For our third date, Simone suggested that I prepare dinner for her at my condo. I’m sure she wanted to see first-hand evidence of my financial wherewithal, beyond expensive dinners and a pricy pair of boots. I had purchased the 2 bedroom, 2 bath condo on the 30th floor of a new high rise building in Century City the prior year for $2.3 million. I enjoy cooking, so prepared a meal of wagyu steaks, caprese asparagus and roasted potatoes and feta, served with 2016 Cardinale Cabernet Sauvignon.

Simone wore a form fitting, incredibly short blue dress that showed off her long, toned bare legs to maximum effect. Her high heeled, gladiator sandals did the same for her flawless feet and toes. Recalling our prior date, during which I massaged her feet in a crowded park, it was difficult for me to keep my eyes off her feet and legs. This wasn’t made any easier by the fact that her face was so beautiful that, like a vibrant sunset, I almost felt as if gazing upon it for too long directly would damage my retinas. So, maintaining eye contact with her was challenging.

“This steak is delicious. You’re a pretty good cook, Stevie. That’s good. I hate cooking.”

“I’m glad that you like it. I’m happy to cook for you.”

“But I hate cleaning up afterwards, too. That lawyer I dated also liked to cook, but felt that the one who didn’t cook should be the one to clean up afterwards. I mean, like, he had a dishwasher and all, but that was a drag.”

The fact that she seemed to be envisioning what the future with us together might be like was incredibly exciting to me. I would promise her the moon and the stars to make that a reality.

“I’m happy to do the dishes and cleaning up afterwords, too,” I said as I refilled her wine glass.

“This wine is yummy,” she said after taking a healthy mouthful. “So, let me get this straight. You’d be willing to provide for me, cook for me AND clean up after me, like my little houseboy?”

“Yes, Simone. I like cleaning. It gives me a sense of satisfaction. And, unlike my job, I can see the results of my efforts right away.” Hearing her say “my little houseboy” immediately caused me to get hard in my khakis; I was grateful I was sitting down at the time.

“That’s great to hear, Stevie. I like being pampered. I guess I was spoiled by growing up with a live-in maid.”

“Was your maid almost like another member of the family? Were you close to her?”

She laughed. “Hell, no! My mother, my sisters and I went through maids like tampons. Well, my brother, too. In his case, more like condoms, I guess. My parents always hired young, slender ones, mostly Hispanic girls. We ran them ragged. And my mom insisted they dress in old fashioned maid uniforms and call us ‘miss’ and ‘sir,’ and stuff. It’s so hard to find and keep good help these days.”

My cock stiffened still further as I thought about all of those stories on Fictionmania I read, many of them featuring men who serve as sissy maids to their dominant wives or girlfriends. How thrilling it was to think of being a maid to this young goddess! I was more than happy to recreate her childhood experience for her, as long as she wouldn’t mind substituting a male management consultant in his thirties for a young Hispanic woman.

However, I now know that serving as the sissified maid to one beautiful woman, and even to her lovers from time to time, in a condo (or even in the larger house we later bought together) is a far, far cry from being one of three sissy maids on this island of 75 people. Because even though the three of us primarily serve Master Lance, his harem of hotwives and his rich buddies, we are also responsible for providing at least some level of service to the non-slave workers on the island – security staff, maintenance staff (electricians, plumbers, mechanics, other skilled trades people), entertainers, spa staff, chefs and kitchen staff, and to the three actual maids and butlers on the island who are our direct overseers. And there is even a hierarchy among the ten cuckolded slaves; the other two sissy maids and I are at the bottom of that hierarchy, and are responsible for waiting on and cleaning up after the other seven slaves within our slave quarters. That is not part of our official duties, but the strong rule the weak in our quarters (indeed, on the island, our barracks is the only place where the other seven have any power, and – like the employee abused by his boss all day, who comes home and kicks the dog – they don’t hesitate to exercise it). Yes, the chasm between fantasy and reality can be huge. In my case, it is no less than the size of the Pacific Ocean.

“But you must work crazy hours. And travel a lot, I’ll bet. How would I get by when you’re busy at work?” Simone asked.

“Well, I travel some, but not as much as most of my colleagues. I’m lucky in that three of my four biggest clients are all headquartered in Southern California. And my fourth is in Seattle, which is a quick flight. And, yes, I do work a lot, usually 50 or so hours per week. But not the 60-70 hours I worked as an Associate or Engagement Manager. I could hire a maid for you when I’m working or traveling. As long as I could take care of you when I’m around.”

“How sweet, Stevie. I’m sure we could work something out that would work for everyone,” she said, bestowing on me her beautiful smile. What did I detect in her smile this time? Satisfaction and pleasure, I thought. Teasing, too. Condescension? A bit, yes. Disdain. Perhaps a hint. I was perfectly pleased with all of the above, and most of all that Simone was speaking as if our union – our marriage of convenience, if you will – was an actual possibility. I also thought to myself, who the hell is “everyone?” Simone, me. Anyone else? Probably just a figure of speech, I reasoned.

After desert, we watched a movie on my large screen television. Simone surprised me by selecting the Terrence Malick film, Knight of Cups. I had heard about it and had wanted to watch it, but had not yet get gotten around to it. Malick tends to make very esoteric films that are not everyone’s cup of tea. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Simone has quite offbeat tastes in film, as do I. We both gravitate towards independent and foreign films, many with cult followings, and many quite perverse or transgressive in nature. As it turns out, we also both like film noir, and hard boiled detective fiction. Finding a woman who shared a lot of my tastes was not my main objective when I reached out to Elissa, so these shared interests with Simone were an unexpected bonus – for her as well as me, I suspect.

Although she claimed to have never before seen the film, Simone may have chosen Knight of Cups for the scene in which the protagonist, played by Christian Bale, worships the bare feet of a married woman he is in love with, played by Natalie Portman. For a foot fetishist such as myself, the scene was incredibly erotic. Although I sat a few feet away from Simone on my long couch, the effect of the scene on me was not lost on Simone.

“Stevie, would you get me a glass of ice water?”, she asked. I paused the movie, trying to will down my erection, but was completely unsuccessful.

When I stood up, she gazed at the tent in my pants and giggled. After I handed her the glass and sat back down – still erect and doing my best to conceal it by keeping my legs close together and inclining my torso forward – she said, still grinning, “What do you think of the movie so far?”

“I think it’s terrific. What do you think?” I said, sitting back down.

“I like it. As a woman who likes to have her feet worshiped, I thought the last scene was pretty sexy. Although, I think Natalie’s feet could have looked better, right? Like, she didn’t even have nail polish on. Don’t you think my feet are more more worship worthy than hers?” she asked, looking down at her perfectly pedicured feet folded under her on the couch.

“Without question, Simone. There’s simply no comparison,” I said, softly but without hesitation.

“Maybe if you massage them for me again, and do a super good job, I might let you worship them. Would you like that, Stevie?”

“I’d like nothing more.”

“Well, then don’t just sit there, dummy, get down on your knees and get to work,” she smiled.

As I dropped to my knees before her, she grabbed the remote and started the movie again. “Can you sort of see the screen from there?” she asked.

“Yes. I mean, I can, but it doesn’t matter. I’d rather watch your feet. They’re perfect.”

“Good boy,” Simone sighed contentedly as kneaded her lovely, smooth soles. I worked about 20 minutes on her right foot, before she switched feet, lightly brushing my lips with her left as she moved it in front of me.

After the firm ended, Simone stood up before me, and said, “Nice job, Stevie. With more practice, you’ll be a pro. Now, it’s time for your reward. But since my feet are, like, way prettier than Natalie’s, you better do a way better job than Christian did in the movie.”

She then stood up and grabbed both of my arms, bent over and placed her right foot on my lips, smiling – exactly as Portman had done to Bale in the film. I knew what Simone meant: Bale looked happy to taste her toes, but was somewhat tentative. In contrast, I kissed, licked and sucked on Simone’s toes like a starving prisoner finally granted a meal. Indeed, that was close to the truth, as it had now been years since Cara or even since I had an unfulfilling session with a professional dominatrix. Over time, Simone’s smile morphed into more of an imperious smirk. Like her feet, it, too, was perfect. But she seemed to approve of my enthusiasm.

She departed only a few minutes later, asking me to call her an Uber. I accompanied her down the elevator, through the lobby and out to the car, frustrated and in love. My cock was fully, embarrassingly erect the entire time, but there was nothing I could do about it.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Stevie,” she said, kissing me on the lips with some passion and pushing her body into mine.

“When can I see you again?” I asked, desperately.

“Soon. I’ll call you.”

A week went by and she didn’t call. I grew more anxious with each passing day, wondering if I had blown it somehow. Had she met someone else through Elissa? At a party? Was agreeing to massage and worship her feet a mistake? Was I too eager? Not eager enough. Did she now view me as simply pathetic? Simone had me constantly second guessing and doubting myself. She still does today.

By the eighth day, I couldn’t take it any longer and texted her: Hi Simone, could I please have you for dinner again, or maybe we could go out for dinner and see the new Tarantino film.

Her reply: I’m busy. I said I’d call YOU. Cool your jets.

Another agonizing week went by with no word from Simone. Still, I resisted the impulse to call her or text her again. I had to demonstrate my obedience in case she wasn’t finished with me.

On the sixteenth day, she finally texted me: I want another dinner and movie night at your place. Saturday night. Do you know how to make sushi and sashimi?

Actually, I did. A sushi fanatic, I had taken a couple of sushi preparation classes at a cooking school on Pico Boulevard.

My reply: Yes! I love to make sushi. Are there any kinds of fish you don’t like?

Simone: None. I’ll see you at 7 on Saturday.

I was overjoyed. I shopped at three different fish markets to find the sushi-grade tuna, salmon, yellowtail and scallops I was seeking as well as uni, a special treat for true sushi connoisseurs. I bought two bottles of premium sake.

Simone was punctual, this time wearing a short black leather skirt, a short mesh, grey blouse and black high heels, her lovely legs and taut midriff bare. Despite my anxiety about all the time that had passed since our last date, Simone and I picked up right where we had left off. In retrospect, I believe that she had simply wanted to make me wait in order to get her hooks into me even more securely; the strategy was at once superfluous and successful. As I said, I was in love. Or as close to love as a somewhat broken, submissive creature such as myself was capable.

I served her plate full of colorful, impeccably fresh nigiri, maki rolls and sashimi. After I poured her a glass of sake, she smiled and said: “This looks amazing, Stevie. Why don’t you lie down on your back on the floor. Put your head here,” she said, pointing to her feet. “And place your plate here,” she added, pointing a foot away from where she told me to position my head.

“Umm, I’m not sure what you mean…I…”

“I’m, like, about to give you the most totally unforgettable meal of your life and you’re, like, arguing with me?” She tended to interject more “likes” when annoyed.

“No, Simone, I’m not arguing at all. Here,” I said, doing exactly what she told me to do.

“Good boy.” She sipped her sake and ate several pieces of fish as I lay there silently, prostrate at her feet. She dangled her high heel above me, and I gazed up at the lovely folds of her foot, her long legs and her face as she chewed. I was hyper conscious of my erect cock elevating the fabric of my dress pants.

“So fresh. This toro and scallion roll is delicious. And the uni is to fucking die for,” she said.

“I’m so happy that you…”

“Shh,” she said, placing her high heel over my mouth to silence me.

She then took another bite of yellowtail sashimi (with a thin slice of jalapeño pepper on it) and said, “Okay, Stevie, now it’s your turn.”

Simone next flung off her heel, and picked up a piece of salmon sashimi from my plate between her big toe and second toe and placed it into my mouth, smiling down on me. Astonished, I slurped the raw fish off her toes.

“You like soy sauce with your sashimi, if I remember correctly. Right, Stevie?”

Rather than attempt to speak, I simply nodded as I chewed the salmon. Simone then dipped her big toe into the little cup of soy sauce on my plate and inserted her dripping toe into my mouth.

“Suck,” she commanded. “I hope my foot sweat increases the umami,” she giggled.

I nodded again. In fact, the meal was beyond delicious, in every possible sense of the word. She proceeded to feed me the rest of my plate full of fish that same way, pausing at times to drink more sake and to finish her own plate. Because of its mushy texture, I had to suck the uni off, and from in between, her toes. It was the most erotic experience of my life and unquestionably the most memorable meal I had up to that point of my life. I’m sorry to report that I have had still more memorable meals here on the island – not better meals, not more enjoyable meals, but rather ones of such staggering humiliation that they are seared into my memory forever. Beyond that, I have no doubt that they are seared into the memories of anyone present who witnessed what I endured.

After dinner, we watched the Quentin Tarantino film, Kill Bill. However, rather than sit next to Simone on the couch, I laid at her feet, this time with a small pillow beneath my head. For most of the movie she placed her feet on the side of my face as I watched the film, occasionally pushing her toes against my nose or into my mouth. We had both seen the film several times before, of course, but we were both Tarantino fans.

Simone paused the movie during one of the infamous close-ups of Uma Thurman’s feet.

“I know she was supposed to have come out of a coma after a big fight, but I don’t think Uma’s feet are very attractive in this movie. They looked better in Pulp Fiction.”

“They don’t compare to your feet, Simone.”

“They really don’t, do they? Maybe when you’re at my feet like this, you should call me something else, Stevie. I mean it’s not like we’re on equal footing. Pun intended,” she said, tittering.

“Of course. Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. ‘Miss Simone’, maybe. Or ‘Princess.’ Or ‘Goddess.’ I’ll leave it up you to choose.”

“Thank you, Goddess.”

“Good choice. Why don’t you strip now, Stevie?”

“Really?” I had been dreading the moment when she would see me naked, my average body and my well below average sized cock and scrotum fully exposed.

“Yes, really. If we’re considering tying the knot, I should get a chance to at least, like, examine the merchandise.”

The “marriage” word caused my heart to flutter. I quickly pulled off my pants and shirt, and laid back down on the floor in my socks and underwear.

“You look ridiculous in your socks and tighty whitys,” she laughed contemptuously. “I can’t you believe you actually wear those, like a little boy.”

“To quote Kramer on Seinfeld, Goddess, my boys need support.”

“Ha Ha. Your boys don’t look big enough to need any support. Get naked, so I can have a better look.”

“Yes, Goddess,” I said, obeying. I was mortified.

She stood up, and examined me. “Oh my God, Stevie. I assumed you were small, but…wow.”

“I’m sorry, Simone. I mean, Goddess. I knew this wouldn’t work.”

“Don’t be, like, presumptuous, Stevie. I decide what works for me, not you. I think your little dicklet is cute. All that nasty hair has got to go, though. I want you to shave it all off before our next date.”

“Yes, of course, Goddess.”

“Meanwhile, I want you to cover up with a pair of panties. They should provide more than enough support for your little ‘boys,’ as you call them.”

“Panties? What panties?”

“Come on, Stevie. Sit on the couch next to me. Look me in the eyes. Everything about you screams beta. Well, not your job or your condo here. But everything else. Be honest with me. Honesty is important if we’re possibly going to be together till death do us part, and all that bullshit. Isn’t it?”

“Yes, Simone.”

“So, I’ve had quite a bit of experience with beta boys. You have a little stash of soft, girly things that you wear when you beat your meat, right? Remember, trust is key to a successful relationship.”

“Yes, Simone, I do,” I replied meekly, too ashamed to sustain contact with her penetrating green eyes.

“So what I want you to do right now is to go to your room and put on your favorite pair of panties and then come back here so I can test drive your tongue.”

“Test drive, Goddess?”

“Yes, take it for a spin around my clit. I hope you were blessed with a talented tongue at least.”

So, I did exactly as she wished. I returned to the living room wearing only a pair of skimpy, transparent, white nylon panties with little bows on the side. I ate her out, recalling every technique I could from the how-to book Cara had given me years ago. From Simone’s moans, and the fact that we had a fifth date, I apparently passed the cunnilingus test drive.

On our sixth date, I formally proposed to her. On my knees, of course, back in the middle of Beverly Gardens Park, still crowded on an early September afternoon. And, miraculously, she accepted. On the spot. I kissed her foot, then her beautiful hand, newly adorned with a $60,000 diamond and platinum Tiffany engagement ring, and finally on the lips. We were married three months later, a simple ceremony in front of a justice of the peace and four witnesses. A few minutes after it concluded, I wired Elissa $200,000 through my banking phone app.

And, thus, my journey to this perverted paradise was fully underway.