I dropped the sponge. It hit the tile with a pathetic little slap.
Veronika looked at me, then at him.
“Who’s Wagner?”
I swallowed hard, too distracted by the sudden rush of heat to my face to answer.
Monsieur answered for me, a wicked smile on his face. “Her first master.”
Veronika’s eyes widened.
“He will arrive this evening. Be prepared.”
The rest of the day passed in a haze and soon enough I was walking back to my room to wait, as Monsieur had instructed. Was my fantasy from the other night of being double teamed by Wagner and Monsieur about to come true? Every creak of the old château made me jump, my heart beating wildly at the thought of seeing him again after so many years.
He’d been my art professor in college and when, during my sophomore year, I was failing his class, he’d offered me a unique opportunity to earn extra credit. I closed my eyes, remembering the way his hands slid into the back of my jean shorts and gripped my panties, giving me my first wedgie. I was soaking wet just thinking about it.
Just as I was sliding my hand down to touch myself, I heard footsteps in the hallway. I jerked up, hastily fixing my uniform, silently hoping I didn’t look as disheveled as I felt. The footsteps paused and then someone knocked at my door.
I opened it slowly.
There he was. Professor Wagner. Exactly as I remembered him and somehow entirely different. He looked older, his dark hair now peppered with gray. His eyes, which were always his best feature, now had fine lines around them. He smelled exactly the same though. Like leather, soap and a little bit of turpentine. His smell flooded me with memories of our late nights together in his art studio. I felt a sudden pull to reach out and touch him, to feel his firm grip on my waist, his hands making their way into my skirt, but I held myself back.
He cocked his head to the side, taking me in.
“Still wearing tight panties for older men, I see.”
I dropped the sponge. It hit the tile with a pathetic little slap.
Veronika looked at me, then at him.
“Who’s Wagner?”
I swallowed hard, too distracted by the sudden rush of heat to my face to answer.
Monsieur answered for me, a wicked smile on his face. “Her first master.”
Veronika’s eyes widened.
“He will arrive this evening. Be prepared.”
The rest of the day passed in a haze and soon enough I was walking back to my room to wait, as Monsieur had instructed. Was my fantasy from the other night of being double teamed by Wagner and Monsieur about to come true? Every creak of the old château made me jump, my heart beating wildly at the thought of seeing him again after so many years.
He’d been my art professor in college and when, during my sophomore year, I was failing his class, he’d offered me a unique opportunity to earn extra credit. I closed my eyes, remembering the way his hands slid into the back of my jean shorts and gripped my panties, giving me my first wedgie. I was soaking wet just thinking about it.
Just as I was sliding my hand down to touch myself, I heard footsteps in the hallway. I jerked up, hastily fixing my uniform, silently hoping I didn’t look as disheveled as I felt. The footsteps paused and then someone knocked at my door.
I opened it slowly.
There he was. Professor Wagner. Exactly as I remembered him and somehow entirely different. He looked older, his dark hair now peppered with gray. His eyes, which were always his best feature, now had fine lines around them. He smelled exactly the same though. Like leather, soap and a little bit of turpentine. His smell flooded me with memories of our late nights together in his art studio. I felt a sudden pull to reach out and touch him, to feel his firm grip on my waist, his hands making their way into my skirt, but I held myself back.
He cocked his head to the side, taking me in.
“Still wearing tight panties for older men, I see.”
I could hardly sleep, my mind racing from the absolute fuck fest with Monsieur in his study. Had I really agreed to become his wedgie slave? Two weeks ago I'd arrived at the grand Maison Noire to be a live-in maid to Monsieur Lucien Moreau, however, quickly he’d discovered that he enjoyed pulling on my panties far more than my cleaning services.
Every time I closed my eyes, my mind replayed the evening: the sounds I’d made as he wedgied me, the way I'd begged, on all fours, for permission to come, the way he’d finally obliged before slipping my stretched out panties off and fucking me. I’d come so hard.
“Tomorrow, my dear, we have a guest coming,” Monsieur’s words rang out in my head.
Suddenly, Wagner flashed through my mind. This wasn’t the first time I’d found myself a wedgie slave to a hot older man. Wagner, my professor in college (and my former wedgie master), had connected me to Monsieur under the guise of needing a maid.
Could Wagner be our guest? I felt a shiver run down my spine, unsure what that would mean for me. The evening’s events replayed in my head again, but this time Wagner was there too. I was on all fours again, my knees rubbing against the persian rug beneath us as Monsieur ate my pussy from behind, his hand gripping my waist while Wagner was in front of me, his cock in my mouth, as I squirmed, sandwiched between them.
A surge of arousal coursed through me and I instinctively pressed my legs together, shaking my head clear in embarrassment. Even just the thought of Wagner being there, watching me, the heat of his body near mine, made my heart beat wildly.
I continued to toss and turn, falling in and out of sleep and dreaming about the two of them handling me, as I begged them on my hands and knees to let me come, my stretched out panties evidence of their cruelty.
I could hardly sleep, my mind racing from the absolute fuck fest with Monsieur in his study. Had I really agreed to become his wedgie slave? Two weeks ago I'd arrived at the grand Maison Noire to be a live-in maid to Monsieur Lucien Moreau, however, quickly he’d discovered that he enjoyed pulling on my panties far more than my cleaning services.
Every time I closed my eyes, my mind replayed the evening: the sounds I’d made as he wedgied me, the way I'd begged, on all fours, for permission to come, the way he’d finally obliged before slipping my stretched out panties off and fucking me. I’d come so hard.
“Tomorrow, my dear, we have a guest coming,” Monsieur’s words rang out in my head.
Suddenly, Wagner flashed through my mind. This wasn’t the first time I’d found myself a wedgie slave to a hot older man. Wagner, my professor in college (and my former wedgie master), had connected me to Monsieur under the guise of needing a maid.
Could Wagner be our guest? I felt a shiver run down my spine, unsure what that would mean for me. The evening’s events replayed in my head again, but this time Wagner was there too. I was on all fours again, my knees rubbing against the persian rug beneath us as Monsieur ate my pussy from behind, his hand gripping my waist while Wagner was in front of me, his cock in my mouth, as I squirmed, sandwiched between them.
A surge of arousal coursed through me and I instinctively pressed my legs together, shaking my head clear in embarrassment. Even just the thought of Wagner being there, watching me, the heat of his body near mine, made my heart beat wildly.
I continued to toss and turn, falling in and out of sleep and dreaming about the two of them handling me, as I begged them on my hands and knees to let me come, my stretched out panties evidence of their cruelty.
I never imagined that in my mid-twenties, I would find myself a maid to a well-known but reclusive French gentleman in the countryside of France. I was recommended to Monsieur through a personal connection I'd made in undergrad with an old art professor whose family had ties to the upper echelon of Euro society. Over the years, I'd lost touch with Professor Wagner and was surprised to receive an email from him about a family friend needing a maid for the summer. As I read it, I couldn’t help but wonder if he too was thinking about our time together in undergrad—and, more specifically, what was in store for me in the seclusion of the French countryside…
As I walked up the cobblestone path to the grand château, I started to get nervous. It was huge, and I began to worry about what tasks Monsieur might ask of me. Professor Wagner had made all the arrangements, and I hadn’t spoken to Monsieur about what was expected. I started to wonder if what I was wearing was appropriate—a simple, slightly cropped tank top and a low-rise cotton skirt that sat on my hips. On my trip over, it had slipped a few times, revealing the delicate waistband of my cotton panties. I told myself I looked fine—this wasn’t college anymore—and knocked on the enormous wooden doors.
When they opened, I stifled my shock. Monsieur was in his late fifties, with silver-streaked hair and sly eyes. He looked like the older, hotter brother of my professor. He looked me up and down, and I became very aware of how low my skirt had slipped. Blushing, I introduced myself and held out my hand while trying to cover my exposed panties with the bag over my shoulder. He smirked, greeted me pleasantly, and gestured for me to come in before closing the door behind us.
The interior of the château was even more imposing than the exterior; high ceilings, antique furniture, and walls adorned with priceless art. Monsieur led me to a smaller room in the back of the house.
"This will be your room," he said, in a thick French countryside accent. "Your duties begin at six in the morning. You will be expected to clean, cook, and attend to me without delay. Do you understand?"
I nodded. “Yes, Monsieur.”
"Good," he replied, already turning to leave. “I’ve left your uniform on the bedside table. You are to wear it when you are working.”
Once he left, I sat on the bed and wondered what I'd gotten myself into… Professor Wagner had conveniently forgotten to mention anything about a uniform or the striking resemblance between them.
The next morning, I woke up at 5:30 to get ready. I'd crashed in my travel clothes and hadn’t checked the uniform yet. At first I thought I’d dropped part of it or that something was missing. The top was black and tight; it rode up when I lifted my arms. The skirt was black and pleated but short, exposing most of my thighs. The last two items were the strangest—sheer white tights and a small pair of cotton panties with a thick elastic waistband. Once I’d layered everything on, I could tell the tights were going to lock the panties in place and create a wedgie by midday.
After an hour or two of working, I realized the wedgie wasn’t so bad—and started to wonder if it was an honest mistake. After being a wedgie slave to Professor Wagner in college, I was used to it. It honestly wasn’t worse than a tight thong. I was making my way through the chore list, dusting under his desk, when I suddenly heard him behind me.
"Good morning," he said. I looked over my shoulder, still crouched. “I’m glad to see you’re wearing your uniform; it suits you.” He smirked. “Dan said you were charming, but he didn’t do you justice.”
I smiled, thanked him, and turned back to dusting.
I thought he’d walked away, but after a moment he said, “There’s one thing I'd like to correct.” With that, I felt his hands grip my waist. As I tried to stand, he guided me up and then bent me forward over the desk. My shirt rode up, exposing the waistbands of my skirt, panties, and tights.
“Do you mind?” he asked, one hand on my waist, the other lightly trailing the waistband of my panties.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, nervously wondering if he thought I needed some kind of posture adjustment. He was a doctor, after all…
Suddenly, he lifted the back of my skirt, revealing the natural wedgie I’d been dealing with all day.
“Are your panties the correct size?” he asked. “They look a little small.”
I laughed. “Oh no, they’re fine—trust me, I’ve had worse.”
My whole body buzzed as he traced the outline of my wedgie.
He chuckled. “Isn’t this uncomfortable? Especially in the… front?”
I shrugged. “It really isn’t that bad once you get used to it. Honestly, I—”
But my thoughts trailed off as he hiked my skirt even higher, exposing my full wedgie. He gripped the waistband of my panties and began to yank. Each pull made me rise to my tiptoes as I squealed in surprise, the briefs turning into a thong. There was nothing I could do but squirm and take it, pinned to the desk by his hand and body.
Once the leg holes were well above my skirt’s waistband, he reached around and tugged the front gently until they sat above my belly button. He then lifted my stockings higher than the panties to keep the wedgie in place.
“I want you to keep this wedgie in all day,” he whispered.
I nodded, too flustered to speak.
“Trust me,” he added, “you better keep it in—or I’ll have to redo it later… and next time, I won’t be as nice.”
When Professor Wagner called me into the art studio after hours, I wasn’t sure what to expect. He was a classically hot professor, and most of the art majors drooled during class, gossiping about how tight his pants were and how big his dick might be.
He told me to meet him outside the studio and was waiting, leaning against the wall, when I got there. He looked me up and down and asked if I wanted to earn any extra credit after last week's group exam. I readily agreed and followed him into the studio, asking what I could do to improve my grade. He told me to get onto the raised platform in the middle of the room, as he wanted to experiment with different poses for next week’s class. I began to sweat a little as I walked to the stage, unsure about posing as I felt my jean shorts riding up with every step, suddenly aware that my panties were a little too small. I could feel them peaking out of my shorts as I clambered onto the stage and began to pose, avoiding positions that caused my panties to ride up even further, aware now that the tank top I was wearing was barely concealing my nipples.
Professor Wagner let me pose for a while before setting down his charcoal and walking toward me, a stern look on his face. He climbed up onto the stage and stood behind me, putting his hands on my hips and bending me forward, explaining that he wanted to see the dynamism of my body. I grimaced as the further he bent me, the tighter my shorts felt, my tank top curling up my back. Suddenly, he started to slide one of his hands into my shorts, grabbing a firm hold of my panties and pulling them up swiftly. As I jolted, trying to move away, he used his other hand to keep me bent over in place and began to work my underwear out of my shorts, giving quick, short pulls and making me gasp. I wiggled, trying to lessen the intensity of the wedgie as he started pulling on my shorts, the stiffness of the jean incongruent with the huge wedgie I was getting. Soon, the legholes of my panties were out of my shorts and he was holding my underwear taut, pressing himself against me. Finally he stopped, admiring his work and told me not to move.
My cheeks burning, I was kept bent over in the permanent wedgie for over an hour while he drew and periodically “adjusted” my position, tightening the wedgie and bouncing me. When he was finished I didn’t dare remove it and I thanked him for the extra credit opportunity.
