What if the richest man alive traded every cent for the privilege of a perfect curtsy?
In the hush of a candlelit mansion, Alexander Vale-sole heir to billions-steps through wrought-iron gates and signs away his name on parchment that smells of roses and restraint. What begins as a midnight whim becomes a velvet crucifixion: daily estrogen dissolving like communion on his tongue, corsets cinched to a breathless eighteen inches, heels locked at the ankle until every
click
is a heartbeat. A silver bell at his throat chimes (
ting
) with each curtsy, each tray carried on trembling palms, each dawn spent sliding silk stockings up legs that no longer remember boardrooms.
He learns to glide through marble corridors at 5 a.m., apron crisp as frost, bending to warm croissants while petticoats bloom like white peonies and a jeweled plug keeps him
mindful
. In the library he climbs rolling ladders, thighs parted for balance, feather duster whispering over leather spines while the window reflects a porcelain doll with crimson lips and eyes soft with devotion. On his knees in the grand foyer, he polishes floors in slow, worshipful circles-skirt flipped, cage dripping, every stroke a silent vow:
I am nothing but this.
Evening parties are masked and golden: champagne flutes balanced on upturned wrists, nipples clamped beneath lace, strangers' gloved fingers tracing satin curves and tugging rose-gold steel until he whimpers. The bell sings (
ting, ting, ting
) with every step, every curtsy, every shiver. The air is thick with jasmine and candle-smoke; the crop kisses his ass like a lover's promise. He leaks, he aches, he
begs
without words-yet release is a gift forever withheld, a climax that builds and builds until it lives in the rustle of petticoats and the scent of lemon oil on manicured hands.
At the stroke of midnight, a blindfold falls. In the grand mirror stands Alexa-waist a doll's, breasts rising like moons, eyes wide and vacant of everything but service. The fortune is gone, the name erased, the past reduced to ash beneath a silver tray. Only the uniform remains, the bell, the plug, the endless, exquisite happiness of having given up everything to become nothing more than the help
Tell me, darling-when the gates close and the bell chimes once more, will you kneel and sign it all away for the privilege of being nothing but the help?