ma'am"), making as little eye contact as possible.

Another month later, Jason told me he wanted to talk to me privately. When he told me to pour us both a glass of bourbon and sit down on the chair across from him, my anxiety went through the roof.

"Jenkins, tomorrow, I'm sending you for a week to work at the home of Elliot Larson in Alpine, NJ. I will drive you there. As you know, he has become my most important client, so I expect you to be on your best behavior. His house is 25,000 square feet, so you had better pack at least two working uniforms and two serving uniforms."

"Sir, you are delivering me into the hands of the man who I helped send to prison. He lost hundreds of millions of dollars when the sale of his company fell through because of me."

"Don't worry, Jenkins. Larson has a clear understanding of the limitations of what he can and cannot do to you. He has given me his word to respect them. Also, I will come by and check on you mid week."

"He is not allowed to physically punish me, sir?"

"Of course he is, Jenkins. But no permanent marks, nothing that could require medical attention. You know, the usual limitations. No scatophilia. No rape. He certainly doesn't want to go to prison again. You will be fine."

I downed my glass of bourbon. "I don't think I can do it, sir."

"Have your bag packed tomorrow at 7 AM. If you are in your maid's uniform, you will go to Larson's house and return next Sunday. If you are in your jeans, you can go wherever you like, but you'll never return here. Either way you will be leaving here in the morning. The choice is yours. See, Jenkins, you still do have free will."

"Yes, sir."

I had an agonizing night.

When Jason found me standing in the foyer at 6: 30 AM with my suitcase and wearing a black and white formal serving uniform, sheer stockings and heels, he grabbed his keys and said matter-of-factly, "Let's go."

Jason and I rode mostly in silence, as I tried to envision what appalling torments and humiliations Larson had in store for me.

As we were going over the GW Bridge, Jason said, "Jenkins, you should be aware that Larson and his new wife, Kendra, are in the scene."

"Scene, sir?"

"The BDSM scene. Since that article came out, I can't tell you how many people have come up to me and told me that they are in the scene too. At first, I would try to explain to them that with us--with you--it just happened organically; we never set out to be part of any scene. I guess it doesn't matter how it happened. We are now celebrities in the scene, for better or for worse. But there are more people out there like us than I could ever have imagined. Shyla's parents, for example. It's stunning."

"It is indeed, sir."

"The key is to make lemonade out of lemons, and that's exactly what I intend to do. But with respect to Larson, he has a dungeon in his basement that makes the one I built look like a walk-in closet."

I must have looked ill, because he added, "You will survive, Jenkins. What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. Well, in your case, probably weaker. But you get the point."

"But what if he films whatever it is he plans on doing to me, and sends it to Bolson?"

Jason scoffed, "What, are you worried that you might be publicly humiliated, Jenkins? That horse has left the barn."

I looked down at my legs and brushed some lint off my stockings, without replying.

"Look, he has promised me not to film anything. And he has nothing to gain by it. He doesn't need money. He really just wants to play with you."

"You mean humiliate me and make me suffer."

"Yes, of course. In the scene, that's what playing means."

Larson's house--compound I should really call it--was on multiple acres, hidden from the road by trees. The house was enormous, but hideous. It was architecturally all over the place, part faux Italian villa, part Bavarian castle, with more turrets and corners than I could count. There appeared to be stables in the distance, at the other end of a huge backyard. It was really just the sort of house I would expect Larson to have. I had always found him to be brash, overbearing (yes, I know, pot and kettle--but everything is relative), and uncouth. He reminded me of a mob boss. I never thought he was very bright, but it was hard to square that impression with the success of his software company. I suspect that his real talent was hiring talented scientists and stealing other people's ideas rather than any innate ability he might have for developing software. I was never able to hide my contempt for him, and I truly enjoyed playing a central role in the collapse of his company's sale and in him being prosecuted.

When Larson opened the door, he initially ignored me and warmly shook Jason's hand. He then turned to me and smiled malevolently, saying, "Welcome to our country club, Jenkins. We're going to do everything in our power to make your stay with us memorable."

I curtsied deeply, replying "Thank you, sir."

"You remember when you said that about me, just after I learned that I had to spend two years in the big house, thanks to you? How you hoped I'd enjoy my time in the federal country club."

"It was a most unfortunate choice of words, sir. I am truly sorry."

"Not as sorry as you will be by the end of the week. It may have been minimum security, but it was far from a fucking country club, I can tell you that. I'll tell you more about it later. But meanwhile, come in, Collins. Let's have an early lunch and talk business." To me: "Collins says you're a pretty good cook. The kitchen is down the hall. I told our maid to take the week off, so you'll have to figure things out on your own. Make enough for three. Kendra, my wife--who is your queen this week--will be home soon."

"Yes, sir," I curtsied.

"If my wife is your queen, what does that make me, genius?"

"My king, sir."

"You broke the code, fuck face. You may address me as my king' or my liege.' Not sir."

"Yes, my liege." I curtsied and scurried off to the kitchen. My visit was off to a fabulous start.

With the ingredients in the refrigerator, I decided to make a ham and cheese omelette, avocado toast, bacon and fruit salad. I didn't know the tastes of my two new monarchs, but my guess was that Larson is a meat and potatoes guy; bacon was usually a safe bet and I was hoping the fruit salad might appeal to his wife.

As I was cooking, an attractive brunette, presumably Kendra, entered the kitchen and tossed her keys on the counter. She was tall, slender and fairly buxom. It was an unseasonably warm April day, and she was wearing a very short dress that flattered her long, bare legs. My eyes focused momentarily on her gold leaf open toed shoes, dark red nail polish on her toes. Obviously a trophy wife, she appeared to be around 30, about 20 years Larson's junior. His first wife, Ellen, divorced him shortly after his conviction, something else he held against me no doubt. He and Ellen had been married for over 25 years, and had two children together.

"You must be the lawyer. Elliott has been really looking forward to you staying with us."

"Yes, my queen," I said, with a deep curtsy.

"I like young, pretty sissy maids. You are neither young nor pretty. How old are you?"

"Sixty two, your highness."

"Hmm, I would have guessed 55. Are you shaved and smooth?"

"Yes, I receive a full body wax every two weeks. My last one was three days ago, your highness."

"Well, that's something, at least. How do sissy maids greet their betters?"

Not certain of what she expected, I got down on my knees before her, bowed down and planted a kiss on the gold leaf of each oh her shoes. She certainly had the haughty expression down pat (not In Shyla's league perhaps, but close).

I served the three of them lunch (amazingly, without complaint).

As Jason was getting ready to leave, he said to Larson," I almost forgot. Here is the key to Jenkins` chastity cage. He's locked up now. Lauren and I tend to unlock him during the day but forbid him release. He finds being exposed with his hard-on to be intensely humiliating, especially in front of lovely ladies like Kendra or in front of groups of people. Especially people who knew what he once was and how far he has fallen. Nylon touching his cock gives him an almost constant erection. Another advantage of him not being caged, is access. At our place, his cock and balls are no stranger to taps of the cane or smacks with a spoon. But it's totally up to you, of course. I simply ask that you respect the limits we agreed upon."

"You know me, Collins. I always like to push the limits but not go beyond them. Bend but not break, as I like to say. Besides, I would like Jenkins to be a regular visitor at our little country club. So I wouldn't want to do anything to jeopardize that possibility."

They shook hands, and Jason looked briefly in my direction before closing the front door.

Larson turned to me and said, "Let's get started, fuckwad, shall we."

Larson turned to Kendra and said, "Call Andre."

Kendra replied, "I want Sabine too."

"The more the fucking merrier."

While awaiting the appearance of these two individuals, Larson and Kendra showed me where I would be sleeping. In a small storage room next to the kitchen, someone had set up a cot and a clothes rack with a few hangers on it for me to hang my uniforms. Larson sat on the cot and rifled through my luggage. Once Jason saw that morning that I indeed was prepared to allow him to hand me over to the hands my bitter enemy, he instructed me to pack a second serving uniform, two working maid uniforms, five pairs of panties, three pairs of tights, three pairs each of seamed black stockings and flesh toned pantyhose, a pair of yoga pants, my "Servant" T-shirt, sneakers, flats, a backup pair of heels, my corset, thigh high stockings, and my posture collar. Jason correctly presumed that packing punishment and/or bondage implements would be superfluous in any visit to Larson's home.

Holding up my corset, Larson said, "What a pansy you turned out to be, Jenkins. I think you'll have to give us a little fashion show later. Kendra may have some other clothes for you to model as well. We're going to be having a couple of social events this week. A few friends of ours are coming over on Wednesday, but the big event is on Saturday."

I was immediately filled with anxiety, especially regarding the so-called "big event," but didn't dare inquire as to details.

We then returned to the huge main living room. The decor of the house was as hideous and gaudy as its exterior: lots of gold and marble surfaces and ornate wood furniture (quite the opposite of the elegant, minimalist look that I favored when in a position to make decisions about interior decoration--fortunately, Lauren and Jason favored that look as well).

Larson ordered me to open a bottle of Chardonnay and serve it to them. When I returned from the kitchen with two glasses on a serving tray, I was greeted with the most extraordinary sight: a shirtless, extremely muscular young black man, probably 6`5" tall, who was holding a leash attached to a collared, slender, young white creature attired in a pink maid's uniform with black, sheer stockings and heels.

Gesturing towards the black giant, Larson said, "Jenkins, meet Andre. You're going to be spending a lot of quality time with him this week. I might suggest that you call him Master Andre."

Andre regarded me silently with a disdainful expression on his face, the hint of a smile forming on his lips. I curtsied deeply and said absurdly, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Andre." I received no response from him.

Larson continued, "And this is Kendra`s pet, Sabine. Sabine is usually at the bottom of the totem pole here, but this week, that distinction is all yours."

It took me a moment to figure out whether Sabine was male or female. Only the hint of an Adams apple convinced me that who I was looking at was, in fact, a very attractive---one could say, beautiful--highly effeminate, white male, probably 5'9" in heels. I wondered if Sabine might be going through hormone therapy, but his chest was quite flat, so I concluded that he probably was not (or, at least, not yet). My guess was that Andre was in his mid-twenties whereas Sabine was in his early twenties or perhaps even late teens.

Not really knowing how to address this Sabine, I simply curtsied and said, "It's very nice to meet you as well."

Sabine similarly made no reply, save for giving me a look of unconcealed contempt.

When Kendra snapped her fingers and pointed down at her feet, Andre unclipped the leash and Sabine ran over to Kendra and knelt down next to her. Kendra stroked his hair as if petting a cat. He nuzzled his face against her thigh.

She said to me, "You see, this is how I like my sissy maids, young and pretty."

Over the course of the next week, I was able to pick up additional bits of information about Andre and Sabine, and the role they played in Larson's domain. Andre, as it turns out, is Larson's bodyguard. Larson chose him not only for his imposing size and strength, but also because of his innate sadism. He was a natural to incorporate into Larson's and Kendra`s kinky lifestyle, and took to it like a fish to water. He rarely spoke.

Sabine was a submissive, bisexual transvestite--a femboy, I believe, is the correct term--that Larson and Kendra had met at a BDSM party in Manhattan. Both of them now lived in the guesthouse that was part of Larson's compound. While Larson and Kendra employ a professional maid (the one who had been given the week off while I was there), Sabine kept house for Andre and, presumably, provided other, more intimate services for him as well.

Following our introductions, Larson said, "Jenkins, Andre and Kendra will now demonstrate the difference between how young, pretty sissy maids and old, ugly sissy maids are treated at our little country club."

As soon as Larson uttered those words, Andre, with lightning quickness, firmly grabbed my arm, sat down on a straight back chair and pulled me roughly over his knees. He waited a moment for Sabine to daintily drape himself over Kendra`s lap in a chair directly across from his. Sabine's and my panties were pulled down in unison, but that's where the similarities ended. Andre began wailing on my ass with his bare hands, whereas Kendra playfully swatted Sabine's bottom with hers. While Jason was capable of spanking very hard with his hand, and I once received an equally painful hand spanking from Paulo, the intensity of Andre's blows was on an entirely different level. Sabine and I stared directly at each other during our respective chastisements. He rubbed in the stark difference in what we were experiencing by sticking his tongue out at me and smirking. Larson watched the whole display with amusement, chuckling heartily. We each received about 25 swats. All of those delivered by Kendra were essentially love taps, with the exception of the last two, which she delivered with more rigor-- probably just to make sure that Sabine remembered who was in charge. I saw him grimace and roll his eyes at the last two spanks (aware that no one besides me could see his face).

After Andre had finished, Larson walked over to where I was laying over Andre's lap, and said, "Wow, that's quite a shade of red, Jenkins. Your ass looks like the sun. And that was just a warm-up."

He then laughed, and added, "Quite literally," highly amused at his play on words.

And so went the first three hours of my week-long stay at chez Larson.

The humiliations I endured that week, large and small, are too numerous to even list (let alone describe in detail) here, but there certainly were several that stood out.

Following my spanking from Andre, I was put to work cleaning Larson's monstrosity in my working maid uniform. Sabine, or Miss Sabine to me, was assigned to supervise my work, and followed me around with a hairbrush that he or she (or they?--I still struggle to know the appropriate pronoun to use; perhaps it has something to do with the generation I'm from) would apply liberally to my already sore bottom whenever he believed that my efforts fell short. Fortunately, he didn't seem capable of hitting very hard. He didn't speak with a lisp exactly, but was exaggeratedly effeminate in his delivery. In general, Sabine was both bratty and catty, and made it unambiguously clear that he believed himself to be at the top of the sissy maid hierarchy and me to be at the very bottom, dirt beneath his Louboutins. Kendra's insistence that I give him a pedicure did nothing to disabuse him of his sense of relative superiority. His feet were smooth and feminine--why not be frank about it-- they were lovely, really. I gave them the full treatment (cotton swabs, foot bath and massage, you name it), even blowing his toes dry per his command. As this was done in the presence of Kendra (as well as Larson and Andre), my cock throbbed within its prison.

That evening, I prepared dinner and served it to the four of them, Larson, Kendra and Andre seated at the table, with Sabine kneeling on a pink pillow at Kendra's feet. She fed him scraps of sirloin and french fries from her plate with her fingers and gave him sips of sparkling water from a cup with a straw that she kept on the table next to her glass of Syrah, occasionally making him roll over, "give paw," or twist his body around in a circle (hands in begging position) to earn his treats.

After dinner, I was given a tour of Larson's 1,500 square foot dungeon, complete with two St. Andrews Crosses, two padded spanking benches, a queen size bed with a cage beneath it, a leather sling, several pulleys in the ceiling with chains, a pillory, two thrones, a large upright cage, an Iron Maiden, kneeling benches and a leather and mechanical device Larson referred to as a "sex machine." Mounted on the walls were countless floggers, straps, paddles, canes and crops as well as humblers, anal plugs and other implements I didn't recognize. None of these instruments of torture were used on me that first night, but the tacit promise of future use was unmistakable.

The next day was largely spent with Larson`s two adult children, Miranda (24) and Alex (22). Like the upstanding citizen and responsible parent he was, Larson had introduced them both to the BDSM scene shortly after he was released from prison (which roughly coincided with them turning 20 and 18, respectively). Walking me down to the stables with Andre, Larson presented me to them as "that dirt bag attorney who ruined the sale of my company and cost you each over $20 million in inheritance money."

"We know all about him, dad. We've been following the story in the news. There's a ton about it on-line," said Miranda.

Alex sneered at me, "We'll teach you to fuck with our inheritance, you piece of shit." A chip off the old block, it appeared.

However, whereas Larson was distinctly unattractive (balding, hair in the wrong places, flabby), his two kids were slender and easy on the eyes (they must have gotten their looks from their mother). Both wore matching skin tight, white riding breeches with black boots and jackets.

I had dressed for the occasion at Larson's direction--and under the additional supervision of his enforcer, Andre--in my thigh high, sheer black stockings, garters, corset and in a pair of black boots that were provided to me. Unable to speak due to the ball gag Andre had placed on me, I followed their conversation mutely.

"He's all yours until dinner. You can work his ass off, but just make sure you give him plenty of water. I don't want him to have a heart attack. Also, I promised not to leave any permanent marks. I'd appreciate if you go easy on his ass. I want it to be a blank canvas for the party I have planned for on Saturday night. I'm hoping to make his visits here regular events, but that won't happen if any serious damage is done to him. You kids are creative, so I'm sure you can find plenty of ways to amuse yourself at his expense without inflicting anything too obvious. Humiliate him to your heart's content."

Alex said, "It sounds like a challenge; you know how I love a challenge."

Miranda, more sensibly, added, "Don't worry dad. We've got it under control."

After Larson and Andre departed, It quickly became apparent that these were no ordinary stables. There was only one horse, despite multiple stalls, and on the other side of the main structure was a large fenced in pen with a carousel of sorts in the center. Tethered to the carousel and trotting in circles around it, was a nearly naked man. His only attire was a leather belt, boots, and a horse's tail that appeared to be coming out of his rear end; my assumption was that it was attached to his belt. He also wore leather headgear, a circular strap around the top of his head attached to two straps that came down on either side of his nose; they in turn connected to a bridle. While it was only late April, it was still a fairly warm day, and the man's body was glistening with sweat from his exertions. He was raising his knees high, much as I had been taught to do in my training sessions with Jason.

I later found out that this unfortunate creature was Miranda`s former college professor, Benjamin Issacson, 42 years old. While his student, Miranda had seduced him into having an affair with her, and had carefully arranged for her film major boyfriend to film compromising videos--not only of Issacson sleeping with her, but also of him worshipping her feet. Not wishing to relinquish his tenured position at his small liberal arts college in Connecticut, this professor now devoted a day each week to serving his former student. During the winter months, he cleaned her apartment in Manhattan and served as her all-purpose lackey. Miranda easily could have afforded to employ multiple maids; her relationship with her former professor was strictly about power.

In the warmer months, he toiled as her ponyboy on her father's estate. Dr. Issacson was now known as Biscuit.

Miranda said, "I think it was Shakespeare who wrote, `The first thing we do is kill all the lawyers.' Since we can't kill him, the next best thing is to enslave him, I guess. After I bridle him, will you put him through his paces?"

Her brother replied, "It will be my pleasure."

"Good. After he practices for a while, we can go out for a ride."

Pony play, seemingly, was to be the next dehumanizing experience checked off on my submissive bucket list.

After Miranda removed my ball gag and replaced it with a leather bridle and headgear nearly identical to Biscuit's, Alex tethered me to the carousel next to my fellow pony. I was not given a tail for whatever reason (perhaps I had not yet earned it?). Alex then slashed Biscuit's lower back with a dressage whip, spurring him forward. As Biscuit started to trot, the carousel began to rotate, forcing me to step in unison with him. The carousel was really a large rotating wheel, but I quickly discovered that it offered resistance, forcing Biscuit and I to exert ourselves to advance it. Fortunately, because of all of my training with Jason, I knew how to high step, and my endurance seemed equal to Biscuit's (although, to be fair, I had no idea how long he may have been out there before I arrived). This did not go unnoticed by our two overseers.

"It looks like Jenkins may have had some pony training before," said Alex.

"He at least has the high step down. We can't call him Jenkins. We have to give him a proper name."

"His first name is Gregory. What about Gizmo?"

Miranda replied, "He just doesn't seem like a Gizmo. What about Giddy Up?"

"Gregory `Giddy Up' Jenkins. I like it. Giddy up, Giddy Up!", Alex laughed, slashing my back with the whip. I was still wearing my corset, thankfully, which offered some measure of protection. The slash was nevertheless painful and motivated me to move forward with renewed urgency. After we trotted in circles for close to half an hour--encouraged by further occasional strokes of Alex's whip--I grew increasingly fatigued and thirsty. Biscuit began to make a whinny'ing noise. At this point, Miranda jumped down from the fence where she had been watching her brother put us through our paces, and began to pour water from a flask into Biscuit's mouth.

As I tried to catch my breath, unable to speak because of the bridle, I looked pleadingly at Miranda, hoping that she would give me water as well.

She looked at me and said, "Giddy Up, you must learn to whinny like Biscuit when you are thirsty or need a rest."

I did my best to make a whinny'ing sound in imitation of Biscuit.

Miranda laughed, and said, "That's pretty pathetic, but okay for your first time, I guess."

She then poured water from the flask into my mouth, before Alex struck Biscuit again, forcing us to resume our rotations. I tried to conceive of how miserable I would be if compelled to do this during the summer months. The disadvantage of my attire was that I was exceedingly hot, my stockings and corset soaked in sweat. After about another half an hour of rotations (followed by more whinny'ing--this time initiated by me--and another water break), Miranda said to Alex. "Let's stop now. I want to make sure they have enough energy left to take us on a ride. We should have a little race. The winner will get to eat cantaloupe in the shade. The loser will clean our boots and the winning pony's boots in the sun."

Alex untied Biscuit and me from the wheel and led us over to two single seat carts--I suppose they could be called rickshaws--sitting side by side. I was to pull Alex's cart and Biscuit was to pull Miranda's. Miranda blew a whistle for the race to begin. Both riders spurred on their respective ponies with their whips. Biscuit and I followed a dirt track through that wound its way through the seemingly unending grounds of Larson's estate. I initially held my own, but over time--whether because of his relative youth, his greater experience in serving as a human pony, or the fact that Alex was probably 20 pounds heavier than Miranda, I could not say--Biscuit opened up a sizable lead on me. Alex seemed to respect his father's wishes that he leave my back and bottom relatively free of marks--at least until I began to fall meaningfully behind Biscuit. Quite competitive with his sister, I suppose, he then applied a couple of wicked slashes to my ass (still covered with panties, fortunately) in an unsuccessful attempt to prod me to catch up to my competitor.

I dripped with sweat as I knelt in the dirt before Miranda and Alex, cleaning and polishing their boots from their perch on the top rail of the fence. I looked enviously at Biscuit, sitting on the ground beneath the shade of a tree, eating slices of cantaloupe from a bowl on the ground (not using his hands) and drinking from a trough of water.

When I was finished cleaning the three pairs of boots, Alex ordered Biscuit and me to strip off all of our clothes. He brought out a bucket of soapy water and then ordered us to soap each other up, using only our hands. I was ordered to pay particular attention to cleaning Biscuit's feet, armpits, rear end (including the crack of his ass) and genitals. In contrast to me, Biscuit was not caged, and his cock got hard as I cleaned it with my soapy hands, causing Miranda to giggle. Similarly, Biscuit soaped me up all over, including my balls, which jutted out from the metal ring that encircled them beneath my chastity cage.

Up until that point, I had not really had to urinate because I was sweating so much. But eventually the water I had drunk went through my system and, suddenly, I needed to pee badly. Having no ability to communicate because of the bridle, I instead attempted to whinny again, resulting in Miranda giving me still more water--which was the last thing I wanted at that moment. No longer able to hold it, I peed standing up; my urine sprayed outward through the cage, much of it dripping down my legs. Seeing this, Alex ordered Biscuit to wash me again. After he hosed both of us down with a powerful nozzle, we were commanded to brush each other with what I believe is known as a dandy brush; the stiff bristles irritated my skin, especially on those areas where Alex's whip had made contact.

Finally, after the brushing, I was permitted to return to the main house, to move on to my next ordeal.

That night, after I served dinner to Larson, Kendra, Miranda and Alex, I was brought down to the dungeon by Andre. Still in my formal serving uniform, I was commanded to kneel against the wall, and Andre shackled each of my wrists to the wall above my head. Larson then walked up to me with his crotch right in my face, and pulled down his sweat pants and underwear.

As I stared at his flaccid cock and hairy balls, he said to me, "When I was in the federal country club, as you called it, my cell mate may have been a white collar criminal--he was in for bribery--but he was 6'3" and built like Andre. There were four times during the year that we shared a room that he forced me to give him a blow job. That means four times for you this week." The lawyer in me wanted to argue that forced oral sex was technically rape, but I lived under Jason's laws, not any other, and I knew he would not agree.

It took a while for to bring Larson off. I had to use every trick I had learned with Jason, including licking and sucking his disgusting balls. As much as I had come to be turned on by being humiliated--as part of Jason's grand design of re-educating me and rewiring my brain--I found nothing about this experience to be even remotely erotic. When Larson ejaculated profusely onto my face, hair and over my uniform, it was all I could do to stop myself from vomiting.

I didn't want to give him that satisfaction.

Jason checked in on me on Wednesday, hump day of my week from hell. Seeing that I appeared to be intact, he left after smoking a cigar with Larson (their ashtray resting on my back as I knelt on all fours between them in a pair of black tights). Larson had unlocked my chastity cage that morning; apparently the second half of my stay was to feature the different flavor of humiliations and abuse I suffered when my cock was constantly hard and exposed.

The most notable event of that day was the smaller of the two social gatherings that Larson had promised that week. In addition to Larson, his wife and two kids, Andre and Sabine, there were seven other visitors. Having washed Larson's semen off my serving uniform, I greeted the guests at the door with glasses of champagne as they arrived. First to arrive was a man in his early 50's (a friend of Larson's), accompanied by a beautiful, young Polish woman less than half his age and a slightly overweight woman in her late forties, wearing a studded collar. It soon became obvious that the collared woman was the man's cuckquean wife, and the Polish beauty was the cuckcake, formerly the couple's cleaning lady. It was now the wife who did all of the cleaning, cooking and more, as her cuckcake shared her former bedroom with her husband. The man and the Polish girl spent most of the evening seated on the couch, kissing each other and talking about their domestic situation, as the wife knelt on the floor massaging their feet. At one point, speaking in a moderate Polish accent, the young woman showed off her toe ring, which was in fact the wife's wedding ring; after explaining this, she commanded the wife to suck on her toes, including the ring.

I was quite stunned when I answered the door to admit the next group of guests: the foursome of Penny, Dustin, Kyle and George. They were in the same distinctive formation as at Jason's and Lauren's Halloween party at the mansion: Dustin using one hand to hold Penny's arm and the other to hold on to Kyle's leash; Kyle in turn had George in tow. Penny wore a short black dress with black stockings and heels and a red sequined top. Dustin wore tight jeans and a tank top that showed off his bulging muscles. The two submissives wore their jobber trunks (bright green for Kyle and bright pink for George). Penny had not been employed at my old firm when the whole case involving Larson went down, so I was completely confused by her showing up at his kinky, little soirée.

"Miss Penny, what a pleasant surprise it is to see you here," I lied, curtsying deeply.

"It's a small world, isn't it, Jenkins. I told you when you first met him that Georgie is a software developer. Well, he works for Elliott's company. I met Elliott at their office Christmas party."

Larson interjected, "George is talented, but I always knew he was a total wimp. When I saw Penny ordering him around at the party like he was her servant rather than her date, I knew I had to meet this little spitfire."

"So, we've become good friends. Poor Georgie is really now a beta boy both at home and at the office. Elliott knows I work at your old firm, so naturally he invited me here tonight."

I wondered if I would be forced to wrestle again. Of course, I was: after watching Dustin dominate Kyle and then Kyle manhandle George, I was ordered to change into a pair of sheer, light blue tights and get down on the mat with George. We both fought hard, but this time it was I who kneed him in the balls (I can't honestly say, inadvertently) and got the pin. However, it didn't matter. Larson was intent on humiliating me, so I was berated for fighting dirty and forced to beg George to spank me as punishment. Because George's spanks were deemed too feeble to be a suitable correction, I was subsequently passed around to Andre, Dustin, and Kyle, receiving 25 spanks from each (for a total of 100, including George's 25). It was difficult to say which of these three brutes hit harder, but I'd probably give the edge to Andre. Penny was obviously as pleased as punch to watch all three of her men work me over.

Penny initially asked Larson why I couldn't be caned instead. He explained that he wanted my ass relatively unscathed for the party he had planned for Saturday night. After my spanking, I was forced to stand facing everyone, hands clasped behind my lower back. My body behaved with its usual treachery; with the heat radiating from my toasted bottom, my cock rose in my tights. I surveyed the room and every woman there, even the cuckquean then being used as a footstool, was staring at my erection with a look of amused derision. After 30 minutes of shameful penance, I was ordered to resume serving the guests in my tights, my red ass on display through the sheer fabric.

The balance of the week included more pony play with Miranda and Alex (this time without Biscuit, all of their attention focused squarely on me); three more repulsive blow jobs for Larson; lots of nipple clamp torture and being forced to wear an anal plug for three hours (not rape, technically, but Larson "pushing the limits" in his mind, I suspect); more humiliating subordination to Sabine, etc.

Perhaps the most unusual thing that happened prior to the mysterious Saturday night event I so dreaded, was an unorthodox massage I received from Andre. Andre was studying to be a masseur, but not a conventional one. Before my change in status, I had often enjoyed deep tissue massages, which can be at once painful and pleasurable, generally from attractive, young Asian women in Midtown Manhattan massage parlors (I'd even had a couple of "happy ending" massages over the years). Some of the more petite ones even walked on my back. Andre brought me down into the dungeon and ordered me to remove all my clothes and to lie face down on a massage table. He oiled his hands, and then savagely began working on me. It was a full body massage that, in addition to deeply penetrating the tissue of my flesh, included vicious karate chops to my back and buttocks. He then roughly turned me over, and worked with similar brutality on the front of my body. He smiled wickedly as he saw my erect cock and pressed his huge knee down on my scrotum as he applied karate chops to my upper arms and chest (I was far too nervous for a happy ending). Rather than applying hot towels, he concluded by ordering me to lie on the floor and then walking on my back with his enormous bare feet. When he finally finished, I was like a ragdoll, and it took several minutes before I could even lift myself up from the floor to put my maid uniform back on. Jason later showed me a Tennessee Williams' short story, "Desire and the Black Masseur," which gave me further insight into the esoteric type of massage therapy Andre hoped to provide. I will say that, despite the acute pain I experienced during the massage, I did feel less chronic pain and stress in the days following it.

I will not dwell for too long on Saturday night's main event. Larson invited four other individuals who, like him, had been on the losing end of high profile court cases I had litigated at my old firm. Each had suffered serious financial damages as a result of my efforts, and after each case, I followed my usual practice of rubbing their defeats in their respective noses in my statements to the media. I, of course, was forced to greet each of these individuals (often accompanied by their spouses, or sometimes their coworkers) in my formal serving uniform, as they arrived. I was then ordered to change into a white négligée with white thigh high stockings and garters; I was not permitted to wear panties, so my cock stuck straight out as I carried around a serving tray with drinks and hors d'oeuvres throughout the evening, the target of incessant ridicule from all of these people who despised me. Larson organized a couple of humiliating party games, including a ring toss game on my cock (truthfully, even at its hardest, my cock was not big enough to be much of target, a fact repeatedly pointed out to me). I was caned in front of all of them by Andre, who was careful to leave crisscrossed welts on my bottom; I then moved around the room to allow all of the guests to play tic-tac-toe on my rear end with a water-soluble marker. From my knees, I was compelled to inhale deeply into one of each guest's shoes and tasked with memorizing the scent. Blindfolded, I was then given the other shoe to smell and instructed to identify its owner by the smell. Incorrect matches resulted in an additional stroke of the cane by Andre. My record, sadly, was four correct matches and seven incorrect.

A fun time was had by all, save for me. When Jason picked me up Sunday morning, I literally cried with relief.

Jason and I barely spoke on the drive back to East Hampton that Sunday afternoon. Sensing that I had been through a lot, Jason and Lauren permitted me to nap for much of the day, until it was time for me to prepare dinner. I rubbed lotion into my sore, frayed bottom before lying down. My resentment towards Jason for having sold me down the river to advance his career was exceeded only by my feeling of relief at being liberated (at least for the time being) from Larson's clutches.

Jason's transaction, however, was an unqualified success. Largely due to the huge increase in his billings generated by the highly litigious Larson and his thriving software company, Jason was named the youngest partner in my old firm's history in early June. Consistent with the increasingly winner-take-all ethos of our society, the decision was made to remove my surname from the name of the firm and substitute Jason`s in its place--so that it was no longer Jenkins, Johnson & Burrows, but now Johnson, Collins & Burrows. The press release announcing this change did not go into the reasons behind it, but it didn't have to. The whole situation was now fully in the public spotlight, thanks to the articles in The New York Post and elsewhere. It was apparent to everyone that the conqueror had his name elevated, whereas the conquered had his name canceled. And I have no doubt that this was widely viewed as completely appropriate; after all, a firm's janitor typically doesn't have his name on the door. Forrest planned a party to celebrate Jason's achievement for late July in which I, naturally, would be serving drinks and hors d'oeuvres in one of my most formal serving uniforms to the entire staff of my old firm, their significant others, and select clients.

On June 22nd, Amanda gave birth to healthy twins, Dylan and Harper. She and Ryan engaged a full-time au pair, trained at an exclusive agency in the UK (one supposedly used by members of the British royal family). Slender with longish, dark brown hair, Felicity was 19 years old and spoke with a refined (borderline prissy) British accent. In the weeks before Amanda gave birth, I heard Ryan express his strong conviction multiple times that a British nanny from a top agency would be best suited to help raise the children in the proper manner. From the get go, Amanda and Ryan made it very clear to Felicity--who, of course, had done her own research and was well aware of who I had been, and who I was now--that I was at her disposal to help with the children, but that I was fully subordinate to her.

There had been extensive discussions about what my role was to be in the upbringing of my grandchildren. It was obviously a delicate situation: I was the maid of their parents and grandmother, was in fact their maid, but was nevertheless also their biological grandparent. It was ultimately decided that my status was to be revealed to them as they matured as maid/servant, first and foremost, and as grandfather, secondarily. For that reason, while it was inevitable that in helping to care for them--changing their diapers, feeding them, etc.--there would be moments of bonding, Amanda and Ryan felt it was important that such interactions be closely monitored and curtailed. Many affluent children form attachments to their maids, after all, but the maid remains the maid; it is critical that everyone always be cognizant of their true place in the household.

I later was to discover that master/servant hierarchy was in fact an obsession of my son-in-law. This was no doubt a product of Ryan's upbringing in the UK, where his father's family had long been members of the aristocracy (including a couple of earls and duchesses in his extended family), even though they had lost much of their wealth and influence over the years. There's nothing to put a chip on one's shoulder quite like being part of a group that believes they are entitled but whose power has diminished. I imagine that was yet another source of Ryan's enmity towards me; I had been a self-made man who had acquired my wealth and influence through my ability and hard work (and bullying, to be honest) rather than by birthright. Now that I had lost all of my wealth and power, he certainly was not going to squander the unique opportunity he had to show who was the real aristocrat and who was the real servant. For her part, Amanda seemed to be quite entertained by Ryan's fixation, and seemed to share his belief that a well established hierarchy in the household would be beneficial in the rearing of the twins. Felicity was to play a key role in this hierarchy and in ensuring that I maintained the proper emotional distance from my grandchildren.

If Ryan's resentment towards me was fueled, in part, by his sense of grievance from being part of the upper economic strata that had lost influence, I was the target of resentment from the other end of the economic spectrum from Lauren's sister, Nicole, and her family. Amanda kept her word to Ethan that the birth of her children would not prevent me from "enjoying" my two week-long, summer sojourn in Virginia the second week of July-- my "working vacation," as Ethan humorously called it (now that Felicity was on the scene, my absence for a week was not a big deal). Bill had always viewed me as a snotty, soft, good for nothing "college boy", and a "yankee," to boot. Ethan was following squarely in his father's blue collar footsteps with his landscaping business, which had continued to grow.

Those two weeks were more of the same as the previous summer, me working in the hot sun under the command of Ethan, Reece and Tommy. The only difference was that this year Ethan followed through on the business plan he conceived of the prior summer of offering maid service to some of his best clients in addition to landscaping. We spent a whole day at Mrs. Rice's house. If you recall, she was the one who helped Ethan come up the idea of renting out his former uncle as a maid. Of course, now that my status had become public--news of the prominent lawyer, cuckolded and turned into a maid had spread well beyond New York--my services were in high demand, allowing Ethan to charge a premium. I spent the morning cleaning the house of Mrs. Rice, who was in the process of divorcing her husband. I then served lunch to her and two of her friends, both divorcees in their mid 40s. I believe Mrs. Rice had the hots for young Ethan, now 17 years old and increasingly tall and muscular.

At one point, when I inadvertently broke a serving bowl, she asked Ethan to discipline me. She and two friends certainly seemed to greatly enjoy the sight of the strapping young athlete applying his switch to the bottom of the 63-year-old sissy maid, bent over a chair in her dining room (perhaps envisioning their exes in my place).

I spent two days working at the teenage girls' equestrian club, cleaning stalls and polishing the boots of the seven girls. They no doubt also got a big charge from having this older, quasi celebrity submissive male at their feet. Ethan did not charge for this service, as he seemed to have a romantic (or at least amorous) interest in the regal head girl, Melissa, all of his working class snobbery notwithstanding.

The party Forrest organized celebrating Jason`s partnership was unbearably humiliating, not because of any punishment I received, but simply due to the nature of the occasion, and the make up of the guests. Held at a banquet hall Forrest rented out in Manhattan, it was the most public and comprehensive manifestation yet of my downfall and defeat--as a professional and as a man. Between attorneys, paralegals, administrative staff, clients and their significant others, there were at least 100 people at this event. While there was a professional catering staff, I greeted every guest as they arrived with a curtsy and served alongside the waitresses and waiters throughout the party. I alone was dressed as a maid, my stocking seams straight as arrows and my heels sparkling. Midway through the party, Forrest brought out a wooden plaque with the new name of the firm to be displayed in the lobby. At the same time, Jason was presented with the old plaque along with an ax. The crowd erupted in applause as Jason ceremoniously chopped the old plaque bearing my name to bits. While I didn't see Bolson at the party, he must've had a surrogate present, as there was a fairly detailed article about it with photographs (several of me in action) in The Post the following day--just in case anyone missed my consummate emasculation.

Amanda and Ryan and their friends held fewer parties that summer following the birth of the twins and with Paolo on the road playing soccer. Nevertheless, Rebecca and I served together at three lavish parties at the mansion and at Shyla's parent's home during the dog days of August.

The birth of the twins was indeed a major event, having a substantial impact on my remaining years.