Story: How to Find a Maid

By T. H. Enerdly 

Author’s Note

This story is a prequel to “Interview With Madame Nguyen,” a story that appears elsewhere in this blog. It is helpful but not essential to have read that story before reading this one. A portion of this story is in the form of an interview, inspired by a file, written in French, found in a now moribund Yahoo Group, and probably authored by someone who styles herself as “Hanna, femme de chambre.” My translation is quite free and has been altered somewhat to fit the needs of the story.

Prologue

Deep within every woman’s unconscious, a battle rages, a battle between her inner mistress and her inner slave, a battle that decides who she will become: the mistress who commands or the slave who obeys.

My inner Mistress won my battle. Unfortunately, I don’t have any slaves to command—after all, slavery is frowned upon these days—but I have the next best thing: a maid. And make no mistake about it, a maid is a latter-day slave. Consider what Célestine—the maid in Octave Mirbeau’s novel, “The Diary of a Chambermaid”—proclaims:

“They pretend that there is no more slavery. Oh! what nonsense? And what are domestics, then, if not slaves? Slaves in fact, with all that slavery involves of moral vileness, inevitable corruption, and hate-engendering rebellion.”

I’m pleased to report that my maid is not vile, corrupt, or rebellious. A maid who exhibits these undesirable traits is one with the soul of a mistress, compelled by the vicissitudes of fate to obey as a maid rather than command as a Mistress, to be the object of contempt rather than admiration. Such an enslaved mistress harbors a fury that she must repress at all costs lest she be disciplined by the Mistress who lords over her. The repressed rage simmers like a toxic stew, a sip of which engenders vileness, corruption, and rebelliousness.

My maid is the opposite: She is a former freelance journalist with the soul of a slave. Before I met her, she was a professional woman who wore exquisite wool suits, matching accessories, high heels, and expensive lingerie in contrast to her current wardrobe of a plain maid’s uniform, an apron, clogs, and “sensible” underwear.

She feared becoming what she was meant to be, even though she knew in her heart of hearts that her destiny was to be a slave. Such women make docile, honest, and obedient maids. All my maid lacked was a true Mistress who would dominate her, humiliate her, and free her inner slave. I was that Mistress.

My name is Sophie Nguyen, and that of my maid, Thirty-Eight. I call her Thirty-Eight because she is the 38th maid I have trained. I refer to my maids by numbers because I find it easier to refer to them by the number on their dossier than their name. Also, many of them have upper-class names such as Marie Claire or Augusta Victoria, names completely unsuitable for a maid. Maids should have servants’ names, such as Molly or Nell.

I’m sure that you have surmised that I prefer enslaving upper-class women, in particular, upper-class women with the souls of slaves, not the souls of mistresses. I find that watching their downfall, their humiliation, their loss of status to be one of life’s supreme pleasures, a sort of champagne for the intellect.

But where does one find such upper-class women? After all, these women are skilled at hiding the fact that they’re slaves. Few if any of these women apply to become maids. They feel the need to maintain the illusion of Mistresshood at all costs. One must seek them out and gently guide them into servitude without them becoming consciously aware of what’s happening to them … until it’s too late. The ability to spot and enslave a latent servant is the sign of a true Mistress.

Let me describe how I found Thirty-Eight and began the process of enslaving her.

My maid was originally a trust fund baby named Hanna A____ who dabbled in freelance journalism. She was brought to my attention by a couple I know, who run a temp agency for janitorial workers. The couple owned a maid named Cendrine, whom Hanna wished to interview for an article. Cendrine was a sales manager in a department store when she wasn’t moonlighting as a maid. In addition, she was an intellectual submissive who exhibited the classic thought processes of a D/s enthusiast.

My friends knew that I was always on the lookout for potential maids to enslave, so they told me about Hanna, whom they felt was a good candidate for someone with my very particular set of skills, an assessment with which I agreed.

As I do with all candidates that come to my attention, I opened a dossier on Hanna, containing materials to help me assess her suitability for servitude and, if suitable, to help me plan a strategy for enslaving her. The dossier bore the number 38, which was to become Hanna’s name when she entered my service a few months later. Of course, at first, the dossier was bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. However, my friends told me that before they would let Hanna interview Cendrine, she had to agree to let them review the article and make changes prior to publication. My friends passed me a copy of the interview for my perusal. This was the first item I placed in Hanna’s dossier. The dossier naturally got thicker and juicier as I collected more and more materials.

I have selected three texts from Hanna’s dossier that I think the reader will find interesting, including Hanna’s interview with Cendrine. These texts helped convince me that Hanna was a latent slave who needed my gentle ministrations to help her realize her full “potential.”

The first text is Hanna’s interview with Cendrine. I found the interview fascinating because it provided evidence for what everyone suspected: Hanna was a slave at heart. In her interview, Hanna focused exclusively on Cendrine’s experiences, ignoring the experiences of Cendrine’s Masters. The only examples of the latter were comments inserted at the insistence of Cendrine’s Mistress. The obvious conclusion from all of this was that Hanna was interested in what it was like to be a maid, not a Mistress. Thus, Hanna appeared to be exactly the type of woman I sought, one keenly interested in what it was like to be a maid, and what better way to find out what it’s like to be a maid than to serve as one. But I needed additional confirmation of Hanna’s proclivities to be sure she was a suitable candidate.

So I hatched a plot with Cendrine’s Mistress. If Hanna called, asking for a follow-up interview, my friend was to suggest that Hanna accompany Cendrine to a uniform shop for domestic servants, the cover story being that Hanna would probably find the shop fascinating and should consider incorporating a description of her visit into her article. But in reality, it was intended to be the first step in Hanna’s downfall.

Hanna, in fact, did call about a follow up interview. The second text I have included is Cendrine’s description of what happened at the uniform shop. Hanna’s behavior at the shop established beyond a doubt that she was destined to be a maid, mine in particular.

Finally, the third text is another description of the visit to the uniform shop, told from Hanna’s point of view. It details Hanna’s first unintended steps into servitude.

First Text: Hanna’s Interview with Cendrine

Hanna: You’ve worn the white apron for five years?

Cendrine: To be precise, I would say that I’ve been in uniform for three years: ever since I began serving my new masters. I was a domestic at a friend’s place before I was sold as a slave. I served Alexandra—my friend—in both domestic and sexual capacities. It was an authoritarian relationship that suited both of us. Very sapphic.

Hanna: Can’t you experience the same thing with your new masters?

Cendrine: My new masters are very different, a difference I don’t dwell on. My companion sold me with my consent. It’s something I had had a strong desire to experience, to be slave like in antiquity. This is difficult to admit to one’s self except in fantasies, but my fantasy has strong hold on me.

In any event, my companion left France, and I was unable to follow. Because our S/m games were quickly becoming slavery-oriented, she arranged for my “sale” before she left the country.

Hanna: You told me, when I arranged our interview—with the permission of your Masters—that you don’t wish to speak about your “sale.” Why not? It’s something that you seemed to have desired, to have left it’s mark on you.

Cendrine: I don’t know. But now that my masochistic tendencies are more or less in the open, it certainly shouldn’t make a difference. It’s good for one’s mental health to be able to express one’s true desires—voluntary slavery in my case—in broad daylight.

(Silence)

Believe me, it’s not easy to voluntarily accept slavery. It’s one thing to play at it with a professional dominatrix; it’s an entirely different thing to accept it as one’s new reality, to adapt to it, to actually live for the benefit of one’s masters. It’s as if one is living on a different planet.

But back to your original question of what it’s like to suddenly feel like merchandise., it’s something that’s difficult to describe without sounding ridiculous. But believe me, the feeling is strong, very strong, even intoxicating.

Hanna: Did you have several bidders, both male and female?

Cendrine: Yes. And they all went through the same ritual: Questions, touching, and so forth.

What bothered me the most was Alexandra’s choice of new owners, a young couple. In my experience, the participants in a D/s relationship are usually roughly the same age—I’m speaking for myself here— but Madame is 24 and Monsieur is 25. I was surprised and a little disappointed because I would have liked to have belonged to a mistress from Senegal. But a slave cannot choose her owners.

It’s very odd to suddenly feel like that which women abhor: an object.

In fact, one no longer knows who they are exactly. Or how to behave. One feels like she is floating. You know, as if you have been reborn and are leading a second life. To have the impression that one is a pet, fresh from kennel, having been sold to new owners.

Hanna: How do you spend your days?

Cendrine: To regain my freedom, I owe my master 1240 hours of domestic service as well as an extra 300 hours to cover the costs of my maid’s uniforms. Additional punishment hours are added for negligence in performing my duties. My contract stipulates that my masters can resell me any time they please. I must serve my masters for 20 hours every week and be on call every other weekend as well as Easter and summer vacation.

I have to align the needs of my Masters with my social life. This is where servitude becomes difficult: To coordinate between two different universes which never overlap. I’m very careful. If I sense there will be a problem, I break off my social relationships without regret.

Another problem I had, at least initially, concerned the distance between my apartment and the home of my Masters (Rambouillet). I either had to plan my life more carefully or find myself compelled to move. In the end, I kept my one bedroom apartment, but my Masters are the ones who use it when it is too late in the evening to return from Paris to Rambouillet. When I visit to the apartment, it is to clean it. I no longer live there.

My fear is that I’m older and out of step with my Masters. I’m truly a servant in their eyes, but I have the impression that they don’t feel I’m trying hard enough and that I risk being  sold. This discrepancy in our ages makes me feel out of step with their needs.

(Comment by Cendrine’s Mistress: Cendrine has met our expectations as a domestic slave. My husband and I have never paid attention to the differences in our ages. The only thing that matters–and the reason why we bought her–is the assurance of her former Mistress that Cendrine would remain in the background while performing her duties, would seek our approval, and would accept her station in life, and of course would accept the humiliations to which we subject her.”)

Hanna: Do you live permanently with your Masters?

Cendrine: About two years ago, my Masters built a maid’s room above the garage. It’s separate from the rest of the house and has the necessary hygienic facilities. It’s equipped with an intercom so that my Masters can summon me when they desire. The bed is narrow but adequate and an armoire contains my domestic trousseau (my uniforms) as well as a selection of my civilian clothes.

Hanna: What do you mean by a “selection of your civilian clothes?”

Cendrine: On the day I entered into my new Masters’ service, Madame decided to inspect my wardrobe—all of my wardrobe—including my shoes and my underwear. Then Madame questioned me about my civilian job, about what kind of civilian clothing I needed. My Mistress understood full well that my department store job required me wear clothes that projected the appropriate image.

Hanna: Which means what?

Cendrine: It was obvious to Madame that a domestic must dress appropriately for her job without looking like a sack of potatoes. My Mistress did not consider my wardrobe appropriate for a domestic slave. She felt that several of my suits, coats, blouses, and leathers had no place in the wardrobe of a maid.

Believe me, it’s strange to see one’s favorite outfits worn by someone else and to be obliged to care for them even though they are no longer mine to wear.

(Comment by Cendrine’s Mistress: That’s a nice story, but Cendrine left out a detail: She may only wear clothes that I have okayed—and I do pay attention to what she wears—only clothes that are discreet, decent, and display three prominent colors: black, gray, and white. Of course, it’s a matter of ensuring that my maid doesn’t leave my home dressed like a bag lady or a slob. I think both of us could agree that’s good policy. One shouldn’t forget that a slave represents her Masters even outside my home. For me, her civilian clothes are just as important as the uniforms she wears in my home. Her civvies are sort of an extension of her maid’s uniform. If Cendrine wants to buy a coat or a suit, she must ask me first so that I can evaluate the appropriateness of her request. If I approve, I make the choice.)

Hanna: What about your sexual life?

Cendrine: It depends on what my Masters desire. My body, like my soul, belongs to them. My slave contract is clear on this point. I’m completely subject to their will. Accepting their “caresses” or behaving chastely if they so desire, both are duties that I owe them. But I love their corporal demands. It feels a little bit like I’m doing penance. I feel honored to be a domestic slave. My dependence on the will of my Masters obligates me to respect them as a form of devotion.

Hanna: This sounds fetishistic to me. Is this the case?

Cendrine: Of course. I don’t believe that one can serve or do this job without a fetishistic relationship with the environment in which one serves. Believe me, when Madame leaves home, I make it a point of honor to care for her clothes, and I’m in seventh heaven. When I lace up the shoes of my Master or help him on with his coat, you can be sure that I’m proud to be a slave. When, in the evening or even at night, I polish Madame’s leathers for the next day, it’s Madame whom I venerate… It’s difficult to explain. As I’ve already told you, my single greatest fear is to be set free because I no longer meet the expectations of Madame and Monsieur.

(Cendrine is summoned by her Mistress, ending the interview.)

Second Text: Hanna and Cendrine Visit the Uniform Shop

 by Cendrine

My Mistress told me that Hanna had called about a follow up interview, but, instead of an interview, my Mistress suggested that Hanna accompany me to a uniform shop, one with which I was unfamiliar, to get a different perspective on the life of a maid, a perspective that her readers would doubtless find interesting. Hanna was agreeable to this suggestion. My Mistress instructed me to play the part of the Mistress when we entered the shop and to closely monitor Hanna’s reaction to being treated as a maid.

My Mistress arranged for me to meet Hanna outside my old apartment in Paris. Hanna was instructed to dress casually, but she showed up dressed to the nines—wool suit and high heels. I was wearing shorts and a top, not my Mistress’s preferred choice of outfit for me, but what she ordered I wear on this particular occasion. I hated this outfit. I fancy myself an intellectual submissive, but it’s hard to project an image of intellectualism when one’s ass cheeks are peeking out from under a pair of short shorts.

Upon meeting, Hanna and I exchanged pleasantries, then took the Metro to the uniform shop.

As we entered the shop, we looked around and noticed that all the salesgirls were dressed as maids. Some were in elegant uniforms, black with white trim, aprons, and caps; some, in less elegant, smudged charlady’s smocks, scrubbing the floors on all fours; still others, somewhere in between elegance and slovenliness. There was one exquisitely attired woman, who stood out because she wasn’t wearing a maid’s uniform, presumably the proprietress, who walked up to Hanna and said, “Welcome to my shop. My name is Madame Dixier. How may I help you? A uniform for your maid?” She gestured at me as she spoke the word “maid.”

I cleared my throat and said, “Excuse me, Madame Dixier, but I’m here to buy a uniform for my maid.”

Mme. Dixier turned to me with a complete look of surprise on her face. Then she glanced sideways at Hanna and turned her gaze back to me, her look melting into one of knowing.

“Aha! So the Mistress wishes to exchange places with the maid. So be it.”

Hanna attempted to speak, “No! That’s not …”

Mme. Dixier interrupted, “QUIET, GIRL! Maids only speak when spoken to.”

Mme. Dixier was one of those rare individuals with a compelling presence and ability to project authority that no one dared question. She clearly was used to being obeyed. Hanna was no match for her and immediately fell silent under her spell.

“STAND UP STRAIGHT! A maid should exhibit poise at all times.”

Without even being conscious of what she was doing, Hanna quickly straightened up and assumed a position of attention in front of Mme. Dixier. A smile flickered across Mme. Dixier’s lips.

Mme. Dixier turned her attention to me and asked, “How should I address you, my dear?”

“My name is Cendrine …”

“Mam’selle Cendrine, I take it you’re here to buy a uniform for your former Mistress. I’m sure you’ve noticed that my sales associates are wearing a variety of uniforms. They are live mannequins showcasing my wares. Point to the one that most nearly matches what you are looking for.”

I looked around and something possessed me. I pointed to the charlady who was scrubbing the floor.

“I like that uniform.”

Hanna moaned, “Nooooo …”

Mme. Dixier scowled at Hanna and said, “QUIET, GIRL! Don’t try my patience.”

Hanna fell silent and stood even straighter if such a thing were possible.

Mme. Dixier returned her attention to me and said, “You have chosen wisely, Mam’selle. Your maid is going to need help adjusting to her new status. Wearing a cleaning lady’s uniform will make it impossible for her to put on airs. She’ll be the lowest of the low, and she’ll know it. And everybody else will too. Let’s go to the fitting room and have her try on some uniforms.”

Mme. Dixier guided me to the room and motioned for Hanna to follow.

The fitting room was a small, plain room containing a wing chair, a table, and a full length mirror. Mme. Dixier motioned for Hanna to stand in front of the mirror and for me to sit down in the chair. As the putative Mistress in this shopping expedition, I got the place of honor.  The chair was really comfy. On the other hand, Hanna didn’t look particularly comfy as she stood at attention, obviously cowed by Mme. Dixier’s presence.

As if on cue, one of the maids/salesgirls entered the room and deposited a pile of folded uniforms on the table as well as a pair of clogs. She turned to Mme. Dixier, curtsied, and left the room. Mme. Dixier picked up the topmost uniform, unfolded it, and held it up in front of Hanna so as to give some idea of what it might look like on Hanna.

“How do you like this one, Mam’selle?”

I didn’t much like it and told Mme. Dixier as much. She showed me the remaining uniforms, one by one, until eventually she showed me one that struck my fancy.

“I like that one.”

Mme. Dixier said, “Hanna, put on this uniform.”

Hanna replied, “Where’s your changing room?”

“THIS is the changing room. Maids aren’t entitled to privacy. Strip and put on the uniform, NOW!”

Hanna looked stunned for a moment. Finally, she resigned herself to her fate, kicked off her high heels, and begin removing her wool suit. When she had stripped down to her lingerie, she reached for the uniform that Mme. Dixier had placed on the table.

“STOP! Remove everything, including your lingerie. Maids don’t wear expensive lingerie. Only weak Mistresses, Mistresses unworthy of the title, will let their maids wear underwear, and I’m not that kind of Mistress.”

Watching Hanna attempt to maintain her dignity while she removed her lingerie was a real treat. All the twisting, turning, squirming, arms and hands trying to cover her private places didn’t have the demure effect I’m sure she intended but instead was almost like a burlesque routine. The fact that she was standing in front of a mirror heightened the effect. Only the bump and grind music was missing.

Eventually, she managed to get the lingerie off, the uniform on, and snapped to attention under the glare of Mme. Dixier.

“Put on the clogs.”

Hanna complied.

The uniform was a shapeless blue smock with a shawl collar. It buttoned down the front and had a couple of pockets for dusters. The arms of the garment were somewhere between long and short. The lower hem hung above her knees, so if she got down on all fours to scrub the floor, her nude ass would be prominently displayed. Finally, it didn’t come with a matching apron. An apron would have been a status symbol with this particular uniform, which was fit for only the lowest of the low domestic. It short, it represented everything her wool suit didn’t.

“Follow me, girl.”

Mme. Dixier exited the room followed by Hanna.

“I’ll be back.”

A short time later, she returned without Hanna.

“Where’s Hanna?”

“I’ve put her to work sweeping the back room. It’s sort of a shakedown cruise for the uniform. Plus it gives her some time to adjust to her new life … By the way, how do you intend to pay for the uniform, Cendrine?”

My Mistress hadn’t covered this in the briefing she gave me before our little adventure.

“Uhh …”

“I take it that you don’t have the means to pay for the uniform.”

“Uhhh … No, Madame.”

Mme. Dixier picked up Hanna’s clutch and inspected the contents, “She doesn’t have enough cash to pay for the uniform. Her only credit card is an American Excess Plutonium card: I don’t accept American Excess … Cendrine, we have a problem … Hmm … I think we can recover the cost of Hanna’s uniform if we sell her suit at the consignment shop down the street.”

Mme. Dixier dumped the contents of Hanna’s clutch into a paper bag and summoned one of her salesgirls, who carefully folded Hanna’s clothes, placed them in a box with the heels and clutch, and left for the consignment shop, box in hand.

Mme. Dixier then called out through the door, “Frou Frou, would you please fetch the ‘patron’ in the back room and bring her here.”

In a few minutes, Hanna reappeared, her broom in hand, her head hanging in submission, obviously under Frou Frou’s thumb. The latter, who looked like a bodybuilder in a maid’s uniform, curtsied and stood at attention, awaiting Mme. Dixier’s instructions. Hanna apparently decided that it would be a good idea if she too curtsied, but her clumsy attempt clearly showed that she needed several hours of practice under the tutelage of a stern Mistress, such as Mme. Dixier.

“Hanna, stand at attention!”

Hanna once again snapped to attention, holding her broom as if it were a rifle rather than an instrument of menial labor.

“We have reached an agreement on how to pay for your uniform, so it’s now yours. You are free to leave, but not through the front door. Maids must exit via the servant’s door. Frou Frou, escort Hanna to the exit appropriate for one of her status.”

Mme. Dixier handed Hanna the paper bag containing her valuables as Frou Frou shoved her out the door to fitting room.

Hanna said, “Where are my clothes …”

Mme. Dixier called out, “Your clothes aren’t my concern … By the way, put the broom back before you leave.”

In the next room, Hanna could be heard pleading for her clothes.

Mme. Dixier now turned to me.

“STAND UP!”

I jumped up out of the chair.  Mme. Dixier sat down.

“Cendrine, you’re a maid, aren’t you?”

I hung my head in shame, “Yes, Ma’am.”

“You entered my shop under false pretenses. I permit maids to enter through the front door of my shop only if they are accompanying their Mistresses. You aren’t a Mistress, and Hanna isn’t either. You’re nothing but a maid. Hence, you don’t have the right to enter the front door of my shop. Your impudence in this matter will not go unpunished … STRIP!”

“What?”

“I said STRIP.  Be lively about it.”

When Mme. Dixier says strip, one strips. It didn’t take me long since I wasn’t wearing much in the way of clothing to begin with. My Mistress had seen to that.

“Follow me.”

Mme. Dixier then marched me in a state of “dishabille” through her shop’s showroom. As I jiggled my way through the showroom, I attracted the attention of the shop’s patrons, all of whom stopped shopping and began staring at me, much to my discomfort. We passed through the door to the back room, in which I noticed some sort of a frame festooned with a lot of leather straps: it was a whipping bench, as I soon learned. Mme. Dixier fastened me to the frame so that my ass was suitably presented for chastisement.

“You impudence has earned you twelve of the best.”

This pronouncement was followed twelve times by the sound of a cane swishing through the air, the “THWACK” of contact, and my screams.

Mme. Dixier then released me and marched me back through the showroom, where all the patrons had their eyes fixated on my ass, which I was vigorously rubbing to assuage the pain. I had the distinct feeling that none of my audience felt that Mme. Dixier was a sadist but rather that I had truly earned every stripe on my ass for some misconduct on my part to which they weren’t privy. I suppose they were right. Such is the life of a maid.

Once back in the fitting room, she closed the door and sat down.

“Before I’m satisfied, you’ll have to suffer one final indignity,” said Mme. Dixier. She pointed to her feet as she said, “Kiss my toes.”

I sank to my knees, bent over, and kissed her toes. Kowtowing before her in the nude elicited the most powerful feeling of submission I have ever experienced. But as it turned out, and contrary to what Mme. Dixier had said, there was one additional indignity I was to suffer. Suffice it to say that it also involved being on my knees.

Mme. Dixier finally permitted me to don my clothes and ordered me to exit the shop—through the servant’s door of course.

Since then, my Mistress has never tired of hearing the details of my adventure at the uniform shop and has had me repeatedly demonstrate how I satisfied Mme. Dixier, much to my extreme embarrassment. Humiliation is the lot of a maid.

Third Text: Hanna Returns Home

 by Hanna

It’s been several months since Cendrine’s and my adventure at the uniform Shop, but my Mistress insisted that I write an account of what happened to me after I was “bounced” from Mme. Dixier’s shop. So, here it is, beginning at the moment when Frou Frou shoved me out the servant’s door.

I was in a state of shock, standing in the alley behind the shop, my eyes vacantly staring at nothing in particular. After a few moments, I recovered my senses and began assessing my situation. The first thing I noticed was the paper bag I was holding. Why was I holding a paper bag, I wondered, so I opened it. Inside the bag, I found my keys, my ID, enough cash to buy a latte, my cell phone, my American Excess Plutonium card, as well as the remaining contents of my clutch. But where was my clutch?

As I pondered the whereabouts of my clutch, I began looking about the alley. I noticed a dumpster next to the servant’s door. I walked over to the dumpster for some reason, lifted the cover, and peered into its maw. All I saw were pieces of fabric, packing material, worn out maid uniforms, old copies of “Modern Maid Magazine,” and other assorted sundries, nothing worth writing home about. But I inspected it all intently as if it held some secret.

But why was I inspecting the worthless contents of a dumpster? Then it struck me. Normally I would never dumpster dive. Why would a trust fund baby engage in such a demeaning activity? Particularly a trust fund baby who usually wore finely-tailored suits, hardly attire suitable for rummaging around in a dumpster. It made no sense. But here I was, wearing a cleaning lady’s uniform, and doing things that a cleaning lady might do … as if I really were a cleaning lady rather than the professional woman I fancied myself to be.

I shivered from an almost erotic thrill that surged through my body. It was as if my body was telling me that I was meant to be a cleaning lady, toiling under the stern gaze of a strict Mistress, obeying her every order, suffering every punishment she meted out, accepting the humiliations she heaped upon me.

Something had happened to me in the uniform shop; something I didn’t understand; something that terrified me: I didn’t want to be a cleaning lady … or so I thought. I panicked. I needed to get out of the accursed uniform before it was too late, before it somehow or the other infected me with the “maid virus.” But where were my “real” clothes?

I assumed that they were in the uniform shop. But the no nonsense manner in which Frou Frou dumped me in the alley suggested that it would be imprudent to attempt to re-enter the shop. Frou Frou had a black belt in maid: I didn’t want to tangle with her again. I would have to find another way to find suitable attire. So I made my way out of the alley onto the nearest boulevard in search of clothing worthy of someone as refined as myself.

Once at the boulevard, I looked around and spotted the “Vêtements d’Occasion,” a consignment shop. I didn’t know at the time that my clothes resided in that shop, awaiting their sale. But it looked like a good place to get a deal on some clothes that were more BCBG than a cleaning lady’s outfit. I was about to enter the shop when I realized that the only way I could pay for an outfit was with my Plutonium card, a card exclusively for those with an impeccable credit rating. There was no way a cleaning lady could qualify for such a card. If I attempted to purchase something with the card, the shopkeeper would assume that I had stolen it and call the police. I wanted to keep as low a profile as possible, which would be difficult to do if I were arrested. So I was going to have to find another way out of my predicament.

While I pondered my options, I started walking toward my apartment. I noticed that my clogs made a slapping sound as I walked down the street: SLAP … SLAP … SLAP … SLAP—I’m sure you get the picture (or should that be the sound?) All this noise attracted the attention of the local flâneurs going about their business. Each and every one stared at me. My nipples appreciated all this attention and stood proudly upright under my uniform, unrestrained by underwear. This of course delighted my admirers. As you can surmise, it was difficult to maintain the low profile I so desperately sought when I was the focus of everyone’s attention.

While I was attempting to maintain as much dignity as I could under the circumstances, I rounded a corner and … OH NO! … I had forgotten about the janitor strike. There was a demonstration by janitors blocking the boulevard over some grievance or the other, cars honking their horns, a police riot squad forming up, janitors waving placards, TV news crews filming the proceedings, ne’er-do-wells blowing vuvuzelas. In short, it was the last place I wanted to be.

A cleaning lady ran up to me, said, “Welcome, sister. Solidarity über alles!” and handed me a placard that said “DREYFUSARDS FOR JUSTICE.” I didn’t know that Dreyfusards still existed. She then dragged me into the demonstration and told me to wave my placard and start chanting, “Hell no, we won’t mow.” A demonstration about mowing grass? Why were Dreyfusards concerned about mowing grass? How was justice served by not mowing the grass? What did this have to do with janitors? As I was ruminating on these questions, I saw a news crew approaching, so, to preserve my anonymity, I held my placard in front of my face and started chanting about the evils of mowing the grass.

Then, a demonstrator, wielding a crowbar, ran past me toward a car and smashed its windshield. This gave the riot squad an excuse to spring into action. They advanced toward us and started lobbing tear gas canisters. One of the canisters hit me on the head …

***

When I came to, still in my damned uniform, I was in a jail cell, a bandage wrapped around my head. I heard a guard say, “She’s awake. Take her to the interrogation room.”

Another guard entered my cell, ordered me to stand up, placed handcuffs on my wrists, and escorted me out of the cell. As I was led along a corridor, I noticed that the top button of my uniform had popped off—presumably during the riot—exposing more décolletage than is my wont. With my wrists restrained behind my back, there was little I could do to correct the situation.

In the interrogation room, I was sat down upon a chair, facing a table, still handcuffed. I waited … and waited … and waited … and waited … Finally, a man entered the room. After examining my décolletage, for reasons probably not related to police work, he introduced himself as Lieutenant Dentdelion. He sat down, facing me, on the opposite side of the table and emptied an official looking evidence bag on the table. In front of me were the contents of my clutch.

He said, “You’re facing a charge of robbery.”

“What did I rob?”

The Lieutenent gestured at my belongings on the table.

“Those are my belongings,” I said.

“A likely story. That’s what they all say.”

I replied, “No, really. See that ID. That’s my ID.”

Lt. Dentdelion picked up the ID and compared the picture on the ID with my face. You could tell by his expression that he was surprised to learn I was telling the truth.

He replaced my ID on the table and picked up my American Excess Plutonium card.

“How does a cleaning lady manage to qualify for an American Excess card?”

“I’m not a cleaning lady,” I said.

He reacted with a look of complete astonishment.

“You certainly look like one.”

I didn’t want to have explain about my experiences at the uniform shop. It would be too embarrassing. So I decided to tell a teeny-tiny fib.

“I’m a freelance journalist who’s writing a story about the janitor strike. I went undercover to get the story. That’s why I’m wearing this cleaning lady outfit.”

The Lieutenent said, “Hmm … I’ll be right back.”

He left the room, possibly to discuss matters with the prosecutor. A few minutes later, he returned.

“OK, the prosecutor is prepared to drop all charges against you under two conditions. First, you must provide us a copy of the published story as evidence that you are in fact a journalist writing a story about the riot. If you fail to do this in a timely manner, the charges will be reinstated.”

I could probably cobble together a story that somebody would publish. That’s what I do.

“OK, I can do that … What’s the second condition?”

“You’ll have to clean the restroom.”

“WHAT!”

“Well, Mam’selle, you ARE wearing a cleaning lady’s outfit, and the restroom really needs cleaning.”

I couldn’t believe it. I was a sophisticated professional, a respected member of the Fourth Estate, not a menial laborer. It was beneath my dignity to perform such an odious task. Surely the police could see that. But I didn’t want to be charged with a crime while wearing a cleaning lady’s outfit, so I didn’t see what choice I had but to agree.

“Uhhh … OK.”

***

I’m sure the reader doesn’t wish to read about the particulars of cleaning the restroom. Suffice it to say that the police need remedial instruction in how to flush a toilet.

Once the restroom was cleaned to the Lieutenant’s satisfaction, I was released. I made my way home, controlling my décolletage as best I could, eventually reaching my building, an original Haussmann, and, by entering through the maid’s entrance, I avoided the prying eyes of my neighbors, relieved that my ordeal was over.

***

But my ordeal wasn’t quite over. After a good night’s sleep, I was ready to face a new day. I dressed up in one of my smarter outfits, picked a hat that did a good job of hiding the bandage around my my head, and set out to do the business of the day.

My first stop was at a local clinic to get my head injury checked. Other than replacing the bandage with a fresh one, they pronounced me OK. After that, I called Cendrine’s Mistress to find out happened to the wool suit I had worn to the uniform shop. She informed me that my suit had been put on consignment at the “Vêtements d’Occasion,” the shop I had passed by the day before. So I headed there to get it back.

When I entered the shop, I was surprised to see a strange woman trying on my suit. I didn’t know at that time that the woman was Mme. Nguyen, now my Mistress, or that she would in the future decide what clothes I wore. She had a confident demeanor as if she were to the manner born, as if my clothes were by right hers and not mine, as if I deserved nothing more than the cleaning lady’s uniform I wore yesterday, as if she were meant to command, and I, to serve. This thought caused me to feel the same electric thrill I felt the day before. And left me confused since I was certain I had no desire to serve as a maid.

Because it was clear that she was going to buy my suit, and there was no hope of getting it back, I abandoned my quest to recover it, reluctantly left the shop, and headed for the office of Jacques, a Marxist editor and acquaintance of mine. He would probably be receptive to a story about the oppression of the proletariat. Once there, I pitched the story about my experiences during the janitor riot. He was agreeable to publishing such a story but insisted that I also provide a photo of myself in my cleaning lady’s uniform. It was a good thing that I hadn’t thrown it out, tempting as that might have seemed. I wasn’t keen on this particular demand of Jacques, but had no choice since I needed to be able to provide the police with a published copy of my story.

Before the photo shoot, I had my uniform tailored to present a more flattering image of myself. Jacques stipulated that I hold a mop while the photo was taken to make it seem more authentic. During the shoot, I still had the bandage around my head. The effect of the resulting photo was to project an image of a humble working woman who had been viciously attacked by her bourgeois oppressors.

The article and photo were published in Jacques’ magazine—“The New Paris Commune”—which had a minuscule circulation, so I was confident that no one I knew would see the picture of me in the uniform of a menial laborer, shod in clogs and holding a mop. Unfortunately, the photo became the iconic photo of the “Great Janitor Riot,” as it came to be known, and as a consequence, the image was widely reproduced, much to my embarrassment. My friends teased me mercilessly about it and gave me mops, aprons, and other symbols of servitude as birthday presents.

Everyone I met afterwards assumed that I was actually a cleaning lady and that I was putting on airs because I wore designer clothes. All of them had seen the photo, but none of them had read my article. I had to laboriously explain to each and every one of them that I was a professional woman, a journalist, not a cleaning lady. My life became simpler later when I actually became Mme. Nguyen’s maid. I no longer had to explain myself. I WAS a maid, so there was no point in denying it.

A word to the wise: Never don a maid’s uniform unless you’re planning on becoming a maid.

Epilogue

If, dear reader, you wish to possess a maid, a  maid of the sort who will faithfully execute your every command, a maid who accepts the humiliation to which her betters subject her, a maid who will not vex you with her complaints and sloppy work,  then you must first find a woman with servitude in her blood, not one who merely needs a job. But how does one find such a woman? This essay has been my attempt to show how one does this using my current maid Thirty-Eight being an example of my approach.

The key thing is to find a woman who is interested in all things maid. For example, the sort of woman who might read an essay like this very one. A woman like you to be more specific. Who knows, I may have started a dossier on you already. You may be closer to donning the apron and uniform than you realize.

There is no point in denying it. There is a psychological principle that the more one denies something, the more one actually desires it. Instead of denying your destiny, you should look about and find a Mistress, a woman who will lord over you with an iron hand, who will humiliate you as you deserve, who will liberate you from the shackles of your everyday life. Go to this woman and forcefully demand that she enslave you. If that doesn’t work, ask that she enslave you. Finally, if that doesn’t work, humbly beg that she enslave you and pray that she grants your request.

On the other hand, assuming that one is a natural Mistress rather than a natural maid and has found a suitable maid candidate, the next step is to maneuver the maid-to-be into enslaving herself. But how one does this is a topic for another time.