Now that the university semester has finished here in Berlin, I shall be returning to my country house in England. Today, I thought I’d start a series on some of the servants, masters and mistresses who spend the summer with me.
1. The governess
Before I personally train a sissy, I like to pass the sissy off to a strict governess for some initial disciplining. The sissy must be taught that its dirty little desires are loathsome and need to be contained. I find a strict, older woman to be perfect for the task. Her matriarchal appearance embeds the punishment deep in the subconscious of the sissy, preparing the way for training to be a maid.
The Sissy Farm is a ten-minute drive from the station and you admire the forest as you approach the house. As you pull up, you notice that instead of stopping outside the main entrance, my driver drops you at a small door round the side. The servant’s entrance. He points to it and drives off.
And now I have to introduce you to the woman who will supervise your initial training: a woman who will haunt and lubricate your dreams: my housekeeper – Miss Birch.
Miss Birch – A.K.A ‘The governess’ – is an austere woman in her mid-fifties who runs the household and the maids she supervises with an iron fist. You will ring the bell and she will answer.
From the first moment you lay eyes on her you’re scared… because as you look at her graceful, but aged features you realise that she knows. You look at her watery blue, wrinkled eyes and her taut thin lips and you know that she knows what you are: a filthy little sissy. And she looks at you with utter contempt. You, however, look at her with awe. Despite the fact she’s in her late fifties she holds herself well and is tall. Her grey hair is pulled into a severe bun and she’s decked out in a uniform which I have designed with my sissies in mind, because I know it’s a uniform they fear.
Miss Birch is wearing a high necked blouse made of red satin that buttons all the way up to her chin. At her chest the buttons strain due to her large bosom. After her bosom, the blouse clings to her corseted waist and disappears into the folds of a black skirt which flares out like a Viennese ball dress. It’s made of a durable, shiny material that looks like satin, and has buttons all the way from waist to foot. Perhaps she hasn’t spoken yet cos she’s letting you take it all in. Then she speaks.
“Are you the new maid?”
“Yes,” you reply.
“Well, maid, don’t gawk…if you approach the Mistress gawking she will be most displeased. I’m Miss Birch.”
She doesn’t offer a hand.
As you cross the threshold and enter the kitchen she gives you the facts. “I’m afraid, maid, there’s no welcome tea and buns…it’s straight to work. Now, let’s get you into your uniform.”
You follow the rustling skirts and shiny red blouse into the interior of the house and start your descent to the servant’s quarters. Proceeding down a long corridor with rooms either side, you arrive at the place where you will sleep. It’s more of a cell…but apt for a domestic servant. It has a simple, old fashioned bed, a bedside table and a wardrobe. You’ve already been instructed to bring nothing other than a washbag for essential items such as contact lenses, so it’s not necessary to unpack. Miss Birch looks at you, her voluminous skirt as wide as the doorway.
“Right, maid…strip naked…and give me those man clothes. They’ll be no need for those anymore.”
She has a very deep voice, and you can’t recall ever seeing an older woman so bereft of human warmth. She looks like an old bird of prey, or like she might pull out a cane at any moment, and if she could she probably would. Miss Birch is not a Mistress like me, she’s just a housekeeper and has no respect for men who work as frilly maids. Her philosophy is that if you choose to be a maid then maid you shall be: she will bully you, and make you iron and wash and fold all day.
“Come along, maid…do you think I haven’t seen a sissy clit before?”
The mention of a sissy clit, her stern face and heaving satin bosom, causes a faint stir of your willy. You obey. Once naked, you shiver in the cold and your sissy clit shrinks. Miss Birch reaches out and grabs your little helmet with thumb and index finger. For one month you have been applying the penile reduction ointment sent to all my new sissies.
“Extra small,” is her verdict, but she states it factually and without judgement, because although your penis is extra small, she’s simply deciding what size chastity device. From somewhere deep in the pockets of her skirts she produces an extra small chastity device, eases your willy inside, and clips you into chastity. It’s transparent plastic – a new generation of device with a built in lock that does away with cumbersome padlocks. Once locked, the key disappears into the folds of her skirt.
“That should prevent any inappropriate bulges in your uniform,” Miss Birch informs you. Then she steps over to the wardrobe and you feel distinctly weird being naked except for a chastity device, stood next to a Victorian housekeeper. Miss Birch, however, spends her working life with sissy maids and it’s all as familiar as old rope. She reaches for your uniform.
One of the boons of a strict governess is that she can teach the sissy some initial oral skills with her strap-on.
Some years I like to hire a well hung transwoman (pre-op) to take the role of governess and housekeeper. That way, she can loosen up the sissy’s anus and mouth for the masters and mistresses the sissy will serve – once fully trained.