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“I don’t know.” I scrub my hands over my face. “I’ve been losing my mind. All this buildup, I couldn’t—”
“Yeah, I get being pent up, but since when does that make you want a cock in your throat?”
“I don’t have an answer for you, Bran. I just—” My eyes drop to my lap. The words dry up.
A dark stain has soaked through the front of my sweats.
Brandon follows my gaze. His eyebrows shoot up. “Did you…”
I came. Without a hand on me, without a single touch, I came in my sweats just from sucking him off.
“Looks like you won after all,” I say. “Congrats. You got yourself a maid.”
7
The skirt is shorter than I thought. Barely covering my ass. Every time I breathe, it rides up another inch.
I check myself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Black dress, white apron, thigh-highs, the little headpiece with a feather. My shoulders are stretching the seams to their limit. I look absolutely fucking ridiculous.
Brandon’s still in bed, dead to the world. It’s Saturday. Punishment day. He told me at least three times I didn’t have to go through with it, that it’s not even clear who came first, but I shut him down. I lost. My word is my word. If that means scrubbing this place on my hands and knees in a French maid costume, then that’s what I’m doing.
But if I’m being honest with myself, and I’m finally trying to be, it’s not just about the bet. What happened between us cracked open a door I can’t close. A submissive side I never knew existed. I liked being on my knees for him. I liked serving him. And spending a whole day doing whatever Brandon tells me to, in a costume he picked out for me? That feels less like a punishment and more like something I’ve been wanting without knowing it.
A grumble from Brandon’s bed. The sheets rustle. He’s waking up.
Probably the coffee. I started a fresh pot ten minutes ago, and the earthy smell fills the whole place. I pour a cup, black, just how he likes it, and walk the four steps to his bed. The skirt swishes around my bare thighs as I walk. I’ve never felt less masculine in my life. And weirdly, I don’t hate it.
His eyes crack open, then widen. He sits up, sheets pooling around his waist, giving me a full view of that chiseled torso.
“Whoa. You actually—”
“Morning.” I hold out the mug. “Your coffee, sir.”
“Sir?” He takes the mug, but his eyes are already doing a full lap. Up, down, lingering on the thigh-highs, back up to my face. He takes a sip. “Someone’s getting into character.”
“I’m all yours today.” I do a little curtsy. Almost trip over my own feet. “Whatever you need. Whenever you need it.”
“Dyl.” He rubs the back of his neck. His eyes keep drifting to the hem of my skirt. “You really don’t have to do this. I’m serious. We’re good.”
“A bet’s a bet.” I fold my hands in front of the apron. “So, what’s my first task?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You know you look insane, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The stockings are killing me.” He nods at my legs. “On those big hairy tree trunks. It’s just…” He shakes his head. “It’s a look.”
“It’s the look you paid for, sir.” I’m laying it on thick, but I can’t help it. This is fun.
“Alright.” He leans back against the headboard, taking another sip of coffee. “Why don’t you start by picking up my shit off the floor.” He nods at the trail of clothes and gear by the door. “I want to see how that little dress holds up when you bend over.”
I walk over to the pile by the door. Gym bag, hoodie, two practice jerseys, muddy cleats. I bend at the waist to grab the jerseys, taking my time, giving him exactly the view he asked for.
“Dude!”
I look back over my shoulder. “Problem?”
His mug is frozen halfway to his mouth. Eyes locked on my ass. “You went commando under that thing.”
