The commander was holding an exclusive party. The home help would be expected to provide a waitress service and wear clothing appropriate for the role. She knew that he did not mean a conventional uniform. She had now fully accepted her position. She had behaved like a slut. Not behaved LIKE a slut. She admitted to herself that she was a slut; a woman who wantonly allowed her body to be used by someone who was not her husband. She had yet to find her boundaries and suspected it was because she had none.

As she sat at her dressing table mirror applying (too much) mascara, she paused and stared into her moist brown eyes.

'You are a slut, a whore.' Her brightly painted red lips mouthed the defining word with exaggerated shaping, 'You are a whore.'

For some reason she could not fathom, saying the word aloud thrilled her...her nipples swelled through the black lace frill of the half cups that supported but failed to cover the upper globes of her satin-skinned breasts. Her tight satin knickers hugged her engorged vulva and the familiar warmth of expectant lubrication welled out like the sweet fluid from a honeycomb.

She was wearing the maid's outfit she had bought for her husband, for sex. Its short layered frilly skirts were far too short to cover the suspender straps of its corset and barely covered her bottom, failing to do so when she bent forward even slightly; her satin panties were virtually transparent and the combined effect was to expose her buttocks almost entirely most of the time. At least the lace patterned front of the knickers did not suffer the same exposure, or she may as well have been bottomless. She had decided to be free of her usually copious curls; after a visit to the salon, her pussy was smooth and hairless. She had not realised how prominent her lips were, or how large her clitoris could be peeking out from its hood like a tiny shy penis. She had examined herself with a mirror when she had returned home from the salon, inevitably finding herself masturbating on her large veined vibrating phallus. She continued to hold the mirror to enjoy the view as she rested its bulbous head on her swollen pink petals and eased it inside, a frill of white bubbles forming around the disappearing shaft.

Her orgasm was disappointingly weak; there was nobody but herself viewing. She needed an audience to observe her depravity to trigger satisfaction.

She arrived before the party began, and was shown to the kitchen by the woman who opened the door to her; a tall smartly dressed lady who was on the edge of beautiful, if only her expression had not been so severe. A tight short black hairstyle, Ruby red lipstick on too-thin lips, pale skin and the two-piece black suit tightly buttoned right up to her slender neck did nothing to add femininity.

She was to do nothing but serve drinks on a silver tray. She was not to partake of any of the guest's nibbles or drinks but was given a large glass of red wine and shown the bottle for her sole use.

She drank the glass empty in the thirty minutes before she heard the doorbell ring...followed by every ten minutes or so in the next hour.

The lady in black was supervising two women dressed in the uniforms of a catering company placing nibbles and drinks onto trays.

The wife entered the living room where the guests were making small talk, concentrating on balancing her tray full of flutes filled with sparkling wine. Her embarrassment in her outfit was almost completely overcome by her task, she had warmed up on the wine while in the kitchen with the caterers and now confidently moved amongst the guests offering the content of her tray until she returned to the kitchen for more. Nobody had reacted to her outfit, despite the exposure of most of her breasts and all of her nipples or the brevity of her skirt.

The guests were couples, middle-aged men and women. As she circulated offering drinks, she noticed the men were polite and warm toward her; the women did not meet her gaze and did not acknowledge her presence. She supposed that hardly surprising given her garb. Still, she began to feel uncomfortable even with another glass of her wine.

The next time she was in the kitchen the lady in black took her tray and put it aside.

'It's time. Get rid of your skirt.'

The wife stared at her blankly.

'What? My skirt? Why?'.

'Has the Commander not explained?' She rolled her eyes, 'Typical...he is a man of few words.'

She grabbed the skirt and tore it away, it was attached to the midsection of the outfit with Velcro. It left the wife in her knickers, the basque section of the outfit and her quarter-cup bra. Instinctively her hands covered her crotch, knowing the panties would hide nothing.

'Off you go, back through. They will be expecting you.'

'Like this?'

'Well, I suggest you take your hands away. You are hardly a nun, are you? I expect they will want a good look at what they have paid for.'

'Paid for?' She blinked stupidly.

'He hasn't told you anything has he? Never mind, you will be paid all the same.'

Grabbing her upper arms, she guided the wife toward the door, into the passage and thrust her into the living room.

The guests were standing around the outer perimeter of the room, at least three walls. The commander took her by the elbow and guided her to the fourth wall. He's never touched me before. Nobody spoke.

She felt him placing something in her hand, her fingers curled around it. She looked down at it. She was holding a heavily veined phallus, black, gleaming.

'You will be wanting to make that slippery,' he said as if it were a perfectly reasonable thing to say after handing a woman a dildo.

'Get yourself ready for the men,' he whispered.

And she knew then what he wanted and why these couples were here.