Story: Imposter Syndrome. Chapter 2.

by Jackie J

Chapter 2

Taken back to the room, that she had been told would be her own, Miss Ruskin left Jen to her thoughts, on the assurance that she would be back shortly to supervise her first day a cleaner at Doctor James’s residence.

Jennifer sat on the bed not knowing whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of her situation. She had been told there would be role play, but this?  Jen, she was to be Jen a cleaner. Being told to strip like she had, and actually doing it in front of Samantha, Whoops, Mistress, my Mistress? Really?  This Ruskin woman, she was odd when I arrived, a brute of a woman, no messing with her for sure.

Jennifer inspected the plainly decorated en suite room she had been allocated, basic and small. A shrug of the shoulders and a wry smile looking in the closet and drawers. What did she expect? Plain underwear, and an assortment of unfashionable and well-worn clothing was all she found. Jennifer ran her fingers across the fabric of the cheap nylon overalls, that hung on a rail by the bathroom door and inhaled their industrial scent. The odour filling her senses, Jennifer felt that same comforting calm and humbling weakness she had felt earlier with Doctor James, her Mistress. The temptation was too great, and having taken it from the end of the rail she stepped into the primrose overall and fastened the large buttons. Roomy, long sleeved with its hem to her lower calf, Jen reached for one of the turbans from the rail and knotted it in place. Having volunteered herself into her workwear and staring into the wall mirror she hardly recognised herself. Jennifer, filled with a not unpleasant numbness, stumbled back to the bed, and sat down heavily with panting breath.

Calming a little, she smiled to herself, “Conditioning”, my goodness, whatever this conditioning is it is working on me. The feelings she had just experienced, staring into the mirror, the same, although more so, more real than those she had felt earlier in the room with Doctor James. In that moment, much like before, she was Jen, accepted she was Jen it was Jen the cleaner that stared back at her. Fleeting, those feelings and emotions may have been, they were liberating, intoxicating and desirous.

Jennifer had not lost touch with reality, not yet she knew who she was, but being Jen, a cleaner, was such a safe place wasn’t it, and all she deserved, Doctor James had told her that. Doctor James was her Mistress now, odd but the connotations of that title, Mistress, of ownership, of being owned offered its own yet complimentary sense of sanctuary, a safe and welcome sanctuary away from the judgemental criticism, imagined, perceived or actual.

Story: Imposter Syndrome. Chapter 1.

By Jackie J

Leaving the offices of leading psychiatrist and psychotherapist Doctor James, Jennifer was relieved in some way, but also a little perturbed. With her Trench coat belt fastened, its collar up, dark glasses in place and a headscarf tugged tight, Jennifer was confident that no one would recognise her whilst she made her way back to the car that she had rented. She couldn’t have risked arriving in her own car, with its personalised number plate. Her easily recognised car, parked outside London’s renowned psychiatric clinic, would inevitably lead to awkward questions by the seemingly ever present and eager paparazzi. Miss Jennifer Forbes, known to millions, to be the confident and assertive consumer champion, who graced their television screens twice weekly, was in fact, suffering a crisis of identity, of self-worth and self-doubt, to believe herself undeserving of all she was, and all she had.

 Things had come to a head, following the publication of a critical article in the media by the reviewer Connie Black. Jennifer had already been, whilst she hid it well, emotionally distressed for weeks. She had to do something, and she had, visiting the highly regarded doctor, Samantha James.

Now at least she had a name for what she was suffering from, but a cure? She would of course follow what Miss James had told her to do, before she was to return the following week, but failed to see how this would help.

Sat in the small rental car Jennifer could not fully relax. She would not feel secure, safe even, until she was back in her apartment, it never used to be like this. Outgoing and friendly, she welcomed publicity, meeting people on the streets who recognised her but, since the judgemental article by Connie Black, all that changed. Used to being an ever present on the social scene, now reluctant to accept invitations. Only attending the most special of occasions, and even then, fearful of betraying her true feelings and emotions, rarely staying long.

Story: The Humbling of Isabel Kinley

By Jane H. Aubrey

The doorbell rang. Isabel was upstairs, listening to loud music, listlessly doing her homework. Kate went to answer it; she wore a neat grey sweater with the sleeves rolled up, a calf-length floral skirt, and a smart, freshly ironed hunter-green apron. It was Tom. ‘Good evening, sir,’ she beamed, and he gave her a long kiss before she helped him out of his coat and hung up his scarf. He sat on the sofa in the living room and Kate brought a tray with a glass of red wine, before kneeling down and carefully taking off his shoes, which she would clean and buff later. Then she looked up at him and waited, peacefully. He unzipped his fly and Kate took him in her mouth, keeping her hands neatly folded behind her back as Tom preferred, while he sipped his wine. After she had brought him off, she kneeled back; ‘Thank you, sir. May I do anything else for you?’

‘No, darling. Just get on with dinner.’

Story: It Wasn't Right. Epilogue.

by Jackie J

Epilogue

Richard said it wasn’t right, that we did not need a maid, and in truth, we didn’t, with many rooms unused, I have managed adequately after letting my maid Linda go.  Richard was reluctant but I convinced him that, if not for us, then for when and if the Mistress returns, Miss Millicent. We would have to leave Crestley House if she returned, and she would require an established and competent maid wouldn’t she.

A strong marriage holds no secrets, but it was not yet the time and perhaps it never will be, to inform my husband who the maid I have hired actually once was. However, it was worth letting Richard know that should Miss Millicent ever return we would be made to leave the luxury of Crestley House. A magnificent residence that we have come to treat like our own.

Milly arrived much as I believed she would. Settled into the maid’s quarters and dressed, in the new uniform’s that I had organised for her, I am genuinely impressed by her competence and servility. Two months my maid and I have no complaint. Milly pays due deference, the House is kept spotless, the laundry is never an issue, and our meals are prepared to the highest standard. Miss Millicent Williams, the former Mistress of Crestley House she may be, but I must admit, she makes the prefect maid. My late friend Agnes Burtonshaw having trained and conditioned her well for her new role in life.

I have kept the portrait of Miss Millicent Williams, that hangs at the end of the entrance hall. Bejewelled with golden flowing hair over her shoulders, fine features with a flawless complexion and smiling eyes. Not for any reason other than I did admire her before she chose a path to her social downgrade. I may despise Miss Millicent now, for what she dd to herself, but I no less admire the maid she now is.

During the last few months, I have purposely invited people to Crestley House for lunch, or in the evenings for dinner, who would have known Miss Millicent, not overly well admittedly. I doubt anyone knew Miss Millicent that well, apart from those she worked with, before selling the company. However, those invited, I knew to have met and conversed with Miss Millicent.  None have paid my curtsying maid any attention beyond that deserving of any domestic servant. The once Mistress of Crestley House, dowdy, aproned and hidden in clear site, perfect, the maid of Crestley House, Milly Brannigan.

Story: It Wasn't Right. Chapter 14.

by Jackie J

Two days since the funeral for Agnes Burtonshaw and the mourners who came and stayed at Sycamores have all departed including my housekeeper, Janice. Having revealed all to my housekeeper, the night of the funeral, she left the following morning without a word. Promising to help me, she was to find away and make the necessary arrangements to get me back to Crestley House. Sweeping out the rear yard of the hostel I smile to myself. “Making necessary arrangements”, no doubt Janice will have made good use of Crestley House in my absence, especially if she thought it doubtful that I would be returning, thinking me married and settled in some foreign land. Arrangements yes, she will no doubt be returning things back to how they were before my return.

Janice made haste back to Crestley House the morning after the funeral what she had found out about her Mistress, Miss Millicent Williams, could change everything. What would she tell Richard, her husband of only three months. Richard Williams had moved to the area taking over as bank manager at the bank used by her mistress, and which Janice, following Miss Millicent’s departure, was obliged to visit. Richard took a shine to Janice having helped her in resolving the anomalies left by the instructions from her travelling mistress. Flattered by the attention, not long into their relationship Janice suggested that Richard leave his cramped rented accommodation and move into Crestley House, which he did. Their love blossomed, and they eventually tied the knot, Crestley House had become the home of Mr and Mrs Williams. How could she explain that her absent mistress had not married and settled overseas but had quite willingly taken the apron to become a common maid, had become a common maid, with a new identity and, with her own collusion, disenfranchised herself from her wealth. By the time Janice was on the last leg of her journey home, she was wishing she had not attended Agnes funeral and never met up with her once Mistress.

Story: It Wasn't Right. Chapter 13.

by Jackie J

Having been seen, whilst bedded by Mr Rogerson, in such a wanton fashion, the moral high ground I may have clung to, is gone now for sure. A lady of wealth and position, a lady like Miss Millicent Williams, would never have given herself in such a way, no matter what the circumstances. It is strangely comforting to accept that it was the maid Milly Brannigan who aroused and took Rogerson’s passion.  A moment of weakness? Caught at a low emotional ebb?  So why, for the third night running, am I still sharing his bed. I know it wasn’t right, I know it isn’t right, but it is what it is.

I had never linked my desires for the apron and its associated subjugation and servitude with sex, not until I had laid with Daniel these past days. Daniel is not a handsome man by any means, and his personal hygiene leaves much to be desired. There is no tenderness in his manner or touch, taking me roughly and at his will. Allowing one so uncouth, to take unconditional possession of me and use me in such an intimate way, bringing new emotions and imaginings for my perverse cravings for debasement. Whilst tempting to continue to take his seed within me, I am now mindful to enforce the rhythm method, but always make good by slobbering and sucking him clean until drained and flaccid.

Miss Elizabeth, engaged in getting to grips with the running of Mayfair Domestic Services and preparing for the funeral of Agnes, I am instructed, until matters are settled, to return to being the maid at Sycamores.

The tragedy on the river Thames, which took Agnes to meet her maker, is the subject of a coroner’s inquiry and Agnes’s funeral is delayed.  I have now returned to living in my own room, Daniel, well back to Mr Rogerson now, decided he had enough of his harlot, he had his reputation to think of.

Story: It Wasn't Right. Chapter 12.

by Jackie J

Thursday, I call dress down day for Miss Margret. Each Thursday Mistress has business to attend to in the city. Rather plain clothing for a lady of such standing, but the nature of her business requires such, and it is not my place to pry. Having inquired once, and having been severely punished, I know better than to inquire of my Mistresses’ business.

Miss Elizabeth is on time to collect Mistress. Miss Elizabeth, a large and well-spoken lady, now manages Mayfair Domestic Services and from the conversations I have fleetingly overheard, the business is expanding and thriving thanks to the investments made by my Mistress, Miss Margret.

With Mistress and Miss Elizabeth having left Poplars, walking into the kitchen, I contemplate what to prepare for them when they return.  Miss Elizabeth likes my cherry buns, and she did ask for them the previous Thursday. Mistress and Miss Elizabeth are rarely back at Poplars until late afternoon, so I have time to shop and still bake the buns.

The clock in the hall chimes seven, then eight, then nine, Mistress is never this late and I start to worry. A sharp banging of the door knocker makes me jump and I hurry down the hallway to answer the door.

A Tragedy. The ferry from Tower bridge to Greenwich capsized. Five survivors, my Mistress, Miss Margret, Agnes Burtonshaw, not one of them.

Shock, filling my senses at the unthinkable, I stare at a tearful Miss Elizabeth in disbelieve at the news, then collapse in a heap on the hallway tiles.