How May I Serve You?

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“How may I serve you, Mistress?”

That question became the cornerstone of my life in her service, an oral talisman, worn to indicate my complete and perfect submission. But it wasn’t always so.

I’d come from the rough part of town, the wrong side of the tracks. I was wilful, disobedient, failing at school and at life. I was destined to live out my days in cheap bars and rundown apartments, scratching for money and lacking respect. But she saw something in me, something that no-one else had seen before. She took me into her house, offered me shelter, offered me a job, offered me a place in the world.

At first, I pushed her away, I resisted her attempts to mould me into the girl that she wanted. And, when I did, she wouldn’t respond with anger, simply disappointment. There were no punishments in those early days, save for her disdain. That stung more than any spanking ever could.

But even the sharpest rock in the fastest river becomes smooth with time, and so it was with me. Fear of rebuke, desire for complements, a Pavlovian response that gradually eroded the rough edges of my former self.

In time, I took her uniform, never questioning how fussy it was, how feminine it looked, how utterly impractical it seemed for a menial servant, designed more for visual appeal than hard work.

With dwindling resistance, I performed the duties she asked of me, following her willingly down a road that became more intimate with every passing day. Household chores at first, personal attention later. I’d dress her, brush her hair, help her bathe. It never seemed strange to me, it never seemed wrong.

All the while, that simple phrase. An initiation of capitulation: “How may I serve you, Mistress?”

And then, one day, a response that gave me pause.

“Take off my shoes, my feet are aching. I’d like you to give me a massage.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I replied dutifully. I didn’t hesitate, not for a single second. Even though some distant relic of my former self screamed out in muted anguish at what she was having me do, I didn’t resist. I simply obeyed.

I squatted down before her, on heels too high for practical work, and took her slender foot in my trembling hands. She was dressed to perfection, as she always was. Open shoes that cost more than I’d earn in a year; nylon stockings of the most exquisite softness; a low cut black dress that wouldn’t seem out of place at the finest cocktail party. In truth, I felt a rush of inadequacy. That I, a simple maid, should be able to touch such a goddess…

I fumbled with the delicate buckle around her perfect ankle and slowly slid the heel off her foot, exhaling as I did so, experiencing sensations and feelings that were partially adoration but predominantly lust. Without realizing it, I’d fallen for her. The weeks and months of conditioning, subtle hints, gentle nudges, the gradual rationing of affirmation and condemnation, praise when I was a good girl, admonishment when I was bad. Mistress had sculpted in me a perfect pet, utterly devoted, utterly besotted, willing to do whatever she asked, whenever she asked it.

I took her foot in my hands, barely able to breathe, overwhelmed by the sensations that were flooding my brain. How her toes danced under nylon, how her sole felt under my fingertips, silky soft and impossibly warm. The subtle aroma of her, sweat and perfume, intoxicating and indescribably pleasant.

“Use your mouth,” she purred, twitching her toes.

“Yes, Mistress,” I replied without thinking, feeling only relief at the permission.

I kissed her sole, allowing her to engulf me, relishing beyond imagining the feel of her foot on my cheek. I licked her, unable to resist, desperate to know how she tasted. And, when I finally experienced that delicious flavor, I licked her again, and again, and again, lost in a world from which I never wanted to escape.

She pulled away after an unknowable time, and I gasped in shock and horror. To be deprived of that glory seemed like the worst punishment imaginable. I gazed up at her, begging her with my eyes, not daring to match that longing with simple, inadequate words.

She parted her legs, hitching her dress up around her thighs. Her sex revealed itself like a butterfly opening its wings. A perfect line of pink flex, glistening in the dim light of the room. I’d seen her naked before, but never like this. I’d seen her sex before, but never like this. It was like gazing into the face of God.

“How may I serve you, Mistress?” I asked. But I already knew.