by Tom Tame
His pink uniform exposed what he truly was to anyone and everyone.
"Disgusting!" a man said, but his girlfriend shook her head with a smile.
"Aw, but she's so cute!"
An older woman questioned him. "Aren't you in the wrong uniform?"
He could only blush and shake his head. He curtsied, always curtsied. He curtsied and he checked his
makeup when it occurred to him, which strangely occurred to him frequently for some reason, almost as often as
Tatiana had suggested.
In the middle of serving a guest a drink, he felt someone's eyes on him and hoped it was Tatiana. It wasn't. It
was James, motioning for him to come over.
He curtsied to the guest. "Will there be anything else, Sir?"
The man waved him away, but a woman giggled and pointed at a name-badge he didn't even realize he wore.
"Yes . . . 'Alyssa'. Is that your real name?"
Another woman at the table giggled. "Oh, leave him alone, Nancy." She addressed Mark then. "She always
does this."
He swallowed and shook his head and curtsied. It took him a few minutes to admit it. His cheeks were blood
red. "No . . . no, Ma'am."
"She always embarrasses the poor things."
"What is your real name then?"
He couldn't meet their gaze. His body burned with shame. He wouldn't tell her. He couldn't. Did he have to?
"It's . . . it's Mark, Ma'am."
"Leave him alone, Nancy. Can't you see you're embarrassing him?"
"Mark! Your name is Mark? But how can that be?" The other women at the table giggled. "Mark is a boy's
name. Are you a boy, honey?"
He wouldn't be happier than if he could shrink away into nothing. His emotions were so out of whack
because of the pills. He wiped away the tears before they could ruin his mascara. He had just fixed his face and he
didn't want to have to fix it yet again, though he knew he probably would. It was becoming a thoughtless habit. He
nodded.
"I'm sorry, dear. What's that? We didn't hear you."
As quiet as a mouse, he whispered, "Y-yes, Ma'am."
"We still couldn't hear you, honey. Are you a boy or aren't you?"
He croaked it out as best he could. "Yes, Ma'am."
The woman shook her head while the women giggled. "Yes? Yes? Yes, you are a boy? Speak up, honey."
He nodded and this time the tears trickled down his cheeks. He had to get off those pills. "Yes, Ma'am. I'm a
boy."
"But if you're a boy, then why are you dressed in a pretty little pink uniform?"
"I . . . this . . . this is what they gave me."
"Are you sure you're a boy? I mean, we're sitting here with a couple of lovely men and none of them would
dream of dressing that way. Are you sure you aren't a girl?"
"Nancy, please. Look at her. She's going to cry."
"She's already crying."
Mark's tormenter ignored the other women. "So, Mark? Are you a girl or are you a boy? You can't be both.
Pick one."
He wiped the tears from his cheeks and sniffled. "I'm a boy."
"No, you're not."
"Nancy, please."
"Hush. Now say it. Say you're a girl. You came here to be a girl and now you are one and I want to hear you
admit it."
James awaited him patiently across the room, staring. The men at the table stared at him. There were other
men nearby, staring, other women. Suddenly he was on a stage and being stripped bare in the damning spotlight.
"I'm--" She wouldn't stop until he said it, he knew. What choice did he have? "I'm . . . I'm a girl."
"You didn't curtsy."
He was going to break. He was simply going to shatter into a torrent of sobs and die. The pills had given him
the emotions of a weepy, overly hormonal teenage girl. He curtsied quickly and forced his voice above a whisper.
"I'm--I'm a girl, Ma'am."
"Look me in the eye. I don't think you're being sincere."
He sniffled. He tasted tears on his lips. His lipstick would be ruined. His blush would be ruined. His mascara
would be ruined. Where was Tatiana? He forced himself to meet the woman's gaze. She was drunk on power,
grinning. She had him and she knew it and she was showing off that fact to her friends. "I'm a girl, Ma'am."
Her eyes filled with victory. "You're not just a girl. You're a girly girl, aren't you?"
He nodded. "I'm a girly girl, Ma'am."
"The girliest of girly girls."
He nodded and curtsied. "Yes, Ma'am."
"Say it."
He swallowed. The salt of his tears left a tangy aftertaste on his tongue. "I'm the girliest of girly girls,
Ma'am."
She smiled sweetly. "I can see that. We can all see that. I just wanted you to see it. You see it now, don't
you?"
He curtsied. He was broken. She'd shattered him in front of everyone and there was nothing he could do.
"Yes, Ma'am."
He turned to leave, but she stopped him. "We're not done."
He turned back. "Yes, Ma'am."
Why wouldn't she let him go? She'd already destroyed him. What else did she want?
"You didn't ask if there was anything else I needed."
He curtsied, his cheeks raw and stained red from his tears. "Will there be anything else, Ma'am?"
"You forgot to thank me."
He felt his face wrench with distress. "Th-thank you, Ma'am?"
She smiled. "For helping you admit what you are."
For several seconds, he could only stand there in shock, but she was waiting. They all were. He blinked and
felt new tears forming. "Th-thank you, Ma'am, for helping me admit what I am."
"You're welcome, dear. Now, don't go far. We'll be ready for more drinks in a bit."
He curtsied. Where was Tatiana? "Yes, Ma'am."
Finally, he was released, but as he walked away, he heard them chatting.
"Why do you always do that?"
"Don't you know anything about girly boys?"
"You just want to humiliate them."
"She needs therapy. Lots of therapy, with salt on the rim."
"I prefer my therapy with a pepper."
"Girly boys love being humiliated. Look at him. He's in heaven."
"He's in hell."
"No, tonight when he gets in his little bed, he'll play with his little thing for hours replaying it over and over
again in his head."
"I think she just likes being a bitch."
"Here's to being a bitch"
"--with salt on the rim."
"With a pepper!"
The women laughed.
As he slunk over to James, Mark thought about what the woman had said, about what she'd done. She was
wrong. He didn't enjoy it. He hated it. He had to get out of the stupid pink corset. He had to get the heels off his feet
and shed the white fishnet stockings. He had to clean off the stupid makeup. He had to stop taking those pills!
The pressure between his legs pulsed warmly. There was a fresh feeling of wetness in his gaffe. More
precum. Pools of it. His heart raced; his nipples twitched unbearably. He was hot all over. God in heaven . . . he was
so aroused he felt like was going to melt. He was horny. He needed relief. He needed Sophia to let him be a boy
again, to let him crawl between her legs and be a boy.
Why? Why? Why was this happening? It made no sense. While Sophia was off doing God knows what, he
was being tormented.
"Is that how you were taught to greet the senior staff?
He blinked and looked up. He had shuffled his way over to James and now stood before him. Would this
day never end? From one humiliation to another. Where
was stupid Tatiana?
"Shall I have you report to Miss Lydia for correction?"
Mark curtsied. "Sexy maid Alyssa r-reporting for duty, Sir."
James waited. "I liked the salute you did before. You should do that from now on."
He curtsied. His face was raw. His panties were wet. He could imagine what he looked like.
"Fix your face then report to the trophy room. Mister Zebra wants to see you."
He curtsied and blinked. "Mister--Mister Zebra?"
"Guests do not use their real names."
"Yes, but--but I think Tatiana would be better--"
"Mister Zebra has a preference for little girls like you."
Panic settled in and nestled deep. "No, but--but I can't--"
"He's not allowed to touch you. He knows that. You're still in pink. But you can touch him, so if he talks
you into it, well, that's your choice. If he does though, and if you do, you'll be required to change uniforms. He can
be very persuasive, so I'd be careful if I was you."
Mark swallowed. "Y-yes, Sir."
A Maid on her Knees is Still A Maid
The bartender showed him how to serve a cigar. Clip the end, light it with a match, puff it with your painted
lips and roll it between your fingers. Then offer it to the guest.
Mister Zebra's eyes penetrated Mark's. He sucked on his freshly lit cigar and smiled. "I can taste your
lipstick." Mister Zebra gave it a few puffs and balanced it delicately between his fingers. His nails were immaculate;
his fingers slender and long like an artist. The material of his suit was dark and crisp and shimmered as if made of
satin.
Mark was afraid of him. He was afraid of disappointing him. Although, he couldn't pinpoint why. Maybe it
was because of the contrast between Mister Zebra's dark suit and his own frilly pink uniform. Maybe it was because
Mister Zebra was undeniably masculine and dominant, while Mark was feeling anything but either of those things.
"Brandy."
Mark curtsied and hurried away.
The bartender showed him how to serve a snifter of Brandy. Balance it on a platter, and warm the bottom of
the glass with your hands, giving it a gentle swirl before offering it.
Mister Zebra refused it at first. "Taste it."
Mark curtsied and hesitantly took a very small sip. Almost at once he realized he'd left a small print of his
lipstick on the rim of the glass. He blushed terribly and wondered if he should apologize.
"Is it good?"
Mark nodded. "Yes, Sir."
"Have you ever had Brandy before?"
He blinked and shook his head. "N-no, Sir."
"Then how do you know it's good?"
He was without thought then. Didn't this man understand his predicament? Didn't he understand Mark was
just trying to be pleasing? "I-I-"
"Don't lie to me."
"I-I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't mean to--"
"Mister Zebra."
"S-Sir?"
"My name here is Mister Zebra."
Mark nodded. He blanched and felt tears in his eyes again. Those pills! They were making him crazy. "Yes-
-yes, Mister Zebra."
Everything about him was evidence of how far Mark had fallen. While Mister Zebra had short black hair,
lush and thick, Mark had his soft brown curls. While Mister Zebra had a line of black hair on the backs of his hands,
Mark's hands were smooth and soft with red, polished nails. While Mister Zebra sat there with his legs open in his
dark suit, Mark stood with his knees together, feeling the lace of his petticoats tickle his thighs, curtsying
incessantly. While Mister Zebra had a chiseled jaw, Mark had soft cheeks colored with blush. While Mister Zebra
spoke orders, Mark strove to obey them.
Mister Zebra blew cigar smoke into his snifter and sipped the Brandy. He pointed at the floor before him.
"Stand there."
It took Mark several more steps because of the high heels than it usually would have, but he stood in the
spot indicated by Mister Zebra, only a few feet in front of the man's chair. "Yes, Si-- Yes, Mister Zebra."
Mister Zebra's dark eyes wandered up Mark's feminized body, lingering on his legs, lingering on his waist,
lingering on his small breasts and coming to rest on his lips. "You've always felt like a girl." Was that a question or a
statement?
Mark blinked and shook his head. "No, Mister Zebra."
Mister Zebra puffed on his cigar, motioned with his hand still wrapped around the snifter of Brandy. "Turn
around."
Mark turned slowly for him, keenly aware of how the man's eyes savored every detail of his skirt and legs.
It reminded him of the jewelry boxes girls had with the little ballerina turning and turning. He was just a pretty toy
for the man to play with.
"Did I say turn back to me?"
Mark realized he was facing Mister Zebra again. Softly, he whispered, "N-no, Mister Zebra."
"Turn around like I told you to."
Mark curtsied. "Yes, Mister Zebra." He could feel Mister Zebra's eyes on his ass then. A tiny little shudder
shook his shoulders. He reminded himself of what the bartender said, he was in pink and that meant Mister Zebra
couldn't touch him.
"Kneel."
A terrible heavy weight of dread sat in Mark's chest then. He was a pretty doll, overly emotional, sealed
away under a glass Mister Zebra was forbidden to break. He clearly wanted to though, and he was looking for a way
in.
"Yes, Mister Zebra."
In his tight pink uniform, he placed his knees on to the carpet, feeling how the white fishnet stockings
stretched over his thighs. He heard the gentle gasp of the seat cushion as Mister Zebra stood. The dull sounds of
Mister Zebra's shoes got closer. There was a whisper in his ear then and Mark could smell the brandy on Mister
Zebra's breath. "But you've never quite felt like a man."
It took all of his energy to suppress a sudden wave of sobs. The pills. The pills. The pills. The pills. The
pills. He had to get off them. He had to stop taking them. He had to get out of this place.
Mister Zebra sighed heavily and sauntered in a slow circle around him. "You're certainly not feeling like a
man now, are you?"
Mark couldn't both speak and keep his sobs under control. He managed to croak out, "N-no, Mister Zebra."
"It's placing quite a lot of stress on your psyche. You're male, but not a man. Here you are, dressed like a
female, expected to talk and act and I suspect feel like a female, but you're not one."
Were those supposed to insightful truths? Was Mark expected to reply? Mister Zebra stopped circling him
like a shark and stood close to him. With his hands in his pockets, gazing down at him from on high, he placed his
crotch far too close to Mark's face for comfort. "Look at me."
Mark tilted his face up, unaware of how his glossy lips had naturally parted until he saw Mister Zebra's
gaze suddenly drop and focus on them. Swallowing, blanching, he closed his mouth. He wasn't sure that was any
better though, because when Mister Zebra's gaze shifted back to his eyes, he felt himself shiver.
"Are you aware of how you're speaking?"
Mark shook his head slowly, the curls of his hair tickling his neck and bare shoulders. "N-no, Mister
Zebra."
"It's not just the tone, the pitch, it's the choice of words you use."
Mark blinked and was overcome by how dark Mister Zebra's eyes were. He only just now became aware of
Mister Zebra's dark goat-tee and moustache. There was just the slightest sprinkle of stubble on his tanned che
eks.
"How we speak is an indicator of how we feel. For example, right now, you're feeling rather excited, a bit
afraid, but also very submissive. Isn't that correct?"
With his cheeks inflamed, Mark nodded. "Yes, Mister Zebra."
Mister Zebra's lips stretched into a slight grin. "Let's play a little game. I want you to try and sound even
more submissive for me. Not only is how we speak and indicator of how we feel. How we speak can actually change
how we feel. Try that now, please."
Mark remembered Tatiana's voice, her tone, how it had oozed with compliance and pleasure when she'd
turned to the man and said, "As you wish, Sir." There had been no mistaking her feelings just then. It was almost as
if she'd stopped being the bossy, I-know-what's-good-for-you Tatiana and became simply their obedient property.
Mark dropped his eyes, tilting his head down now, eyes on Mister Zebra's expensive shoes, polished to a
mirror-shine. He could just catch sight of his own face in them, the curls, the lipstick, the soft, blushing cheeks.
"Yes, Mister Zebra." His voice sounded soft and obedient and eager, very much like Tatiana's had when she'd given
herself to the couple.
"That's very good," Mister Zebra said quietly. Was it Mark's imagination or was the man's voice getting
deeper? He felt another shiver run down the back of his neck, shaking his shoulders as it traveled past them. "But . . .
I think you can do better."
Tears trickled down Mark's cheeks. They were a mystery to him. He didn't know why he was crying. He
didn't feel like he was crying. It was if his eyes had ideas of their own. "I'll try, Mister Zebra."
After a moment, Mister Zebra whispered, "I've been watching you. As you hurried about, serving the
guests. I watched your cheeks color every time Tatiana spoke to you."
Mark lifted his head a little, blinking.
"Yes, I know Tatiana. She likes training girls like you. You can learn a lot from her. You'd do well to
follow her every instruction. She knows you. She knows your secret self. She knows you better than you know
yourself . . . and so do I."
It was starting to work, Mark realized. However afraid and excited and submissive he'd felt when he walked
in, making his voice soft and obedient was making him feel even more so. While the fear and excitement sank
deeper and burned, the urge to be utterly pleasing was taking over. "Yes . . . Mister Zebra."