A submissive maids confession He didn’t speak much when I arrived. He barely looked up from his desk when I knocked — just pointed to the guest room and said, “Uniform is inside. Clean the house. Keep quiet. I don’t like noise.” It was direct. Cold. And exactly what I needed. In the guest room, I found a small black box on the bed with a note in thick, masculine handwriting: “Your uniform. Wear nothing underneath.” Inside was a maid outfit, but not the kind you'd see in a catalog. It was short. Tight. A black satin dress with white lace trim and a see-through apron. No bra. No panties. Just thigh-high stockings and a garter that clipped perfectly into place. My nipples pressed against the fabric, the air already brushing against my skin as I buttoned it up and smoothed the skirt down my thighs. I felt like a fantasy — his fantasy. And I knew I was here to be more than just a maid. The first day, I dusted every corner, polished every surface, scrubbed the floors on my hands and knees like a good girl. I didn’t see him much — but I felt him. Watching. Studying me. Deciding how and when to use me. And I hoped it would be soon. It wasn’t until the second evening, just after I’d finished folding towels in the laundry room, that I heard his voice behind me: “Alexis. Come here.” I froze. His tone was firm. Calm. So sure of itself. I turned and obeyed — lowering my eyes, walking slowly toward him. When I reached him, he gestured to the rug in front of the fireplace. “Kneel.” I did. Without question. Heart pounding, thighs trembling. He walked around me like I was a piece of art — or property. His fingers grazed my shoulders, then ran down my back, pausing just at the curve of my ass. “No bra. No panties. Just like I asked.” He leaned in. “But this skirt is far too long.” In one slow tug, he lifted the hem, revealing just how ready I was for him — wet, aching, desperate to be touched. “You’ve done well keeping the house clean,” he whispered, fingers sliding between my thighs. “But that’s not the only thing I need from you.” I moaned softly, still on my knees, already slipping into the space between duty and desire. I wasn’t just here to clean his house… I was here to be his. To be used. Worshipped. Owned. And I’d never been more ready to serve....

You knew what you were doing, didn’t you, Alexis? You wore that orange lace just to see what I’d do. To see if I’d let it slide… or make you pay for it. But good girls don’t play games like that — not with me. So here you are, standing in front of me. Your blouse is off. Your skirt is on the floor. Those perfect stockings still cling to your thighs like the obedient girl you pretend to be… But that orange lingerie? It was your mistake. And now, you’re going to feel what disobedience earns you. I make you keep it on. I want you to remember what got you here. I bend you over the desk — the same one you sat beside in your leather chair like a little tease — and I slide my hand between your thighs. You’re soaked. Of course you are. Being caught has only made you needier. You whisper, “I’m sorry, Daddy…” But sorry doesn’t wipe the smirk off your lips. So I spank you. Once. Then again. Then harder. Each slap a reminder that when you break my rules, your body becomes mine to correct. You try to hold still, but your hips are trembling. You want more — you always do. So I make you say it. “Please, Daddy. Punish me. Use me. Make me yours again.” And I do. I slide into you slowly, filling you until your breath catches. I don’t let you move. I hold you there — deep, aching, still. You whimper, you plead, your body tight around me as I take back control. Every thrust after that is a lesson. Every sound you make is a confession. You love being brought to your knees for me. You need to be reminded who you belong to. And when you’ve taken it all — every stroke, every spank, every command — I wrap my arms around you and lay you down softly. You’re shaking. Breathless. Messy. But you’re mine again. Fully. I kiss your forehead. I stroke your thigh. I whisper into your ear, Good girl, Alexis. My perfect little rule breaker....

You knew what you were doing, didn’t you, Alexis? You wore that orange lace just to see what I’d do. To see if I’d let it slide… or make you pay for it. But good girls don’t play games like that — not with me. So here you are, standing in front of me. Your blouse is off. Your skirt is on the floor. Those perfect stockings still cling to your thighs like the obedient girl you pretend to be… But that orange lingerie? It was your mistake. And now, you’re going to feel what disobedience earns you. I make you keep it on. I want you to remember what got you here. I bend you over the desk — the same one you sat beside in your leather chair like a little tease — and I slide my hand between your thighs. You’re soaked. Of course you are. Being caught has only made you needier. You whisper, “I’m sorry, Daddy…” But sorry doesn’t wipe the smirk off your lips. So I spank you. Once. Then again. Then harder. Each slap a reminder that when you break my rules, your body becomes mine to correct. You try to hold still, but your hips are trembling. You want more — you always do. So I make you say it. “Please, Daddy. Punish me. Use me. Make me yours again.” And I do. I slide into you slowly, filling you until your breath catches. I don’t let you move. I hold you there — deep, aching, still. You whimper, you plead, your body tight around me as I take back control. Every thrust after that is a lesson. Every sound you make is a confession. You love being brought to your knees for me. You need to be reminded who you belong to. And when you’ve taken it all — every stroke, every spank, every command — I wrap my arms around you and lay you down softly. You’re shaking. Breathless. Messy. But you’re mine again. Fully. I kiss your forehead. I stroke your thigh. I whisper into your ear, Good girl, Alexis. My perfect little rule breaker....

Baby, You’ve already told me what to wear. The white blouse. The tight black pencil skirt. No bra. No panties. Just the thigh-high nylons you love — and no heels. Just me, exactly how you imagined. I’m waiting in the leather chair by my desk in the bedroom, legs crossed, back straight, hands in my lap like a good girl. The room is quiet, except for the sound of my breath. I feel your instructions wrapped around me like a second skin — obedient, exposed, dripping in anticipation. This is what I want. I want to feel you enter the room and stop to take me in. I want to feel your eyes on me — hungry, proud. You don’t say a word at first, just walk toward me slowly, your silence saying more than anything else could. I want you to lean down, place one hand on the armrest beside mine, and tilt my chin up with the other. “You look perfect,” you’ll say. “But I need to see more.” I want to stand for you. Slowly. I want your fingers to unfasten the buttons of my blouse one by one, letting the fabric slip off my shoulders. I want you to tug my skirt down yourself, letting it fall to the floor. Your eyes pausing at the top of my stockings — the only thing I have left on. I want your fingers to graze the lace there, teasing me for how wet I already am. “So eager for me,” you’ll whisper, “and I haven’t even touched you yet.” I want your mouth on me — slow, reverent. I want to feel your tongue tasting every inch of what’s yours. I want to moan softly in that leather chair as you worship me with your lips and fingers. Then I want you to bend me over the desk, pull my hips back, and slide yourself inside me with that first, slow thrust that makes me gasp. Take me. Fill me. Make me feel everything. I want to hear you tell me how good I feel. How tight. How soft. How mine I am. I want to beg you for more while you use me, own me, ruin me sweetly. Let me cry out for you until there’s nothing left but pleasure. And when I’ve taken all of you — every inch, every word — I want you to lift me up and carry me to bed. I want your arms wrapped around me, your voice soft again. I want you to stroke my hair, kiss my forehead, and whisper that I did everything right. Then fall asleep with your fingers still between my thighs. Just in case your good girl wakes up needing more. Always yours, Your obedient secretary...

I never expected him to show up again — not really. We had met five years ago on Snapchat, and over time, a slow-burning connection had formed. Our conversations were always soul-deep. He once told me he dreamt about me, that he was drawn to me in a way he couldn't explain. “You were mine in a past life,” he said. And I believed him. I felt it, too. Over the years, our connection lingered in the background — like a fantasy that never quite faded. Then one day, he messaged me: “I’ll be in town. Can I see you?” My heart raced. I said yes. When he arrived, I opened the door wearing my soft cherry-print pajama set — short shorts and a tiny matching cami — paired with my cozy knee-high socks. I had no idea how much those socks would end up standing out to him, but I’ll never forget the way he looked at me in that moment — like he’d stepped into a dream he didn’t want to wake up from. At first, I thought I was going to ask him to leave. I could tell he was surprised when I told him the truth — that I’d mistaken him for someone else all this time. But as we talked, everything softened. He listened. I opened up. I told him about my healing, my heartache, how I wasn’t looking for temporary anymore. Hours passed. Then, around 2 AM, he asked, “Have you ever been catered to?” I hesitated. No one had ever asked me that. Then he smiled gently and said, “Can I rub your feet?” I said yes. As he took my feet in his hands, he looked up and smirked, “I like your socks.” That simple compliment made my body hum. His fingers moved slowly, tracing over my arches, then my calves, easing into the sore places with care. I melted under his touch. Every stroke, every squeeze, sent a current through me. When he moved higher, up to my thighs, I felt my breath catch — warmth gathering between my legs. And when he asked to rub my shoulders, I turned around, slipped off my top, still shy, covering my chest with my arms. He whispered my name. “I just want to kiss you.” And when our lips finally met, I let go of everything. The passion unfolded slowly, deeply — more than desire. It was sacred. The kind of worship that doesn’t just touch your body, but your spirit. I felt ravished and held, awakened and safe, all at once. We laid there after, quiet and stunned — not just by what happened, but by the feeling it left behind. I still think about it. Not just the heat… but the healing. The reminder that I can be desired and respected. That intimacy can be sacred. That maybe… I don’t need to be understood to be felt. Just met — fully, gently, and without hesitation...

The office was quiet, the soft hum of the city below just a whisper through the windows. I stayed late, just like you asked — heels off, hair pinned up, blouse slightly undone from a long day. I watched the clock, pretending to work, but really just imagining the moment you’d finally come out of your meeting. When the door creaked open and you stepped into the room, I looked up slowly, biting my lip, letting my glasses slide down the bridge of my nose. “Still working, baby?” I asked softly, standing up to straighten the stack of papers I didn’t really need to touch. You walked toward me, loosening your tie, that look in your eyes making it hard to breathe. “I stayed late just for you,” I whispered, stepping around the desk with a folder in hand — though we both knew there was nothing in it. “Thought you might need… some assistance.” My fingers brushed yours as I handed it over, lingering, the tension between us thick and delicious. I shifted just close enough for you to feel the heat of my body, my perfume wrapping around you like a spell. “You’ve been so good to me lately,” I murmured, tilting my head. “I thought I’d return the favor.” Your hand grazed my hip, and I leaned in as if to whisper a note — but instead, I let my lips barely graze your ear. “Why don’t you let me take care of everything else tonight, baby?” I purred. “You’ve worked so hard… now it’s time to let go.” The room seemed to melt around us as I slowly backed toward the desk, inviting you with a look that said everything I was too shy to speak out loud. You didn’t say a word, just followed my lead as I perched on the edge of the desk, fingers toying with the top button of my blouse. The air was thick with silence and unspoken need. I looked up at you through my lashes, letting the corner of my mouth curl into a knowing smile. “I’ve been such a good girl today,” I murmured, voice just above a whisper, “stayed late, finished all my tasks… but I think there’s one more thing left on my list.” You stepped closer, between my knees, hands sliding to my thighs as if it were the most natural thing in the world. My breath caught, but I didn’t move — I wanted you to see how much I wanted this, how much I’d been waiting. My skirt rode up slightly as I leaned in, lips barely brushing yours, teasing you with the promise of more. “You always make me feel so… valued,” I whispered. “Thought it was time to show you just how grateful I really am.” The city lights behind you blurred as my hands moved to your chest, slowly unbuttoning your shirt like unwrapping a gift I’ve been craving all day. “No more meetings. No more emails. Just me… and you,” I said, slipping my heels off the rest of the way. “And this office that’s about to become our little secret.” The air between us sparked — a touch, a breath, a slow burn — and I let myself fall into the moment, completely yours. To meet, please click my screening form link below to start with. ...

I had the most fantastic time in Jacksonville, Florida. I met so many sweet southern gentlemen, who made me feel like a gem visiting their town! until next time.????

To meet, please click my screening form link below to start with.