Marketing 101





I belong to a sorority of seven bratty, spoiled girls. We spend our time in between classes going to the gym, doing our makeup, and making sure we look absolutely delectable for all the campus boys. While college boys are fun to play with, they lack a certain desperation and willingness to please, qualities that you wonderful pets have in abundance. Okay, we will get to all that much later. So, this semester I took a class called Marketing 101. The whole semester, my professor drilled complicated marketing techniques into my head. I had been under the impression that all a girl had to do was look cute, bat her eyes, and she could sell anything, no problem. Maybe not. I vowed to take my studies seriously. I would not rely solely on my genes and body to get what I wanted. I would figure out marketing, which would require brains and a strategy. This is a real-life tale about my adventures in marketing. I have separated the story into three categories.





My sorority sisters and I were invited to attend an underground, exclusive event—a foot-worship party hosted by a local Dominatrix. We received invitations in the mail, scented with some super-sweet perfume. How we came to receive the invitations is an underground secret that I can never divulge. Sorry. When we arrived at the party, we were all inappropriately dressed. We wore Juicy Couture outfits—cute flouncy miniskirts plus teeny low-cut tops in scrumptious colors—and heels. While we looked absolutely adorable, the three other Mistresses that were there had on leather corsets, garter belts, stockings, and high boots. All I could think about was how badly I wanted to wear what they were wearing. They simply looked at us and smirked a little.


All of us girls were directed to the middle of the room, where we sat on throne-like chairs and had a variety of businessmen kiss and worship our feet. They all seemed to be in heaven, sniffing and gently touching our pretty feet, rubbing them all over their faces. Candace, one of my really good friends, was chewing gum and found incredible amusement in sticking wads of it right in the middle of the slaves’ foreheads. The head Mistress came up to me and asked me to follow her into the other room. We walked for what seemed like forever before reaching this room, and there stood a tall man. He was a geeky older guy in his thirties who wore Clark Kent glasses and a tweed jacket. No elbow patches, thank God.


“Nadia, this is David,” Mistress said, stroking the back of my neck. “He is my gift to you.”


“Princess Nadia, I am a successful lawyer, and I pray that you will have some use for me,” says this David, staring at the floor.


“Oh, she will! Won’t you, Nadia?” the Mistress chuckled.


All I could mutter to the Mistress was thank you. I was at a bit of a loss. I walked back to the other room with David following me like a puppy dog. I explained to the girls that David was now my slave, but it would be a joint effort. They all jumped up and down and giggled at our new toy. The other slaves were groveling on the ground, disappointed and crying that they wanted to go home with us. “Sorry,” we said, emptying out their wallets and taking their money before leaving the event. Now that was fun.





The next couple of weeks were filled with the most intense and ingenious tortures we could devise for our wonderful new slave. The steamy details will be divulged in another report, which I plan to start writing later, after I have updated my winter wardrobe. Our slave ran our errands, ironed our clothes, cooked us organic dinners, and did all the cleaning. We named him Maid Mindy. With his money, we bought him a real French maid’s uniform with antique lace trim, imported from Europe, and little Mary Jane shoes. Maid Mindy was required to keep her body completely shaven and to wear a black Pulp Fiction wig, red lipstick, and ruffled panties. She ended up being a superb maid and knew all the proper etiquette for tea parties. 


One day, while I was at home looking for a part-time job, I came up with an incredible idea: I would hire Mindy out for a fee to clean apartments and dorms. Now, of course, I would have to explain the whole situations in the ads I placed. I even took pictures of Mindy in various poses to place with the ads. Turns out the maid’s uniform wasn’t really that flattering—oh well. I got so many responses that I didn’t know what to do. A lot of the businesswomen loved the idea of having a male maid. The dorm residents, whose rooms were absolutely disgusting, couldn't have cared less about who was doing the cleaning, as long as the price was right. The female clients would giggle and laugh at how Mindy curtsied and kneeled at their feet. “Oh, he is so cute,” they would say, handing me the money. Adorable. Naturally, we kept all the money Mindy made. Essentially, we were pimping her out, and she loved every minute of it. After a long hard day of work, Mindy would return to the sorority house, where she would worship our feet, brush our hair, and give us baths. She would then be sent home, wearing a chastity belt, to hump her pillow in frustration that we were all such little cock teasers.



Making the Deal


The sorority girls and I wrote out a four-year contract for Mindy to sign. The contract laid out all Mindy’s daily duties and specified how many houses she was required to clean weekly. When Mindy arrived at the sorority house, we sat at the table in our sexy short skirts, flipped our silky hair around, and told her to sign. That took no time flat. I rubbed her shoulder, telling her what a good girl she was. We briefed Mindy on our new marketing campaign. We were going to open a sissy-training school in a house we had rented with her money (first, last, and security). This school would train slaves to the highest standards of proper maid etiquette. Mindy would serve as the head maid and be the only sissy allowed to come home with us.


This is an introduction to the Sissy Maid Mindy series. I will be starting on this project after I have figured out whether or not to cut bangs.




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