Story: Scrubbing His Record Clean. Chapter 3.

by Camille Langtry

I still do not understand what got into me then, but I quickly removed my business suit and shirt and put them away, staying only in my underwear. I should have been thinking about my wife leaving me and the inevitable problems that were bound to arise sooner rather than later (what will happen to our house? how will we split our savings and mortgage payments? what shall I tell our friends if anything? shall I hire a lawyer?), but instead all I could think of was that black and white uniform. 

Perhaps, it was just my mind’s protective response as it refused to dwell on the hard questions that I could not answer, at least for now. Oddly, trying on this maid’s dress somehow seemed the right and timely thing to do. Just to put myself at rest. Just to relax and forget about the problems currently at hand.

Let me digress just a little. I’ve always considered myself straight. I was a bit on the “creative” side when it came to sexual intercourse - something that always irritated Danielle, who would outright refuse to do anal, or to go down on me, or even experiment with various adult toys that I bought - but all in all I’ve never thought that I had much of a feminine side to me. My adult interests were solely those of a man. I was just a regular guy with somewhat peculiar fetish tastes.

I did have a brief phase as a teenager when I was trying on my mother’s clothing, but ever since being caught red-handed by my parents (an embarrassing scene that I’ve been unsuccessfully trying to push from my consciousness ever since) I never really had an inclination to do anything of the kind ever again - instead, I concentrated on trying to make sure my wife was as feminine as possible. That did not work by the look of things.

So when I saw that uniform, the one that Danielle refused to wear for me, I felt those teenage urges resurface. I held the black and white dress in my hands, feeling the soft satin material, and then put it over my head. Surprisingly, it fit me relatively well - after all, I have always been quite skinny and not very tall for a man - just 172 centimetres in height. The uniform’s hem ended well above my knees, but all in all it was pretty respectable and clearly was not a fetish “maid outfit” designed for sex games in the bedroom. A female servant at a very rich household might wear something very similar for a posh dinner party. I reached into the bag and took out a matching white apron and tied it around my waist, completing the outfit.

I looked in the mirror and was astonished at the reflection of myself. Yes, I did look like a guy in a dress. I had short hair, a manly face (although not excessively so, I had to admit), a flat chest and hairy legs - put together they were prominent giveaways I wasn’t a woman. Still, what astonished me was how the dress changed the way I looked - it was as if it was overriding some of my masculinity and giving me a new, yet unfamiliar feminine dimension.

There was also another thing. It was a peculiar mixture of intense pleasure and incredible shame that I felt when I put the uniform on. And I could not say which of the two was stronger - they were so intertwined! I knew that I was doing something wrong, but the pleasure of doing it was so tempting and profound. Did drug addicts in need of a fix feel something very similar? Or alcoholics? At least, wearing maid uniforms would not ruin my health, lead to premature death or end me in prison, I thought to myself, amazed that I’d retained my sense of humour despite the events of the last hour.

I made a few steps around the room, feeling the skirt swish around my naked thighs. It was a very unfamiliar feeling that I found strangely comforting. I looked at myself in the mirror again and saw something else behind me. Damn! I forgot to pull the curtains on the big window. It was already dark outside and with electric lights on in the room, that made me very visible to anyone on the street curious enough to look - dog walkers, car drivers... Not to mention the pesky neighbours just across the street. How could I be so reckless and not think about that?

I reached for the switch and turned the light off and then walked half-bent to the window and pulled the curtains together. Thankfully, my neighbours were not home yet or they would have quite enjoyed my little crossdressing show. My initial excitement was now completely gone and replaced by a sense of guilt and unease. Here I was, just an hour after my wife left me, using this as an opportunity to get dressed in a maid’s uniform.

I pulled the dress over my head, swiftly folded it, in disgust with myself, and put it away in the bag. What was I thinking? I spent the rest of the evening alone and went to bed early. I tried to do some reading, but found it incredibly hard to concentrate. I checked my email and my text messages repeatedly - there was nothing from Danielle. Was she expecting me to call her? No, I had to sleep it off. I just did not know what to do next.

The following morning I woke up as normal, checked my email (nothing from Danielle still) and went to work. I contemplated calling in sick but then realised that living my life as if nothing had happened was the best course of action. I was working for a large property management company that was operating a few office complexes and shopping centres in the city and, due to the nature of my work, had to be in the office pretty early to make sure everything was running smoothly in various projects.

For me it was office work mostly, but I also communicated daily with maintenance people on the ground - repairmen, janitors and, yes, cleaners. I was a mid-level manager, meaning I was way above all of these people financially as well as socially, but I never let it show, always trying to keep a friendly facade with my underlings even as the cultural gap between us was pretty obvious to me, as well as to them. A lot of these people were immigrants that spoke very poor French and almost no German (not to mention Luxembourgish!) and had no education or manners to speak of. Some of them had to commute quite a distance, often travelling a couple of hours by train or more from France and even Belgium. After all, the world’s only remaining grand duchy is a bit expensive to live in compared to neighbouring French cities.

There were also some local men and women on my team; they were quite a rough crowd consisting of people from the bottom of society, former wayward youths and juvenile delinquents from dysfunctional working class families, high school dropouts that had done jail time for petty crime, single moms that needed every Euro to support their kids. You name it. There were also a few “normal” ones  - or at least as far as I could tell - but even with them, there was this undeniable glass ceiling of social class and university education. We just did not have a lot in common. Overall people on my team probably thought of me as a bit of a softie, at least compared to some other managers in our company that treated them in an extremely condescending manner, but I always believed in the carrot a lot more than I did in the stick.

I arrived at the office earlier than normal, I just did not feel like staying in the house longer than necessary - typically that extra time would have been spent chatting with Danielle about our plans for the day. I sat down at my desk, turned on my computer and looked around. I was the first one to arrive by the look of things: all the desks were still empty. Then I heard some commotion in the corner, turned my head and saw a woman in a blue polyester uniform cleaning the carpet. I was not alone after all. I stood up and walked over to her to say hello.

She turned to me and I recognised her - it was Nicole, the girl whose photos my wife found on my cell phone. I did not know she'd been transferred to our building, the candid pictures I took of her were from the Auchan shopping mall, our biggest managed property in town. Nicole was a curvy woman in her late 20s, her hair was blonde with dark roots and I could tell she was most likely the kind to frequently use her undeniable sex appeal to her advantage in various life situations. I had no proof she was sexually promiscuous, of course, but she certainly channelled that look with her cat-like moves.

“Good morning, Nicole,” I said and smiled.

She looked at me with something approximating a smile. Was she laughing at me or was I just imagining things?

“Oh, good morning, Monsieur…?” she responded, trying to remember my last name.

“Just David, please,” I insisted. Unlike most other managers in the company, I really hated all this nonsense of “Monsieur” and asked everyone to call me by my first name. Most of my colleagues really relished the opportunity to remind the “support staff” of their proper place and insisted on the super formal address. I was not like that at all.

“Yes, David, I remember now,” she said and gave me that mysterious smile again. Was she hinting at something?

I let her get on and returned to my desk. There was this Excel table I had to refresh each morning and then make a few phone calls. I could not help but cast occasional glances at Nicole, who was moving closer and closer to my desk. She was dressed in a rather unflattering short-sleeved uniform and wore simple slippers with no heel. Yet there was something undeniably sexy about her. Crawling on the floor, bending at the waist, her thick behind in the air, to pick something up. She was this ideal cleaner from my obsessive fantasy.

I waited for Nicole to turn her back to me, took out my phone and pointed it at her. I knew it wasn’t right, but I also knew I would regret later if I did not seize on the opportunity and snap a photo or two. With no one else in the office but the two of us it was an ideal opportunity. I waited for Nicole to move into position and pressed the photo button. What I did not realise was that my phone’s sound was on full volume! The very loud “photograph taking” sound filled the room, forcing Nicole to turn her head and see me taking the photo. Triple damn!

I just sat there stone-faced, my phone still in my right hand. Nicole rose from her knees and walked slowly to me. It was as if she moved in slow motion. She stopped very close to me, leaned against my desk and gave me that smile of hers again.

“Well, well, well, David,’’ she said, completely pushing aside whatever “respectful and professional employee” airs she had before. “You up to your old tricks again? What do you have to say in your defence this time?”

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