I never expected to have this type of job. To be honest, I’m not even sure it counts as a job; I still don’t fully understand how I ended up here. But every Sunday morning promptly at 7am, I pull on my garters, stockings, and frilly panties. My hand shakes slightly as I apply rosy makeup – even with practice, it still feels unnatural. I delicately zip up the plum dress, adjusting it meticulously, even if I know it won’t stay on for long. I’m a soft butch, I don’t normally wear girlish things. But this is my uniform, so I suck up the discomfort and avoid looking at myself in the hall mirror as I leave my apartment.
It’s a 15-minute subway ride to my mistress’s house. I quickly step into the relatively empty train as the doors snap shut behind me. I find a vacant seat and arrange my legs to hide my garter. I feel a middle-aged man’s gaze creeping up my sheer stockings; I feel exposed and icky. I quickly get off at my station, hurrying up the stairs, hoping he’s still on the train. I walk through the frigid street, carefully balancing on heels, avoiding the slick patches of ice on the sidewalk that have sent me tumbling to the ground once or twice before.
When I get to her door, I quietly let myself in using the gold key that has my pet name engraved on it: Cherry. I know she’s still in bed. I quietly undress, leaving only the garters, stockings and panties on. I fold the velvety dress neatly and place it on a chair. The house is surprisingly warm for December. Still, I feel my exposed nipples harden.
I don’t know much about my Mistress except that she’s older by a few decades, never married, has a large private brick house overlooking Lake Ontario, and apparently a good deal of money. She pays the equivalent of my monthly rent for a single Sunday morning; it’s a hard offer to refuse. All she requires is that I have tea with her in bed, in this half-nude frilly getup, and then spend the rest of the morning lounging and posing for her as she reads, attends to her emails, and mulls around the house. She doesn’t talk and I’m expected to not make a sound. My visits start promptly at 7:45, right on time for her eight o’clock alarm, and I’m expected to behave perfectly and quietly until she dismisses me around noon.
I’m still a little fuzzy on the purpose of my visits. She summoned me months ago out of the blue; I almost didn’t take the job. But a woman in her early 60s felt relatively harmless, even if she refused to provide references or details until we met in person. When we arranged these mornings, she simply said she likes to have “pretty things” around. And it’s clear that to her, I’m more of a thing, like a statue that changes and follows. She never actually touches me – that’s part of the meticulous high protocol she outlined. But the way her eyes trace over my skin, as I sip tea without a sound, feels more physical than any touch. At first, the job unnerved me. My friend, Danny, tried to talk me out of it when I reported back to them. But the cash was nice and it’s not all that different from camming when I think about it.
What I didn’t expect was that I would increasingly look forward to these mornings. There’s something peaceful about the stillness of this arrangement. No talking, no touching. I thought I’d be bored but I find myself falling into a relaxed trance. I listen to her flipping pages, sipping, swallowing, typing, pacing. I move around slowly. The only time she’s dissatisfied is when I make noise. I’ve learned to be deliberate with my movements. I’m an object, I move only when she needs me to. If she’s not using me, I’m perfectly still. Everything seems frozen in time, my hours stretch, and when I leave the house, stepping onto the chaotic rattling train, more and more I want to go back.
I’m not gonna lie, I like the way she adores me. How she consumes me with her gaze. I like that she sees me only as she wants to. There’s no chance of letting her down because she requires so little of me, besides pouring her cups of tea. Her furniture feels expensive and I luxuriate in my semi-nudity. My underwear is incredibly sheer but she never asks me to take them off. She handed me the outfit along with a contract when I started working for her. At first, I balked at the idea of wearing such ridiculously old-fashioned clothes. But now they help me get into my sub-space. I feel intense tingles when I sprawl open on her voluptuous king bed, allowing her to gaze at the sheer lace outlining the shape of my exposed cunt. Knowing she won’t touch me makes me unbearably wet. I yearn for her, knowing I’ll never get to experience her body. It’s not that I think she’s sexy in a traditional way – the age gap really pushes against my experience of sexuality – but her aura is undeniably arousing. I never expected to get so much from this dynamic.
Even if the four hours I spend there feel incredibly long, when it’s over, I feel lonely and wish I could remain under her watch. The more time I spend captivated by her gaze, unable to move unless she allows, the more I’ve come to depend on her. She uses me in a careful way that makes me feel desired, even though I know it’s only for her pleasure. My needs are inconsequential to her and that’s part of the appeal. I’ve started touching myself in the underwear when I get home. As I lay on my bed, fingering my clit softly through the lace, I imagine what it would be like for my mistress to require me to take them off. I’m insatiably curious about her touch. I think of her elegant shape, her long silver hair grazing her bare shoulders. I wonder what she tastes like, how she must fuck. I feel like she’s become as irresistible to me as I to her. I understand more and more why she’s hired me, but I have no clue how this arrangement will end.