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.