I’m writing this because my mistress has ordered me to.
Sat on the edge of my tiny little cot, the notepad balanced on my slender legs, clad in their fishnet stockings, my big breasts rising and falling in the bottom of my vision, I write. I write while desperately trying to ignore the frilly white garters round my dainty wrists; the black choker pulled tight around my elegant, swan-like neck; the little cap, perched delicately on my head. I write while trying to pretend none of this is really happening to me, but still I write. I have to.
In my new body, I can no more disobey a direct order from my mistress than I can suddenly start flying.
I remember when she still had a name. One even I, lowly little slave that I am, was allowed to use. Of course, I didn’t know I was her slave then. Like the silly bitch I am, I truly believed she was there to serve me. Outwardly, I called her “wife”, but inside…
Inside I despised her. Called her names. Mentally cheated on her with a million different women. Thought I was better than her, that my big cock and man-muscles meant I was the one in charge.
How foolish I was.
I can no longer remember what either of us was called back then. My mistress’s wish wiped my old name from my mind, just like it wiped my male body from existence. Turned my memories into so much confetti and scattered them on the wind.
If I concentrate very hard, I can sometimes almost get a picture of the man I used to be. Of the life I used to live. An image rises in the gloom, of a middle-aged man with sturdy arms, a beard and an intellectual’s features.
But of my name, there is nothing. All I know is that I am now called Fifi. Fifi, the adorable little French maid, with her big boobies, pouty lips, long blonde hair and beautiful baby face. Fifi, who is magically enchanted to serve her mistress’s every whim from now until the day she dies.
Fifi, who was turned into a girl five years ago, and can never go back to being a man again.
I still shudder when I think of that day. The transformation itself has been blanked in my mind, but just remembering that I used to be male is enough to make my weak little girl-body want to start crying. My mistress, wonderful as she is, knows this, and she enjoys watching me weep. Sometimes, when I am massaging her feet, my arms and back sore after a hard day’s housework, she deliberately reminds me of it.
“Fifi?” She’ll ask, in that lazy way of hers, a way I am magically fated to find enchanting, “My dear little maid, do you remember how you used to massage me like this, back when we first met?”
And I will nod my pretty little head, because I am unable to disagree with her, or upset her, or think a single bad thought about her.
“Yes, ma’am,” I’ll whisper, in my soft, French-accented voice. An accent I never used to have before madam made her wish.
“You used to love rubbing my feet,” madam will muse, watching me with a twinkle in her dark eyes. “You said a man should give his wife pleasure, remember? That it was your duty?”
Here I will nod, despite not really remembering, a lump rising in my throat. But still softly, obediently massaging madam’s feet.
“Well, now look at you,” madam will giggle, dreamily running her fingers through my platinum blonde hair, hair I must keep in perfect condition for her at all times. “Now it really is your duty, isn’t it, maid?”
“Oui, ma’am,” I’ll whisper, sadly. “I live to serve you, ma’am.”
“Oh, I know you do, Fifi. Believe me, I know.”
And then my glorious mistress will do something like lean back, close her eyes, and let a smile flicker over her sculpted, supermodel features.
“Now suck on my toes. I know you used to hate doing that.”
And I will obediently nod, and kiss her feet, and whisper merci, and then I will part my pretty, bud-like lips, take one of madam’s toes in my mouth, and gently suck on it.
And I will enjoy it. I will enjoy it more than anything I’ve ever done before.
Madam’s wish will see to that.
It’s the same reason I can enjoy writing this, even though it pains me to think about my forgotten past. My life is so wonderfully simple now. If it makes my mistress happy, I will enjoy doing it. If it makes her sad…
…I tremble to think of it. If something even slightly upsets the Goddess I adore, I will feel as if a million hot needles are piercing my pathetic little maid’s heart.
So I obey her, mindlessly, like a maid should obey her mistress. Every day, I wake up on the dot at 4am and start ironing my uniform, washing my body and combing my hair, ready to please her.
Even now, showering remains something I am scared to do. I hate looking down and seeing my big, heavy breasts dangling from my torso. I hate peeling back the lips of my pussy to make sure I’m all clean. I hate washing and blow-drying my waterfalls of hair. And I hate doing my makeup.
But what choice do I have? If my mistress wishes me to spend an hour every morning gazing at my curvy female body in the mirror as I gently apply my lipstick, that is what I shall do.
Besides, on some hidden level I try not to admit to, I kind of like seeing Fifi’s face, looking back at me. Like its wide, blue eyes with their fluttering eyelashes. Like its pale skin and freckled cheeks. Like its tiny button nose.
It reminds me of something. I am not sure what. But something that still warms my mutilated heart, makes me feel like smiling.
Madam disagrees. She says I just enjoy being a sexy girl. And, in a way, she is right.
For the first time in my life, I am pretty. Not just pretty: beautiful. I am a gorgeous, busty, 18-year old French girl with a pert ass, a tight waist and long legs. I am a man’s ideal of female beauty. A blonde bimbo no guy could stop himself from staring at.
And, ever since my wonderful mistress used her second wish to reverse my sexuality, I’ve been unable to do anything but love being the focus of male attention.
Sometimes, on the rare occasions when we leave our mansion together, my mistress notices me smiling bashfully at the strong boys working in the fields. If she’s feeling particularly cruel, she’ll lean over and whisper in my ear.
“My, my Fifi, checking out the boys, are we? You are a little slut, aren’t you?”
And I’ll be unable to do anything but feel my cheeks blush bright pink, and bow my head toward the ground.
“I knew it. Now.” Her voice will become commanding again. “Go over to that hedgerow and invite two of them over for drinks later. Show them that delightful cleavage of yours, and remember to smile.”
“But madam…” I will whisper, looking unhappily at the pink parasol in my hand, the one I am ordered to hold above my mistress’s head at all times, “the sun. You will get burned.”
“You may leave it with me for exactly five minutes. A second more and I shall make you sleep on the floor tonight. Now, off you go. Don’t forget to wiggle those hips!”
And off I will totter, on my high heels, across the dusty road, towards the men working in the French countryside. The muscular men I wish I could take my eyes off, the men I wish I wasn’t madly attracted to.
“Hello, Fifi,” they will say in French, smiling and winking at one another, “long time no see. Are you back for more cock?”
“Monsieur, you make me blush,” I’ll reply, trying to ignore the way my nipples are already hardening in my push-up bra. Trying to ignore the way my eyes automatically and greedily trace the outline of their biceps, of their broad shoulders.
“Not in front of my mistress,” I will finish, primly. “She is a true lady.”
As always, they will shrug. They know what I am almost better than I do.
“In that case, we shall return to work…”
“Non! No… please…” A deep breath. “Please, you must come over tonight. Two of you. Madam wishes it.”
Laughs. Leering looks, taking in my nubile female form.
“What is in it for us?”
Here, I will close my eyes, like I always do, as if by not looking, I can convince myself that none of this is happening.
“One of you will get to be inside my mouth and I will swallow. The other…”
And here it will happen. The magic will kick in, and I’ll find myself leaning forward, biting my lower lip delicately, and giving these strong men a good look at my soft, cream white cleavage.
“The other shall get to be inside my asshole.”
And then men will grin and wink at one another. And, five hours later, I will be on all fours on the great white rug before our fireplace, my lacy panties pulled down and my maid’s uniform all roughly bunched up, trying not to weep as a fat, hairy dick slides roughly in and out of my mouth, while a separate strong man fucks my tight little asshole.
And my mistress will watch, and she will enjoy it. And that means I will enjoy it, too.
But, as I say, these occasions are rare.
For the most part, it pleases my mistress enough merely to watch me clean our vast mansion – the one she created out of thin air and transported us to with her third wish – and cook her dinner, and simply serve her like an obedient little maid.
Strange as it is to say, I no longer remember why my mistress, in all her wisdom, chose this punishment for me.
There must be something I did to deserve becoming Fifi, the beautiful, slutty maid, but the reason is gone from my mind, blanked.
Oh, my mistress drops hints. Every now and then, she lets something slip, or alludes to something from my past, evidently enjoying how little I remember of it.
I’ve picked up some things over the past five years. That my mistress used to be my wife. That I once was a writer, respected and envied by great men in America. That, one day, my mistress discovered a magic lamp, only hours before she found out that I was… that I was…
This bit, I do not know. But I think it had something to do with a book. A book I wrote and something I did. Or maybe a book I wrote about something I did.
That would explain why my mistress is making me write this now. To atone for one literary crime with a written confession of my sins. How appropriate.
Sadly, I no longer know what those sins are.
The closest I can come to guessing is a conversation I had with my mistress, two and a half years ago.
Bear in mind that it is not often my mistress chooses to talk to me. The large part of my days are passed in silence, merely serving her whims. When she does speak, it is normally to give me an order, or to torment me with reminisces of my past.
Which is what makes the conversation we had that day so unusual.
We were in the great hall at the front of the mansion. It was a hot, summers day and the sun was burning bright. Earlier, I had stood in the scorching light in the garden, miserably holding a parasol over my mistress’s head as she read, watching as my arms turned pink and burned. But now we were both inside, and I was dusting the room from top to bottom.
As I ran my fluffy pink feather duster over the metal catch at the bottom of the windows, I became aware that my mistress was looking at me from her place on the sofa. Thinking she was about to give me an order, I immediately span round and clasped my hands behind my back, as she likes me to do when she is issuing commands.
But, to my shock, it wasn’t the cruel smile of my mistress I saw when I turned.
It was the faraway look of a woman I used to know, a long time ago.
My mistress was watching me work with a strange, open expression I couldn’t recall ever seeing on her face before. A sort of dreamy earnestness that made the downy little hairs on the nape of my neck all stand up, and made me shiver.
“Madam?” I remember squeaking in my soft girl-voice. “Madam, is there something…?”
And then it happened.
“You look just like her,” my goddess whispered, like she was looking back at some distant memory. “You really do. That day she first knocked on the door, and the sun caught her hair like that…”
I dumbly glanced down at my hair. It was reflecting the late afternoon light, almost shimmering.
I looked nervously back at my mistress.
“I could see why you wanted to hire her there and then,” she was saying, slowly. “I knew you fancied her. Even I felt some sort of vague attraction towards her.”
Her voice dropped even lower.
“But I never knew why you did it, until now. I never saw her as you did…”
She trailed off, looking like a woman in a dream. Gently, she raised one hand.
Obediently, I went to my mistress, trembling like a dog before its master. I knelt down, until I was looking up into her cruel, sculpted face.
But now there was no trace of cruelty. Only a kind of softness. She reached out, gently stroked one of my soft cheeks, hooked a loose strand of hair behind one of my ears.
“I guess I see it now…” she let her thumb trail down until it rested against my lips. “Do you remember what you said? I mean, of course you don’t, but I do. I remember it so, so well.”
A sad smile. My heart fluttered in my generous chest.
“You said, there are some things worth doing, even if you get caught. Some things that are worth any punishment. It was something a character said in one of your books, remember, Daniel? You said it to me that time you seduced me in my office, and I guess you said it to her, too…”
She gently tucked one finger under my chin, raised my face, studying it, as if she was seeing it for the first time since she wished it on to me.
“I always wondered why, you know? Why you thought she was worth it… all this I’ve done to you. I thought you were a fool. I still do. But you know what?”
“Seeing her just now… seeing you, I realized. I realized she was worth getting caught over.”
At her words, tears began to prick at the corners of my eyes. Without knowing why, I suddenly felt like I was on the verge of crying.
“Tina…” I heard myself whisper, in a voice that didn’t seem to be my own, “Tina, oh God, I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry…”
Tears were running down my cheeks now, pattering onto my bosom. A sadness rose up in me, a sadness that frightened me because I didn’t know its cause.
“Please…” my body whispered, like a thing that was separate from my mind, “give me another chance. I’ll make it right, I promise. Just… just let me be the man you deserved me to be.”
At my words, my mistress smiled. With a jolt of shock, I realized she was on the verge of tears, too.
“You could have been that man, Daniel. You nearly were. You didn’t have to throw it away. Not even for a girl like Fifi.”
“Shh.” My mistress pressed her thumb against my lips, the command cutting off the strange words coming from my body. “It’s too late now, I’ve used up all my wishes. The lamp is gone.”
As she spoke, her voice grew slowly harder.
“Besides, isn’t this how it was meant to be? How can someone be worth getting caught for if there’s no punishment involved? You were caught.”
Her cruel smile reappeared.
“And now I guess it’s time for your punishment.”
My mistress straightened up.
“Maid,” she commanded, her eyes flashing, “go to your room and get the biggest dildo you can find. Then bring it back here as fast as your sluttly little legs will carry you. I’m going to bang that tight little pussy of yours till you scream.”
At her words, at her familiar tone, my sadness dropped away. The veil fell across my mind again and I was just Fifi once more. Beautiful, sexy Fifi, who lives to serve and nothing more.
“Oui, madam,” I breathed, frantically kissing her feet, “right away, mistress!”
And then I was off, running as fast as I could on my high heels, my great breasts bouncing beneath my uniform, a blissful smile on my face as I obeyed my mistress’s commands perfectly.
Since then, there have been no more days like that. No more soft conversations. No more mentions of Daniel and Tina and those strange, alien names.
I sometimes wonder if I will ever learn the truth. But it is a distant, unconcerned wonder. I will learn if my mistress wants me to. I will remain ignorant if she doesn’t.
After all, I am just the maid. All I do is cook and clean and let strange men fuck me for my mistress’s enjoyment, cooing in French as they violate my soft mouth and tight little pussy.
And I enjoy it, because that is what my mistress wishes. Just like she wishes me to write this, so the world will know what she’s done to me. Just like she wishes me to publish it somewhere where everyone will be able to read it, and crane their necks and whisper to one another about what a lucky little maid I truly am.
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Featured image: Maid in Japan by thisparticulargreg, used freely from Flickr without endorsement under a Creative Commons BY-SA 2.0 license.