Happy New Year!

This has been a wonderful  year for the Ladies Becoming Maids blog. It had the biggest amount of posts and visitors ever and December 2017 was the busiest month on record. I would like to take this opportunity to thank all the writers that contributed their stories, all the commentators that shared their views as well as the silent majority of daily visitors that I can only see in my Google Analytics stats (yes, that also means you, the sole visitor from South Sudan in November, whoever you are!).

I know I keep saying it but it's worth repeating that I could have never imagined that my little hobby will attract such a following and I am still amazed by all the feedback in the form of e-mails and comments that I receive from you. Thank you for that and please don't stop - if it wasn't for your contribution, this blog would have fizzled out somewhere in 2015 at the latest. We are now entering 2018 and the lady-to-maid genre's prospects never looked better. If there is one thing I regret is that I could not devote more time to publishing more books - limiting myself to just two last year. We all know that New Year's resolutions are typically not worth much, but here I am: I promise to deliver more in 2018!

Happy New Year all! Thank you for everything.

Story: Dancing With My Soul. Chapter 4.

by Andy Engines

My daily routine was slowly growing on me and I found that it helped to take my mind from other matters beyond the little cottage. The old woman was starting to make a more sense as I picked up individual words. She would smile as she held something in front of me and repeat its name over and over whilst waving her hand for me to repeat. The reward of a smile when I got the pronunciation right was becoming addictive.

Every morning my first task was to clear the ashes from the range in the kitchen and I soon learnt to preserve all the embers that were still alight as these made short work of getting the fire going again. As soon as the fire was lit I would get a kettle of water on to boil, expectant of the first drink of the day an hour or so later.

Once the water was on to boil I would sweep the kitchen floor and once satisfied that the floor was as dust free as it could be I would slowly crawl back across the old stones scrubbing them clean with a hand brush and water. At first my knees ached from the kiss of the old stones and my hands were perpetually sore but after little time I found the aches disappeared. Slowly my young body adapted to the daily demands it faced.

More Maid Photo Editorials: Hotel 2007

Like with many other maid fashion editorials posted here, I've been seeing individual photos from this one for years before realising they were part of a bigger set. This one is from Russian photographer Sergey Kaptilkin and you can see the entire thing on his website. I'm only reposting several maid-themed photos from this large and, admittedly, rather bizarre black-and-white set from 2007. Still, the way it's done is quite interesting and lady-to-maid overtones are as strong as ever.

Cleaner Preservation Project

Ever since Emma Finn's untimely departure, I've been checking her blog periodically - first daily, then weekly and then once in a while - in a hope that somehow more material from her will be posted there by whoever's in control of her archive. After all, she did mention herself that she'd made arrangements in this respect.  Unfortunately, nothing was posted.

Cleaner, a story about a rich super model and her fat maid switching lives, is arguably the best transformation novel ever written and it pains me to realise that it will never be finished as intended by Emma. I do not know how much of it she did write but did not have time to share with anyone. It is not even clear if what's on her blog represents the entirety of Book 2 (it is 90,000 words after all!). In either case, I've decided to copy all of the chapters she made available and post them here. It is not inconceivable that her blog will go off-line one of these days and I would hate to see all this excellent material lost forever.

Needless to say, it's too huge to make a single post and it even exceeds blogspot's page size limits so I had to split Book 2 into two pages that I will link to the Library. Other than correcting (very few) obvious typos, the text is exactly as Emma left it even as it's obvious that she was making some plot changes mid-way and was planning to return and fix earlier chapters for consistency. It's taken a lot longer than necessary due to various formatting and linking problems (if any of you tech gurus know how to create a permanent page without either making it a blog post or adding it to the main page via a pages gadget, please let me know! I had to back-post it to 2016, but would much rather have a separate blogger page I can link to), but I believe the text is now in easy-to-read format for your enjoyment. You can read Chapters 1-3 here and Chapters 4-6 here.

I am assuming that many of this blog's readers are familiar with Emma Finn's work. If not, I urge you to get a copy of the Cleaner - I can't think of a better Christmas present! I recommend Book 1 of the unfinished trilogy, but if you want a completed shorter version, you can also read Cleaner: The Original Story. It's a very different take on the general plot as the trilogy went in a completely different direction but highly enjoyable nonetheless.

Story: Dancing With My Soul. Chapter 3.

by Andy Engines

I sat, waiting and time slowed down to grains of sand. There was still no word. It had been 2 hours, then 3, then 4 and still Marije hadn’t returned. Each minute that passed marked more questions, more worry and more doubts. I was doubting myself, doubting Marije, doubting the world and asking why I had pursued this line of action and then I realised I had pursued no line. I had been carried on a wave that lifted me and dragged me forward with absolutely no control.

After 5 hours I was starting to get frantic and found myself pacing the apartment, listening for any sound of her arrival. When I realised how stupid I was being I sat in the window and watched for her return in the hope that sitting watching would speed events up. She would return, why on earth wouldn’t she? I made yet another coffee and returned to my vigil and realising the stupidity of my actions I returned to pacing and listening once more.

Something must have happened, something had gone wrong, what was taking so long, why wasn’t she back yet. At some point worry gave way to something far worse. A feeling of loneliness started to descend on me and I was very aware that I was in a strange land in a horrible predicament and I knew absolutely no one.  Tears started to flow and I don’t honestly know whether they were worry for me, worry for Marije or just plain self pity but the emotion was raw; it held me in a vice like grip and I didn’t know which way to turn.

“Mistress?”

Story: The Secret Slave. Part 7.

by SW

After taking care of her mistress's hair Sophia went quietly to the little closet that housed a small pallet-bed, a plain wardrobe (and atop it her wash-basket), a little table with a candle upon it and the tinder mill for lighting it.  The room was almost entirely taken up with those furnishings and, though somewhat smaller than the slave rooms near the kitchen, she was glad to have been moved there.  She had felt very alone the night before and it pleased her to be near her mistress - though the reason for the relocation was, of course, that she might be on hand to be called through the night if needed.

She curled on her side, it being painful to lie on her back, and recalled the events of the day.  Her mistress had been quite right; she really had little cause to complain about her treatment for it was no worse, really, than she gave her own Sally.  Whilst, she herself, never whipped, except in the privacy of her own room, Mistress Caroline had only done what many, if not most, owner's did to punish disobedience.  But, it could not be denied that Mistress Caroline's management of the house was stricter and more oppressive than at the Morgan place and she would pay very close attention to all orders henceforth to ensure that she gave no further cause to be disciplined.  Then she thought of Elizabeth and it warmed her that she had been assured the mistress's protection.  She told herself that she must try not to be so excitable in her mistress's presence, though, nothing that might help her do so, occurred; bathing had been rather too arousing and, as she was Elizabeth's personal maid, there would undoubtedly be many more occasions of such intimacy in the days ahead.  

She reconsidered Elizabeth's actions that day: the whipping and the bathing.  There had been nothing said or done that might have been taken as anything but in the ordinary way of relations between mistress and slave; and yet - she could not help but feel that Elizabeth was taking pleasure from their situation.  Now that her ill-temper and sullenness had subsided she had come to accept her mistress's explanation of why those final four strokes of the whip had been necessary - however, she also recalled Elizabeth's little smile before it began.  And the mistress's delight at having Sophia soap and rub her seemed to run deeper than just the natural but simple pleasure of bathing before the fire.  There was something about her mood, and the look upon her face, that signified more.  She warmed a little at the recollections and, without thinking, moved her hand to her secret place where she began to rub gently and she bit her lip - after all, it wouldn't do for her to disturb 'Missa'.  

Story: Dancing With My Soul. Chapter 2.

by Andy Engines

The old woman smiled as she spoke, intently looking at me as if she could will me to understanding. It had been two weeks now and I still didn’t understand a word but as she started pantomiming sweeping the floor understanding dawned. I smiled back at her and put my book down and took up a brush and started to help sweep the floor. As we worked she constantly talked and I had no idea if she was talking to herself or to me but I found her company soothing. Right now I needed company and I couldn’t face being alone once more in the mess that had unfolded around me. As we worked she continued to smile and every now and then looked over at me and nodded her head whilst making a clucking sound that I hoped was approval.

Just as the void created in my soul at the death of my parents was starting to heal a new one had opened up. The last two weeks had been a terrifying ordeal and it still hadn’t fully sunk in, it felt as if I was stuck in a dream, or rather stuck in a nightmare. The moment when I was sat in the bath and Marija entered was etched vividly into my memory.

“Oh my God, you don’t think?”

Story: Mrs. Catherine Lucas. Chapter 17.

by Jackie J

Cathy stood before her Mistress, cloaked in her concealing garb, was made to reveal every intimate detail of what Jackie had her maid do to her and what Jackie had done to her maid. Any hesitation was prompted by the album of photographs that Jackie had taken which were now in the possession of Cathy’s neighbour Pauline. Cathy, graphically reminded of her debauchery confessed all and with little coercion needed, admitted that she enjoyed the intimacy that they had shared. Pauline was not judgemental she herself having enjoyed the full lexicon of Sapphic pleasures and reflected on missed opportunities to have seduced Catherine Lucas before Jacqueline Frobisher had taken the initiative. But that was history she had her now and in circumstances she could never have imagined.

It was obvious from the pictures and Cathy’s accounts that she had been used like a toy by Jackie and had indeed taken pleasure from being used and abused.

Cathy had found her confessions to her Mistress somewhat cathartic and the illustrations of her exploits had left her wet. Hidden beneath her veil she had freely confirmed again the feelings she had felt whilst serving the friends of Mrs Lucas the previous day and how she had masturbated at the thoughts of her helplessness and weakness in their presence and of being used by them.

Story: Dancing With My Soul. Chapter 1.

by Andy Engines

It was one of those balmy afternoons where the sun was not too hot and the wind perfect as it tickled over my body cooling just enough to satisfy as I lay basking in the Adriatic sun.  Thoughts of the week before in Vienna played out in my mind as I remembered the magical touch of the music as I danced during the Concordia ball. I was used to extravaganzas, used to money and its power but this had been so much more. One hundred and fifty three years of history gave it something money could never buy back home. It was deeper, soul soothing in its beauty, and … oh so elegant. The past two years had been a black hole in my life and this had helped close the hole in my soul.

Marije had helped me choose a dress and prepare. She had briefed me, taught me and helped me blend in with the old money of Europe. It wasn’t that I was uncouth as I was used to mixing with society. I had grown up with the American elite in privileged money built cocoons; summers in Martha’s Vineyard, the Hamptons, skiing in Aspen, boarding schools and then finishing schools, but I believed the old families of Europe did it better. They did it more elegantly, they didn’t believe bigger was better and ultimately, I believed, they were more cultured. They had the depth of history that we lacked. They observed time honoured traditions and believed that money didn’t necessarily make a person.

Marije had served for old families in Europe before coming to America and ultimately to me. She had a vast knowledge of European etiquette. It was not just her knowledge that I found I desired, but her company as well. She was fast turning into more than a maid to me, I saw her almost as a companion on my travels. My partner in crime. My friend.

Story: Executive Stress. Part 3.

by Charles Ryder

Two days later she discovered that her new guise was going to be put to the test. That afternoon, friends of Mrs Pugh were coming over to play bridge. Abigail was to prepare and serve them their refreshments throughout the game. She felt her stomach churn at the news. What if one of the women was to recognise her? All this subterfuge would have been for nothing, one call to the local constabulary and she would be arrested. When she haltingly explained to her Mistress her fears, she was told to pull herself together. She would simply have to be extremely convincing in her new role. By two o clock she was a bundle of nerves. When the front door bell chimed, she literally jumped. She smoothed her skirt down and scurried to the door. A large, immaculately made-up lady appeared.

“Good afternoon ma’am, welcome to the Pugh house.” She curtsied as Mrs Jackson had taught her.

The woman looked her up and down and handed Abigail her luxurious fur coat. Without a word she made her way down the passage to the sitting-room. Abigail hung the coat up and almost before she could turn round, the doorbell rang again. She hurried back and opened the door. The two remaining guests were chatting to each other.

“Good afternoon ladies, welcome to the Pugh house.” She curtsied again.

Story: The Secret Slave. Part 6.

by SW

Later, Sophia assisted at dinner and, though very nervous, her task was made somewhat easier because Miss Jane had instructed her to attend her Missa at table.  Unlike Mistress Caroline, Elizabeth, perhaps by design - Sophia could not know for certain - gave her serving maid clear signals for instruction; she tapped her wine glass with knife or spoon when its contents had nearly emptied and she pushed her unfinished plate away slightly when she had reached sufficiency of the main course - so that Sophia knew to step forward to replace with the trifle.  But Sophia marveled at how Ruby seemed to know Mistress Caroline's requirements by some mysterious intuition or instinct.  

Sophia's bottom was still quite painful after her beating and it took great effort, as she had been warned by the housekeeper, to maintain a 'pleasin' face fo' the mistisses' - her mood was sullen and resentful after her punishment and a remark by Elizabeth to her cousin 'how pretty the center-piece flowers look' did not improve her humor.  She had come, in her short time at Cypress Hill, to despise Mistress Caroline and she considered the woman nothing but a twisted termagant.  In her thoughts she conceded that Caroline may be wealthy and physically appealing, but, even had they met as equals at a society occasion she would have shunned the woman's company - Elizabeth's cousin or not!  

However, she was annoyed with her friend too, for there were unmistakable signs that Elizabeth was enjoying the charade a little too much.  Admittedly, she had to keep up appearances for that hell-cat cousin but did she really have to whip?  Sophia resolved to confront Elizabeth when she could; surely, in the aftermath of the beating Elizabeth would willingly allow her to talk freely?   Regardless, she would have her say; the beating, and Elizabeth's participation, would not be brushed aside and forgotten.  All of these concerns agitated her mind while she stood rigid and held her 'pleasing face', but behind the mask she quietly seethed.

Story: Executive Stress. Part 2.

by Charles Ryder

A week after her humiliating meeting with her husband, Abigail was stood at attention in front of Mrs Pugh’s large, imposing desk. Her new employer was reading a report. This was her weekly assessment carried out by her immediate superior, Mrs Jackson. As if the whole situation wasn’t demeaning enough she had to be subject to an assessment from an elderly yokel. Mrs Pugh looked at her over her spectacles.

“This really isn’t very good is it Munroe? Lazy, rude, work-shy, these are just some of the words that refer to you. What do you have to say?”

Abigail knew what she’d like to say but she just couldn’t summon the nerve. Lydia Pugh tended to have that effect on her; she was so cold and intimidating.

“Er...I’m sorry Mrs Pugh, I’m trying really I am but I’m not used to this sort of work.”

“Well, I think it’s high time you got used to this sort of work, because it looks like this sort of work is the only sort of work that you’ll be carrying out for the foreseeable future. Here, read this.”

She reached over and passed a copy of the local newspaper. Abigail only had to read the headline for her blood to run cold,

‘Police On The Lookout For Missing Businesswoman.’ Her eyes scanned down and quickly read the copy. ‘Officers are still on the lookout for Mrs Abigail Pugh. Mrs Pugh, a local businesswoman allegedly involved with the Bellman case, has not been seen for three weeks. Foul play has been ruled out but the fraud unit are interested in speaking with Mrs Pugh whom they believe is connected to the alleged fraud carried out at her former workplace.’ To make matters worse there was a photo of her with a champagne flute in her hand and laughing at something.

Story: The Secret Slave. Part 5.

by SW

Caroline Cranstone stepped quickly across the drawing room, opened the door and shouted “Slave!” and moved back to her chair.  An uncomfortable silence prevailed until a moment later Rosa appeared at the open door and Mistress Caroline ordered:

“Rosa, go to my chamber and bring one of my crops here, we have need of one.”

Seeing Sophia positioned for a whipping at the fireplace, Rosa quickly nodded and curtseyed and immediately set off on her errand.  The wait for her return seemed interminable to Sophia and to add to her anguish her arms and legs were beginning to hurt from the unnatural pose she had been forced to take.  Looking down at the fire grate she was unable to see either of the mistresses behind her but she was fully aware that they were provided with a very good view of her bottom and she supposed that they might very well be taking advantage of it.

Story: Executive Stress. Part 1.

by Charles Ryder

When Abigail Pugh examined herself appreciatively in her hallway mirror on that fateful Friday, little did she know it would be one of the last times she did so. The day had started much as any other day. Breakfast prepared and served by her devoted husband, Andy. Then she'd showered and changed. She'd chosen the Jaeger suit, the dark one. One of her favourites, she'd teamed that with some black stockings and red heels to match her Vuitton handbag. She'd taken the Porsche rather than get Andy to drop her at the station. Well, why not? The company paid for it after all, why not take advantage of it? It wasn't as if Bellman and Co were short of money or anything. A lot of that money was, she reflected, earned by her and her team. Idly she wondered what her commission would be this year. Something vast she assumed, like last year and the year before that. She allowed herself a little smile, life was certainly good.

A few miles down the road the car beeped at her. She glanced down at the dash, more petrol needed. A mile or so later she pulled into a garage and filled up. She gave the plebeian looking girl behind the counter her debit card and put in her PIN. Turning around to admire the Porsche she was only dimly aware of the girl speaking to her.

"Excuse me madam, you're card's been refused."

It took Abigail a little time to process the news. Oh really! There were several thousands of pounds in her current account.

Story: The Secret Slave. Part 4.

by SW

Sophia was given some rice and beans to eat and left alone in the kitchen but, not long after she had finished the unfamiliar and rather coarse repast, the house maids Ruby and Rosa, who had helped the two mistresses to change, stepped to the kitchen to collect their trays and deliver the soup course which Jane was then dishing up.  Jane told Sophia to go with them to their work but she said that she had received orders from Mistress Caroline that Sophia was not serve on her first evening there; she was to watch the girls and learn the manners and routines of dinner at the house.  

Sophia followed the slaves and took position in a corner of the room where she stood in proper pose and hoped that Mistress Caroline would ignore her - she had no relish for another one-sided confrontation.  She observed how the girls served and instantly retreated to their places on light feet - each standing by the wall and behind each lady.  Both maids wore blank expressions and looked ahead but they had to be discreetly vigilant, Sophia noticed how Mistress Caroline didn't instruct service with a spoken command; it seemed that the girls had been trained to read the merest glance, slightest movement of hand, or indeed, inclination of their mistress's head, to know what was required and they attended at once and in silence.