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Happy Little House Wife
🕑 Added 2023-11-12 22:56:49 +0000 UTCI wake up at 6 AM. My lovely spouse Deja is asleep next to me looking adorable as ever with their dirty blonde medium length hair spiraling between their eyes. Slowly and carefully, I stand and move towards the bathroom. I must be pretty enough before they wake up and see my messy self. Looking in the mirror, I see a girl; but not an all too put together one. She is properly transitioned but is in need of some minor repairs. Hopping into the shower, I start cleaning every inch of my body.
Strawberry Pound Cake body wash, apple cinnamon shampoo, and complimentary strawberry conditioner smell great on me. Deja always says that I smell like “baked goods,” and I always presumed this was why. I layer the smell with Pound Cake lotion, and that takes care of the fragrance section of my routine. I brush and floss my teeth, use Listerine, and start combing my hair. After straightening out my insatiably curly frills, I go for the razor and start to wet my face before I remember that I no longer grow facial hair ever since Deja got me facial electrolysis. They are so good to me; I think to myself. I do not deserve them in my life; but I will try my best every day to make up for the financial burden I am.
I shave my legs, armpits, and vaginal area to perfection before I brush my hair and completely dry off. I look again into my mirror and see a much prettier girl with small, but well-defined breasts and a perfect little complexion. I do a little jump and happy squeal before I exit the bathroom.
A hint of sunlight now drapes our bedroom, and I can see the perfect marriage room we constructed. It is medium sized with purple painted walls and a dresser with a few bedside tables and lamps. Deja always bashes themselves for not being able to afford a larger house with a larger bedroom, but I love it completely. I tell them, “Baby, you have provided the perfect life for us. I am so happy with everything you have contributed to our relationship. I can only hope to match a fraction of what you have given me.” To which they replied, “I’m glad you’re satisfied with the little I can give.” I to this day do not comprehend why they think our home is too small, but I accept it as simply a difference in our upbringings.
I go to the dresser that lays in front of the bed and pick out a matching pair of bra and underwear; pink and pretty. Next, I find the perfect dress from our closet that is to the right of the dresser and carefully put it on my dainty body. It is one of my little housewife dresses that Deja chose for me before we were married; something I took as a tell-tell sign of what they wanted to turn me into. The memory brings me joy.
I look in our mirror on top of the dresser and see someone who I have always wanted to be: a perfect little wife that knows her place and serves her spouse with a smile. I feel an ounce of shame trickle down my forehead. I feel like I am contributing to a system of oppression by being what I am until I remember two things. Number one, I am not serving a man. Of all the messiness of Deja’s gender, a man is not one of them. And number two, is not the point of feminism that a woman gets to choose what she wants for her life? Since the age of 16 I have wanted to serve a stronger and smarter partner. Even when I was a boy, I wanted to be a house spouse. And Deja has allowed me to live out my dream of serving someone better than me. I do not believe that all women or even most women should pursue the life of home making, but if she so chooses and is able to find a partner who is willing to support her in her goal than she has every right to be a pretty housewife.
After justifying my servitude, I gave another look to my spouse. They had shifted over to hugging their stuffed animal shark in place of me. I bent over and gave them a lovely little kiss before I darted out of the room. Walking through the hallway, I see all of the memories Deja and I have made displayed on our walls in the form of pictures, memorabilia, and trinkets. Making my way through the living room, I arrive in our medium-sized kitchen.
I absolutely adore our kitchen. Compared to my childhood home’s, it is ginormous. In Deja’s standards it is serviceable. And service it I do. First, I clip on my pink apron that drifts from the ceiling on a hanger. I enjoy its grip on my body as a sign of my servitude. My breasts glow with the comforting feeling that I am taken care of by Deja. And the memory of my first apron swirls back.
It was my 21st birthday party. The attendants included myself, my mother & brother, my friends June and Bella, and for the first time ever I had a partner to bring to a birthday. Deja arrived with the cake she had made for me, and 2 boxes of birthday presents. After eating cake, I decided it was time for me to open my gifts. After 4 bottles of Strawberry Pound Cake Lotion, I went to Deja’s last gift. I slowly opened the box and saw a white cloth-thing. What is this? I thought until they told me to flip it over. It was an apron with a little fox imprint Deja had put on herself! I smiled the widest of smiles before they told me to stand up and she personally put the item on my body in front of all the party guests. It was kind of embarrassing having a mark of my submissiveness embroidered on my body in front of my family and friends. Bella gave me this snide and cheery look because we both knew what this meant. She was very much aware of my domestic desires. However, I was so happy that I did not care. I wore the apron for the rest of the party; so happy to have it.
Reality flashes back to the present where I am getting ready to cook breakfast. I start warming a pan on medium-high and another on just medium. I wash my hands thoroughly making sure to get off any night-accumulated grime that the shower failed to remove. I start a batch of coffee, gather pancake mix from the cabinet a package of bacon, and four eggs. Once the medium-high pan is done warming, I gently lay the pieces of bacon on it before getting a bowl and mixer to create the pancake batter. Whipping all the ingredients together, I add a cup of chocolate chips to the mix to give it that extra sugary punch. Seeing that the medium pan is done warming, I pour the first bit of mixture onto the pan. While the bacon and first set of pancakes cook, I turn another pan onto medium.
The bacon is ready to flip! I do so, making sure the meat does not break up while I perform the delicate act. The smell of roasted coffee fills the kitchen as I continue to make breakfast. When each pancake is flipped and the finished, I place them into a warmer to make sure they stay worthy of eating before Deja wakes up. But speak of the devil! I hear them tossing and turning out of the bed before entering the bathroom to take a shower themselves. The sound of the water running worries me. I might not have enough time to finish before they come out. And then they either are going to have to skip having breakfast which will make them irritable at work, or they will be late, and it will all be my fault! Did I take too much time getting ready earlier this morning, or am I not efficient enough at cooking yet? Dread fills my little worried head while I continue my art form.
The second medium pan is ready enough! I cut a few slices of butter and let it start melting on the pan. I have made half the pancakes that I need, and the coffee is only 3/4ths done. I hurry up my efforts while balancing the workload as not to burn anything. The bacon is looking good, but a few pieces look like they are sticking to the pan too much. Oh god. I am not good enough at this yet. It seems years of late teenagerhood training, and a solid year of home making have not prepared me enough. My mother would always get on my case for not doing everything right in the kitchen and now I see she was right. But I refuse to give up. Deja will have a healthy, balanced breakfast before they go off to work on time or I swear!
I hear the shower turn off and movement coming from the bedroom. I crack the four eggs into the butter medium pan and start to scramble them with a healthy mix of milk and salt. They cook for a few minutes while I start the last pancake. Lucky number four! The bacon seems to have gotten to that perfect state of being crispy and chewy at the same time. Oh, what joy! I take the pan and remove each piece out one by one onto a plate with a paper towel on it and cover it all up to stay warm. With that, the last pancake has come to perfection with a golden hew. I stack it with the others. And as soon as that is finished, I hear the coffee maker indicate that the coffee has completed its process. That just leaves the eggs.
They are not quite ready yet. I scramble them up some more and realize they need another minute or two to be completed.
“Hey, baby girl.” I jump! Deja is standing at the entrance of the kitchen in their woman’s business suit, light colored. They look perfect. Better than I could ever do. Their hair is shiny in the shape of these perfect bangs and their skin is so shiny and soft looking. I wait for permission to touch them as they approach, standing taller than me by three whole inches. “Are you making breakfast for me, little angel?” They are playing with me like we do and pretending like this is not what I do every morning. They cup my chin and make me look up. I nod my head with pleading little eyes. “I’ll let you finish.”
Their words hit me like a truck. They knew I could not finish on time. “I’m sorry, baby!” I cry a little. “I failed you today. Please don’t punish me,” I beg.
They caress my sides and feel the curves my tight dress presents and makes easily accessible. “Madeline, I’m not going to punish you.”
“Really,” I ask.
“I woke up early today. You’re actually a little ahead of schedule. Now go pop your little butt back in there and finish what you started.” A wave of euphoria overtakes me, and I smile the biggest smile a housewife could give; just like I’m supposed to. Deja went and sat at the table and waiting while browsing their phone for me to finish my work. And in that time, the eggs were basically done! I went and scrambled them a little more, and brava! All that was left before they leave is to serve the food.
I first go to the coffee and pour it into a mug from the baking cabinet. I add cream and sugar and bring it to Deja first. I set it next to them while they remain silent. I diligently return to the kitchen and prepare a perfectly arranged plate consisting of bacon, two pancakes, and scrambled eggs. I carry the plate with both of my hands and set it in front of their face. The morning light had gotten bright enough to see the whole dining room. Like the bedroom, it is medium-sized. It has one dining table with six chairs wrapped around it surrounded by a wooded floor.
I sit next to Deja as they start to eat. After a few bites of everything and a sip of coffee, Deja smiles and looks at me. I am amazed by their existence, and I am made happier when they look into my eyes. And I look into theirs. We stare for a good long while. Just getting as much of each other as we can before we part for the day. They then stand up and tower above me as I look up at them. “You made a wonderful breakfast, my Madeline. Good girl,” they say while they pat and scratch my head. “What a good little girl making me food before I leave so I can take care of her.” Overwhelming joy floods my head as I go into a delirious state where I feel completely loved and protected. A tinge of guilt returns as the gnawing feeling that I don’t contribute enough to the relationship kicks in. I suppress it for now and let my reward for being a good girl finish. “When I come back later today, my good little princess will have cleaned the bathroom, bedroom, living room, dining room, kitchen, done the laundry, gone grocery shopping, made the bed, and finish making dinner when I come home at 7:30 tonight. Do you got that, little slut?” I nodded my head with obedience. “Good, good girl.” They stop petting me and continue eating their food.
After five minutes, Deja makes a disgusted sound. “What’s wrong?” I ask all worried and panicked.
Their face goes from disgusted to angered. “This bacon slice is burned.” A little fear pumps through my veins.
“I’m sorry, Robbi!” I get up, waiting for their next action.
“Come here,” they demand. I pivot over, but before I can they grab me by the waist. I let out a little high-pitched gasp as my heart starts racing. Their taller height makes me feel so small and subjected. “Madeline, listen to me.” Their grasp intensifies. “You can’t burn the food that goes into my mouth. You know how much I hate that taste.”
They have my body completely restrained simply by using their hands. “But I-.” They pull my hair back.
“No excuses, little one. You’re my property. Don’t you forget that. I own you and you will obey me. You took my name when I made you my wife. Not the other way around.” They made it their mission to punish me for my ill-deed. I was going to say that the only reason that bacon was burned was because they woke up early and I started rushing. But I knew they were in the right. That is no excuse for what I have done. The next thing I knew was the sensation of Deja sliding their hand down my bra and grabbing my left boob. It feels pleasurable for a second. Then they twist my nipple. I start crying a little bit before they stop. “That’s right. You remember who owns you, don’t you baby girl?” I nod, sucking up a single tear. “Say it. Say who owns your body, mind, and soul.”
“You do!” I scream.
“That’s right. Now stay quiet while I finish up here.”
I do as I am told and sit back down in the chair quite as can be. Once they are done, I take their dishes to the kitchen and get there lunch I packed for them last night. After, I put their shoes on their feet before they head towards the door. I open it for them and hand them the lunch packet. “See you later, my sweet little angel,” they say before kissing me on the head.
“Have a good day at work.” I watch them go down the steps and out to the driveway. “I love you, Deja!”
“I love you too!” They say and enter their car before driving off into the distance. I am alone in the house once again. I close the dark blue door and go to get my food from the kitchen. Deja has never liked how I eat food. They always made fun of me playfully because I almost never use a fork and result to use my hands for many a food item. However, because they are an understanding spouse they decided to not try and change me to eat more properly. They never actually told me to eat when they are not there, but I know they cannot stand it, so I decided a long time ago to wait till they were gone.
I assemble my plate of pancakes, bacon, and eggs. In addition, I get the maple syrup because I love food to be super sweet and a plastic cup of orange juice. This is another thing that they have made fun of me for doing. “You’re such a bottom, Madeline.” That would always get a rise out of me. Like, why does liking sweet things make me a bottom? Cannot I not just be a bottom and like sugar? Apparently not, because they enjoy the less sweet food in the kitchen.
I eat every bite of my food. There is something just so delicious about consuming your own food that you worked super hard on. Especially when you are put under a lot of stress and it still comes out perfect… well, mostly perfect. One of my bacon strips is burnt too. I choose to reject the item as well.
After finishing my portion of the meal, I return my dishes to the kitchen and place them all in the sink. The light of the day has fully shown itself into the kitchen through the draped window and I see the brown real wood that the room was constructed with. It is so beautiful. I am again reminded of how lucky I am to be Deja’s wife. How can I ever repay them for allowing me to live here without having a job? Their kindness is so great, I think I am going to cry.
After crying I got back to my wifely duties. I commence the process of washing off the dishes and clean Deja’s first. I open the dishwasher and am reminded that the wash cycle completed itself last night. Setting down Deja’s plate, I open the machine and start unloading the silverware, dishes, plates, bowls, silver cooking utensils, cups, and mugs from the previous two days. They are soft and cool to the touch, so I carefully put them into each of their respective cabinets. Wait… something is missing. I know I used the measuring cup last night to measure the brown sugar and flower for the chocolate chip cookies, but it is not in the dishwasher. Why is that? I check the cabinets where it would normally be and still cannot find the darn thing. I must be stupid or something. Or maybe this is the spironolactone I am using that has the side effect of giving me brain fog. Shoot. I think I will just set that problem to the side and come back to it later. Ignoring the missing measuring cup, I load the dishwasher with the morning’s plates, forks, mug, and cup. I close the machine with a flick of my foot and hear the boom of the shutting.
Next, I move onto the pans I used to cook today’s breakfast. The bacon pan is the most dirty and larger than the others, so I start with it first because it will be less annoying later. Running the hot water and using a drop of soap, I scrub the nasty little thing with all my might; slightly burning my skin under the hot water. That is the one thing I am remised to say I detest about cleaning. I know that as Deja’s wife I am meant to enjoy all the things that I do for their house and for the most part I do! I love making them happy with my work. There is nothing more enjoyable than seeing them come home at the end of the day and relax in the home I have nurtured. It gives me purpose in life. I can pretend that I am contributing something to the world. However, the slight burn of using hot water to clean has never rubbed right with me. I hate the feeling of my skin warming as I clean and the redness that comes with it. I think to myself, “I must be doing it wrong. There is no way cleaning dishes is meant to hurt this much.” But alas, I fear I am doing everything right. And that means that I must accept that cleaning dishes is going to hurt. If I keep that to myself, Deja will not get frustrated with my complaining. The fact that I even want to complain is wrong enough.
I complete the cleaning of the bacon pan and move onto the waffle pan. The non-stick spray that I used really does work wonders. Cleaning the surface was easy for me. The egg pan proved to be a worthy adversary, but one I was able to defeat with enough effort and diligence. I sat each of the pans on the stove to dry before I head into the living room. At this point, I am ashamed to say that I am a bit tired. But nearly as tired as Deja is at work all day, so I continue moving forward.
The living room is the largest part of the house. Its spacious and filled with furniture. An arrangement that I put together. It was so fun making this room into the keystone of the home. A place where guests can rest their feet and really feel at home. And one day when Deja and I adopt kids, I am sure they will completely ruin it. And I will love them, nonetheless.
Prepping the washer and dryer located in a closet in the living room, I go and gather the week’s clothes from the bedroom. The assortment of items is just so colorful and pretty that it screams “Queer!” I love the way that we dress in this household, and I love cleaning the clothes so that we look our best every day. Carrying the clothes in the laundry basket, I sort them into four piles. One cold-dark, warm-dark, cold-light, and warm-light. I separate the bras and underwear so I can clean them by hand while the spin cycles go. I put the first load in the washer and set a timer for forty-five minutes. Now to go clean the sensitive bits.
I take Deja and I’s bras and underwear into the bathroom that connects to the bedroom. I fill the sink with warm water and a soap packet that I used for the washer. Doing as my mother taught me, I soak the first few pairs of underwear in the soapy-water mix. This water is nice and comforting to the touch. Makes me want to take a bath! I wish I had time for such a luxury. I used to take them all the time during college and before. It was during college where I learned how to clean bras and sensitive underwear properly, and thus here I am doing so now. The first set is thoroughly soaked and now needs to rest in the sink for at least half an hour. While the timer ticks down, I use the other sink in the bathroom and do the same with the second batch. That covers half, I think. I wonder if I should try using the kitchen sink and the guest bathroom to cover the rest. Or would that be a stupid bimbo idea of mine? It would give me enough time to clean the living room later…
