My little maid is so thorough. I watch from the couch as he dusts the bookshelf, his frilly black skirt swishing with every careful movement. The full get-on—lace apron, ruffled sleeves, those heels he still limps in a bit—is his uniform, and only earned after the apartment is spotless. Today’s task was the bathroom. He’s proud of his gleaming tiles. I let him stand before me, hands clasped nervously.

“Such a good girl,” I coo, tapping my finger on my chin. “But you missed a spot.”

His eyes widen. I reach out, not for his cheek, but for the delicate padlock hanging between his legs, nestled in the satin of his panties. The cage is cold through the fabric. He inhales sharply, a delicious mix of anticipation and frustration.

“The real spot,” I whisper, giving the lock a gentle shake. He shivers, his posture perfect. This is our game, our slow, secret transformation. The strong, sometimes clumsy guy I dated is gone. In his place is this meticulous, blushing creature who lives for my approval and the cruel, playful tease of my key.

“Maybe tomorrow,” I say, withdrawing my hand. “If the vacuuming is perfect.” He lets out a tiny, defeated sigh, already planning his next chore. I smile, snuggling back into the cushions. My very own sissy maid. And his cage? That’s my secret joy.