Recommended Reading: Transformation of a Middle Class Woman

I'm still concentrating on getting Criminal Record finished in time for the thirteenth. It's going quite well: 45,000 words now and I've finally managed to work out the ending (thank God)!

Well in lieu of the next episode of Lady Ann, here's a recommendation with a difference because I honestly don't know where I saw this story originally and I can't tell you where to find it now.

I'm not sure of the etiquette of posting other author's stories without their permission but I happened to keep a copy of this one and... what the hell!

This is a nice, but unfinished story that was originally written in French. It has some lovely elements and I expect you'll like it as much as I did.

The translator's notes remain as I found them. And if anyone knows the author or knows if this story was ever finished then let me know!

Transformation of a Middle-Class Woman

 by

 Conchita

 

        (Translated by Thenerdly and edited by C. Lakewood)

 

Translator's Preface:

This is a translation from the French of a story entitled "Transformation

d'une Bourgeoise," which was uploaded to the files section of the Yahoo

Group "Arrogant Women Embarrassed" in the fall of 2004.  As far as I can

determine, the story was first posted to a French site specializing in a

fetish for nylon smocks (which are somewhat similar to lab coats and are

typically worn by working women, such as cleaning ladies).  The story's

primary focus is on this type of clothing.  I am not a devotee of this

fetish, but do hope the translation does justice to this aspect of the

story.  There is also a secondary focus on humiliation and D/s, which is

of more interest to me, and, I suspect, to the members of our group.

 

The story exists in several variants.  I uploaded one such variant in

English to the "Arrogant Women Embarrassed" group.  Subsequently, I

noticed that, to me, the French version is more interesting than the

English version.  For this reason, I undertook to provide the members

of the group with a new translation.

 

I studied French for one year long ago.  To overcome my lack of skill in

the language, I ran the story through Babelfish to produce an English

version.  The latter was almost totally unintelligible, but did provide

me with the meaning of all the French words.  This greatly reduced the

number of trips that I had to make to my French dictionary.  I then

compared the Babelfish translation with the original French and attempted

to come up with a version in colloquial English.  Finally, I sent it to

C. Lakewood, who further massaged it.  The translation is a very free one,

but I believe that it does a creditable job of capturing the spirit of the

French version, and it does read like English.

 

To preserve some of the flavor of the original story, I have left a few

terms in the original French (or metric measurement), including:

 

            À tout à l'heure: "So long."  (This, of course, has been corrupted

            into English slang as "toodle-oo.")

 

            BCBG: A French abbreviation that translates into English roughly

            as "very chic, very stylish."  It is applied to elegantly dressed

            women.

 

            Hectare: Equals 2.47 acres

 

            Serpillière: An elegant sounding word that refers to the cleaning

            rag used by washer women to scrub floors on their knees.  It acts

            more or less as a symbol of humiliation in the story.

 

            Size 44: Equivalent to Misses' size 16 in the U.S.

 

            Tout de suite: "Right away."

 

 

The previous English variant (mentioned above) was translated by someone

using the name "Monica."  Her introductory note is not without interest:

 

"At the time [of this story,] Portugal was still a very poor country and

not a member of the European Union.  Lots of poor girls and married women

were coming from there to work in France as factory workers, cleaners, and

maids.  Many of those girls were working as live-in maids in many Parisian

bourgeois houses or apartments.  If they were working in apartments, they

had their own separate rooms at the top of the building, usually on the

6th floor, what was called 'la chambre de bonne' (maid's room).  Of

course, there was no elevator in those late 19th century buildings, and

the maids had to go down the back service stairs to the kitchen door of

the apartment where they were working.  They were not allowed to use the

front entrance of the building even when they were out of uniform and not

on duty.  For them, there was the back or side service entrance to come

and go, the same way that the garbage was coming down as well.  All those

apartment buildings had their own live-in concierge who had a little place

to stay, either by the entrance or in the basement.  The concierge was

usually the 'terror' of all live-in maids because she was checking on them

all the time, reporting back to their employers.

 

"So the term Portuguese maid/housekeeper or 'femme de menage Portugaise'

was synonymous with a poor, backward, often illiterate, peasant girl or

woman coming from rural Portugal to work in sophisticated Paris.  The rich

bourgeois Parisians had the tendency of course to look down on them.

 

"At the time...[there] were lots of specialized shops in those rich

Parisian...[suburbs], selling 'domestic workwear' for those in live-in

service.  Those shops were called 'blouses et tabliers boutiques'...[smock

and apron shops].

 

"In today's Paris, as elsewhere in the western world, live-in maids are a

rarity.  Portuguese women are often rich and elegant and go to Paris to

shop.  The 'blouses et tabliers boutiques' are nearly gone."

 

So much for methodology and historical background.  Now, the story....

 

 

                    ***********************************

 

 

Episode 1

 

 

Some nine months ago, at the end of September 1982 to be precise, I was

living in a pleasant Parisian suburb with my husband of 10 years, a

famous surgeon, in a beautiful home in the center of town.  After we'd

been married for about 3 years, I quit my job as a physical therapist

in my husband's clinic, and have, for the last 7 years, spent my days

meeting friends for tea, visiting the beautician, shopping, keeping in

shape at the gym, and trysting with my lover (the town notary, a

seductively handsome bachelor).  At home, I didn't do any housework;

Monica, my cleaning lady, did all of that.  I just concentrated on

looking chic.  And, being blonde, about 5'6" tall, and very shapely for

a 40-year-old woman, this was not too terribly difficult.  I dressed

with sophistication and practicality, generally buying my clothes off

the rack, by Carroll and MaxMara.  (They may not be the most prestigious

labels, but, on the other hand, they are high quality and look good in

my dressing room and on me.)

 

I will confess, however, that I was a bit bored.

 

My orderly life began to change the day after my husband told me that

he had decided to leave his clinic to practice in Italy.  I learned

later that he had left with a Italian cleaning lady, one of those who

wear pink smocks and clean up around the clinics.  I know that my

husband and his lover are currently living together and that she has

hung up her mop for good.  (I prefer not to go into any more detail

because I don't want to run the risk of being identified.)  My husband

left me the clinic, which generates a comfortable income, as well as

the 4-story house with its two parlors, dining room, six bedrooms with

adjoining baths, and the kitchen (which I had never visited, since I

don't know how to cook).  In addition, the fourth floor had some rooms

that I had visited only once.

 

The day after my husband left me, a Tuesday, I awoke about 10 in the

morning, still a little groggy from the sleeping pill I had taken in

the wake of my husband's news.  Monica was there, having arrived about

8 o'clock.  She had already finished many of her chores and had prepared

breakfast for me.  When she saw me, she immediately sensed that something

was wrong and asked what had happened.  I began to cry, and, between

sobs, I told her everything.  By the time I'd finished, I was weeping

uncontrollably.

 

Her reaction was surprising.  She slapped me and said, "Madam, you are

financially secure, whereas I have to work hard to support myself.

Moreover, Madam, you are yourself not above reproach -- you're having

an affair with Phillipe Garnier, the notary."

 

She then softened and put my head on her shoulder.  I was surprised,

but it did make me feel better, and I closed my eyes to rest a bit.

She roused me by kissing me on the cheek, finishing with a long and

passionate kiss on my lips.  Reflexively, I began to caress her body

through her blue smock and to run my hands along her legs.  She

responded by fondling me under my nightgown and lingerie.  After a

long, unforgettable moment, I asked her to spend the day with me to help

me through this difficult time...even longer if she could arrange it.

 

She answered immediately, "I will accept only on one condition: that

you, Marie Bénédicte, the Mistress, no longer treat me as your servant.

Instead, we will start out as Monica -- no, Monique -- and Marie, two

friends and social equals."

 

"Very well, I agree to that," I said.  "But I want you to remain here

for the rest of the week."

 

(I must confess, however, that there was some under-current to this

conversation that didn't seem quite right.)

 

"OK," she replied, "but I must tell my mother about my absence, and I

must call a co-worker to have her take over my cleaning duties at the

airport.  Also, you must lend me some clothing and makeup, since I

don't have anything besides my cleaning uniform, and I don't want to

resemble a common cleaning lady."

 

"Of course," I answered.  "I have a huge wardrobe; you can choose what

you like."

 

"Also, as a token of your good will, you can let me forget about my

cleaning duties and spend the rest of the week as your guest.  To start

with, I would like to use your bathroom to take a bath, and then make

myself over into a very BCBG woman.  And, as a further token, I think

you should take my place and finish cleaning the kitchen...AFTER you

prepare my bath.  Now.  I will accompany you into the bathroom."

 

She led me through my bedroom and into the master bath.  I drew the

bath water, added bath oils to soften her skin, and asked her if she

needed help to disrobe.  (Actually, I wanted to touch her and see

her naked.)

 

"Why not?" she said, with an air of confidence.

 

I first took off her blue smock and then her old-fashioned department

store pinafore-dress, which had been hidden beneath her smock.

 

"My clothes aren't very stylish," she said.

 

I didn't know what to say, because I didn't want to offend her.  And

I was also feeling more than a bit intimidated by the proximity of her

earthy, naked body....

 

Sensing that I wasn't going to reply, she said, "I'll lend you my

clothes; you can wear them to keep from getting dirty while you clean

the kitchen."

 

                    ***********************************

 

Episode 2

 

 

"Hurry and change," she said, "so that I can see you as a cleaning

lady before I take my bath.  Then you can help me dress.  I didn't

take a shower this morning.  Believe me, when one gets up at 4 in the

morning to do a full day's work, one doesn't have time to be elegant.

Now, hurry up and undress."

 

She no longer addressed me as "Madam," but rather as a social equal

(or even a bit of an inferior), and it came naturally to her.

 

I removed my silk nightgown and stood naked before her.  I didn't

know at the time that I would never wear these clothes again.

 

She smacked me on the bottom and said, "Hurry up, girl."

 

I put on her knickers and cheap pantyhose.  They were warm and damp.  She

smiled with an air of triumph to see me dressed for the first time in

discount-store underclothing and her old dress, which reached my knees

and did not flatter my figure in the least.  As the pièce de résistance,

she held out her blue smock.

 

"Put it on, it completes the customary uniform of your new position.

You'll soon learn why you need to wear it."

 

I put it on and buttoned it up.  I felt oddly comfortable in these

clothes.

 

"Come look at yourself in the mirror," she said.  "You no longer

resemble a middle-class woman; you look like a Portuguese house maid.

We'll need to shorten your elegant blonde hairstyle with a curly cut,

and dye it dark.  You'll find short hair much more practical for

housework."

 

I borrowed Monique's mules and stood before the mirror.  Whoever

said that the habit does not make the monk was mistaken.  I was no

longer a middle-class woman, but rather a working woman from the

public housing projects.  The flat shoes, the long, worn dress, and

the smock proclaimed my new profession and the lowly station to which

I now belonged.

 

"Off to the kitchen, girl," she said.  "Your housework will begin

with cleaning the sink and floor.  For your first day, you won't

use a mop, but will get down on all fours with a serpillière, the

cleaning rag that Portuguese maids like you use to scrub the floor.

It's what you wanted, so hurry up and get busy!"

 

"But first, say 'cheese,'" she said, as she snapped a photo of me.

"It's for your notary friend AND your lady friends in case you change

your mind."

 

Abashed and humiliated, I went off to the kitchen, leaving Monique to

take her bath.  I would have liked to remain with her in the bathroom,

but I had accepted this reversal of roles to keep her happy.  When I got

to the kitchen, I washed the remaining dirty dishes, cleaned the sink as

instructed, and swept the floor with a broom.  All that was left to do

was wash the floor, so I put on some rubber gloves and began to mop.  I

had barely begun when the door opened, and Monique appeared in my

bathrobe.  She regarded me, flushed, and slapped me.

 

She upbraided me, sounding a complete bitch.  "What did I tell you,

girl?  You're to get down on your knees and scrub the floor with a

serpillière like the Portuguese maid that you'll soon become."

 

I quickly did as she ordered, secretly experiencing a sort of guilty

pleasure from the slap.  For the first time, I found myself on my

knees, washing the tiles on my own kitchen floor with a serpillière,

in front my former cleaning lady, who was casually flinging insults

at me.  The dress and smock dragged the ground and became stained from

the dirty scrub water.  I now understood the utility of this uniform

and why the clothing of cleaning ladies was always dirty and worn.

 

Monique smiled at my obedience and said, "After you're done with this

filthy work, you'll phone your hairdresser, cancel your appointment,

and arrange one for me.  You'll do the same with the beautician.

Then you'll come and help me dress.  Now, hurry up, girl!"

 

I finished cleaning the kitchen in a hurry as Monique commanded and

arrived at the bedroom door soaked in sweat.  I knocked on the door

of my former bedroom and waited for permission to enter.

 

After a moment, Monique answered, "You may enter."

 

The aroma of my favorite perfume filled the room.  It contrasted

sharply with the odor of my sweat.  Besides everything else, I

hadn't had a chance to bathe since yesterday.  She immediately

noticed my expression and read my thoughts.

 

"You are beginning to smell the perfume of your new condition," she

congratulated me.  "I find that this scent suits you better; Chanel

isn't appropriate any more.  The smell of your sweaty, unwashed body

should help you experience your inner woman and your new status to the

fullest."

 

She looked me over with a veiled smile.

 

"In fact, I think you should complete the transformation and become a

cleaning lady and maidservant for, say, a year.  It would be a kind of

sabbatical from your middle class existence.  You'd come to know my

world -- and I yours, the middle-class world of luxury into which you

were born."

 

She paused, thoughtfully, and reached out to me.

 

"Accept my proposal, or I will leave," she said softly, caressing my

bottom and thighs.  She pressed her lips against my neck and whispered,

"Go ahead, take the plunge."

 

I was distraught and confused, but I knew that I didn't want to lose

her help in my time of distress.  If she left, I feared my world would

totally come apart.

 

"Where are you from?" I asked her, temporizing.

 

"My family is Portuguese, and I still have many friends in Portugal,"

she answered, with a curious, far-away look.  "When my family arrived

in France, my mother was first a cleaning lady, then a concierge, along

with my father.  My good friend, Conchita Da Silva, took over my mother's

job in my building.  I'll introduce her to you.  She's a part-time

hairdresser."

 

She frowned and made an impatient gesture.

 

"But no more dawdling -- you must decide now," she said.  "Either you

serve me for a year, or I'll leave this place immediately and for good."

 

"Mon Dieu...."  I was afraid of saying "yes" and having to endure a

year's servitude, but terrified of saying "no" and being abandoned....

"A whole year?  A few days, perhaps...."

 

"A year...or nothing."

 

I-I...a-accept," I answered.

 

"Answer again, but this time like you really mean it," she snapped.

 

"Yes, I agree.  I really want to be your maid," I replied.

 

"Is that how you to talk your soon-to-be mistress?  Show me the respect

I'm due.  Again."

 

"Madam, I beseech you to do me the honor of permitting me to become

your humble maid," I pleaded.

 

"That's an improvement," she said.  "You must learn to be more polite to

your betters.  Now, write out the agreement and specify that I will own

all your assets and possessions.  I'll send it on to Master Garnier, the

notary.  At the same time, you'll own all that I have, which isn't much."

 

After I wrote the document and signed it, she took it away and locked

it up.  At the time, I didn't realize how much this simple document

would cost me.

 

"Since you're finished resting, with nothing to do, choose an outfit

for my afternoon excursion and help me get dressed," she ordered.

 

I picked an outfit with a gray silk blouse that my tailor -- now HER

tailor -- had made for me.  She became positively regal as I sank to

my knees, slipped high heels onto her feet, and pressed my lips against

a pair of shoes for the first time in my life.  Like me, she had become

unrecognizable.

 

"Let's get down to business," she said.  "I'm confiscating your entire

wardrobe.  You'll meet with Conchita, the concierge of my building,

who'll do your new hairstyle.  She'll give you a curly cut and dye your

hair dark.  Since you don't have any money, you'll pay for this service

by asking to do all of Conchita's cleaning work.  And you'll start by

cleaning the staircase of the building while your hair is drying.  She'll

lend you a smock.  She likes ones with flowers.  You'll finish by

cleaning the bathroom.  Of course, you'll take the bus, since I'll be

using your car this afternoon.  Here's a ticket.  I left my old plastic

raincoat in the broom closet in the entryway.  It's yours, now."

 

She made a dismissive gesture.

 

"And you'd better remember that I am 'Madam Monique' from now on.  Yes?"

 

"Y-yes, Madam," I murmured.

 

                    ***********************************

 

Episode 3

 

 

After 45 minutes on a crowded and smelly bus, I arrived at the right

stop.  I'd never been in this quarter of the city before; it was full

of public housing.  But I found building 12A at the end of the street.

 

I opened the door to the building and immediately recognized Conchita,

who was cleaning the windows along the entrance hallway.  She was a

brunette with a big rear end, common in 35-year old cleaning women.

She was dressed in black pantyhose, a pink smock decorated with

flowers, a tight black skirt, and worn sandals.

 

Greeting her, I mentioned that I had been sent by Monique.

 

"Ah, I have been waiting for you," she said, with a smile.  "You're

the former lady of the manor."

 

She looked me over, carefully.

 

"Show me what it is like to have never worked," she said, as she

took my hands.  "They are so beautiful.  I've forgotten how smooth

and soft one's hands could be.  Look, girl, at what fifteen years

of housework can do to your hands."

 

She showed me her hands, which were wrinkled and swollen, with hard,

cracked skin.  Her nails were dark, with flecks of nail polish.

 

"You have such a slender figure," she said.

 

"I watch my diet and work out at the gym with a trainer and a masseur.

I exercise, stretch, and swim each week.  That keeps me in shape."

 

"Now you'll be exercising each day," she said.  "It's not the same as

working out at the gym, but you'll be exhausted every evening and will

forget about the gym, I promise you.  Your new exercise regimen will

strengthen your arms, your thighs, and, especially, your ass.  Your

new exercises will make you very hungry.  But, with time, you'll

become accustomed to it."

 

"Enough chitchat," she said.  "Monique told me that you want to change

your hairstyle to something more practical and representative of your

new job.  I propose to shorten your hair and curl it.  You'll save

time at 4 in the morning when you get up, because you won't have to

worry about arranging your hair.  I'll make you a brunette because

that's the only color I have."

 

She then began to caress my body and face, and she kissed me on the

neck.  I couldn't help responding and began fondling her bottom and

breasts while I passionately kissed her.  We retired to her room

and there began slowly discarding garment after garment.  She told

me to take off her sandals, and, in the heat of the moment, I kissed

her feet.  I embraced this Portuguese woman and pulled her against me.

I felt happy; I had forgotten my middle-class inhibitions.  I kissed

the tattoo on her shoulder.  She even made me kiss her derrière and

deep between her meaty thighs.

 

For now, I was hers.

 

We made love to each other for more than an hour.

 

                    ***********************************

 

"How do you come to have a tattoo?" I asked, afterward.

 

"I have a friend who can do amazing things with a tattooing needle,"

she replied.

 

"But you have work to do," she said.  "Get dressed.  I'll lend you

clothing for this afternoon.  I want you dressed like a Portuguese

cleaning woman."

 

After our marvellous hour together, I could deny her nothing.

 

She lent me knickers with garters, old thick black stockings with runs,

and a rose-colored, one-piece "combination" made out of nylon.  (I

didn't know that anyone still wore those.)

 

And to make sure that I didn't get these clothes dirty, she handed me

a worn, long sleeved smock decorated with pale blue flowers.

 

"But first, let's make you beautiful," she said.  Follow me to the

kitchen."

 

She removed the dirty dishes from the tiny sink.

 

"You'll wash them afterwards.  Put this dish towel on your shoulders.

You can use it later to dry your hair."

 

This was quite a change from my usual hairdresser's salon with its

red leather chair, its white walls with mirrors, a white silk dressing

gown for me, and of course, an endless supply of soft towels.

 

                    ***********************************

 

Episode 4

 

 

After she cut my long blonde hair, dyed it brunette, and put on all

different kinds of curlers she had in a plastic bag, she lent me a

tattered, dark blue towel to cover my hair while it dried.  She had

styled my hair in the fashion of her country.  In one morning, I had

passed from being a blonde middle-class Frenchwoman, who wore very BCBG

silk evening gowns from the finest establishments, to being a brunette

Portuguese maid, who wore short nylon smocks decorated with flowers,

rough wool stockings, and cheap plastic sandals.

 

Nevertheless, I felt content, especially after my sensual tryst in

Conchita's arms.  Mon Dieu!  Was I now a lesbian, too?

 

"One can't work on an empty stomach," Conchita said.  "Do the dishes

and move the table over here while I finish cooking a meal.  Next

time, the lady will serve the concierge.  I adore seeing the world

turned topsy-turvy, and I see that you like it, too.  Put on this

apron, and you can begin."

 

"I have some gloves that I brought from home to use cleaning the

kitchen.  Wasn't that a good idea?"

 

She became very annoyed and said, "Monique doesn't want you to use

gloves.  She's jealous of your beautiful hands.  She said that the

cleaning you're to do here must be done without gloves.  She wants

you to learn what her life has been like."

 

She stretched.

 

"But enough chitchat," she said.  "Get busy.  I'm starting to get

hungry."

 

"Me, too," I replied.  I'm usually never hungry in the middle of the

day.  The work I did this morning must have given me an appetite."

 

"That's good.  We're having a stew made with onions and potatoes.

I cooked enough to feed a regiment, and we can wash it down with a

bottle of wine."

 

Wearing a threadbare blue apron, I finished washing the dishes.  Then

I moved the table to the middle of the kitchen and covered it with a

red and white oil-cloth, while an American soap opera blared on the TV.

 

We devoured the stew.  I had three helpings, drank several glasses

of vin ordinaire, and joked with Conchita.

 

As we were finishing up, she began scolding me.  "Monique will change

you physically, but if you wish to become my true friend, you must

alter your way of speaking, too.  You're too chi-chi, and that

embarrasses me because I never went to school.  So you must change your

manner of speech -- speak louder, make grammatical mistakes, use slang

and generally cruder language, swear occasionally (when not around your

betters).  Also, you must always refer to Monique as "Madame."

 

We finished the meal with a café au lait, a Portuguese tradition, and

a cake with nuts and almonds, one of Conchita's specialties.

 

"Off to work, Maria," she finally said, pushing herself from the table.

 

"But my name is Marie Bénédicte," I protested.

 

"Look in the mirror in the entryway.  You don't look like Marie

Bénédicte.  You look like Maria, who has just arrived from Portugal."

 

I have to admit that anyone looking at me -- no makeup, cheeks

flushed with cheap wine, wearing a head scarf and a smock -- would

not recognize the woman who regularly ate with her friends at Chez

Phillipe, the best restaurant in the area.

 

My future would no longer be filled with visits to fine restaurants,

bridge parties, teas, manicures, nights at the theatre or opera, but

rather with nourishing meals in front of the TV, physical work,

vacuuming carpets, waxing parquet floors, washing tiles and staircases

-- and (the height of humiliation) cleaning and scouring toilets.  All of

this will be paid for with rebukes and threats of being fired by women at

the bottom of the pay scale, such as secretaries and receptionists, who

want their workplace to be impeccably clean.  What I still don't like

after months on this job is the habit these women have of putting Post-It

notes on their computer screens demanding that I clean the carpet under

their desks or some similar thing.  But Monique and Conchita tell me that

the contract stipulates that, to keep my job, I have to avoid offending

these spiteful people, who are my superiors.

 

But all that lay in the future.  At the moment, I had my first staircase

to clean and polish.

 

                    ***********************************

 

Episode 5

 

 

"You can use the equipment under the staircase," she told me.  "There's

a broom, a dustpan, and a dust-bag.  For washing, there's a gray iron

bucket with a serpillière inside, which you'll put into one of the

pockets of your smock.  You'll stuff your other pocket with rags

for cleaning the handrails and the windows on the landings.  Two of

the floors have a tap that you can use to fill your bucket."

 

After having collected the appropriate equipment from the musty closet,

I started to climb the stairs trying not to drop anything.  One loses

all her dignity when she is struggling with this type of paraphernalia.

 

When I reached the sixth floor, I put my gear in the corner and filled

the bucket with water.  Because it was dirty, I rinsed the serpillière,

and wrung it out.  The water was cold and chilled my hands.  After I

swept, I got down on all fours like any cleaning lady and began to

scrub the floor, pushing the bucket ahead me.  It was hard on my knees,

and, little by little, my legs began to cramp, making it difficult to

maintain my position.  I became a lot less ladylike in my posture and

movements.

 

Then I heard Monique's voice.  "My, what beautiful black knickers,"

she sneered.

 

                    ***********************************

 

Episode 6

 

 

My face turned red from sweat and shame.  Monica the maid had been

transformed by the hairdresser into Madam Monique, a dark blonde with

a very classy haircut that commanded respect.  Moreover, her new

charcoal grey outfit and high heels flattered her figure.  On my knees

on a staircase, wearing an old smock and a used apron, I was from a

totally different world.  I could not understand exactly why I had

accepted this position, but the die was cast, the arrangement was

documented, and there was now nothing I could do about it.

 

"I have several things to tell you," Monique said, with the confidence

of a true mistress.

 

I wanted to get up, but she prevented me.  "Just remain on your knees

and listen.  You're to finish cleaning this public stairwell under

Conchita's supervision.  You'll then meet me at exactly 4:30 this

afternoon at the working women's shop in the Rue Victor Hugo, where

I'll select some new clothes for you.  This evening, I've invited some

guests over.  This will be your debut as a serving maid, and you'll

wear the customary uniform of a soubrette.  Tomorrow, you'll take over

my cleaning duties at the airport.  I've arranged everything.  You'll

arrive at 4 in the morning at the terminal building.  The janitorial

services van will take you there.  I've given my locker keys to a

colleague named Ginette.  You'll find my smock in the locker, and she

will train you.  Tomorrow, I'll pay for a tattoo on your rear end to

announce your new trade.  Since most people in your new social circle

don't know how to read, you'll need a picture to help them out: a woman

on all fours scrubbing the floor should do it.  Men, in particular,

really like that kind of tattoo."

 

"Within a week, I'm sure you'll have become accustomed to your changed

condition: your new clothes, your new friends, and your new milieu --

kitchen and servants' quarters, as well as grimy stairwells and filthy

toilets in factories and public places.

 

"À tout à l'heure, Maria," she said, as she departed.

 

I wondered how she knew my new name?

 

                    ************************************

 

Episode 7

 

 

I arrived at the shop in the Rue Victor Hugo at 4:30 as instructed,

and then I waited for twenty minutes.  Monique finally drove up and

casually left the car for a valet to park.

 

The door to the shop opened as Monique approached it; she must have

telephoned for an appointment.  She motioned for me to follow.  A sales

lady watched me enter and examined me from head to foot without smiling

or welcoming me.  (Conchita had not allowed me to change back, so I was

still wearing her old dress and laddered stockings, together with a

short blouse with ridiculous pink lace that she hadn't worn for more

than 10 years.)  It was understood that I was not an actual customer.

That was Madame, who wished to buy clothes for her new cleaning lady,

who had just arrived from Portugal.

 

She wished to buy me an entire ensemble: smocks for cleaning, a maid's

outfit for serving a meal, and a simple dress that would allow me to

shop for Madame.

 

She whispered to the saleswoman (but I heard anyway), "Nothing too

expensive -- second hand if possible.  She has just arrived from

Portugal, and we mustn't spoil her.  As it is, she'll think coarse

pantyhose and out-of-style underwear are great luxuries."

 

Monique, very beautiful and elegant, was offered a chair.

 

                    ***********************************

 

Episode 8

 

 

When she was seated, Monique took control and ordered me to walk

forward and turn around.

 

She commented on the appearance of the knot on my apron, "Maria, you'll

have to learn to tie a better knot than that; you aren't working in a

Portuguese cafe, now, but in the home of a lady."

 

She remarked to the saleswoman, "That dress suits her well.  She wears

it like it was made for her.  Do you think you could find a similar

used dress for everyday service and a pair of simple, flat black shoes?

That style of clothing will encourage her to be humble and servile."

 

The clerk nodded.

 

"For housework," Monique went on, "she needs two kinds of smock: a pink

one for light duties, and a blue or grey one for heavy work.  I want

something that is strong, wrinkle-proof, easy to clean, and good value."

 

I didn't say anything.  I had become the object, an insignificant thing

that was being fitted.  Monique made all the decisions without asking my

opinion.

 

"I recommend nylon," replied the saleswoman, "I have some with long

sleeves, with or without a white collar."

 

"One of each will supplement her wardrobe nicely," Monique replied.

 

She looked at me.  "Get on with it, girl, try them out."

 

I took off the smock that I was wearing and put on one of the new ones.

 

"Walk over here, girl," she ordered.

 

She felt the garment with her fingers and tried to wrinkle it.  She

liked this material, which breathed.  She remembered how pleasant it

would have been to have worn something like this when she'd been a

servant....

 

Noticing my quizzical look, she shrugged.  "Very good, it suits her."

 

After this incident, I had an idea that one day she would again submit

herself to such clothing.

 

"Don't forget to buy some underwear and pantyhose," suggested the

saleswoman.

 

"What do you have in size 44?" asked Monique.

 

Both the sales lady and I wondered why she asked for clothing that

was 2 sizes too large.

 

Very discreetly, the clerk asked, "Why that particular size?"

 

"You and I both know," said Monique, "that girls who come from

Portugal to work in France encounter food at their employers' homes

that is richer and more abundant than what they are used to.  They

quickly gain 10 to 15 kilos in weight.  When this happens, their

mistresses have to buy them new clothes."

 

"You are completely right, Madam," said the sales lady.

 

Monique smiled.  "But you know, Mademoiselle, I find women with that

extra weight very sensual, particularly when they are on their knees

scrubbing the floor.  Their generous curves are beautiful under their

smocks."

 

The clerk looked thoughtful, then continued with business.  "To

round out the wardrobe, I can recommend some dresses to wear when

she is running errands.  Simple, inexpensive dresses.  I have

some out-of-fashion inventory with round collars, some with lace,

straight, without pleats, and reaching to the knees."

 

I became agitated when I heard this and decided to refuse to wear that

sort of thing.  Monique could not seriously consider buying me such

clothes.

 

The sales lady returned with several large garments.  I became even

more upset when I saw how ugly the dresses were.

 

I said, "I refuse to wear such clothing."

 

Monique became angry and put on her "do-you-want-me-to-send-your-

friends-and-family-copies-of-the-photographs?" face.

 

I panicked and quickly backed down.  Head bowed, I continued with the

fitting.

 

Monique had me try on a dress with flowers on it.  When I returned from

the fitting room wearing this formless dress, my cheeks were flushed

with shame, and I felt humiliated having to play the role of a lowly

immigrant who is no longer allowed to decide anything for herself.  To

console myself, I imagined that I was again in the arms of Conchita.

 

"For winter wear, I would choose that brown one," I suggested.

 

"Let's try on the last one," said Monique to the saleswoman,

ignoring my suggestion.  "My maid has no taste."

 

The one Monique chose had a pink stripe and was of a style that had

never sold.

 

"Now, Maria," said Monique, "since these clothes are costing me a lot

of money, you must return to the house to prepare dinner."

 

(Yesterday, the cost of this clothing would not be enough to buy me

a pair of knickers.  How quickly values change.)

 

"To get home quicker, I'll take you.  Follow me and be quick about it."

 

                    ***********************************

 

Episode 9

 

 

Out in the street, I walked with head down, red with shame, afraid

that I would be recognized, and followed behind Monique, who looked

very stylish in her classy tailored outfit.  I, on the other hand,

wore my ugly, ill-fitting new dress, and carried two packages with

the rest of my new clothes.  (Before, a pair of 20 square meter

dressing rooms were insufficient to contain my wardrobe.)

 

I followed Monique into a shoe boutique to pick up some earlier

purchases.  I was familiar with this expensive shop and hesitant to

enter it now because the sales staff knew me very well -- I had always

acted like an arrogant bitch when I shopped there.

 

The saleswoman greeted Monique rather obsequiously as she entered.

Monique introduced me as her new Portuguese maid (I certainly couldn't

pass as one of her friends in the dress I was wearing) and asked the

clerk to give me the packages.  The woman told me to accompany her to

the rear of the boutique.  In the back, she stared at me for some time.

I began to sweat.

 

At last, she said, "I know you."

 

Looking me in the eyes, she continued, "I've seen you here before...a

thoroughly disagreeable lady, a spoiled brat, haughty with all the

boutique workers in this quarter."

 

"No," I murmured.  "I come from Portugal."

 

She slapped me.

 

"You don't have an accent, and I don't believe you."

 

She slapped me a second time, and the tears welled from my eyes.  I

confessed and started to explain.

 

She interrupted me immediately.  "I don't want to know.  But I do

congratulate you on your transformation; it suits you very well.  I

do hope Madam Monique will give me a chance to avenge all the junior

employees that you have humiliated with your rude remarks."

 

I trembled, but I felt my knickers getting wet....

 

"Now you do housework in a smock like us saleswomen," she said.

"The only difference is that your smock is less flattering than ours

and is dirtier.  A broom and serpillière are your new toys.  'Pride

goeth before a fall,' my girl."

 

She laughed.

 

"I see that you no longer wear those smartly tailored clothes that

flattered you so.  You always irritated us when you were in the

fitting room and flung clothes on the floor without paying attention

to the price.  Just one of those pieces of clothing cost more than any

of us makes in two months."  She pursed her lips.  "Your new dress is

hideous, but that's what lower class women like you wear.  Raise your

dress so that I can see your underwear.  All the saleswomen used to

admire your silk panties and exquisite hosiery."

 

I obeyed her.  I had to.

 

"Ah, you now wear common, out-of-style panties that make your ass

look bigger and pantyhose that makes your thighs look chunkier, holds

in the heat, and sags at the knees.  But people don't notice working

women like you.  Bravo to Madam Monique for succeeding with such a

magnificent transformation."

 

She paused and looked closely at my crotch.  A sinister expression

stole across her face.

 

"I think that I would like to see you work as the cleaning lady for

this boutique, you who were so haughty.  It would give me so much

pleasure to watch you vacuuming the carpet, washing the windows, and

pushing your serpillière across the floor.  You may begin your new

duties by kissing my shoes."

 

I said nothing as I reddened both with shame and with pleasure at

this new ordeal.  I sank to my knees as she ordered and kissed her

shoes and stockings.

 

"Very good.  Report for work tomorrow morning."

 

"I can't, madam," I said.  "I have to work at the airport tomorrow."

 

"Well, well!  You used to arrive at the airport dressed BCBG and

accompanied by a servant pushing a caddy filled with YSL luggage.  Now

you yourself will be pushing a cleaning cart and wearing a shabby smock

with the word "cleaning" on the back -- just in case someone doesn't

recognize your trade.  I would die of humiliation if I were a cleaning

woman in front of everybody at the airport."

 

My panties were getting wetter.

 

"Are you free the day after tomorrow?" she asked.

 

"Yes, madam," I answered.

 

"Good.  Report here promptly at 8 AM, girl."

 

I left the shop, walking along behind Monique as before and carrying

the packages, more luxury items that I would not be wearing.

 

She understood what had happened in the shop.

 

                    ***********************************

 

Episode 10

 

When we arrived at the parking lot, Monique opened the trunk of the

car, and I stowed the packages, both the expensive ones belonging to

her and the cheap ones, which were gifts to me.  I desperately wanted

to talk with her in private and ask her to ease off, because she was

pushing me too hard.

 

She told me to take the wheel; she would sit in the back.  As we left

the parking lot, I was about to start a conversation, but she did not

let me begin.

 

"Wait, Maria," she said, "I must stop at the caterer's shop."

 

She ordered a meal for four people and specified that the food

should be delivered in time for her slovenly servant to finish the

preparations.

 

"She is just beginning her service," Monique told the caterer.  "But I

will be lenient with her this evening."

 

When we arrived back home, I put the car in the garage.  She told me to

hang up her purchases in her dressing room.

 

She also told me that I could move into a little room under the mansard

roof on the top floor, which was ideally suited for a servant such as

me.

 

"I see that your womanhood is blossoming hour by hour in your new

position.  You like submitting and wearing nylon.  And, though I do

like the feel of your new smock, I prefer silk and the respect that

it gets you with tradesmen, hairdressers, beauticians, and saleswomen.

 

"It's really pleasant to have both nice and not-so-nice people at your

beck and call.  You, on the other hand, are embarking on the road to

hell.  You'll see when you begin cleaning the airport tomorrow.  The

people you'll be working for are not nice to the cleaning staff.  Just

obey orders.  Don't protest when the supervisor feels you up or makes

you...."

 

After a moment, she shrugged.

 

"But now that's your problem.  Go up to your room -- here's the key

-- and change into your pink smock, an apron, and a maid's cap.

You'll clean the front parlor and the dining room, vacuum the carpet,

dust the furniture, and wash the mirrors.  You'll then scrub the floor

of the entranceway on your knees with your serpillière as I've taught

you.  Then you'll go to the cupboard and arrange the dishes for the

meals that will arrive in an hour.  You will set out the glasses and

prepare an apéritif.  Me, I'm tired and feel the need to freshen up.

I'm going to take a bath with bath salts."

 

Timidly, I asked if I could take a shower in my room before I started.

 

"I'll regret this kindness," she said.  "Very well, but hurry.  I

believe your room has only cold water, and the shower is dirty."

 

I arrived in my 9 square meter room -- this morning, I'd had a 300

square meter room -- and found a worn wooden bed, mattress stuffed

with straw, a rickety table holding a cracked bowl of plastic flowers,

and an an armoire containing some wire hangers, one of which held a

maid's uniform, dating to before the war, made from a thick black

fabric with no ruffles, and a large white apron with wide straps that

tied in the back.

 

In a corner, there was a a dirty shower stall with no curtain and

no shower head.  I turned on the water, which was indeed cold.

Unfortunately, I really needed a shower.  A scrap of soap enabled me

to lather myself (after a fashion), but the cold water made me shiver.

Nevertheless, it did wash away the sweat from riding the bus, making

love, cleaning the stairwell, and scrubbing the toilet....

 

To dry myself, I had to be satisfied with a dirty rag attached to the

wash basin.  No more thick, scented, hot towels and bathrobes that

absorbed water.  No lotion, either, or cream to soften the skin.  I put

on a pink nylon smock instead of a dressing gown, beige knickers,

pantyhose, and a white apron, tied with a motion that was to became

habitual.

 

As Monique ordered, I cleaned the parlor and the dining room.  And I

again assumed the humiliating position used to scrub the floor with

a serpillière instead of a mop.  Monique eventually finished her bath

and appeared in a silk dressing gown and slippers.  Without paying any

attention to the work I had done, she walked up and demonstrated her

power over me.

 

"You missed a spot," she said.  "Take care of it, tout de suite.  Then

make me some tea and bring it to the front parlor."

 

At this exact moment, the doorbell rang.  Monique crossed in front of

me and opened the door.  It was Odette, the gardener's wife, who lived

in a small house at the back of the garden.  She used to help Monique

prepare for my big parties, but not often, because I found her so

vulgar.  I was convinced that she abused her husband, the nice,

efficient gardener who worked the 5 hectares of my ex-garden.

 

"Hello, Monique," Odette said.  "What have you done to your hair?

You look like a princess.  Is your mistress on a holiday?"

 

"No...."  She laughed.  "If you only knew.  Come in, and I'll tell you

all about it.  Maria, prepare a second tea and bring it to us with some

little cakes."

 

When Odette entered, she saw me on my knees with my serpillière.  She

was dumbfounded when she recognized me.  Then Monique winked, and

Odette seemed to understand the situation and quickly regained her

composure.

 

"Hurry up, girl," she said, nudging me with her foot.  "I don't have

all day.

 

 

To be continued....

 

 

                    ***********************************

 

Translator's Epilogue

 

In fact, Conchita never finished the story.  I would be grateful if

members of this group who are also writers added some episodes to the

story.

 

Some suggestions include the following:

 

* What happens when Maria visits the tattoo parlor to get a tattoo on

  her ass?  Is she obliged to reveal charms that she has hitherto

  reserved for her lover?  (I doubt that Monique will let Maria wear

  a g-string.)

 

* There is a hint in the story that Odette has a taste for administering

  corporal punishment.  Perhaps Monique could enlist Odette's aid in

  encouraging good work habits from Maria.  I would love to read such

  a story.

 

* Monique is throwing a dinner party for four.  Presumably, she is one

  of the four, but who are the other three?  Perhaps they are among

  Maria's former lady friends.

 

* Maria, who clearly has a foot fetish, gets a job cleaning a shoe

  store.  This situation surely must give rise to some opportunities

  for humiliation.

 

* Conchita tells Maria that the "next time," Maria will cook the meal

  and serve Conchita.  What happens that "next time"?

 

* Finally, what happens at the end of Maria's year of servitude?  At

  one point, Maria jumps to the conclusion that Monique will don the

  smock again.  But this is probably wishful thinking.  There are

  clearer indications that there will be no going back, for either

  of them.  Either way, however, Maria's life has been permanently

  changed.