(Translated by The Nerdly and edited by C. Lakewood)
This is a translation from the French of a story entitled
"Transformation d'une Bourgeoise," which was uploaded to the
files section of the now-extinct 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 that specialized
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
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
To preserve some of the flavor of the original story, I have left
a few terms in the original French (or in metric measurement),
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
Kilo: Equals 2.2 lbs.
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
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
"At the time [of this story,] Portugal was still a very poor
country and not a member of the European Union. [Portugal did not
join the EU until 1986.] 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 were no elevators 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 off-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
"So the term Portuguese maid/housekeeper or 'femme de ménage
Portugaise' was synonymous with a poor, backward, and 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'...[that is, '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
So much for methodology and historical background. Now, the
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 an 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 a
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 weep, and, between sobs, I told her
everything. By the time I'd finished, I was crying 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.)
"Okay," 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
"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."
"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
"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 hair and dye it
dark. You'll find short hair much more practical for housework."
I borrowed Monique's slippers 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 are 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
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 that 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
"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,
"Y-yes, madam," I murmured.
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
"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 4:00 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. 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
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.
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
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."
"But enough chitchat," she said. "Get busy. I'm starting to get
"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
"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
"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
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.
"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
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.
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 3:30
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 4:00 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 naked 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."
With a smile, she turned to go.
"À tout à l'heure, Maria," she said, as she departed.
I wondered how she knew my new name?
I arrived at the shop in the Rue Victor Hugo at 3:30 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
saleslady 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, just arrived from
She wanted 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.
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
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, and try them out."
I took off the smock that I was wearing and put on one of the new
"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
Noticing my quizzical look, she shrugged. "Very good, it suits
(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
"What do you have in size 44?" asked Monique.
Both the saleslady 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 saleslady 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-
I panicked and quickly backed down. Head bowed, I continued with
Monique had me try on a flower-print dress. 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, "you must return to the house to
prepare dinner. These clothes are costing me a lot of money."
(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
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, two dressing rooms, each
4 x 5 meters, were insufficient to contain my wardrobe.)
I followed Monique into a shoe boutique to pick up some earlier
purchases. I was familiar with that 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 Mme. 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."
"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 any
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
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 Mme. 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
She understood what had happened in the shop.
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 up, 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
"She is just beginning her service," Monique told the caterer.
"So 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
"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 Purgatory. 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 be arriving. 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
Timidly, I asked if I could take a shower in my room before I
She sighed. "I know I'll regret this kindness.... Oh, very well,
but hurry. I believe your room has only cold water, and the
shower is dirty."
My room was only 3 x 3 meters. (This morning, I'd had a 15 x 20
bedroom.) I found a worn wooden bed, mattress stuffed with straw,
a rickety table holding a cracked bowl of plastic flowers, and an
armoire containing some wire hangers, one of which held a maid's
uniform, dating from 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 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 toilets....
To dry myself, I had to be satisfied with the dirty rag hanging on
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 Renard, 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
"Ah, my dear," Odette said. "What have you done to your hair?
You look like a princess. Is your mistress on a holiday?"
"No...." Monique 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
"Hurry up, girl," she said, nudging me with her foot. "I don't
have all day."
To be continued....
Despite her promise, Conchita never finished the story.
Preface by C. Lakewood:
This is a continuation of the Allerednic story "Transformation of a Middle-Class Woman," by Conchita, which was translated from the French by The Nerdly and then edited by me. I have not attempted to copy the style of that story -- which, in any case, was an amalgam of styles -- but I hope that the differences may be ignored. I have, on the other hand, tried to impart a certain Gallic flavor by sprinkling in a few French phrases here and there. (They're fairly simple, but, if you're puzzled by any of them, there's a glossary of terms just below. You may wish to skip over it initially, but come back to it if you encounter something that you don't know and can't intuit.) I am also not nearly so preoccupied as Conchita seems to have been with Frenchwomen's clothing of a quarter century ago...and have substituted a rather more overt sexual content. GLOSSARY 61 kilos: about 134 lbs. 168 cm: about 5'6" Allerednic: "Cinderella" reversed (a term The Nerdly told me about) Bon: "good" Café-au-lait: "coffee with milk" Carte d'identité: official "ID card" Chatte: "cunt" Chérie: "dear" Coq au vin: chicken in wine sauce Excusez-moi: "excuse me" Femme facile: slut (literally "easy woman") First Empire: Empire of Napoleon I (1804-14, 1815) Haricots verts: "green beans" Hein (an interrogative): "eh" La Maison du Tatouage: "The House of Tattoos" M: "Mr." Mlle: "Miss" Mme: "Mrs." M'sieu (a contraction of "monsieur"): "sir" Ma petite: "my little one" Merci: "thank you" Merde: "shit" Mon Dieu: "my God" Nettoyage: "cleaning" OAS: "Organisation de l'Armée Secrète," a group, 1961-63, violently opposed to granting independence to Algeria Petits pois: "green peas" Sapristi: an interjection comparable to the Spanish "¡Caramba!" Second Empire: Empire of Napoleon III (1852-71) Tout de suite: "right away" Vin ordinaire: inexpensive, non-vintage wine TRANSFORMATION OF A MIDDLE-CLASS WOMAN by C. Lakewood Part 4 Episode 11 I quickly prepared Odette's tea and served it, along with a plate of little cakes and croissants. Then I stood by, in case either woman should require anything else. Mme. Monique was regarding my appearance with a scowl. I thought she should be pleased with my dowdy, working-class look, but she didn't seem to be. "What did I tell you to wear, Maria?" "A-a pink nylon smock, a white apron, and a maid's cap, madam." "And what ARE you wearing?" "A pink nylon smock, a white apron, and a maid's cap, madam." She sighed heavily. "Yes. And what else?" "Oh...well.... J-just...beige knickers and pantyhose...and slippers." "So! You will remove everything except the cap...right NOW. I swear I will teach you obedience, girl." Trembling, I stripped to the skin and then stood cowering in front of them. They made me stand up straight, with my arms up. Monique (or rather "Mme. Monique") had already seen me naked, of course, but it was a novel experience for Odette, who looked me over very closely. I blushed. "Nipples very erect," she sniffed. "And she's wet. I wouldn't have guessed it; she always seemed such a cold fish. But she seems to be flourishing in her new position. Her hair's in the wrong places, though, for a woman of her sort. That untidy shrubbery between her legs'll just collect filth and be a breeding ground for disease. I can fetch what I need from the house and have that off her, tout de suite." Monique smiled. "I'm sure Maria will be properly grateful." While Odette was getting her materials, Monique -- Madame Monique, that is -- caressed my ticklish arm-pits. "She's right, you know. These are much too chic for your sort. Well, we must wait for time to correct your appearance here.... What color is it when it grows out?" "A-about the same as my pubes, madam." "Then we'll have to dye it, too, in the end. But I don't suppose you'll mind visiting Conchita again, hein?" I shivered; more of Marie Bénédicte was being erased. But Mme. Monique was right about my wanting to see Conchita again.... But she was still talking. "After you are properly shaved, you will continue your cleaning chores until the food arrives from the caterer. You will then see to that. And you will remain dressed as you are until I give you permission to do otherwise. Understand?" "But...but...yes, madam." "But? But it excites you for others to see you this way -- naked and servile? In fact, you're in heat right now, aren't you?" "Yes, madam." "'Yes, madam' what?" "Yes, madam, I-I am in heat...." "Bon! You will be in heat very often, I think." She gave me a cool, but somehow mischievous look. "The four for dinner will be me, Odette, her sister, and Mme. Mouton from down the street." I blanched. Odette was a proletarian bitch and Odile a 26-year-old apprentice bitch, while Gervaise Mouton was a pretentious, bourgeois bitch. Madame then sent me scurrying off for a basin of hot water, a bar of soap, and a towel. By the time I had fetched those items, Odette had returned and was laying out her things on my -- Mme. Monique's -- carved Moroccan coffee table...shaving soap, a mug, a leather strop, and a cut-throat razor. Odette was very efficient...and she clearly enjoyed the job. She washed my crotch with care (fingering me shamelessly in the process) and lathered me thoroughly (with more manipulation). Then she flourished the razor, warned me to stay still, and whisked away every vestige of my pubic hair. She removed even the few hairs that grew between my buttocks. When she rinsed off the last traces of lather, I was as smooth as I'd been as a child. But she wasn't finished. She spread some sort of foul-smelling, greenish-brown paste thickly over the shaved area. It soon began to tingle...and then to itch like sin.... But I had to wait 20 minutes while whatever it was worked on me. The two women sat and finished their tea and watched me writhe. At length, I was allowed to dash outside, to the gravelled area in back of the house where we often parked. Odette then proceeded to turn a garden hose on me, and, though the flints hurt my bare feet, I had to prance around in the icy spray until my crotch had been washed clean, front and rear. It still itched, though. "Well, express your gratitude to Mme. Renard for all the trouble she has taken, Maria," Mme. Monique purred. I was cold and wet and at a loss for words. I hesitated; I was shivering, humiliated, my poor hairless crotch inflamed and itching like mad.... But suddenly I knew what I should do. I fell to my knees, slipped off one of Odette's espadrilles, and kissed her grubby foot. "Merci, madame," I murmured. I loathed the woman, but it felt proper that I should do this. But now I desperately tried to think of an excuse for going off by myself, so that I could attend to m-my...my "chatte".... "The other foot, too, girl," Odette ordered. And I obeyed, so eagerly that they both laughed. Mon Dieu! I was not only a drab, but something else, now, too. I trembled...and not from the cold. "And speak more distinctly," Odette added. With that irritating, la-di-da accent, you may as well be saying 'Merde-ci'!" I looked up, with a contrite expression on my face. "Excusez-moi, madame." "Dry yourself, girl," Mme. Monique said, tossing me a coarse towel. "You may wear your cap and apron, but nothing else until you leave for work in the morning. Also, from now on, I don't want you using the shower in your room. You will wash under the garden hose, supervised by Mme. Renard or her husband. Now get along and finish your cleaning." I scrambled to my feet and curtseyed awkwardly. "Yes, madam." ****************************** Episode 12 The caterer's van arrived in good time. While accepting the order, I tried to hide myself within my apron...unsuccessfully. The deliveryman was a burly Corsican named Cézar, who flirted with me shamelessly and would not go away until I agreed to meet him the following evening for drinks. Fortunately, the dinner was not terribly elaborate and the caterer's written instructions were both simple and thorough, so finishing it up was relatively easy...even for me, who was quite unaccustomed to cooking. When I served the apéritifs, dressed only in cap and apron, Mme. Monique seemed tranquil and aristocratic, Odette looked smug, Odile only partially repressed a giggle, and Mme. Mouton covered her surprise with a sneer. Odile, six years younger than her sister, affected the garb of a bohemian of twenty-odd years ago. It was a total sham, of course. She was virtually tone-deaf, barely literate, and didn't know one end of a paint brush from the other. We had not associated much, but she demonstrated that she had very much entered into the spirit of the occasion by ostentatiously presenting Mme. Monique with a coupon for 20% off at "La Maison du Tatouage." Even the peevish Mme. Mouton was amused as Mme. Monique described the tattoo she had in mind for me. The dinner itself went off well: lobster bisque, salade Niçoise, coq au vin, petits pois, haricots verts, appropriate wines, strawberry tart, and coffee. As I moved around the table, serving and removing plates, Mlle. Odile in particular took pains to touch me in passing...intimately. The touching and the looks I was being given by the four at the table (a gauntlet I ran with each course), in addition to my own lustful, twisted thoughts, had me on edge all evening. By the end of the meal, I was red-faced, certain everyone could smell my arousal. When they had at last retired to the lounge, I was allowed to eat what was left over. It was tepid, but still somewhat tasty...and certainly filling. My primary problem, however, was that Mme. Monique had some perverted etiquette manual in Italian -- ITALIAN! -- that recommended that maids remain standing while eating. And, of course, she insisted that I conform. As I was washing up, Mme. Monique came up behind me and caressed my naked derrière. I rubbed myself against her hand. Her fingers wriggled between my legs and deep into my wetness. "Merci, madame...." She laughed. "Oh, I know you're in heat, chérie, but there'll be no play-time for you this evening, I'm afraid. You must get up at 2:00 in the morning, so that you can get to the town square by 3:00 and catch the janitorial services van, which will take you to the terminal. But don't worry. For the rest of us that will be the shank of the evening, and Odette will wake you in time. Here's your carte d'identité, made out in the name of Maria Menino...Date of Birth: 14 July 1942, Height: 168 cm, Weight: 61 kilos, Hair: black, Eyes: green, Nationality: Portuguese, Status: resident alien, Occupation: servant.... Carry it with you; it IS official. Wear your new pink-striped dress tomorrow. I'll see you when you return. Now, off to bed!" And she gave me a stinging slap on my bottom. My room was stuffy, and the bed was lumpy, but I lay down exhausted, caressed myself only briefly, and was soon fast asleep. ****************************** Episode 13 I slept like the dead until Mme. Renard and her sister roughly shook me awake...their drunken laughter in my ears and their inquisitive fingers all over my naked body. Having turned me out of bed, they tossed me my clothes and watched me huddle into the coarse bloomers, thick black stockings, cheap plastic sandals, and, of course, that atrocious pink-striped dress. In a pocket of the dress, I found a sketch-map of the terminal and my carte d'identité. I stared at the latter a moment, shivering. So the chic and well-to-do Mme. Marie Bénédicte L'E_____, from an old and distinguished French family, had indeed officially become plain Maria Menino, impoverished Portuguese immigrant laborer.... For a whole year! At least, Mme. Monique Lionne PROMISED to resume being Monica Leoa and let me have my nice life back. She DID promise.... Odile handed me a brown paper sack. "Breakfast," she said. "Bread, cheese, sausage, and a litre of vin ordinaire. Eat it while you wait for the van." And so I scurried out into the darkness and down the street toward the town square. ****************************** I was still bone-tired as I chewed my coarse meal, hunched over in the town square amongst the several others who waited for the van. I remembered the sort of breakfasts I had enjoyed in the past -- after a good night's sleep on a feather bed -- lovely soft-boiled eggs, crisp bacon, warm croissants and Danish butter, lush fruits, perfect café-au-lait...Sèvres porcelain and First Empire silver and thick, soft linen, monogrammed white-on-white. My crotch still itched. The van arrived on schedule, and we all boarded. It was crowded and stank of sweat and garlic. There were no seats; we sat on burlap bags filled with coir. It was a long, hot ride, but I was able to wriggle about and rub my thighs together, under the pretense of trying to get comfortable. So the trip was not without its compensations. I had to stifle a moan FOUR times during the trip. I was congratulating myself on my cleverness, when, as we descended at the South Terminal, one of the men winked at me. He knew! I managed an embarrassed smile. He swaggered up to me. He was swarthy and pock-marked. "I'm called Jules. Sit with me on the return trip, ma petite, and I'll make sure that you are more 'comfortable,' hein?" I nodded, shyly, and hurried off to the women's locker room, following the sketch-map. I wondered what had happened to me, in less than 24 hours. Before, I'd had sex with my husband every month or two, with my lover once or twice a week, and very occasionally with my tennis instructor. And, even when I was doing it, I frequently wasn't thinking about it, but rather about a bridge hand that I'd played very well or very badly (thank God there were many more of the former than of the latter) or my next beautician's appointment, tennis lesson, shopping trip, or lunch date. Now, however, I seemed to be continually aroused and continually giving in to these desires. It was as if my interests had narrowed down to purely carnal pleasures: eating, drinking, sex.... And I knew that I would sit with Jules on the return trip. God help me! ****************************** Ginette, madam's friend, turned out to be short and rather stout, with a scowl and red, frizzy hair (obviously dyed). She let me into what was now MY locker, where I found only a shabby grey smock with "NETTOYAGE" across the back in faded red block letters. She insisted that I strip off my dress and underpants and go to work wearing just the smock, stockings, and sandals. I remembered sauntering through airports, elegantly dressed and followed by a porter with my equally stylish luggage. I was often both amused and disgusted by the bustle, the babel, the stench. Now I, plodding along in my drab smock with my cleaning bucket, was part of the clamor and the smell. I spent the next two hours scrubbing the floor around the check-in counters of Air Algerié, Turkish Airlines, Egypt Air, and Air Maroc. Ginette did a lot of overseeing and very little work. The general run of passengers for those lines seemed to me very unsavory. (Twenty years ago, my father had very much admired the OAS, but I thought it better not to say so in that neighborhood.) Since I was naked under my smock, I'm sure that my position, on hands and knees, gave all that scruffy Islamic trash a wonderful view of my intimate areas. The work was hard, but my exposure kept me aroused, and my fantasies served to distract me from my fatigue. I would choose one of the passengers hanging about and imagine him (or her!) ravishing me...right out in public...for the entertainment of passersby. I'd been at this task for some time when two familiar voices cut through my reverie...the compelling baritone of Phillipe Garnier (the town notary and my erstwhile lover) and the appalling nasal drawl of young Sofie Moreau (once a rival and now, I suppose, my successor). They were passing behind me, chattering about their impending holiday in Morocco. I crouched lower. Mon Dieu! If they should recognize me, I would die. Their footsteps paused directly in back of me. "How vulgar! Displaying her naked ass in public. Foreign riff-raff, I imagine. No pubic hair...probably a part-time whore, too." Sophie's sneer gave me a chill, and I wondered if my ass were blushing. Phillipe's voice sounded thoughtful. "Mmmmm.... Except for that lack of hair, it seems familiar.... Ah, yes. It rather reminds me of...a former interest...." "Marie Bénédicte? That prune? I wish it WERE her. I'd put my toe.... Oh, well.... She was then, and this is now. You'll have a much prettier (and cleaner) derrière to admire, mon cher." And they went on their way, laughing. I, on the other hand, shed a few tears. The incident did make me very wet, though. ****************************** At 6:00, I was introduced to my Algerian supervisor, M. Hassan Sayid, who took me into his office for an "interview." I was on my knees for half an hour, but I wasn't scrubbing floors. I was, as they say, "polishing his knob"...three times. I hated doing it, for he was such a swine, but I guess it was my place. Afterward, he pronounced himself satisfied with my work. An hour of cleaning toilets then was succeeded by half an hour with two Turkish clerks. They were younger than M. Sayid and tasted better, but they were just as self-absorbed. By the time I finished, it was too late to find Ginette and to change my clothes; I had to hurry to catch the company van. So I just continued wearing my grey smock and stayed naked underneath. Jules didn't seem to mind. ****************************** Episode 14 The van was even fouler on the return trip. But I don't suppose I was exactly sweet-smelling, either. All in all, it was much more pleasant than the ride out to Orly had been. Unlike M. Sayid and the Turks, Jules seemed almost as concerned with my satisfaction as he was with his own. We sat in the back of the van, kissing and cuddling and playing with each other. He was very manly, and I was tempted to go further, especially after I realized that none of my fellow workers much cared what we did. Still, it WAS broad daylight. Perhaps next time, on the trip out, when it was dark.... Bourgeoise Marie Bénédicte would have been mortified at the very thought, of course, but Maria, the Portuguese femme facile, simply licked her lips and shrugged. ****************************** It wasn't until the van had dropped me off and I'd begun the walk home that my good spirits evaporated, my self-consciousness crept back, and I started to feel both very tired and very ashamed of how I'd been behaving. It was almost as if I had two personas. When I was with people who had never known Marie Bénédicte, I could function as Maria with some ease...but, back in familiar surroundings, or around people who had been part of my old life, my shame became a torment. I turned into my pleasant, linden-lined street...trudged past the pretentious, faux Second Empire home of Mme. Mouton...prayed desperately that I'd encounter no one who had known me before...and finally reached my house -- my former house -- and circled round it. I sighed as I approached the back entrance (for the use of tradesmen and servants). Sapristi! I spat when I remembered that I had to go ask that cursed Odette to hose me down. Rather timidly, I knocked on the cottage door, my former insouciance completely spent. At length, it was answered, not by Mme. Odette, but by her husband, Claude. Only slightly taller than I, he was at least 25 kilos heavier. He was paunchy, balding, and seemed always to have a week's stubble on his face. Notwithstanding, he'd always been a pleasant person and suitably respectful towards me. "I suppose you want a shower." He sniffed me and belched. "You certainly could use one. Strip down, girl, tout de suite. Odette's out somewhere, so I'll handle the hose." I was both angry and humiliated by this reception. I mean, he WAS right, but he might have been gentler about it. What happened to the modest, deferential man I had always known? Vanished along with the chic Marie Bénédicte, I suppose. I stripped, blushing hotly, my timidity at appearing naked before Claude considerably greater than if I were showing myself to Jules...or Cézar...or to any of the men I had serviced at the airport. Claude took my meager clothing and disappeared back into the cottage, re-emerging a moment later with a large jar of that awful hair-growth inhibitor paste. "Oh, please, no more of that. It makes me itch so! Please! I-I could be very nice to you, if...." "Bah! You'll be 'very nice' to me, regardless. Won't you, my girl?" "Y-yes, sir. But...." "Now spread 'em. A few more of these treatments and you should be permanently hairless." He beamed. "Hairless.... That'll be nice, won't it?" "Yes, sir," I said, miserably, spreading my legs. He proceeded to massage a great glob of the stinking paste well into my crotch, fore and aft. Then he lounged on the porch, affably watching me hop about in a useless attempt to extinguish the terrible itch that possessed me. After that, I had to "be very nice" to him until it was time for me to be rinsed off. I capered about in the garden hose's frigid jet for a long time. It certainly entertained M. Claude, and it washed away all the paste and much of the sweat and grime my body had accumulated, but it reduced my stink only slightly. When he turned off the water at last, he leered at me. "You're too pale. Let the sun dry your skin and put a little color into it at the same time. Madam should be back in an hour or so...." He chuckled. "Take it easy...while you can."