Bank Of Darcy

(This isn’t a story; it is the opening set of a series of them.)

Author ; Mule

Darcy has all of the qualities I like in a woman: she’s confident, intelligent, witty and has a great sense of humor. She is the owner of her own business, and is an active member in a subset of the Chamber of Commerce known as the Women in Business Council or the WBC as Darcy refers to it as. As the name implies, membership is limited to women-owned businesses and women business leaders.

Darcy also has all the qualities I like in a mistress: she’s creative, mysterious, playful and has just enough cruelty in her to push my buttons without being mean. She knows that my main fetish is humiliation, and servitude. We’re really not into toys or severe pain, although she doesn’t hesitate to take me over her knee when she believes a “behavioral correction” is in order.

As busy as she is with her business, we seldom have time for each other, and most of that time is spent on developing other parts of the relationship. She was actually apologetic, “Carl, I know you like it when we play our games, but my schedule is really a bear. Even when the clock allows it, I’m so tired that I’m just too exhausted to give you what you want.”

I sympathized as I sat on the ottoman opposite her massaging her feet, “I know you are busy. I know what it takes to run a business, and I don’t think I could keep up the pace you do.”

“I promise I’ll try to make more time. In the meantime, I don’t think I could make it without you. You’re such a doll helping me keep the place clean and cooking meals and doing the dishes.”

“Oh, that’s just love,” I responded. I did what I could, but I had an apartment, a job and a schedule too. “I understand your predicament. There are only so many hours in the day. Once your business grows a little and you can hire some help, then maybe you can delegate some of your duties and give yourself some more time off.”

“Mmmm,” she responded. I had a difficult time determining whether she was responding to the idea or my fingers gently prodding the tendons on her foot.


It was Saturday morning at about 8 AM. Darcy went up to see her mother with her sister to help her mom with moving. It promised to be a lonely and boring weekend. I was up working on my computer when the doorbell rang. Who could possibly be wanting me at this hour? I passed the bathroom and dragged a comb across my head to give some sense of style to my Wild Man of Borneo coiffure – caused by brake dancing in my mattress during my sleep, no doubt.

I peeped through the viewer. It was a woman. She appeared to be in her 30’s. I opened the door and said, “Can I help you, ma’am.” Being with Darcy taught me manners if nothing else.

She handed me an envelope with my name on it written in Darcy’s hand. I opened it. In it was a replica of a check. Across the top it had in flourishing script, “Bank of Darcy.” I had all the other things you would expect on a check, except that the watermark wasn’t of kitty cats or flowers or other things one normally sees on a woman’s check. It featured a dominatrix in a bustier, hip boots and opera gloves. In her hand was a whip, and she was facing a gagged and bound man tied to a Saint Andrew’s cross. The layout of the check was such that the midsections of both people were obscured by the printing. It was both tasteful and tantalizing.

On the line next to “Pay to the bearer on demand:” was handwritten the words “One naked housecleaning” in Darcy’s handwriting. The check was suitably dated and signed by Darcy as well.

“What is this?” I asked.

The woman responded, “Read the note.”

I reached further into the envelope and found it. It was a note from Darcy, “Dear Carl,” it began. I could tell that this was no ordinary salesperson who could be dismissed at the door. My manners kicked in, “Hi, I’m Carl. Please come in. Do you want some coffee?”

The woman took my extended hand and replied, “I’m Patricia and yes, coffee would be fine.”

I took her coat. “Are you a friend of Darcy’s?”

“More of a business associate. She’s my sponsor in the WBC.”

She sat in silence in my living room watching me and sipping her coffee as I read,

“Dear Carl, I got to thinking about what you said the other night. My business is taking a toll on our relationship; at least the kinky part of it. I entertained your suggestion about delegation. Unfortunately, I am not in a position with the business to do that now. However, that doesn’t mean that I can’t delegate in other areas.

I have decided to open up an account at the Bank of Darcy. I will write checks, and it will be your duty to cash them. I know that you have this fantasy to have me dominate you in front of a trusted friend or two, well now that dream of yours will come true in a fashion.

When the whim fancies me, I will write a check to one of these trusted friends. I have quite a number of them in the WBC. You’d be surprised at how many like-minded women there are in the organization and they know women who know women. As you know dear, I am quite a whiz at networking. There isn’t a woman in this town I can’t get connected with if I put my mind to it.

I will write the check. The woman will present it to you. In order to redeem the check, you must perform the duty written on the check and then bring the check back to me. I have a register and I am keeping track of the checks I write. I know what checks are outstanding, so I know what duties you still have to perform and for whom you have to perform them. Do not overdraw my account!

I will contact the women who have redeemed their checks to get an evaluation of your performance. I do want to make sure they get their money’s worth otherwise you will pay the difference in penalties.

You will not know who these women are until such time as they present the check to you. Some checks will be for small tasks that can be performed on the spot. Others may take scheduling a time and a place such as the one that accompanies this letter.

Don’t worry your pretty little ass off. I trust these women and no woman will get a check without first pledging to honor your safeword. Most of these women are experienced enough to know how things work, but I do have a couple of curious first-time amateurs.

Please do a good job for Patricia. She is a dear friend and I don’t want to disappoint her. She is looking forward to seeing you clean her house while wearing just your sneakers and pink rubber gloves as much as I do.

Good luck, sweetie. I’ve printed up a whole book full of checks to write. I’ll see you when I get back from mom’s.

With Love and Respect, Darcy.”

I could only sit there in silence as I read the letter twice, trying to digest its contents. It was Darcy’s signature, and that was the way she signed off all our private correspondence.

I looked up from the letter to Patricia. She smiled back at me and said, “My car is outside. I can drop you back here when you are done or you can walk. It’s only a couple of blocks away. I have all the cleaning supplies you will need at my house.”

I was about to beg off for a couple more minutes to get dressed, but I figured what’s the point? “Let me get my keys and wallet.”

It was, indeed a short trip to her house. In fact it was on my way to work and just about everything else I need to do. It occurred to me that I would be constantly reminded of this experience from now on whenever I drove by.

Patricia had a nice, two-bedroom apartment, laid out similar to my place. It wasn’t all that large, and it was already neatly-kept.

She opened a small closet door. Inside was the water heater, and shelves with the promised cleaning supplies including, as I noted, a still-in-the-package pair of pink rubber gloves. She simply swept her hand across the view. “Get started! You can hang your clothes there,” she said pointing to a hook on the back of the door.

She stood in the hallway with one arm across her stomach holding her elbow with her hand and the other hand curled up on her chin. I was reminded of Darcy. That’s the pose she strikes when studying a painting at the museum. Although I am in shape, I doubt that I measure up to the subjects in some of those paintings. Nonetheless, I was totally aware that I was under close scrutiny as I disrobed.

I was surprised at how difficult simply getting naked was. I have been getting undressed at Darcy’s command since the second date. Had I become too complacent? Feeling this woman’s eyes burning into me made this routine act uncomfortable. I remembered Darcy’s word that she would be checking my performance, took a breath, tightened my stomach and pulled down my underwear.

Patricia said not a word except, “Start in the bathroom.”

I hate bathrooms. On the surface, they appear easy to clean: it’s almost as if you can take a hose to it and swab it down when done. However, it’s the nooks and crannies that make the job the true chore that it is. So there I am, naked, on all fours, head bent down, arm reaching behind the bowl, butt in the air for Patricia to see. The reaching and scrubbing rocked by body, causing my penis and balls to sway as I applied elbow grease to where needed. I am sure it was an amusing show for her.

The bowl itself was not as bad as my own. Being a woman, Patricia was assured of putting urine on target as opposed to spraying it in miscellaneous spots, but there was still the humility of having to clean up after someone else’s waste.

The vanity took extra care. I have a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant, an electric razor and a comb: period. Patricia’s vanity looked like Darcy’s covered completely with bottles, and tubes and lotions and all manner of cosmetics of which I have only a vague knowledge. I knew that I had to remove it all, and restore every bit of it to its proper place when done. At least with Darcy, I knew where she kept her stuff.

It took quite a bit of time, but in the end, the bathroom looked as something I had seen in some of Darcy’s magazines.

Laundry was next. After several spankings from Darcy for ruining some of her clothes, I learned the fine art of laundry triage. For men, it’s easy: white and non-white. For women, there’s more than color. There is the entire range of materials to deal with and I knew just how to do it. I probably looked like a frenzied octopus as I quickly sorted her hamper into several piles. She was actually impressed and applauded.

The only issue was her panties. “Hand wash or delicate?” I asked.

I noted that I was disappointed that she said, “delicate.” Washing Darcy’s panties is an activity that always gives me an erection. I was surprised when I looked down and saw that I actually had one!

The rest of the day was spent with what I consider the easier aspects of housecleaning. I vacuumed and Patricia appreciated that I had no problems lifting the end of the couch off the floor to get under it. I also demonstrated my macho furniture moving skills to get every bit of the carpet. I knew I needed to do a perfect job.

Patricia had me don a frilly apron to make lunch for us. We sat together and had a most ordinary conversation. She was an account manager at one of the larger firms in town and liked baseball. We quickly departed into a heated discussion on our favorite teams. I like talking with a woman who understands the infield fly rule.

After lunch; came ironing. Ironing like vacuuming, takes a heavy hand and I demonstrated my pumping iron technique to perfection as she sat and watched TV, with an occasional glance in my direction.

By mid-afternoon, I had the place spotless and I was dismissed with a peck on my cheek. “You were really great! Darcy’s a lucky girl to have you. Do you need a lift home?” she said, endorsing the back of the check and handing it to me.

I shook my head, “No, I think I’ll walk.” I needed the time to clear my head. I needed the exercise to get the blood somewhere other than my penis. I was thinking of the commercials for ED, “If you have an erection lasting more than 4 hours.” The thought of a cold shower wasn’t appealing, but I think it was a necessity.


Sunday is my day to go grocery shopping. I had my head in the trunk putting away my purchases when I suddenly became aware of a presence at my side. I stood up and saw that it was Carol, one of the cashiers. Carol was about 20 and a student at the local college. “Can I help you,” I asked.

She handed me the dreaded envelope. On the check inside was written, “Pay to the bearer on demand, one jerk-off.”

I looked wildly around the parking lot and stuttered, “Here? Now?”. She laughed, “Don’t worry, I have someplace private.”

She texted something into her cell phone. “Why don’t we get in your car?”

I was a bit worried, “Where are we going?”

“Not far.”

We got in and she directed me to drive around the back of the building. We parked at a loading dock and went up the steps. She knocked at a door at the back of the building, and it opened. I looked and saw that it was the store manager, Nancy, a woman of about 50 years of age.

“Nancy’s in on this. She’s my boss. Don’t worry; we’ll be quite private here.”

It didn’t take me long to size up the place. It was a concrete room containing some piping and an electrical panel. It was a small room, but big enough and well lit for the three of us.

Nancy smiled at me, “This is Carol’s show. I’m just providing the venue.”

“Drop your pants.” Carol ordered with a calmness and confidence I didn’t expect for a girl of her age. Perhaps Nancy’s presence gave her more moral courage than if she had to go it alone. “Hands on your head,” she added once I bared myself.

Soon I was standing with my pants and underwear down to my knees with the two women looking at me critically. Nancy circled around, gave out a wolf-whistle and said, “Nice buns,” as she ran her hand across them. That lit the fuse that started the launch of my penis into an erection.

Carol smiled at my growing penis and said, “Good boy.” She waited until it was a full stature and said, “OK, show us what you can do with that thing.”

My one thought was to put on a good show for them and get it over with. One the one hand, I wanted to shoot it hard and long. I didn’t think I’d have a problem with that. With all the naked performance I did with Patricia yesterday, it had been cocked and loaded for about 24 hours without release. I wouldn’t dare think about touching it without Darcy’s explicit approval. I smiled as I came to the realization that I did have her explicit approval – in writing, no less, in the form of a check.

On the other hand, I knew that if I jerked off in any normal fashion, I’d shoot off in a dozen strokes. I had to make it last, so I just fondled myself by holding it with fingers curled around it and rolling the ball of my thumb around the head. This produced a constant flow of pre-cum to the delight of the two women if their giggles were any indicator.

Every man has two tipping points when it comes to self-masturbation. There is the physical tipping point where even though semen hasn’t actually been ejaculated, it will happen even if all stimulation is removed immediately. Then there is the psychological tipping point: the point at which he has to complete his masturbation even though the physical signals to ejaculate have not been issued by his body.

I was at the psychological tipping point within the first couple of rubs. Normally, a simple fondling of my penis would be enough stimulation to get it erect, but not so much that it will give me an orgasm. I was beginning to doubt that now.

I probably lasted only a minute when my entire body felt like it was concentrated under the ball of my thumb. Breathing was ragged, the room was out of focus; I felt dizzy and weak on my feet. I could barely hear the women’s mutterings to each other but was keenly aware of their presence.

I couldn’t take it any more. I gave two good pumps and let loose my load. I could feel the pulsing of the semen as it shot from my penis. I could see Nancy jump aside as it came flying at her. I was virtually paralyzed and it was only with the greatest effort of mind that I could keep my hand and wrist functioning.

As from a distance, I could hear the women squealing, “Omigod! Omigod! Look at that!”

I don’t know how many jets of cum I shot. I was totally drained by the time I was finished. I looked down to see my handiwork. There were large splatters of cum as far as six feet away. I looked to the faces of Carol and Nancy. They were still concentrated on my penis as if waiting for something else to happen, or perhaps to recall what just did happen.

“That was great,” Carol finally admitted.

“You can get dressed now,” Nancy stated, “We have to get back to work. Maybe we can arrange this as our new break room. I bet all the girls would love to take in a show like this,” she added with a giggle.

I looked around. There was noting in the room with which to clean up, so I simply put my cum dribbling cock back into my underwear. I’d have to go home wet.

“What about that?” I asked, pointing to the pools on the floor.

“Leave it,” Nancy said. “It will be a reminder for me whenever I do my security check on this room.”

I drove the women back around front. Carol gave me a smile as she handed me her check, “I’ve always wanted to see a boy do that. My friends told me so much about it. Now I know why they like it. You looked so vulnerable doing it for us. The look on your face was priceless.”

Nancy said, “Look forward to seeing you next week.” I was hoping that she meant in the more conventional sense. But it did put in my head the thought that I would see these women every week. Their smiles would be more than the simple friendly gesture extended to other customers. It would always mean more to them and to me. There was no way I could forget the experience.

At least I redeemed another of Darcy’s checks.


I went home and showered and put up the groceries. Each time I handled one of the bags, I thought of Carol and Nancy. I’d never be able to do even this simple task without being reminded of my humiliation.

I headed over to Darcy’s to spruce the place up. I had done some work on Friday afternoon, but still had those few touches that I had intended to do on Saturday. Unfortunately, I was house-cleaned out on Saturday and had other duties to attend to like paying bills.

I had to do double duty as maid and cook, so I started dinner. Darcy said she’d be back “about 6-ish” so I had to prepare something that could be brought to completion on short notice. A standard fare of salad, steak, potatoes and veggies fit the bill. The nice thing about potatoes is that it is virtually impossible to overcook them, they can be kept in waiting, like me sometimes, indefinitely. All was prepositioned and ready long before Darcy’s anticipated arrival.

I got a call from Darcy on my cell phone about 5:30 saying that she’d be home in about a half an hour. She was in the car with her sister, so she couldn’t talk too freely. “I forgot to tell you that I was going to have a couple of my friends contact you this weekend,” she stated.

“You mean Patricia?”

“Yes, I told her that you could clean up her mess and iron things out.”

“And Carol?”


“And Nancy.”

“Oh yeah. Carol told me about her. She needed her help to complete the project. After I checked her out, I approved her. I didn’t have time to issue new instructions. I figured you could ‘handle’ things.”


“So were you able to help them out with their business objectives?”

“Yes I did.”

“And were they satisfied with the results?”

“I believe they were.”

“Oh good. In that case I think I can arrange other work for you as well.”

I just swallowed hard and made no response.

“OK, we’ll be home shortly. Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you, too.”

The clock was ticking, and I was a flurry of last minute preparation. The grill was match-ready and I soon had the fire going. I figured that if I put the steaks on when Darcy arrived, we could be sitting down to dinner almost immediately. Well, she can sit down immediately. I still had to complete cooking and serve the meal. The table was set: flowers, candles, wine open and “breathing,” salad losing its refrigerated chill, veggies on low heat in the kitchen, plates, napkins and utensils laid out all in proper fashion (it took me about a week of research and practice to get that right). Oh yes, “Bolero” on the stereo, cued for the moment she arrived at the door.

I could hear the car arrive. I quickly threw the steaks on, switched on the stereo, undressed faster than Superman in a phone booth, putting my clothes on the shelf in the closet and waited in my usual position by the door. That would be down on my knees. I fondled myself into an erection, although the physical stimulation was hardly necessary. The anticipation of Darcy’s arrival was enough.

She came through the door and held it open momentarily as she waved good-bye to her sister. I was hoping nobody else was around to look in. She closed it and then paid attention to me. I bowed and she patted me on the head like a puppy that was waiting at the door for the arrival of his mistress.

I got up and followed her into the living room. “Oh, it all looks so nice,” she said.

She sat down. “I’m exhausted. Mom had more junk than I could imagine a woman of her age could accumulate. I should have taken you along. But then you wouldn’t have been able to take care of those other assignments I gave you.”

She put her feet up and I removed her sneakers. I gently rubbed her feet. “Mmm,” she melted, “I’m going to need a nice hot bath before going to bed tonight.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” I apologized, “I have to get dressed and take care of the steaks.”

She dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “You can stay dressed until you sit down for dinner.”

“Thank you ma’am.”

“MA’AM” – that’s my title for her. “Mistress is too mysterious a word. It conjures up thoughts of whips and chains and leather and dungeons. That isn’t our style. “Ma’am” is simple but respectful which is who we are: two people who respect each other where she is the one in charge, and I am the one who voluntarily obeys. She loves me and I know it. She shows it by dominating me and allowing me to submit to her.

Moments later she was seated as I served her dinner and set my place as well. We ate and dined and caught up on news of the week. Her trip to her mom’s left us behind in the knowledge in what had been going on in each other’s lives recently. She complimented me on the meal and the setting.

I got up to clean the table, but beyond getting the perishables away was ordered, “Leave it for later. Come rub my shoulders.”

She sat at the table as I stood behind her, naked, fingers in her flesh, feeling for the striations in her muscles, gently urging her blood on its journey to her heart. After several minutes of this, she said, “Let’s do this right.” She stood up, took me by the hand and led me to her bedroom.

I assisted her getting undressed, kissing each part of her body as I exposed it. There was a slight saltiness from her sweat since she had obviously been working out at her mother’s house. It tasted pleasant. There was a strong scent of womanhood when I got to her lower lips, but it was her. I would recognize her unique aroma anywhere. But clitoral worship was not on the menu for this evening; at least not yet.

Once she was naked, she laid down on the bed on her stomach. I got my special massaging tools: racquet balls. The balls were easy for me to manipulate – I can roll them about in the palms of my hands and keep my fingers from tiring. They spread the pressure of my rubbing onto a perfect footprint (or should that be ballprint) on her body. The soft, rough, rubber surface gently grips into her skin, tingling it and making it come alive. By the time I finish, the balls are gray with the exfoliated skin cells. That’s the other nice thing about the balls: they are easy for me to wash and clean up.

I did her back, and then she rolled over and I did her front. She likes the feel of these blue rubber spheres on her breasts – I take extra care there and sometimes just hold the ball and tickle rather than roll it along the skin. I am even more cautious with her labia. It took a lot of practice to learn just the right amount of pressure, the right tempo, and the right rubbing technique to bring her to orgasm. I did not disappoint her this time.

She again thanked me and curled up in a blanket with the command, “Draw my bath, please.” Bath is a jacuzzi big enough for the both of us. However, tonight she would be bathing solo.

I went to this task as well as cleared out the remnants of dinner. By the time I got back, she was sleeping. I hated to awake her, but I knew that she would be disappointed if I did not. I kissed her gently and announced, “Your bath is ready, ma’am.” Indeed it was, complete with light provided only by the scented candles discretely placed around the room.

I assisted her into the tub, and used the soft nylon ball to complete the job that the rubber balls had started. She had only her freshest skin exposed, and it was absorbing the scented bath oils. She then slumped into the tub to enjoy the swirling, surging sensations of the water against her.

I suggested, “Wine ma’am?”

“Good idea,” she said, “fetch some for yourself, too.”

I sat and she laid, both of us sipping our wine continuing the conversations from dinner. At last, when she had enough of both water and wine, I assisted her up, wrapped her in a towel and patted her dry.

We retired to the bedroom. This time clitoral worship WAS on the menu both before and after my special treat.


I went through the next couple of days wondering when a woman would suddenly approach me and hand me an envelope. It didn’t happen, but any time I got within 10 feet of a woman and we made eye contact, I believed it would.

I was scheduled to meet Darcy at the hairdresser’s on Wednesday and then go out to dinner at the restaurant next door. I thought it odd as I came to the door only to find out that they had closed an hour earlier. I knocked anyway and a woman came to open the door. She introduced herself, “Hi, I’m Helen. Darcy’s waiting for you.” Judging by the name of the place, “Hair by Helen,” I assumed she was the owner.

Darcy was sitting at a table, with fingers splayed. “They’re still drying she explained.” She pursed her lips and I bent forward to kiss her. I could smell the acetone and other chemicals used on women to give them “the natural look.” While I appreciated Darcy’s “dolling up” for me, I thought she looked just fine straight from the shower.

Without missing a beat, and as casually as telling me to fetch her a tissue, Darcy said, “Strip!” I knew it was an order, and the presence of another woman didn’t countermand it.

As I was disrobing, Darcy laid out the ground rules for the evening. “Helen’s agreed to help me with a project. I like to have pedicures, but they are such a pain. I’ll keep coming back to Helen for the cutting and buffing and shaping of my toenails, but there’s no reason I should have to do the daily touchups on my own. She’s going to train you how to do my feet. We also have a couple of other surprises in store for you as well.”

About that time, there was another knock on the door. Helen said, “I’ll get it.”

“That would be dinner.” Darcy explained, “I took the liberty of ordering Chinese. This is going to take a while.”

The three of us sat there eating. The two women fully dressed, while I sat on a stool, rice bowl (or cardboard facsimile thereof) in my hand, demonstrating my skill in the use of chop sticks.

I was designated to clean up after the meal and then the lessons began in earnest.

Helen was the instructor. Darcy was the model and I was the student.

“The first thing you are going to want to do is get the proper equipment. I’m sure that as a guy, you appreciate using the right tool for each job.” Little did she know that to most guys, almost any tool can be used as a hammer. A beer bottle opener was as sophisticated as most of them got. Fortunately, I had a moderate amount of skill with my hands.

“First you’re going to want the remove the old polish.” She reached for a bottle. “I call this my ‘industrial strength’ nail polish remover. It contains acetone. You can get acetone-free stuff and it isn’t as drying, but it doesn’t work on dark colors such as what Darcy is wearing.

Use a cotton pad like this. Don’t use cotton balls, they leave behind ‘fuzzies’ and who wants fuzzy toes?

Just rub like this away from the toe. If you get a tough spot, leave the pad on for a couple of moments and let it soak in. If you do it right the first time and you don’t leave the polish on too long, you shouldn’t have this problem.

Now you try it.”

I’ve always loved handling Darcy’s feet. They are so feminine when compared to mine. She seemed to enjoy the sensation as well. “Remember,” I heard Helen say, “away from the toe. Acetone won’t hurt skin, but it will dry it out.”

I probably spent at least a minute per toe doing this exercise. I am sure that Helen could have whipped through the task in less than a quarter of that time. But for me it was a labor of love and worth taking the extra effort.

“Not bad – for a rookie,” Helen commented. “Now let’s let them dry a bit.”

As I sat up – or perhaps I should say knelt up, she tossed another cotton pad, “Clean up that mess,” she said pointing to my very erected and dripping penis.

She then reached into her magic drawer and pulled out the most incongruous items: toothpaste and a toothbrush. Weren’t we at the wrong end of the body for this equipment?

“You see the little bit of yellowing on the nail? If you use a whitening toothpaste and gently brush the nails with a soft tooth brush, it will help remove some of that.” She demonstrated and I followed her example. Darcy giggled as I inadvertently tickled her with the brush.

After completing all 10 toes, I was directed to wash them clean with an ordinary rag. I then patted Darcy’s feet dry with a towel.

“I like to finish off with some lavender oil,” Helen said, putting a drop on one of the nails, and then gently buff it with a buffer. She how clean and white it looks?”

As I was attending to this task (realizing by now that a pedicure is a quite involved process), Helen suggested, “You can try other oils as well like lemon, but I prefer lavender.”

“Now we’re ready for the critical part: the actual cutting of the nails. I want you to watch me very closely, and when it comes your turn, I’m going to supervise you very closely. In the other parts of a pedicure, you can make mistakes and correct them. With cutting you only get one chance, so make sure you do it properly.

The main focus is to cut straight across. Don’t try to cut around the corner. Get your head directly over the nail and look straight down on it. You want to cut it just so it doesn’t extend over the tip of the toe.”

Here she took Darcy’s feet and moved them side by side so I could see the before and after. She did another one just to make sure I had the concept.

Helen cautioned me sharply, “If you do it wrong, Darcy might wind up with an ingrown toenail. Not only is that painful, but it can be dangerous as well. You don’t want to do that to her, do you?”

“No ma’am,” I responded.

“Now you do it. Position the clippers where you think you should have them but don’t press down. I want to look to make sure you are doing it right.” The way she was looking over my shoulder reminded me of my kindergarten teacher the first time I attempted to use scissors in class. Here was the voice of experience teaching the clumsy novice.

Again, I probably took a lot more time than was practical, but I was intent on doing this critical task just right.

Helen inspected my work much a scientist in a clean room looking at the quality of a microchip. Every millimeter of Darcy’s toenails was inspected with scientific precision. I am sure that Helen’s trained eye was as accurate as a micrometer.

“You did a good job,” she finally said. “Good but not perfect. At least you were safe. It’s going to take some more practice before you can call yourself a pro. Did you remember what I told you about cutting?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Then repeat it to me.”

“Cut straight across and even with the edge of the toe.”

“Good boy!” Helen looked at Darcy the two women smiled at each other. I guess I was doing OK and this made me feel good.

Helen continued. “Now we are ready for rounding the nails. You don’t want a fully rounded nail. You just need to unsquare the corners.”

I looked at the emery board she handed me. I knew enough from my shop class and woodworking to start with the coarse side to shape, and the fine side to smooth. I loved handling each of Darcy’s toes individually. Soon I had them perfectly shaped. Even Helen had to admit that. It looks like there are parts of this process I’m actually good at.

“Now it’s time to soak her feet. Follow me!”

As I got up, both women caught sight of my erection and the penis to floor, sticky threat of pre-cum that extended from it. There were several drips on the floor already.

Darcy said, “You’re embarrassing me. You should be demonstrating some control in front of me and Helen. I’m going to have to spank you.”

“I’d like to see that,” Helen added. Turning to me she said, “I can’t have you messing up my shop. Clean that mess, and YOU up.” I was pointed to some paper towels to accomplish this task.

Meanwhile Helen was off rummaging through some draws and came back with a condom. Darcy looked at her and she explained, “It’s a long story. He’s not the first man to be naked in here.”

“We going to have to put this on you so you can keep your messes to yourself.” She looked at Darcy who replied, “You can do the honors.”

“Hands on head.” I felt particularly vulnerable in this position. My penis was sticking out for all the world (or at least these two women) to see. It always feels funny when Darcy puts a rubber on me. Helen had a slightly different technique. As she rolled it on she continually brushed my head with her palms. I could have shot off right there, but tried as hard as I could to hold back. Cumming without Darcy’s permission and under these circumstances would have merited severe rebuke from Darcy. I dared not disappoint her again.

Properly sheathed and at the very edge of cumming, I was put back to work. “Follow me,” Helen instructed.

I was sent to fetch some basins on the top shelf of a closet. “That’s a dear,” Helen said, “I usually have to get a step stool to get those. Bring the first stack down and leave them on the table. Take one with you.”

Next, I filled the basin with warm water and placed it at Darcy’s feet. Helen poured in some Epsom salt and had me dissolve it with the swish of her hand. She then added a couple of drops of a sweet-smelling oil. “Aromatherapy,” she announced. The word apparently meant something to Darcy.

Then she went to the refrigerator and got what looked like a milk container and poured some of the liquid in. “What’s that?” asked Darcy.

“It’s my special ingredient – a special cream,” she answered secretively and then added as lightly as possible, ‘It’s milk!”

“Milk?” Darcy and I exclaimed in unison.

“Yes, I read about it somewhere and thought it was crazy, but I tried it and it really does make the skin and feet softer.”

“I wonder if I put cream – perhaps whipped cream – on my feet if my friend here would like licking it off when I was done with it?”

Indeed I would!

Darcy placed her feet into the warm bath and sighed. “This feels so delicious. Now that I have nothing to do for the next 15 or 20 minutes, I’ll have to find something to keep me busy.” She looked around at the stack of women’s magazines at hand.

“I know,” she said suddenly brightening up., “Since my feet are on the floor anyway, and my knees are drawn up into a convenient lap, I know a naughty boy who needs to get a spanking.”

The chair was designed so that the arms actually folded down, presenting that lap to me. She just waved me over and I draped myself over her. It was a familiar position.

“Now what can I use to spank with?” She mused in a mocking tone. “Oh silly me. This is a hair salon. Helen, you wouldn’t happen to have a hairbrush handy?”

Helen did. She went to her table and reached into a lower drawer and pulled out an ivory looking hairbrush. It had a floral design carved into the back. It did not seem to be the commercial grade equipment that was commonplace in the rest of the shop. “This was mom’s. I keep it for special occasions.” I wondered how many “special occasions” they had at the shop.

Darcy was not a hard spanker. The purpose of the punishment wasn’t to inflict pain, but to reinforce her dominance over me. She didn’t do it to hurt me; she did it because she could, and I let her. Nonetheless, it was an embarrassing position both relationship-wise and physically to be in, especially with another woman witnessing the act. Indeed, this is the first time anyone has watched me get a spanking.

I really didn’t know how many wallops Darcy gave men, but my ass was sore by the time she was done. It took a lot less time than the 20 minutes, but it was effective and my lesson was learned.

Darcy handed the brush back to Helen and made me stand up and face her. “Apologize to Ms. Helen for messing up her floor.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Helen.” I muttered.

“Now go stand in the corner with your hands on your head while us women discuss important stuff.” Darcy said. “And there is also this,” Darcy said reaching for her purse. She retrieved her checkbook: THE checkbook, and wrote out, “Pay to the bearer on demand: 1,000 lines.” As she completed the check and handed it to Helen, she explained, “I want you to write out 1,000 times by hand the following phrase, ‘I will not let my penis drip on Helen’s floor.’ Then bring the completed assignment to Helen. You have until she closes up tomorrow to get this done.”

I stood in the corner, as ordered, naked with hands on head listening to the women chatter. It always amazes me at the number of topics women can talk about. With men it’s sex, politics, religion and sports: what else is there?

I was eventually recalled from the corner to continue waiting on Ms. Darcy.

“Now we come to another delicate operation: cuticle removal. Part of the reason for the soaking was to prepare the feet for this critical part.

There’s a special preparation for this. It’s called cuticle remover. Once again, you have to be very careful with this stuff. You have to get it on the cuticle, but keep it off the toes. Apply it, leave it on for a minute and then go to work.”

Helen whisked the lotion on Darcy’s toes without missing a beat in her talk. I was a little disappointed in that I wanted to try this myself. Nonetheless, the requisite minute was up in what seemed like 10 seconds.

“This next part requires some skill,” she warned. She grabbed hold of what looked like a bamboo chute, but I later found out was an orangewood stick. “Use the end of the stick to rub away the remnants of the cuticle. Be careful not to irritate the toe.”

She had me do it and I was surprised at how the cuticle gave way under this treatment.

“Sometimes you may have a flap of skin that is too much to erode away. In that cane use cuticle nippers like these to remove the flap. Be careful not to cut the toe skin.”

For what seemed the tenth time today I washed Darcy’s feet.

“Now it’s time to take care of the rest of her feet,” Helen said, handing me a wet pumice stone. “It’s a pedicure. Ped: from the Latin for foot. It’s not entirely about just the nails.”

“Work the stone round and round on the calluses. Don’t spend too much time in one place, you can come back to it. Work it until it gets barely pink. Any darker than that and you’ve done too much.”

I spent what seemed to be a half an hour on each foot. I didn’t want to stop. I love Darcy’s feet. (Well, I love all parts of her, but her feet are particularly attractive).

“This is something you can do between full treatments. In fact it is better to do it a little bit often than a lot only every now and then.”

Once again I washed her feet and this time dried them thoroughly. I was handed some lotion to massage her feet and calves. At this part, at least, I was an expert. Even Helen acknowledged it, “Hey Darcy, can you send him over sometime? I know some women who would pay good money for what he’s doing.”

Helen had me paint on a dab of cuticle oil with a Q-tip. I loved doing this type of things and the best part is that it was times 10. “Let that sit and soak in for a while.” I always wondered why it took hours for Darcy to get a pedicure. Now I know a lot of it is waiting for things to “soak in.”

“Now let’s get those nails ready for the main event. Very careful with the acetone remover.”

“Cuticles too?”

“Cuticles too!”

“But I just … Oh, never mind.” It didn’t make sense to remove that which I just put on, but I though better about questioning Helen’s instructions.”

Using a hand held fan, I blew Darcy’s toes dry.

“What color did we decide on today?” Helen asked Darcy.

Darcy picked out a shade of pink. I am sure it has a name that distinguishes it from the many other shades of pink that look almost exactly like it. I think that the average woman knows the names of over a thousand colors. Like most guys, I know the names of 8 of them: those that came in the box of crayolas in kindergarten.

If it were totally up to me, this is the point where I would have been an hour ago. It seems that a pedicure takes about a much preparation as a Space Shuttle Launch.

“The key is to use three smooth strokes per toe: one down the middle and one on each side. Use exactly the amount of polish you need and no more. You want to make the coat as thin as possible. Then let it dry and do it again two more times for a total of three coats.”

I actually had the skill for this too. As a kid I was fond of putting together model airplanes. Painting the details took a close eye and a steady hand. Even the brushes were about the same size.

I sat back on my haunches to look at my completed product. Her toes looked magnificent.

“Hey! You’re not done yet.”

What else could there be?

“You still need a top coat to seal the color in.”

I was wondering that if I put masking tape on her toes, if I could just spray paint it on.

Yet another application, and yet another drying period. The tedium and repetition was wearing me down. I am sure from Darcy’s standpoint, the experience was entirely different being on the receiving end of the pampering.

Helen inspected the work. “Not bad. Maybe I can hire you and put you to work when Darcy doesn’t need you.”

“Dream on,” Darcy laughed.

“A girl can try, can’t she?”

Helen completed her instructions, “If you make a mistake, you can usually clean it up using a stick with a bit of cotton at the end of it and some acetone remover. It’s better not to make mistakes in the first place.”

The way they go through acetone remover in this place had me wondering if they sold it in 55-gallon drums at Sam’s Club.

“She has to let them dry completely for about 40 minutes. Be a dear and pour us some wine. Pour some for yourself if you wish it.”

Apparently class was over and I was dismissed for recess. I felt the control switching back from Helen to Darcy. We spent the next 40 minutes having a very normal conversation; if you consider two fully dressed women and one naked man normal.

Helen actually finished off the procedure with some sort of a moisturizing spray

“Thank you, Helen. That was great. I can now add that to the list of things he can do for me.” And who else, I wondered. Would I be handed a check with the words, “Pay to the bearer on demand: one pedicure.”

As we were leaving, Darcy asked, “Have you taught many men to do pedicures?”

“Just one, but you’d be surprised at the number of women who bring their husbands and boyfriends in here to get them.”


Darcy’s activities in the business community comes with responsibilities. In order to make the connections with the right people to keep her business thriving, she attends many affairs, be they after hours events run by the Chamber of Commerce, or the benefit auction for this or the other charity or the grand opening of some business.

I go along as her “eye candy.” For the most part, I consider myself an average-looking guy, but every now and then I do see myself differently in the mirror. I do have a certain masculinity that I guess women would find attractive. At least the body is in shape. This isn’t an issue of vanity; it’s an issue of health. There are too many bad molecules promoting diabetes or heart disease swimming in my gene pool.

So here I am in tuxedo – we go to so many of these affairs I actually OWN one – escorting Darcy to an auction for the local mental health association. Normally we would not be invited to such an affair, but Darcy “volunteered” us to help out with some of the setup. She put my computer skills to use by having me develop a program to record the bids and print the invoices for the silent auction. So we were more in the status of “hired help” than invitees.

However, nobody else knew that and Darcy always has a way to play her hand to the fullest. I like to watch her in action in a room of people. She’s like a cheetah or other predatory big cat stalking her prey and planning the best moment and approach for the attack. Few escape her clutches.

In this instance, the prey was Ms. Pomeroy. Ms. Pomeroy was a 50-ish woman who made it a habit of marrying rich, and divorcing even richer. Her current husband, twenty years her junior, is an investment genius. He saw the crash coming and pulled all their assets out of the market taking a short-term loss at 13,000 and buying back in at 7,800. He took the millions they already had and added millions more. He’s the brains behind the company, but Ms. Pomeroy ran it, and as I later discovered, him.

Darcy walked over to her, and before I returned with her drink, was already engaged in animated conversation with her. I was politely introduced, but other than taking the woman’s hand and saying, “Nice to meet you,” was excluded from the conversation.

They exchanged cards, and left with Ms. Pomeroy saying, “Give me a call early next week. I’d like to discuss some of those ideas with you.” I figured Darcy just scored big again.

The rest of the evening was spent wandering around and making small talk with some of the other patrons. We had a bidding card, but didn’t use it. Most of the bidding started well above our bank accounts.

On Monday, I get a call from Darcy at work. “What are your plans for the weekend?” she asked.

“Whatever you want them to be,” I replied in typical devoted fashion.

“Good, we’ve been invited to a pool party at the Pomeroy’s. I’ll fill you in on the details at dinner.”

Details? What details? It’s a pool party. I put on a bathing suit and show up and try to be as charming as Darcy needs me to be.

The conversation at dinner proved otherwise. Darcy explained it to me. “This will be no ordinary pool party. Remember me telling you that there’s this little clique in the WBC that shares the same interest in how women should relate with men?”

The warning flags went up.

“Well, I just recruited Sherri into it. It’s a major coup for my reputation with the rest of the girls.”

She’s now on a first named basis with the richest woman in town. “Sherri?” I said.

“Well, she’ll still be Ms. Pomeroy to you,” Darcy replied.

“Sherri suggested a get together at her house. There will be several women there from our little coven along with their men. These men, like you will provide the cocktail service. Like you, they will do it in the nude, so don’t forget to bring your suntan lotion. We wouldn’t want certain parts of that great body to get burned, would we?”

She looked at my face and laughed. “Don’t worry, you won’t scandalize anyone. All the women there know the story as do their men although I think this will be the first time we’ve ever had a joint function. Anyway, Sherri has staff and they will do most of the preparation. All you’ll need to do is schlep drinks and refreshments and pick up after the ladies.”

Well, at least I was grateful for the warning. I could have found out only when Darcy told me to drop my trunks.

I suppose that the upcoming event was enough to keep Darcy occupied. I received no checks to cash that entire week, although I was constantly looking over my shoulder.

The day arrived and I picked up Darcy at her apartment. I decided to bring along some trunks, just in case. She answered the door in her bikini, and I nearly ignited my underwear as my penis erected so fast it gave me a cloth burn. She was definitely going to cause a lot of erections at the party.

Fortunately for our safe arrival (since I was driving) she threw a sundress over it and finished the outfit with a large floppy hat, sunglasses and sandals. Even then, she was stunning. I’ve seen professional models in her fashion magazines look worse. She pointed to the small suitcase that was masquerading as her bag and said, “Be a dear and get that.”

She gave me directions to Sherri’s – I mean Ms. Pomeroy’s house. We arrived at the gate and pressed the buzzer. A slightly British sounding voice answered, “May I help you?”

“Darcy Prescott to see Ms. Pomeroy.”

There was a slight moment of silence while the detached voice was no doubt checking the guest register. “Very well,” it finally responded, “You’re expected. Please proceed.”

At this, the gate swung back and I drove down the driveway. It was a journey in itself. The driveway must have been at least a quarter mile long. The first half was through a wooded area and it curved gently. This made it impossible to see the house from the road. The second half crossed a neatly manicured lawn interspersed with beds of colorful flowers.

House was the wrong word for the structure. Even mansion isn’t adequate. Villa would probably be more correct. The main building was a huge structure with a circular drive. We proceeded up that where I dropped the car off with the valet.

Once we got inside, we were met by an older woman who seemed to be in charge of the staff. “Darcy Prescott,” Darcy announced.

“Oh yes, Ms. Pomeroy is expecting you. She mentioned you were coming and was delighted at the prospect of seeing you and your escort again. Won’t you come this way?”

Darcy was ushered forward. I was told, “Go with Henry. He’ll show you what to do.”

As I left through a side door with Henry, I looked back through the opening main doors into what appeared to be a large reception room. It was filled with about a dozen women. Dressed waiters circulated among them.

I was taken down a flight of stairs and out the side of the house. I could see a hidden alcove in the trees where the other buildings of the establishment lay. There was another house (servants’ quarters I presume), the garage with its multiple doors, a shed, a lean-to with a tractor and a stable with several horses. I was led to the house.

I was ushered into a room where there were several other men already there in various states of undress. Henry departed with the words, ‘Miss Cynthia will tell you what to do.”

Miss Cynthia might have been in her mid-20’s but looked like a teenager. However, she was in charge of a small army of naked men that ranged up to at least twice her age. I noticed that most of the men were hairless down there (as opposed to neatly trimmed as Darcy prefers I keep myself) and that two of them were wearing a chastity device. One of them had a tattoo on his buttocks proclaiming that he was a bitch to his mistress. Yet another was pierced through the head of his penis. Until I could get used to seeing it, the image kept my erection at bay.

All she said was, “Get undressed and I’ll help you with your uniform.”

For a moment I was kind of hoping that I would be dressed after all. It was true, I was dressed but quite minimally: I had a white wheel cap with a black leather brim, a stand-alone white collar with a black bow tie, stand-alone white starched cuffs with cuff links, a black cummerbund and white Keds slip-on sneakers. It was sort of like a steward’s outfit without the actual shirt and without pants.

It actually mirrored the uniform Miss Cynthia was wearing except she had a full blouse and white skirt.

Miss Cynthia explained our duties, “You will stay here until madam dismisses the caterers and then you will take over. I will be in charge of your assignments. The food and drink is in the auxiliary kitchen and each of you will be assigned a certain area of the pool as your station. Some of you will be primarily on waitstaff duty, while others will be on cleanup, however each of you will immediately obey any request from any of the women no matter where you are, or what your primary assigned duty is.”

“You will keep your eyes lowered at all times and never look a woman in the face. You will be polite at all times and not speak unless spoken to. Address all women as ma’am. Do I have any questions?”

There were none. I was surprised at how confident Cynthia was with her instructions. Had she done this before, I wondered?

We all sat in silence for a while and then the phone rang. Cynthia said hello and then added, “Very good, ma’am. Yes, the boys are ready. I’ll bring them right over.”

Turning to us, she grinned, “Show time, boys. And some of you have a lot more to show than others. Follow me.”

Cynthia led us along a path and into yet another side entrance leading to a kitchen with a large working area. The counters were full of trays and the trays were full of refreshments. I was assigned to one bearing small sandwiches; the other men were detailed to carry trays with other goodies.

“You know what to do,” Cynthia said, giving us our final instructions, “Just walk up to the ladies. Offer your tray for a couple of seconds and say nothing unless spoken to. She swung open a door that lead to a large glass-arched room. It sort of resembled an aircraft hangar and could probably hold at least a small aircraft other than it was made of glass instead of metal. Most of the glass panels were pulled aside to reveal screening. Fans in the roof provided a pleasant breeze. I was not going to get eaten alive by insects.

The hangar enclosed a flagstone paved courtyard with seating along flowerboxes and even a couple of trees. In the center was the pool maybe about a quarter Olympic size. I was lost in the opulence of it all. It was only after my eyes had absorbed the setting that my brain caught up with the contents.

There were about a dozen women there talking among each other clad in their bathing suits and one man, naked save for knee pads: Mr. Pomeroy. Mr. Pomeroy was currently at Ms. Pomeroy’s feet acting as a footstool as she sat in a chair, chatting away with the woman in the chair next to hers. The two women apparently decided it was time for a dip. The both got up, and placed their discarded drinks and plates on their makeshift table.

From beside me I could hear Cynthia order one of the men she held in reserve, “Boy, go clean up that mess and bring it back here.”

Cynthia stood by the door, watching and supervising us men as we circulated among the women. I smiled as I approached Darcy and a woman she was talking to. Darcy noticed it and said, “Don’t look at me that way, boy! Keep in your place.” I lowered my eyes and just muttered, “Yes, ma’am.”

Cynthia was on the spot immediately. “Is there a problem here?” and then added hopefully, “Do you want me to discipline him?”

“It’s OK, Cynthia. I’ll deal with his recalcitrant behavior when I get home.”

I spent the rest of my time slowly making the rounds, returning to the kitchen only to pick up a new tray. This time the tray contained red and white wine.

“You are on drink duty,” Cynthia informed me. “Offer the women something to drink and take any other orders that they may have. Report these orders to the bartender.” The bartender, of course, was female and wore an outfit like Cynthia’s.

As the women became sated with refreshments, wine, drink and other delicacies, Cynthia pulled some of us out of rotation and put us in the kitchen to clean up and consolidate the scraps of food left over. Most of it was cold or warm, as compared to its original condition. We men ate it in shifts.

We were all brought out to stand in a line as Mrs. Pomeroy, gathered the women in front of us. “Girls, remember how at sleepovers we used to talk about boys and the silly things they did or we got them to do? Well now it’s time to actually play ‘show and tell.’ Each of you has brought along a companion who you say has a special talent. Well, now it’s time for a talent show. Ellen, why don’t you go first.”

Ellen wiggled her finger and a man fell out of line. “Up here,” she said patting an empty table with a recliner cushion on it. “On your back.” The man complied silently. You know what to do.

The man rolled his back and threw his legs over his head. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be that flexible, or at least I’ve never seen it done in person. His erected penis was a fraction of an inch away from his face. He stuck his tongue out and flicked it. Women went scurrying for their purses to retrieve their phones to take pictures.

He folded himself even tighter and took the head into his mouth. I could see his cheeks working as he sucked himself off. I could tell by his stiffening, breathing and grunts that he was cumming. Moments later a small bit of cum dribbled from his mouth. The woman commented, “Aw baby, that was almost perfect.” The rest of the women applauded. Some of us men did too.

Ms. Pomeroy announced, “Thank you, Ellen, that was a great show. It’s literally going to be a tough act to follow. Who’s next?”

The women had their men perform various acts from simple jerk offs, to feats of acrobatics, to performing silly acts. One of these acts featured two men doing what two male lovers were supposed to do, I guess. I wondered what Ms. Darcy had in store for me.

It was very tame. “My boy will be giving a demonstration on how to give a massage. Do I have any volunteers to be on the receiving end?” A couple of hands went up. Darcy pointed to Clair and she laid down on her stomach on the cushioned table previously used by the self-felating slave.

Darcy nodded to me. I knew that meant “start.” I started at her feet and pulled her leg to a 90 degree angle to work on her feet and calf muscles. I contemplated whether I was to kiss and lick them as I normally did with Darcy. I thought better of it and decided not to.

Darcy made a running commentary on what I was doing: partly describing my actions and partly directing them. “Notice how he runs his fingers up the striations of the muscles in a direction towards the heart. He varies the pressure gradually decreasing it and then letting it tail off again …”

I did the complete massage from toes to neck and my audience thought I was done. I knew better. Darcy knew it was time to bring out the secret weapon. “Cindy, be a darling. In my bag is a can of racquetballs. Would you fetch two for us?”

Cindy found the balls and bounced them to Darcy who handed them to me. “The balls,” she explained, “spread the pressure over the muscles evenly. Watch how he uses his hands to manipulate them rolling them along her flesh.”

At this point Clair sighed, “Oh, this feels really great. I’ve never felt anything like it. It feels like my skin is coming alive again.”

Darcy interjected, “That’s the rubber. Not only does it grab and tickle, but the texture of the balls also scrub off the dead skin.”

The women pressed in for a closer view. Darcy continued her commentary, “My boy also does my front, but in the interest of Clair’s modesty, particularly in the presence of these other males, we will not demonstrate that now. However, I must say that the balls feel really good when gently rubbed against my breasts, and in skilled hands can do things with a clitoris that a penis, fingers or even a talented tongue could never do.”

At this point one of the women asked, “Do you ever do him? I mean rub the ball against his penis like he rubs it against your clit?”

“I’ve never thought about it,” Darcy admitted.

Another woman spoke out, “My hubby is into rubber. He’s practically a slave to it. I got to try it with him.”

The women were hooked on every word as Darcy continued to explain the intricacies of a rubber-ball massage.

She finished up her speech, “and that gray stuff on the ball is her skin. Exfoliated gently by the texture of the rubber of the balls. And they are so easy to wash up. Do I have any questions?”

There were some questions, and there were several requests, “I wish my boy knew how to do that.” “I would love to have a massage like that.”

Darcy’s response was, “Cindy, in my bag you’ll find a checkbook in a pink leather cover. Could you bring it to me along with a pen?”


The pool party came to an end. We boys were directed to do some of the cleanup, at least the fetching of used napkins, plates, etc. and transport them to the kitchen under Cynthia’s direction. “The caterers will come and collect the linens and tables and other equipment,” she informed us. “You boys are dismissed, and can go back and get dressed. Your uniforms are yours to keep. I’m sure some of your women might like to see you in them again.”

On the ride home, Darcy was Darcy again. Throughout the party, she kept aloof and treated me the same as the other women did and the same as she treated the other men. Now she was back to her “normal” self.

“You were a hit, sweety,” she said. “Every woman there was green with envy knowing that I can get a massage like that any time I want. And they’re smart enough to know that it was only half a massage: the back half. They also agree that you have the best buns at the party.”

. (Commentary – racquette balls – checks).

Hair Washing

Fashion show


Dog obedience training.

Shoe tying.

Ass lick

Story Mule 2024

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