EXTRACT FOR
The Wife, the Mother-in-law, the Boss and the Sissy Maid
(Miranda Birch)

Malcolm sighed as he put the neatly written instructions back down on the table. Her mother had complained about the guest room, so now he had to get to work re-decorating it. So that was another new job, practically a third job in addition to his existing two: one working for under Ms Ratner at Ratner & Wilson, the other -- as housemaid to his wife! 



Another arduous and humiliating week lay ahead of him, that was for sure; but this one was not quite finished yet... He smoothed the small white apron he wore, looked over his shoulder to make sure the seams of his black nylon stockings were straight, glanced in the mirror and straightened the maid's cap, then ran a comb through the black wig he wore. Was his make-up satisfactory? Yes, it seemed so. 



It was time to pay his last visit of the day to his wife. And it was essential that his maid's uniform, indeed his whole appearance, be *just so* -- or he would suffer for it. `Wife' -- if she could still be called such. Legally she was, of course; but de facto she was more his Mistress: a woman with complete authority over him. Virtually a bloody slave-driver, Malcolm thought bitterly. He picked up the punishment book and teetered on his high heels towards the kitchen door. He had got better at walking in heels, but they still gave him a bit of trouble. Hopefully Veronica would not remark on it. Perhaps, he thought apprehensively as he made his way to the sitting room, this might not be the last visit. He might be required later... for what were commonly called conjugal rights. Of a sort, at least; they were really now just another part of service. Intimate services: most frustrating intimate services. But best not to think about that. He must concentrate on keeping his poise and acting out his part of a lady's maid. Her mother would be here tomorrow, and she would, he knew from bitter past experience, use the slightest little complaint about his performance from her daughter to take the cane to his bare backside. 



He knocked and waited, heart beating a little faster, as it always did in such moments. "Enter!" 



The voice was clear and deep and commanding. 



Malcolm entered and curtsied. There was his Mistress (as he now always thought of her) seated, with feet up on a pouffe, flicking through a magazine. The TV screen was on, with the sound turned down. 



"Turn that thing off." 



The order was peremptory, as ever. 



"Yes, Ma'am." 



The remote control was right there on the sofa beside her. It was almost more effort for her to tell him to do it than to do it herself! But that was the way things were now. Veronica delighted in having him do practically everything for her. Malcolm picked up the device, pushed a button; the screen blinked off. 



"I... I've brought the Punishment Book, Ma'am," he said hesitantly. 



"Have you finished all your chores?" 



"Yes, Ma'am." 



"Hoping to go to bed, I suppose?" 



Veronica spoke as if that hope were something rather unusual, even unnatural. However, when one considers that Malcolm had been hard at it since six o'clock that morning, one would have considered a wish to go to bed perfectly reasonable! But not in this household! 



"Yes, Ma'am," he said, a shade weakly. 



"We'll see about that." 



A white, well-manicured hand came out. Malcolm placed the hard-backed, black Punishment Book in it. 



"Cigarette." 



Malcolm dived for the packet of cigarettes which lay on the coffee table, offered it, and was ready with the lighter. Veronica sucked in and puffed a stream of smoke into Malcolm's face. He spluttered, turning his head. he hated cigarette smoke. Even in the smallest affairs, his Mistress was alway humiliating him. 



Veronica flipped through the pages, found the latest entries, ran her finger down the page. 



"You seem to have had an easy week, sissy." 



Malcolm was rarely addressed by name. The women is his life -- his wife, his mother in law, his boss -- all used various forms of denigrating alternatives to his real name. 



"Just a strapping for some sloppy housework and a caning for that careless ironing," Veronica continued. 



Malcolm said nothing. What could he say? Most men, he reflected, would not have considered an eighteen-stroke strapping and a twelve-stroke caning as being in any way part of an `easy week'. However, he was not most men. He was Malcolm Baxter, caught inextricably in a web his wife, his mother-in-law and his boss had woven around him.