The Real Life of a Houseboy

The Real Life of a Houseboy

As a profesional dominatrix, I constantly get asked if I’m in need of a houseboy. 9 times outta 10, this boy is thinking he will be forced to wear panties and clean while I stand over him in full leathers, snapping a whip and occasionally demand he drop his broom to come service me because I’m so damn turned on by watching him clean that I

just

can’t

stand it.

This could not be further from the truth. See, what he’s picturing in his mind? That is what I call a session, and I expect to be paid for it.

Oh. Except the part about him servicing me. That would be fantasy. You know what else is fantasy? A boy with an erection being able to clean.

Not to say I have never had a houseboy, I’ve had several over the years. I’ve been lucky to find loyal clients who I click with and trust, and slowly allow them to serve me in a personal context.

How personal you ask?

• After Monkey was born, I had one stop by every day for a month to walk my dog.
• Standing in line at the post office. During the holiday season.
• Delivering lunch. For myself and my Mr.
• Searching high and low for some tasty treat I was craving.
• Washing and gassing up my car.

I would like to say that these were easy tasks I could just assign and move on, but realistically, even the most loyal of submissive generally needs a little micromanaging. But still, I would rather gnaw my own arm off them stand in line at the post office during the holiday season, so a little micromanaging is a small price to pay.

Occasionally, I find someone who is able to offer a real skill that I can actually use. This is the holy grail of houseboys.

We have been renovating our house for the last nearly three years and at times, in fact, most times, I’m fairly certain that we are never going to finish. A couple months ago I was talking to a regular client as I cleaned up after our session and realized I had a love match. He had skills. He had time. I could trust him.

The skies opened and angels sung. Aaaahhhhhhhhh…..

He has been coming by the house one Saturday a month to help me work on some projects. He has meet the Mr. He has met the Monkey. He knows my real name. We chat about life and such while he toils away on his projects.

Last saturday morning we went over the remaining projects, me sans make-up, uncombed hair, wearing food stained (not even my food) yoga pants while Monkey used me as a jungle gym. As we finished our conversation, Monkey lost interest in using my boobs and face as handholds as he attempted to scale my head, and wandered off behind a chair to chase down a car.

Slave and I finished our conversation and I told Monkey it was time to get dressed so we could head to the park. Monkey gleefully squealed and started running away as I skillfully grabbed the two velcro tabs on the front of his diaper and slipped his diaper off.

As it turns out, he wasn’t JUST chasing a car down behind the chair and now there was a half naked, poop covered toddler running, shrieking, past slave. I stood watching in shock, dangling the crap filled diaper in between two fingers.

I guess this would be the part where I am over taken by passion and demand slave drop his tools and service me?

No?