Ladies Becoming Maids: Captions Sunday!

Three very different mini stories from Dolores Azul!

Young Lady Whitshire’s Drastic Downfall

I just don’t know if I made a horrible mistake or if I’m the luckiest woman alive. If I’m NOT lucky, then I made several horrible mistakes—and I inflicted them all on myself! The desire to drop down can strike anyone—it doesn’t seem to be inherited—and the higher I was, the more delicious and irresistable the fall!

In order to go from Lady of the Manor—a very young Lady of the Manor—with an estate of hundreds of acres of meadows and forest, and a 36-room mansion, to maid in your own house—takes a co-conspirator. Agnes, the head of the household staff, was mine. She thought I was daft, but a daft woman’s money speaks as eloquently as money from a ‘sane’ woman! I paid her very well, because unbeknownst to everyone but me I was willing to spend so much of it—to enjoy my “journey!”

Announced to all, I was going on “holiday” for three months. But instead of going to Antibes or Venice, or even just to Paris, I went where nobody knew me: the outskirts of Camden, New Jersey in America! I went with nothing but one suitcase of the cheapest housedresses with one aim in mind: to make myself so fat that even my relatives wouldn’t recognize me! With only my location-disguised internet connection to keep me company, I ate and ate, to the point of discomfort, to stretch my stomach capacity! After three months I gained 3 and-a-half stone—not enough! I cabled home to announce I was enjoying myself so much, I was staying for another three months. I wanted to come back gaining at least six stone—I would have to keep quite seriously eating! By the time my holiday was up, the scale in my room said I’d gained 82 pounds. Close enough! The day before flying home I had my hair cut in front in bangs. With my hair also bleached, my extra weight, and no makeup I hoped no one would recognize me.

If Agnes was a gauge, it worked. Arriving at her doorstep, she didn’t recognize me at all until I “put on” my Lady Whitshire voice just once. She was appalled. Especially since she was to “hire” me as a scullery maid in my own house! Even though I looked incapable of any hard work, I already paid her well and Agnes is an honorable woman. The next day I was introduced to the rest of the staff (and not recognized at all) and began my first day moping floors and peeling vegetables. The work was VERY hard, but perversely my shortness of breath and fullnesses of body where I used to be slender made me relish my position all the more! I was so low that I almost never answered to Agnes—all the other maids below Agnes but (of course) above me chided me for my work shortcomings—which I strove mightily to overcome! For months, the other maids wondered—I could hear them whisper behind my back—how such a portly and tubby maid could even be employed at Whitshire Manor! Of course, I was MY money that paid them all, but deliberately they did not know that! But as much as I was enjoying the paradoxical heaviness of the labor and the lightness of my heart, I couldn’t in good conscience, have my questionable employment injure Agnes’ professional standing! I instructed the bank to set up a generous pension for her, and then gave her an additional large sum of money—to give me my unconditional release at the right time!

Out the door in self-inflicted disgrace, I had three days to carry out my rest of my plan. I went to an office that provides Post-Birth Genetic Manipulation, paying an additional sum to keep any record of my transformation off the books (except for a serial number, my original DNA sequencing, and a password) and got myself changed...to a very healthy, very dark, and (I think) very beautiful Black Woman from Haiti! Making sure I could access funds if I needed from a bank in Port-Au-Prince, I spent a delicious and delerious month acclimating myself; and then, having settled in a literal tin shack in Cité Soleil, I set up shop—as a PROSTITUTE!

Am I insane? If I am, I think I was born this way! Not everyone can afford to indulge their deepest, darkest, and juiciest desires—but I could!

Cité Soleil, “City of the Sun,” is a deeply ironic name! It is the worst slum in Haiti, and arguably the worst in the Western Hemisphere! Is using Genetic Manipulation to make me immune to virtually every disease known a wise precaution? Well, I AM immune even to COVID-21 and 22, so despite my “oldest” profession, I haven’t even caught a cold! But only someone like me could consider becoming a whore in a Caribbean slum, a “wise” move! I am as close to being a hunter-gatherer as possible, outside of South America—except what I “hunt” for are horny men, and what I gather is the equivalent of eight dollars American for a blow-job, and twenty dollars for between my legs. Oh yes, I also “gather” what those lusty men empty into my soft and eager open mouth.

Do I miss what I’ve given up? Sometimes I spend a sultry night pining for what I used to have: a three-story mansion, gentlemen and ladies waiting on me hand and foot, a stable full of thoroughbred horses, goose and prime rib for holiday dinners, a walk-in closet full of designer clothes, even simple tea and scones on a Sunday—all gone. But I only pine for them to contrast where I was and where I am now—and want to be. As a resident of the poorest part of Cité Soleil, I wear the official uniform of the women of my profession: nakedness. In truth, I own no clothes, and I now KNOW I can never go back to being Lady Whitshire, even if I wanted to—or had to! I could overcome the fact that a prostitute can only keep so much money on hand before it becomes dangerous. I could even overcome the theft of my cell phone. But what I couldn’t ovecome was the reduction in physiological age Genetic Manipulation gave me—I chose what I THOUGHT looked eighteen, but in fact I’m physically sixteen—and look fifteen by Haiti slum standards! As a naked young girl trying to get to my bank accounts in Port-Au-Prince (which contains my emergency funds and proof of I.D.) I’ve been thrown out three times, and now even with a begged-and-borrowed, ragged dress from a fellow prostitute, the bank won’t let me get within ten feet of the door!

While bathing (for the first time in five days) a Respectable Woman firmly and sternly chided me for my life and profession! Her reminder that I’m the lowest of the low humiliated and aroused me so much that my next client will be a VERY lucky man—my hungry pussy will send him to the Moon!!!

How did I get into this situation? How did I get into this LIFE? I wouldn’t blame you for asking, but I already know the answer.

Do I LOOK like someone earning 550K a year? Do I look like I’m familiar with corporate boardrooms, five-star restaurants, and vacations abroad twice a year? That’s who I USED to be. Now this hotel roo, where booze bottles, filthy bathrooms, and the occasional occupant “surprising” me by greeting me naked at the dorr, is what I’m FAMILIAR with now.

By the standards of the social class I used to be in I was not a bad person; even now I think I was pretty decent—as much as anyone making half-a-million dollars a year can be. I am here, I am THIS PERSON, because the way my soul works tells me this is where I’m SUPPOSED to be. I was SUPPOSED to drop down socially, so far and so deep that nobody who knows me for the first thirty years of my life knows where I am, or WHO I am now. I admit I hadn’t expected this to last beyond the two weeks of my vacation...

The shame of my life, the humiliation of my position—I have learned at long last that THESE are the emotions in my soul that FILL ME WITH LIFE. I don’t behave like an educated person any longer. While technically I have access to my bank accounts, so I am not POOR, changing back to the elegant, stylish, professional woman I used to be...I find impossible...

To my shock I have become, very quickly, “besties” with my fellow hotel maids. Our jobs are the same, I do what they do, and they are stuck in this “dreg-of-society” life as I CHOOSE to be—they are both the BEST and WORST parts of my life! What’s so GOOD is I never have had loyal friends as wonderful as they are. What’s so BAD is that they are not merely servants I've met while a guest at a hotel, they’re REAL PEOPLE, my FRIENDS, and by downgrading myself socially—I have FETISHIZED THEIR LIVES. It’s not the sexual arousal, as overpowering as it sometimes is, that makes me want to stay this way; it’s being humbled and FILLED WITH LIFE that makes me overjoyed to be me! But if any of my friends learn who I used to be, they will NEVER understand my feelings, and I will lose their friendship! That would devastate me so much I can NEVER allow that to happen! So I have chosen to say goodbye to my penthouse suite, any evidence of my wealth (which I make sure never gets out), my business suits, my three cars, and those seventy-five dollar expense account lunches.

Sometimes, when I have twelve rooms to clean in seven hours, I look inside at some unholy mess, and wonder what I’ve done to myself. Then I remember the coffee-and-donut get-togethers with my best friends, and I know I made the right choice.

Executive BARMAID On Display!!

We members of “The Excelsiettés” pride ourselves on being innovative and open-minded in business. If you don’t think outside-of-the-box—and get monetary results while doing it—you get passed up for promotions. Every one of us in our social group has surpassed MANY of our male colleagues for higher-paying positions! To say I’m pleased to be a member understates the case.

Some of us are innovative, not only when we work, but also when we...play! Because most of my work is done from home—even as an executive—I have a freedom in how I spend my off-time that just wasn’t possible prior to COVID! A few of the ladies in our group cosplay (and they’re GOOD at it), but I’m sure none of them take a job as a barmaid in a British-Style public house! But this is no conservative pub quietly serving pints of Guinness, no! We serve PLENTY of Guinness, but every server wears an abreviated T-Shirt, and, at MOST, cut-off shorts! The bartenders all wear bikinis! As I am the only barmaid in her thirties, I wear the “maximum,” but it’s still pretty skimpy for someone who’s old enough to be the MOTHER of the youngest server!

“Are you going to enter the wet T-shirt contest,” said Alicia, who at 18 is half my age.

“I don’t know—EEK!!” One of the patrons just pinched my bottom, “in the bumm,” as they would say in Merry Olde England. Our pub is so successful we can afford TWO bouncers, so really rough-stuff is forbidden, but the patrons KNOW that taking a physical liberty or two MEANS adding a larger tip. I fume at the smiling fellow behind me but that pinch meant at least another twenty dollars. My red face betrays that I both DON’T, and DO, like being pinched—as long as I don’t spill any drinks!

An unusual number of patrons are entering just as the Wet T-Shirt Contest is starting! When you’re on stage you can’t see the crowd, but you can sure feel them! One of the perks being a bouncer is they get to spray us with water. Participating in the contests is over half of why I have a job here. It both feeds my vanity AND makes me blush terribly to be almost 37 years old and sometimes stripping down to...nothing! None of the regulars sneer at me, so I bathe in the glow of being worth ogleling—at my age! In fact, the applause is keeping me in the contest! It’s between Alicia and myself—the youngest and the oldest—she decides to get NAUGHTY with me! With encouragement from the audience she’s using a scissors to CUT OFF MY CLOTHES! I’m shocked, but it’s allowed here, I’m safe. Then I hear a familiar voice:

“Do it, Alicia! Cut ‘em ALL off!”

I FREEZE. My mouth is open in abject TERROR. That’s SANDRA’S VOICE—one of the “Excelsiettés!” Over the whoops and cheers I hear four or five more voices I recognize from our meetings! WHAT ARE THEY DOING HERE?? Applause roars in my surely red face—the regulars know, having “lost” all my clothes in the contest, I have to serve food and drinks until closing time NAKED. My business social group is going to find that out! For very long seconds on stage I have to decide if the respect of my friends in business are more important to me than this minimum wage job! Being nude means I get pinched a lot, and I’ll pocket LOTS in tips, but ALL MY FRIENDS WILL SEE ME!

I decide: I REALLY love this job! I want to keep it, even if it means all of my business connections NO LONGER RESPECT ME. In fact the Excelsiettés table is beckoning me over! Panting and gasping from humiliation, I hitch a frightened smile on my face and take drink orders; Sandra orders an Old-Fashioned, Therese a mint julip, Randi and Jolene order martinis and Karen and Maxine get...Guinness. I barely glance at their faces but what I see looks blank and inscrutable. My tray is full of the ordered drinks. I set them before their owners, and they fix their stares right at me...I don’t know what to say...if I should even say anything.....

“Ex-CUSE, me!”

Alicia brushes past me in dry T-shirt and bikini bottom! She HUGS Sandra! Dumbfounded, amidst clapping and cheers, I learn that Sandra is Alicia’s MOTHER! Alicia untangles herself from her mother’s embrace and gives me a hug, a full-on, BFF-style hug. Then pinches my BUTT!! “EEEEKKK!!!”

Sandra takes me by the hand and guides me so I have to kneel at her feet. “Of course you still belong with us. We KNOW what you’re worth, and we can SEE how open-minded you are. But I think we’ve all earned the right to treat you DIFFERENTLY from now on.” Alicia fondles my bare nipple(!) as the members of my business social group pinch my butt—to deafening applause from the whole room.