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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?