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.