High powered business woman made me wear uniform

"You don't say no to my boss," writes Jules, from Manchester, "she rents out male escorts to rich powerful women. If she says I have to wear shorts, I say: how high?"

It seems Jules was ordered by his boss to dress up in uniform, and visit a woman in the Penthouse suite of the Hilton.

I was incredibly nervous, writes Jules. I find these mega successful women a bit intimidating. My boss runs her agency with a rod of iron, but even she seemed in awe of this alpha woman I was about to see.

My instructions were that the client wanted a 'mail escort' and she wanted a uniform. So I went down the fancy dress shop, and dutifully handed in the order form. They've fitted me out before, so I trust them.

I must say, I had my doubts about the uniform they chose for me, but I know never to question a woman's judgement.

Still, I wasn't 100 percent confident when I rapped on the door of the Penthouse suite.

A young Uber Femme opened the door. You know the type. Smart suit. Short skirt. She was either a basketball player or she was wearing six inch heels. Either way, the effect was the same. I was on lower ground, looking up at her. My eyes were level with her cleavage, and I couldn't stop them from zooming in.

She wordlessly beckoned me in with a curl ofher magnificently painted forefinger.

"She's not ready yet," said Uber Girl. Oh, so this wasn't the boss.

"Sit," she commanded. She looked me up and down andshook her head. "Are you sure about that uniform," she asked.

"Dress as a mail escort. The lady likes uniforms," I was told.

Yes love, she said. But I don't think she meant a Postman's Uniform.

We'll see, I said.

Moments later, my ear drum was shattered, as my date for the night loudly went through extremes of emotions in a matter of seconds.

She startd with Denial. That's always a good choice. "I do not fucking believe this," she said, emphasising each word with a ferocious slap of her hairbrush across my buttocks.

As she took my trousers down, I suspected she was moving to the acceptance stage.

No such luck. "I. Do. Not. Fucking. Believe. This." she said again, this time slapping home the message on my unprotected buns.

After a short period of contemplation. She repeated the punishing routine again. Only this time, she'd positioned me to get a better swing with her strong arm.

"Ooh, I enjoyed that," she said. Then took a quick sip of her champagne, and returned to her theme.

She was still greving. Still angry. But at least she'd moved on to the acceptance stage.

And thank goodness for that. I was practically in tears.


PROBLEM LADY WRITES

Dear Jules,

You'll have to give me more information. I want to hear how this story ends.

She sounds perfectly reasonable so far.

Smoulderin! Why are smoking women so irresistable?

Why are women smokers so damn sexy? asks Friday.

"I can take or leave nicotine, but I'm addicted to women who smoke," he confesses. "If she breathes smoke out her nostrils, and gives me that look, I'm rendered helpless. Like a rabbit trapped in her headlights. And I find myself obeying her every wish.

I don't mind clearing up her ash trays. Or washing her clothes. Or shampooing her hair. I love serving her. It's just this whole slavery thing becomes a bit much after a while.

Can you help?"

She tied me up and ransacked my flat. But I still love her!

My superior half is going through a difficult patch, writes Dutiful, from Kettering.

She's under a lot of pressure at work. And she's just given up smoking. And she just found out that the recession has wiped half the value off her Porsche.

I tried to explain to her she shouldn't worry. She's still mega rich and successful. "You've got loads of cars," I say, "sometimes I wish you'd trust me to drive one."

She just says, "Shut up and do my ironing, hun."

She treats me like her domestic slave! I shouldn't stand for it, but then again, her power gives me such a rush! And when she hugs me, or affectionately slaps my bottom, I just melt.

Still, tying me up and ransacking my flat was going a bit far.

Well, OK, her apartment. She owns it. She just installed me in it.

She burst in, late at night, on a mission.

"OK honey," she said, "I want you to get them out now. Now!"

Oh god. I knew exactly what she was after. She'd left a pack of cigarettes with me. And strict instructions never to give them to her, no matter what she said. Or did.

"Well now I'm telling you to give them to me, OK? Am I going to have to spank you?"

She was indeed. Previously, she instructed me never to give up the fags to her, no matter how many slappings I took. Now I was going to have to prove myself to her.

As I lay across her knees, while she blushed my bottom, I tried to console myself I'd be rewarded later. With every jolt of pain I took from her, I was earning her respect and sympathy. Maybe she'd buy me something nice.

Finally, it dawned on her. She could smoke me, but I'd never let her ruin her magnficent body. I would sacrifice myself to save her.

"Hmm, I can see I trained you too well," she said. She began tying me up.

"Stay there while I search the flat."

I hadn't anticipated my flat being ransacked by an angry alpha woman. So she soon discovered my feeble hiding place. And off she went, without even untying me.

Luckily, she came round the next morning and let me go.

I thought she might be grateful for resisting her. Well trying. But oh no.

"Now, didn't I tell you not to let me find those cigarettes," she said, arching her eyebrow, and swishing a leather belt. "I think I'm going to have to punish you...."

What should I do, Problem Solver?


Answer:

Dear Dutiful.

I think she sounds magnificent. You're very lucky.

He felt threatened by women with more money than him

Tommy was a bit old fashioned. So he probably shouldn't have got a job in a female dominated office.

If that wasn't bad enough, he felt a bit threatened by confident women who earned good money.

His boss, Ms Angel, sent him off to make her a cup of tea. Dutifully, he trotted off.

To get to the kitchen, he had to walk past one lady, Ms Darcy, who he found particularly frightening.

As he walked past her desk, her caught her gaze, and her eyes seemed to be saying something.

"Don't come too close to my desk, or you'll take a spanking," she seemed to be saying. "Do you want some, pal? Eh? Do you think you're not too big to go over my knee?" he imagined her saying.

He ran into the kitchen, slammed the door behind him and leaned back on it. (He'd seen heroines do that in the movies)

He found hmself asking the same question."Why am threatened by successful, confident women?" he quivered.

Suddenly, he found the other kitchen door opening. He heard a familiar voice, "Well a well a well, a look who we got here," she tormented him. It was Ms Darcy. Her mouth was pursed in a mean scowl, so she let her tattoos do the talking. "looks like you got yourelf a penis as a fountain pen there, boy," she said, in her unmistakeable mid western drawl. He didn't know what that meant, but didn't dare question her.

She began to unburden herslf of her unhappiness.

And boy, could she talk.

[to be continued]

Will Ms Darcy be as mean as she looks?
Why is Tom threatened by successful confident women?
And can Ms Darcy be all that clever anyway if she gets upset so easily?

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