The Man Who Was Put On Earth To Serve Women

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

The Strictest Mistress

Mistress Tiffany was the strictest Mistress whom The Man had ever served and he had served so many firm disciplinarians. He believed she was also the prettiest and most graceful. A professional high-fashion model, she was five feet ten inches tall and willowy, but unlike so many models, she had breasts of a good size that easily filled and almost overflowed a C-cup. Fair-skinned, with a light burnishing of freckles across her small, turned up nose and arched cheekbones (she often obscured the freckles behind facial powder), she possessed a pair of large, catlike green eyes and a wide sensual mouth that reminded him of Angelina Jolie’s. When she smiled, Mistress Tiffany showed off straight pearly white teeth and winsome dimples on her cheeks. Her hair was jet black, almost blue-black, and usually worn straight in a smooth, silky curtain that hung past her shoulders. She had been an amateur gymnast in high school as well as a ballerina and her training in those areas showed in her supple grace of movement.

The Man had been serving Mistress Tiffany for about two years now. He worked for her in various paid capacities but was definitely combining business with pleasure as he always submitted to corporal punishment when his work was found in any way wanting. He acted as her chauffeur, often styled her hair and applied her make-up, gave her manicures and pedicures, ran errands, kept her books, cleaned her apartment, cooked for her, and generally made her life as pleasant and comfortable as possible.

If he did think so himself, The Man was a fine servant for Mistress Tiffany. He was also a most pleasant companion. For one thing, he was by any standard a strikingly handsome man. Six feet two inches tall, he possessed a well-defined muscular build that showed the evidence of regular workouts and weight lifting. His chestnut colored hair was lightly waved and these days he wore it parted on the right side and combed slightly back. His skin was just barely tanned and he had a pair of bright, inquisitive blue eyes, a straight nose, and pronounced cheekbones. Although he was definitely subservient, there was not a trace of effeminacy about him and he had a strong chiseled jaw. More than one person had compared it to that of the old movie star Kirk Douglas and, more recently, the killed American soldier in Iraq Pat Tillman. His mouth was sensuous and his smile was winning.

On this particular day, his first major chore was the cleaning of Mistress Tiffany’s kitchen. It was a large kitchen, the walls of which were painted a pale yellow and the floor of which was of alternating red and yellow stars with white triangle decorations in between them. There were some small paintings on the walls, heartwarming homey scenes of dogs and cats, all with curvy frames of barn red. On one wall hung a calendar with a photograph of Marilyn Monroe blowing out a candle on a multi-leveled birthday cake over it.

The refrigerator was a deep green color. Stuck to the door of it were a few memos reminding Mistress Tiffany of important appointments. The Man decided to clean the fridge first.

He opened the refrigerator and pulled out the bottles of orange juice, grape juice, and Hawaiian punch, cups of cottage cheese, a container of strawberries, and several slices of meat under plastic (including chicken and salmon). He set them all on the counter to the side that was right by the sink. Then he pulled out the racks and put them in the sink. There he sprayed them with 409 and carefully wiped them with a folded up paper towel. He examined the racks to make sure they were free of stains.

However, before he replaced them, he had to clean the inside of the refrigerator itself, which he did, again using 409 plus some fresh paper towels. Then he put the racks back and then the foodstuffs that had rested on them. Next he worked on the side of the refrigerator, taking out the butter and condiments. On Mistress Tiffany’s instructions, he left each egg in his half-globe because she said it would be too easy to crack one taking it out and replacing it. He sprayed and wiped everything including the empty half-globes. After replacing the butter and condiments, he cleaned the outside of the fridge.

The Man sprinkled comet into the kitchen sink. Next he wet a sponge and vigorously scrubbed, then rinsed the sink with equal vigor. His attention next turned to the countertops that he cleaned with 409 and paper towels. Then the stove and its burners were thoroughly cleaned.

As he did what most people, both men and women, would find the most boring and humdrum of chores, The Man felt a sweetly special sort of energy course through his veins. He had a mental lift and he whistled as he worked for knowing that he was cleaning for a woman, especially for Mistress Tiffany, filled him with a humbling and warm sense of satisfaction.

Finally, it was time to scrub the kitchen floor. The Man went to the kitchen closet and fetched the necessary equipment including the pale blue bucket, the scrub brush, and the bottle of Mr. Clean (how appropriate he always thought that he scrubbed with a product titled “Mr.”). He also took out a small, thick, square piece of cloth that served to cushion his knees. Then he started at the corner near the refrigerator and methodically went over the floor, scrubbing away at it. After he was finished, he stood up on the carpeting just outside the kitchen and looked at the gleaming floor with admiration.

Then he went to Mistress Tiffany’s bedroom and knocked.

“Come right in, fella,” she said. Like other women The Man had worked for, she usually called him “fella”. It was a title of which he was fond.

He opened the door. Then he bowed and said, “I finished cleaning the kitchen.”

Mistress Tiffany was sitting up in bed, inside the covers and propped against two generously thick pillows. She had a hardback book open in her hands; The Man could not discern its title.

His great lady looked at her very best. She was attired in a solidly bright pink lounging outfit that clung to her curvaceous figure and had some flamboyant pink feathery decorations dripping off the cuffs and deep cleavage. Her mane of thick and silky black hair streamed past her shoulders. She was carefully made up: foundation and powder, a pink blush, and a moist bright pink lipstick that just matched her outfit. Her pink nail polish was a little more subdued and a couple of shades lighter. She was wearing blended eye shadow of beige and brown and had thick mascara that separated her eyelashes and gave them length. She had on quite a bit of jewelry. A gold braided chain hung around her neck and showed a silver dollar that came to just between the line of her deep cleavage. She also had a triple-band of pearls around her throat. She had earrings shaped like seahorses dangling from her earlobes. On both arms were thin, jangly gold bracelets. Her fingers showed several dramatically colored rings.

“Good,” she said. “I assume you scrubbed the floor?”

“I did, Madam,” he replied.

That meant they would have to wait awhile before Mistress Tiffany could perform the inspection.

“Did you get that kitchen completely and perfectly clean?” she asked in a demanding voice.

He bowed again before her and then replied, “I believe I did, Mistress Tiffany.”

“OK,” she said. “I’ll call you when I want to do the inspection, fella.” She returned to her book.

“Very good, Madam,” he said and bowed out.

She rang his room about a half hour later and Mistress and servant met in the hall in front of the kitchen. Mistress Tiffany’s green eyes glowed and she smiled broadly as she looked at the sparklingly clean kitchen. “This looks like a very good job,” she commented.

The Man smiled in return, bowed, and said, “Thank you, Madam.” He felt a warm sense of satisfaction in having pleased her.

She went into the kitchen and he followed. “Good,” she said. “Counters, sink, stove, all good, fella.”

Again she grinned and he said, “Thank you, Madam.” It was wonderful to see her so happy. He loved that smile that showed off those lovely dimples and those pearly white teeth.

“Uh-oh,” she said with a frown. Her eyebrows pulled together in dissatisfaction.

He waited, a sinking sensation in the pit of his belly.

“Look here, fella,” she said, directing his attention to the faucets at the sink.

He saw: they were greasy and smeared. “Oh, I’m sorry, Madam,” he told her, “dreadfully sorry.” To himself he thought: how could I be such a fool? That was such an obvious oversight!

Without a word, she stared at him, a frown still marring her lovely face.

She turned to the refrigerator. “This looks nice,” she remarked, smiling again, “at least on the outside.”

“Thank you, Madam,” he said, brightening up.

She opened up the refrigerator. “Yes, indeed, you seem to have done a good job, fella.”

The Man beamed with pride as he said, “Thank you, Madam.”

Tiffany bent down to open up the bottom drawers. The Man suddenly remembered that he had not cleaned them! He had forgotten to even open them up! This was terrible!

Mistress Tiffany looked up at him, her green eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I even need to comment on this,” she said, her voice as sharp as a razor.

“No, you certainly do not, Madam,” he replied, head bowed with shame.

“I think you know what this means,” she said.

“Yes. I must be punished for failing in my duty.” He sank to his knees and humbly kissed her feet. He put his hands on her ankles and stroked them. “I am so sorry, Mistress Tiffany,” he told her, “so very sorry.” He kept kissing her feet.

“Well you should be,” she said brusquely.

He kissed her toes, gently and tenderly. “I am, Madam, I am,” he said.

“Get up, fella” she told him in a tone as sharp as the sound of a swat against naked skin, “and fetch me the instruments of your correction. Then meet me in the den.”

“Will do, Madam,” he said, “right away.”

The instruments of correction were a simple wooden bolo paddle and two thick, wooden, fraternity-style paddles, one solid and the other with small holes regularly studded through it. The Man took the paddles into the den where his Mistress was waiting for him, her arms crossed over her beautiful, eye-catching, ample breasts.

He handed her the three paddles, then sank to his knees to once again kiss her feet. As he did so, he felt a vague but distinctly pleasant stirring in his loins even as he felt a chill of fear run up his spine. She held the bolo paddle before his mouth and he kissed it.

Then, as their agreed upon ritual prescribed, The Man, pulled down his pants and briefs and lay across the arm of the heavy, green, wing-backed chair.

Mistress Tiffany took a moment to allow herself to admire his slim, well-shaped, lightly haired and pale buttocks. She smiled: they would not be pale for long. She would give him exactly what he deserved for his thoughtlessness.

She struck the bolo paddle on his ass with gusto. Swat! Mistress Tiffany brought the small paddle down on the right buttock of The Man. The buttocks automatically tightened and she kept the wood against the flesh for a second to make it sting more. When she brought the paddle up, she saw that The Man properly relaxed the muscles in his ass cheeks so the next spank would sting just as much as it should.

Swat! Mistress Tiffany brought the paddle down on his left buttock. Again his ass tightened and again it relaxed. She went from one ass cheek to the other with the paddle, enjoying the sight of the bouncing of his buttocks as pink marks appeared. Swat! Swat! Swat! Swat! Swat! Swat! The Man had often submitted to stern corporal punishments so his pain tolerance was fairly high and he did not cry out when spanked with the bolo paddle although he did grit his teeth from the definite sting of it. Swat! Swat! Swat! Swat! Swat! Swat!

“What are you going to remember about washing your Mistress’ sink from now on, fella?” Mistress Tiffany asked.