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Ms. Meadows’ School of Domestication and Maid Services - it had been your home for years now. A grand, red building with a courtyard and several adjoining structures, each with a special purpose, catering to special classes.
You were a student. Your uniforms were maid dresses, fitted with white lace trimmings, an apron, and little black bows, one of which sat on the thin material of your collar. The collar wasn’t white like the first-year’s. It was black.
A black collar meant you were in your final year of schooling. You weren't looking forward to being assigned to a Lady’s manor, but maids were always high in demand, and lordships often kept several to upkeep their grounds. Most maids hoped their owners would be fair and lenient, especially while they were eased into their new roles. But you had always liked to be owned by those who were strict.
You liked the teachers that were hated by many of your peers - the hard-asses and quick to anger. The ones that would leave your ass red and raw, or leave you kneeling, arms bound, under their desk for hours. You especially liked the punishments that had you aching afterwards.
Since you first arrived as a freshman at the school, you always pushed boundaries. Not constantly - no Lady would want a maid who couldn’t do their job properly. But you liked to make a mess every now and then, just to get the attention of a firm hand or a stern voice. You didn’t do it often enough to arouse suspicion. You simply seemed clumsy. The teachers found you aggravating.
You loved it.
Then there was Ms. Meadows herself. She was tall, with rigid posture and heels that snapped fiercely everytime she took a step. Her graying hair was braided down her back, and often, her bangs held neatly in place with moth-shaped clips. Her cufflinks were varied, but they too remained true to the insect-theme.
You’d been in her office many times. The walls were decorated with frames. Winged creatures were pinned under the crystal-clean glass, a varied display of colorful wings and shells.
Known for her cleanliness, for her disdain of disarray, you didn’t understand why Ms. Meadows liked bugs so much. Even a cockroach had a home on her office wall, its leather-like wings spread out in a mock display of flight. The bugs had creeped you out when you were first brought here. Now, you find their arrangements, lined up by color and size, to be satisfyingly neat.
You were staring at those trapped creatures once more, standing in front of a thick oak desk with no chair except the one the Headmaster sat on. Ms. Meadows clicked her nails on the wood top, fingers curled, chin held up against them as she looked you up and down. You had your hands behind your back. Your head was bowed and your eyes cast down as a proper sign of respect.
You were fighting very hard to keep the smile off your face. Despite the slight twitch of your lips, you were the picture of obedience. If the heavy silence, punctuated by Ms. Meadows’ nails were making you grow restless, a bit of heat running down between your legs, no one would notice.
“Do you know why you're in my office?” Meadows finally asked. Her voice was tight, making your heart leap at the sudden volume of her tone.
“I broke dishes, ma’am,” you said, voice subdued, as if you had broken the porcelain by accident. “I was tasked to bring an important guest their tea but split it outside the dining room.”
“Yes, you did. You… a soon to be graduate of my school, making silly, stupid mistakes.” Her voice was hardening with every word. Your gut squirmed fearfully, but you liked the feeling. Meadows sounded pissed. Well, as pissed as her unwavering control would allow. She closed her eyes as you repeated your apologies, unsure why she wasn’t assigning you a punishment yet. You very much wanted to go to bed sore tonight.
Then Meadows let out a long, low breath and her shoulders visibly relaxed. She looked at you, eyes piercing, but no longer with the intensity of when you first walked in.
“I expect better in the future. You may leave.”
What? You froze, even though you were meant to turn around a go without question. But… why weren’t you going to be punished?
Ms. Meadows’ eyes narrowed. You turned with a gracious thank-you, feeling her gaze burning holes in the fabric on your back, and left her bug-filled office. Your face contorted, confused. Any other student would have been elated. You - a final year student - got off with barely so much as a warning.
Well, that wasn’t fair, was it? Your confusion melted to slight anger, then annoyance. Ms. Meadows was meant to discipline her students! She must be too busy to bother, you reason. And dammit, if you were looking forward to being put in your place.
Dissatisfied, now fighting back a frown, you walked through campus to your next class: Servile Etiquette at Mealtimes . It was one of the most boring classes - nothing too sexual in nature. And while you rather enjoyed domestic chores and serving your superiors, meal time meant a lot of standing still.
Several minutes later, you found yourself back to the wall, legs on the ground as a fake banquet was set in the middle of the table. A mock dinner was meant to take place. The chairs had no guests, but the maids were meant to take the empty plates, and replace them with equally empty ones, pretending to exchange courses. There was a specific way to set the dishware. You had it all memorized by heart. It would have been easy to go through the motions without fault. To get through your boring class without mistakes.
And yet, you felt… antsy. Like your meeting with Ms. Meadows had left a burning want in your gut. A want that had you tapping your fingers against your skirt, something that, if Ms. Flores saw, would earn you extra chores.
Ms. Flores wasn’t that much fun to make mistakes in front of. Her punishments weren’t hands on, just boring. Like her class. The one time you purposely tried to get a punishment from her, your hand ached from writing the same sentence one hundred times.
Ms. Flores passed the line of maids you stood in, checking posture. You stilled your fingers as one girl’s head tilt was corrected. Another got a sharp slap to the thigh for fidgeting. The sound of flesh against flesh drew your attention, and without thinking, but started moving your fingers again. When Ms. Flores got to you, her hand snatched your wrist, grip tight.
“Oh… it’s you,” Ms. Flores said. She let go, and something of a breathy laugh escaped past her lips. “No fidgeting.” She corrected, then, without so much as a swat, moved down the line. Your brows knit together, mouth tightening with a frown.
Why didn’t she punish you? First Meadows, now Flores?
Hell, you almost wished Ms. Flores would sit you down with a pencil and paper again. At least then, you had the attention you wanted. Put off, you finished class without so much as a twitch, mind racing and your arousal no more tamed than it started off this morning.
Each class went by the same exact way. You pushed the boundaries, just a bit, enough to earn a reprimand or a smack. And every time, the teacher would give you an odd look, step back and simply order you not to mess up again. No touching involved.
Positions for Human Furniture with Ms. Kelly.
Tea Setting and Etiquette with Ms. Black.
Oral Services with Ms. Nichols.
Those and more. The teachers almost seemed reluctant to touch you. Like you were a bug; a cockroach.
Even your favorite most hands-on class - Bedroom Services - was strangely void of touching. Ms. Kim skipped over you everytime she needed a volunteer. You didn’t get to practice any new skills on her or your peers. All day, you’d been looking forward to this final class, to release this build-up of tension.
Ms. Kim excused the class, and you lingered for a second longer. You were to return to your dorm to eat, shower and go to bed. You pussy throbbed disdainfully, aching even as you finally settled under the covers.
Maids weren’t allowed to touch themselves. You had never broken this rule before, and you weren’t keen on doing so tonight. Orgasms weren’t what you sought out. You wanted the feeling of being dominated, humiliated, made to feel less than. You could only get that from your teachers.
So you went to sleep, sure that tomorrow, everything would return to normal.
It kept happening. By lunchtime, sitting quietly at a desk as you ate your meal under a timer, you tried to calm yourself. The teachers were obviously singling you out. But not to punish. You weren’t so lucky. You must have grown leathery wings and antennas overnight, you thought. Why else were you being avoided like the plague?
You swallowed thickly, trying to finish the last few bites of your meal despite your flipping stomach. Maybe you weren’t being as disobedient as you thought. Maybe your mistakes - messing up silverware placing or “forgetting” how to position yourself into the most basic of furniture positions - didn’t warrant punishment. They always had before. Maybe, being so close to your graduation, they cared less. Maybe you had to force them to care.
You finished your meal and set aside your fork, standing to wash the dish in one of the side sinks, thoughts drawing to the next class. You had Ms. Black. It was similar to Flores’ class, but with different rules and different customs. Not every manor had tea at midday, but it was still considered something every maid should know.
If you made a mistake in Tea Etiquette - something more severe than misplacing the cup - you’d be sure to get a punishment!
Ms. Black walks around the class, a black skirt fluttering around her ankles and a white floral blouse hanging delicately from her frame. She always smelled like the species of flower print she wore. Today, it was lavender, the purple flowers dotted on her blouse, accented by thin green stems. Her perfume lingering wherever she passes.
You stiffly set your table alongside two other maids, all three of you ingrained with the basics of these arrangements. You mind whirs, caught between excitement and fear. Ms. Black saunters behind you, barely giving your table a glance. She expects nothing less than perfection from upperclassmen. Your hand itches to drop the cup, to prove her wrong. You refrain. You want this to look like an accident.
You wait as Ms. Black scours the room for mistakes before she takes up the front of the class. You’re meant to pour your tea and fake serve your guests. After, you’ll clean up everything, swiftly but effectively. Something you’ve done thousands of times, meant to become second-nature.
You wait until Ms. Black is near your table before you make your “mistake”. The pot tilts in your grip, the weight of the tea lessening as it fills your cups. You tilt it too fast, just a bit, and it hits the rim. The delicate cup’s bottom rises off its equally delicate coaster. You pretend to lift the spout, as if in worry, but it’s already done. Tea is spilt all over the table, a puddle reaching across the polished wood and running under the other maids’ arrangements.
You smell lavender as you set the pot down. You turn, finding Ms. Black with her nose up, looking down at you with a disappointed frown.
“Well, well. If it isn’t our little troublemaker.” She says.
Your heart jumps. You’d been called careless. Clumsy. But never an outright trouble maker. Did it look accidental enough? Did she know you did it purposefully? Reading the growing panic in your eyes, Ms. Black smirks and taps a light finger on your shoulder.
“Follow.” She orders.
You follow her, throat thick with anticipation. She opens the door. You step into the hall, surprised when she tells you to kneel by the wall. You kneel.
“Now, wait until class is excused, then go to your next one.” She orders.
The door slams shut, leaving you alone. Your mouth is agape and you snap it closed, completely shocked that she hadn’t done anything. That she wouldn’t do anything. You weren’t being asked to stay after class. You were being set aside and out of sight. Out of the way.
Suddenly angry, your hands clenched to fists. You took a deep breath, but frustration was making itself known, forming a knot in your chest. The teachers must know you were looking for punishment. Even the Headmaster, infamous for her discipline, had sent you away without so much as a slap on the wrist.
Your teeth ground together. What would be the point in behaving then? your angry mind buzzes.
Misbehave or not. Either way, you weren’t getting the attention you wanted. And soon, you’d be sent to some manor to be a real maid. Most maids never got to practice what they learned in the bedroom. Ladies had lots of maids, and only a few got special attention such as that. You were scared of being a regular maid, assimilated into a faceless group of servants who only set tables or cleaned.
You don’t want to leave your classes. Your teachers. You stiffen, anger returning, overshadowing any self-pity. You want to get up and cause a scene - force them to punish you. But you refrain, never having done more than act a clumsy fool.
Maybe it’s for the best to behave, you think, anger slowly cooling. You sit, waiting for the bell. Maybe it's for the best.
A few weeks pass. You’re driven mad by the strange aloofness of your teachers. None of them touch you. Ms. Black’s fleeting tap of a finger is the closest you’ve gotten to being manhandled all month. You make more mistakes every class, and each time, you’re ignored.
Days ago, you stopped trying to push boundaries. If you wanted a reaction, you had to do something severe, and you weren’t sure you had the nerve for it.
Three more days slowly inch by. Ms. Keely passes you over again for demonstration. You start to worry less about the severity of repercussions. Of your mistake.
Mistake.
You walk down the hall to your next class. That word tumbles in your head like dirty laundry. You realize that you can’t accidentally do wrong if you want attention. You have to be openly disobedient. You need to put yourself so far out of line, that it couldn’t possibly be mistaken for anything but defiance.
They’d be forced to take action.
You enter Ms. Black’s class. The tea-spill is still fresh in your mind, and so is the feeling of anger at being left in the hallway. You know you want to disrupt her class, to get her attention, to force her to acknowledge that you did indeed mess up. That you want - need - to be punished for it.
Tea is set out. You take your time laying out your dishes, heart fluttering but mind already made up. When Ms. Black strolls by, she pauses, backing up to look at your arrangement. She points out that your pot is missing a saucer. She’s already moving to the next table without so much as a swat.
You blatantly raise your chin, look her in the eye as your heart hammers with internal fear, “I think it’s right, ma’am.”
Ms. Black stops short like a rope is tugging her back. Today, her blouse is covered in honeysuckles. You catch the aroma of the sweet flower as she lowers her face close to yours.
“What was that?” she asks, voice light.
You swallow your growing fear. You’ve never been so bluntly disobedient before, not even when your first arrived. You’d been too scared not to go along. Now, you keep your eyes on hers and say, with a fierce certainty.
“I think I’m right.”
The class was hushed. Maids don’t speak unless spoken to, but the tension in the air was thick, all eyes discreetly watching.
“Oh do you? A little slut like you think she knows better than her superior?”
A shiver ran down your spine. This is exactly what you wanted. She was bearing down on you, forcing you to shrink back. Giving you attention. You couldn’t help the smile trying to move your lips. It must have shown, because a spark of sudden anger flashed across Ms. Black’s face before she near-instantly reigned it in. For a moment, you thought she was going to slap you. Her hand twitched.
Just as suddenly, Ms. Black steps backwards, gesturing to the tea with the same hand.
“You’re wrong. Now do it over and stop this tantrum,” she says harshly.
“I can’t fix it if it’s not wrong,” you say.
She ignores you and walks away. You repeat yourself, louder this time. She ignores you again.
Curious eyes snap back to their duties as the teacher resumed her stalking. You were left bitterly looking at your teapot. Pissed off and unbelievably horny. But you’re too well trained to act out any more than that. Even disagreeing with Ms. Black had been emotionally difficult to achieve.
You’re too scared to do anything more today.
The next morning, a teacher’s aide intercepts you as you head to your first period. She hands off a neatly folded parchment, stamped in a red wax seal shaped like a moth. You hesitate to open it. When you do, your heart skips a beat.
My office. Now.
– Headmaster Meadows.
The paper crumples in your hand. You force yourself to take a breath, momentarily frozen in both apprehension and excitement. You cross the campus to her office, numbly knocking on the door before you realize you’re doing it.
There’s a sharp, impatient, “Enter.”
You enter, head down, hands behind your back, and step obediently up to her desk. Ms. Meadows’ gaze is downcast, sternly glossing over documents in her hand that she signs through. You wait, as expected, until she finishes, setting her things aside and pinning you with the same, irritable look she’d been giving the papers. It was quiet for a moment, but when she spoke again, you swore you heard a smile in her voice.
“Directly disagreeing with a superior… far more disrespectful than breaking a cup or spilling tea.”
You don’t speak. In your head, thoughts and fears and wants rattle around in disarray. They all halt when Ms. Meadows’ chair scrapes backwards. She walks in front of you, grabbing you by the chin to lift your head up. You’re surprised to see that she’s smiling. You aren’t sure why.
“I’ve also heard about all your mistakes this past month.” Her grip tightens, fingers pressing your cheeks together. She leans in, and for just a moment, you think she’s going to kiss you. She only shoves you sharply to your knees, hand coming up to rest on the top of your head. The weight of it has butterflies in your stomach.
“You’ve been very naughty haven’t you? Trying to get something? Speak.”
The truth comes out before you can think it over. Ms. Meadows is impossible to disobey. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“And what is that?”
“...I wanted to be punished, Ma’am.”
Her fingers tap your scalp rhythmically. Her voice is mocking. “Oh, she wanted a punishment. The little, air-headed maid thought she could pretend to be forgetful and earn a spanking or two, right?”
You nod. Her fingers suddenly tighten in your hair and yank your head back, exposing the front of your throat. Her other hand comes up to trail down it. “Do you really think you were smart enough to keep acting so coy? Innocent little, clumsy maid, just trying to do her best…” the Headmaster snorted, amused. “What a dirty little thing you are, begging to be hurt.”
Her hand throws your head down, and you keep it where it is, biting your lip, trying to control your breathing. You were scared, but goddamn it, if your pussy didn’t feel like a damn water faucet at the moment.
It took everything you had not to rub your thighs together, but Ms. Meadows suddenly stuck her fingers there, rubbing. Making you keen so hard you nearly fell over in the resulting, but short, pin-pricks of ecstasy. When she pulled away, your face pinched, a whine emerging unbidden from your throat.
“Such a slut, getting turned on as I berate you,” Ms. Meadows smiled, despite the coldness in her tone. It only made you want more. “I bet if I paddled you over my desk, you’d cum alone from the impact. Am I correct? Speak.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” you speak truthfully, fully captivated by her authoritative tone. The way her shoes click against the floor, circling around you, making your heart flutter like you’re in the presence of a predator. “I love to be punished.”
“I know,” she says, like you are a child. “I’ve heard how much of a brat you’ve been, trying to turn that tight ass of yours red. I bet you’d love to feel the pain of sitting down, flinching everytime you sit. Knowing that you had the attention of your Headmaster. Am I correct, slut? Speak.”
“Yes, Ma’am. I’m a whore for your discipline. I…” your voice halts for a moment, choked up on your own admittance of truth. “I want nothing more than to be belittled and made to feel small. I want to feel beneath you, more than I already am.” It’s from the heart, as truthful as you can be. It feels almost freeing to state such things.
Ms. Meadows’ laugh was dry. You sucked in a harsh breath, suddenly regretting speaking the truth. A hand grabbed your chin and lifted your face up.
“Why?” the Headmaster asked sharply. “Why do you want to be beneath me?”
You flounder for just a moment, frozen by the direct eye contact - by the cool blue of her gaze. “It feels right,” is all you can manage to squeak out. You can’t really explain the feelings. They’re just there, taunting you day in and day out.
“I was meant to be here, at this school,” you continue a bit more boldly, when Ms. Meadows doesn’t respond. “There’s no guarantee I’ll get a Mistress as strict as the ones here. I’ll be reduced to a simple cleaning maid. I won’t even get to serve my Mistress directly, manors always have such a large staff and-” you don’t realize how quickly your words come out, nor the increasing panic alongside them. Not until Ms. Meadows silences you with a sharp hand motion slicing upwards near your face.
“Hush,” she says. You shut up and give her your full attention. Her hand opens to settle on your cheek.
The touch of her soft palm makes your legs nearly give out. Ms. Meadows’ sharp eyes trail the length of your now trembling body behind spotless glasses. Her hand trails to your shoulder, to your back, She gently urges you alongside her towards her desk.
Confused, you let her lead you behind it. Her palm rests on your head and lowers you until you’re forced to crawl. A leg kicks you further under the desk. You scoot back on your knees, eyes wide and heart hammering as Ms. Meadows takes her spot on her chair. You can see the outline of her panties as she spreads her legs, skirt riding up her thighs.
She looks down at you, an expectant look on her face. “Well?” She questions, like you’re wasting her time. “Aren’t you meant to be here, little troublemaker? Why don’t you do your job, then?”
With a start, your back straightens, nearly bonking your skull under the desk as you reach up with your head, keeping your hands tucked between your legs. Ms. Meadows opens her own legs, sighing as your tongue presses broadly against the fabric of her panties. Well-manicured nails scratch pleasantly over your scalp.
“From now on, you’re to report to my office instead of your morning classes.” A tone of amusement lights up her words. “After all, if you’re going to be causing trouble, I want you here, serving me where I can keep an eye on you.”
You hum pleasantly, a great deal of warm contentment burning in your gut. As Ms. Meadows gets back to her paperwork, you close your eyes and settle into the role you were made for.
The end.