Chapter 1

 

I mark the day My Lady came to the restaurant as the beginning of my slow but inexorable slide into slavery: into the status of a complete and utter male wimp.

Oh I had had a foretaste of it from my boss. Ms Jane Harcourt had been the most demanding of employers. For example, she had required me to strip to my jocks at my first interview with her - so she could assess my suitability as a waiter. The reason for this so demeaning inspection, she said, was that I would be required to dress in some rather revealing attire at times and she wasn't going to have any weakling wimps on show in her restaurant!

I had complied (very unwillingly), stripping off the smart pants and crisp white shirt I had worn for the interview but I had then cringed as Ms Harcourt's eyes had then raked up and down my body.

It wasn't that I was a weed. In fact I had quite a good body, being blessed with a good natural physique which had enabled me to excel in all sports which had then made it even better.

I got the job-and then found out what she had meant by 'revealing attire'. On the day My Lady arrived for dinner, I was wearing a pair of skin-tight black lycra pants that sat low-very low, on my hips, and finished just above my knees. The only other item she permitted that time was a sort-of shirt.

It too was ultra-short, its hem ending just below my chest line but it had a pair of tails at the bottom corners. There were no buttons and so the 'tails' were tied together. The sleeves were also ultra-short, just covering the tops of my shoulders and no more. There was nothing else. No underwear of any kind and no footwear. Just the two highly revealing items.

All of the waiters were male. All young and handsome and all possessed of fine athletic bodies. Ms Harcourt would have no less. All of us were always dressed the same and rarely the same twice... On one occasion, a 'slave night', we were all dressed in metal pouches that clipped over our genitals-and nothing else! From the back, it appeared we were naked-stark naked.

My Lady had patronised Le Femme Fatale before, of course. Her class of minor aristocrat often came there for the place was geared to imperious women of rank and/or fortune. No man would ever take his wife or lady friend there, but the food was of first class quality, the service impeccable, and for those who espoused feminine superiority, it was de rigueur to be seen there.

I had not however, waited on her before. As I approached their table when they had all been seated, she beckoned me over to stand before her next to her chair. Her inspection was nothing short of insulting. Her eyes raked up and down my body as if she was considering buying me. (She was, but I didn't know that then). I had to stand there, my upper body tantamount to naked and the lycra pants clinging to every curve from my hips to my knees. I knew I might as well have been stark naked.

Oh, there was another thing. At certain times, Ms Harcourt gave us a suppository which we had to shove up our backsides while she watched. Yes, she minutely supervised our dressing in the always revealing clothing she supplied and when the cigar-like thing was ordered, she made damned sure each of us shoved it up there before donning whatever pants she had ordained for us.

Can you guess what the suppository was for? It was a very potent aphrodisiac that at least partially erected our cocks. In my case it was a damned sight more than partial! Within five minutes of my anus closing over the monstrous capsule, I would always feel my penis stirring, the blood rushing in to fill and engorge it and then it stayed like that for the next three to four hours.

She didn't always make us take them. In fact it wasn't all that often at all, perhaps once every ten days to a fortnight. On that fateful night, we had all, one by one, come up to her naked, accepted the brown greasy thing from her and then turned around, spread our legs wide, bent over and pushed it in. We had then moved quickly to the pile of lycra pants and hurriedly stepped into them and dragged them up our legs and thighs for already our cocks were stirring and if we hadn't been quick, we could not have got them over our hips.

Of course, even pushed down our left legs, in their erect state, they were very obvious against the smooth lines of our thigh muscles.

But this time, she wasn't satisfied simply by us sporting erections down our legs. "No," she said in her imperious, haughty tones, "strip the pants down again and then pull them back up so your things poke up your bellies!"

We gulped. Most of us had rather large cocks. I think she made sure of that (even though she didn't make us strip the jocks right off at our interviews) and as a result, we knew they would be poking up out of the ultra-low waistband of the pants.

But we obeyed and then she was satisfied. We looked at one another with very red faces. This was by far the worst thing she had made us do...

Why did we take it, you ask? Because I think, at least deep down, every one of us there was a latent slave. We wanted to be slaves. To be dominated by an arrogant and commanding woman, even if we didn't even realise it on the surface. I certainly didn't. I thought I was your normal red-blooded young Englishman. I had had a few girlfriends whom, in the modern day course of events, I had bedded and I had thought our relationships were okay-except that after a few months, I always found myself looking for something else. I didn't know what-then. I do now.

As a result of the suppositories and the tightness of the thin lycra material that clung so smoothly to our bodies, our cocks were very apparent, even if you discount the parts that poked out of the top of our pants and now, as My Lady sat there, silently appraising my body, I blushed all over again, to the amusement of her companions.

She had come in with three other ladies, all of them of her class and attitude and so we male waiters were fair game for them all.

She beckoned me closer and now reached out to stroke my thighs, through the lycra, then caressed my rather prominent stomach muscles and finally the sharply defined plates of muscle in my chest.

Last of all, she let her hand drop down to finger the exposed glans and upper part of the shaft of my cock. Yes, right in the restaurant, but then of course, it was that sort of restaurant, wasn't it? Nevertheless, I blushed right down to my neck as she so nonchalantly fingered my most private organ, smiling at her friends while they simpered at my humiliation.

The rest of the evening was just as bad. Every time I came to their table to take away plates or deliver new dishes, one or more of them would reach out to play with my buttocks, thighs, belly and even copy their hostess in toying with my still erect penis.

The other tables I was tending noticed My Lady's so indecent inspection of my body (followed by her guests) and they began to copy her. It quickly spread to the other waiters and soon enough all five of us were being fingered by all and sundry.

Ms Harcourt, far from censuring her patrons, actually encouraged them. She came up to My Lady's table while I was serving the ladies there and commented to them how pleased she was that they approved of her servant, then actually stroked the muscles of my right thigh, bringing to their attention how shapely I was.

The women nodded and agreed that I seemed to have a fine body. One added the remark: "...what she could see of it, anyway." I had a moment's fright. I knew it wouldn't be beyond Ms Harcourt's scruples to order me to strip down, right there. Fortunately, she didn't, but she did encourage them all to finger and fondle my body to their heart's content.

And so the evening went on. And as their consumption of champagne increased, so did their lewd inspections of my flesh, especially my cock-and my balls too, if only through the lycra, although some tugged at the waistband, lowering it to expose even more of my lower belly-and of course more of my cock as well.

As I bid My Lady and her guests 'good night', she informed me I would be receiving a summons to attend on her at some stage. "And you had better be prompt, boy," were her parting words.

"Yes, Madam," I said, but my heart was going hammer and tongs. I wondered why. The woman had shamed and humiliated me beyond belief and yet, for some inexplicable reason, I knew I would be on tenterhooks waiting for the summons to arrive.

You may be wondering why I have only mentioned her by the term, 'My Lady', and not her name. That is because I am not permitted to call her by anything else, ever, even when describing her to others. She is My Lady and nothing else!