There was a story there. Then Mom wanted to know when I had learned who Wynter was. I told her. In fact, I told her everything about that frat party. I wanted to see what she would say. Wynter was so embarrassed. But she grinned, too.I had noticed something while we sat there talking. Mom had been keeping her legs crossed tightly under her nightgown. She had great legs for a forty-five year old woman. And she was a red head, too. It seemed we were all Irish in this family.But while she was keeping her legs crossed I could see her blushing while she listened to the part about the frat party. And her still perky tits were heaving up as she breathed heavily in and out. I knew that behavior. She was getting off on the story.Finally, Mom told me to get my ass to bed. And she walked up the stairs with Wynter, still hugging her, and putting her to bed. She had completed the ream job of my behavior during our long talk. But she hadn't forgotten, and she was making sure Wynter was okay and in. There were no punishments in those early days, save for her disdain. That stung more than any spanking ever could.But even the sharpest rock in the fastest river becomes smooth with time, and so it was with me. Fear of rebuke, desire for complements, a Pavlovian response that gradually eroded the rough edges of my former self.In time, I took her uniform, never questioning how fussy it was, how feminine it looked, how utterly impractical it seemed for a menial servant, designed more for visual appeal than hard work.With dwindling resistance, I performed the duties she asked of me, following her willingly down a road that became more intimate with every passing day. Household chores at first, personal attention later. I'd dress her, brush her hair, help her bathe. It never seemed strange to me, it never seemed wrong.All the while, that simple phrase. An initiation of capitulation: "How may I serve you, Mistress?"And then, one day, a response that gave me pause."Take off my shoes, my.
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