Can I be your French Maid? Ch. 02

A frilly French maid's uniform. That was what I was wearing when I woke up the next morning.

My first thought as I rubbed my sleepy eyes: why?

... why indeed.

I sat up and rubbed my chest, tracing the lines of the push-up bra through the French maid's uniform.

I looked down. The apron was still tied around my waist. The pearl white thigh high nylons poked out from below the thick ruffles of my skirt.

As I sat there, the memories flooded back as well as the low throbbing ache in my ass.

I remembered the odd proposal I'd made to my wife. If she did my makeup, in exchange, I'd agreed to be her personal French maid for the day. It seemed like a fair deal. I, as a closeted crossdresser, would get to indulge in my secret kink, and she, as said wife of a crossdresser, would finally get some help with the chores.

... and I'd even spoken French.

She'd agreed and the following three hours had been exquisite.

Unbeknownst to her, I'd secretly planned everything in advance. I'd ordered the frilly French maid's uniform custom tailored to my measurements. I'd also bought a new set of matching snow white lingerie and a pair of Mary Jane shoes.

After she did my makeup, I held up my end of the deal, sweeping, mopping and vacuuming our small house from the floor to the ceiling. I was particularly proud of my dusting job. Freed from its thick layer of dust, the bookshelves sparkled.

There had been a few... hiccups along the way. The arrival of a delivery driver had been unexpected.

As I stood there, signing for the package, I felt humiliated. I could only imagine what he'd thought when I'd opened the door. There I was, adorned in frilly bows and ribbons wearing a sissy short French maid's uniform that barely covered my panties.

Shock would have been an understatement. But that was still a distant second to what happened next. My wife, insisting I call her 'Madame,' had lured me to our bedroom. She'd then stepped out of the bathroom like a spider, wearing a blood red skintight latex catsuit. That alone would have sent my libido rocketing into the atmosphere. It was what was attached to her waist that short-circuited my brain.

I'd never seen a strap-on dildo in person, nor had I ever dreamed I'd be on the receiving end of one. Yet I had and not before I'd gone down on it first, willingly devouring every inch of her hard cock before she threw me onto the bed and fucked me in the ass as I lay there on all fours lost in a cloud of pure euphoria.

It had happened, the steady low throbbing ache in my ass a gentle reminder.

I looked around. The strawberry blonde light of the rising sun peeked through the blinds warming our small bedroom.

The sheets where my wife had slept were disturbed. She was up and about, and I had a good idea where: the kitchen. I stretched like a cat and caught the faint scent of freshly brewed coffee.

... coffee, I thought. That sounds great right about now.

I turned and sat on the edge of the bed. I could walk down to the kitchen dressed as I was. It would obviously not come as a surprise, but I decided against it. I was in new territory. I needed to tread lightly.

I reached down, undid the clasps of the garters and carefully slid each nylon stocking off. I'd managed to avoid causing any tears, which considering how long I'd spent on my knees with a rubber cock in my mouth was no small feat.

... cocksucker, that was what she had called me. Even now, thinking of it, my mind was gripped by an insatiable appetite.

The taste of the dildo still lingered on the tip of my tongue, part plastic with a dash of floral lube thrown in for flavor. While I'd had it shoved halfway down my throat, I was haunted by a single thought, a single desire... what if it was real?

... what if? I thought.

My mouth started to water, my curiosity peaked. What if indeed.

Ignore it, I thought and continued to change. I'd dove too deep into the uncharted waters of my kink. I needed to resurface, get some fresh air.

I untied the apron and fumbled for the dress's zipper. I eventually found it and gently unzipped the dress. I brought it down, off my shoulders, to the floor and stepped out of it. All that was left was my bra and panties.

I admired my body again. I'd always felt awkward in my own skin. I didn't fit the right mold. I'd been skinny my whole life, shapeless, but the lingerie, I swear... it gave me form. It was like it had taken all the pieces of a puzzle, rearranged them and created a new picture. Reluctantly, I peeled the bra and panties off.

I grabbed a clean t-shirt and a pair of PJs and darted into the bathroom. I checked my reflection in the mirror. My hair was still in a ponytail, but loose strands had tumbled out of the knot. There were still traces of my makeup, the bubblegum pink eyeshadow faint, the thick mascara smeared.

I turned on the faucet and did a thorough rinse, scrubbing the last remnants of the makeup off. When I was finished, I peered into the bathroom mirror.

Total reset, I thought with a faint hint of sadness. Back to the regular old me.

I sighed. Oh well, I thought as I clung to the memories. At least I have those. I'd soon be revisiting them and often. I turned and walked downstairs, the aroma of the coffee guiding me to the kitchen.

I walked in. My wife, wearing her fuzzy white bathrobe, was leaning against the counter, scrolling through her phone.

"Bonj... morning," I said, stumbling on my own words.

She looked up at me and smiled pleasantly. "Good morning, sunshine. How did you sleep?"

I nervously smiled back. Were we really going to pretend like nothing wild had happened the night before? "Good," I replied.

"Coffee?" she asked.

"Please."

She stepped away from the counter, picked up her cup and moved to the sink.

"You were talking in your sleep," she said and took a sip.

"Oh?" I asked as I walked to the kitchen cabinets, opened them and grabbed a coffee cup. "What did I say?"

"It wasn't what you said, it was how you were saying it."

I looked over at her, puzzled.

"You were speaking French," she said.

"I was, really?" I asked as I picked up the coffee press and filled my cup.

"Yup. Sadly, I didn't catch much of it."

"I see," I said and scooped up a spoonful of sugar and dropped it into my coffee cup.

"I wish I'd woken up earlier, or been in the right state of mind to translate it," my wife said as she walked to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. She stopped, turned, peered at me over her shoulder and smiled. "You seemed to be really enjoying yourself, so I didn't wake you."

I smiled, picked up a spoon, gave my coffee a quick stir then put the spoon in the sink. "So, is there anything you want to do this weekend?" I asked.

"That depends..." she said, turned and walked into the living room.

That depends? I thought. That depends on what?

I followed her and looked around. The floors still sparkled. At least we wouldn't be spending it cleaning.

She sat down on the couch and opened her laptop, then looked up at me with an odd expression.

"What?" I asked as I stood there.

"I have something to show you, but before I do, you have to promise you won't get mad."

"Oh... k?" I replied, confused.

"I'm serious. Promise."

I tried to read her expression. If she was playing a game, she was impossible to read. "All right. I promise not to get mad."

"Ok," she said and shifted to her left. "You might want to sit down for this."

"Ah... alright" I said, walked around the coffee table, set my cup down and sat down beside her. I looked at her, then at her open laptop.

"What the... FUCK!" I screamed in horror.

My wife spoke, at least I think she did, but I couldn't hear her through the ear-splitting alarm going off in my head.

I fell back, my brain shutting down one lope at a time. Everything went blurry and for a second the entire room was a spinning ball of white light. When I re-emerged, I was staring at her laptop. An internet browser was open to a website... a website advertising a kinky maid service, and I appeared to be their star employee.

"... so what happened was."

"Take it down!" I shouted, pleaded... begged.

"I... I can't. At least not until Monday," my wife replied.

"What?" I asked in horror. "Why not?"

"It's actually a funny story. I mean it will be... one day. I was on a call with the IT guys going over... well I won't bore you with the specifics. Anyway, I was enjoying a glass of white wine and well, I knew I wouldn't hear the end of it if they saw me day-drinking, so I turned the camera off, at least I thought I did. It turns out I just switched it to the one in the front of the laptop and..."

Her laptop. A camera. All the pieces fell into place. Had I accidently been filmed while I was dressed as a sissy French maid? Was that what she was trying to tell me?

I had about a hundred questions. I hysterically rambled them off one after another. She patiently answered them all. When I was done, exhausted, I was able to piece together the entire insane story. The main points were as follows:

- While my wife was on a zoom call with her IT department, she'd accidently filmed me dressed as a French maid.

- No one bothered to tell her for several hours. Were they too afraid? Was it too funny? She wasn't sure. She was only made aware of it because one of them asked her if "he was available for hire?"

This was where the story became absurd. Had I only been accidently filmed the extent of the damage might be minimal. I had no doubt it would spread like wildfire through her company. Soon everyone would be talking in hushed whispers about how her husband liked to dress up like a sissy French maid and prance around their living room carrying a feather duster. Thankfully I'd never have to actually interact with any of them, never have those awkward moments in the hallway, never have to avoid eye contact with them in meetings. That was my wife's problem, not mine. One thing was for damn sure. I was never going to attend another one of her company holiday parties ever again.

"And they built a website... because, why? I asked, confused.

"You have to understand I was in full panic mode," my wife said, reached out, and touched my hand as she tried to console me.

"I tried to play it off as a joke, to defuse the situation. I believe my exact words were 'he will be when you build the website' and well, they tend not to pick up on subtlety... or jokes and they... well they actually made one."

I leaned in and stared at the url. If it was a joke, it had fooled me. They'd built an entire website from the ground up, including a directory. Had I stumbled across it I would have thought it was legit, rather strange, but legit. A kink cleaning service where crossdressers dress up as French maids and scrub your floors? In this economy? Sure, why not?

... and I was their one and only star employee.

I stared at the picture featured predominantly on the main page. I was reaching up to dust the top shelf of the bookcase with a feather duster. One of my legs was bent at the knee while I was perched up on my toes. I was turned away from the camera, the hem of my short skirt raised to reveal my snow white lace panties.

'Yvette is ready and willing to serve your every need!' it proclaimed below the picture.

I sat back, my stomach twisting into a ball of knots. "I think I'm going to need a bucket," I groaned.

"Believe me, I understand how you feel, and I'm so, so very sorry. I'd take it down now if I could, but IT is impossible to reach on the weekend. They go dark. It's the reason why the entire company shuts down on the weekend. First thing Monday morning I'll drag them into my office, scream at them till my voice is hoarse and have them take it down immediately. Honestly, I've gone through it, checked every link, I don't think they meant any harm by it. They can be a bit odd that way. They tend to think like computers, often taking everything I say quite literally. It's all just a colossal miscommunication."

I turned and stared at her, stunned. "A miscommunication?... a miscommunication! My ass is plastered all over the internet! You call that a miscommunication?"

She smiled at me. "You have to admit though, it is an adorable ass. And those sexy legs. Wow! I'm honestly jealous."

I turned and looked back at the url. I wasn't ready to admit it to her, but I agreed, my ass did look amazing. It was actually the best I'd looked in ages. I didn't take decent photos. I was cursed with a stubborn reflex, often blinking, yawning, sneezing, or in a few rare occasions, all three at once when a camera was pointed in my general direction.

"Wait till you see the gallery," my wife said.

"Seriously?" I grunted.

She opened the directory, scrolled down to 'On the job' and clicked it. A new tab opened, packed with more photos. When I saw it, it immediately reminded me of the secret folders I kept squirreled away in the darkest depths of my computer, often labeled something unassuming, boring like 'taxes.'

My wife started to scroll through the photos. There were a lot of them... like a lot, a lot.

There were pictures of me mopping the floor, dusting, vacuuming. In almost all of them I was teasing my panties or bent just far enough that you could see the sharp lines of my push-up bra through my short-sleeved dress.

Every pose was like a strip tease, charged with raw sexuality. I swear none of it was intentional. I'd been so focused on the job, worried that I might fuck it up that it had never occurred to me I might be striking a seductive pose.

In a cruel twist of irony, I'd become one of the girls I drooled over. Perhaps it was the universe's way of punishing me for being such an internet creep.

"After I have the site taken down... I could save these... if you'd like?" my wife asked, her voice as sweet as honey.

"I... suppose. So, by Monday it's gone, right?"

"Promise," she said. "I'm sure no one's even seen it. Exposure costs a bloody fortune. I've worked on projects for clients who have been unwilling to cough up the money for paid advertisements and have been shocked when they discover that no one has visited their stupid website. Aside from you, me and a couple of nerds at work no one knows this website even exi..."

Ding!

A small window popped up in the lower right corner of the website and started to blink.

"Why did the website just ding?" I asked in horror.

My wife leaned forward and stared at it. "I'm not sure."

She clicked on it. It popped up and she started to read it. "Whoa..." she said.

"What?" I asked.

"Well... it would appear those nerds were thorough."

"What do you mean by... thorough?" I asked.

She turned and looked at me, her smile so sketchy it would make you check to see if your wallet was still in your back pocket. "So, what were your plans for the weekend again?"

The website, the service, the ding, my brain did the math.

"Oh no, oh no, no, no! absolutely not!" I howled.

"I haven't even told you the details yet!"

I stood up, stormed into the middle of the living room, flailing my hands. "Fuck... no!" I protested.

She sighed and sat back. "You know what? You're probably right. It's a mad idea. Totally batty. Too bad though though. I don't know what those nerds were googling, but wow, at that rate, just to play dress up and sweep? Hell, I'd do it naked!"

In the days, weeks and months that followed, when I tried to pull the threads loose and untangle the knotted ball that was my new life, it was what I said next that doomed me.

"How much?" I asked.

My wife smiled and turned the laptop to face me. I stepped closer and peered down at it. I gasped, the number exceeding my wildest expectations. "That's for an... hour?" I asked, stunned.

"Yup."

I stood there and stared at the number questioning my basic understanding of math. It had to be a mistake.

My wife started to close the laptop. "It's probably for the best. I'd have to go back, juggle our finances and redo our taxes. I mean, it would be easier to just pretend like it didn't exist and let you spend it on whatever you wanted..."

"Wait," I said, my voice quivering. "So, you're going to take the website down on Monday, right?"

"Bright and early before I get my morning coffee."

My eyes remained fixed on the number, the zeros lined up like a well-stocked shelf. Was I drooling?

"And it's only for an hour?" I asked.

"Sixty minutes and not a second more."

I thought of all the lingerie I'd seen while I'd been scouring the web, searching for the perfect French maid's uniform. It'd been difficult to narrow it down to just one set. I'd opened up the floodgates, been introduced to a whole new catalog of sensual delights: babydolls made of lace as thin as a wisp of smoke, chemises adorned in frilly bows, their pastel colors like icing on a cake and the corsets... oh the corsets.

I'd never worn a corset. I'd considered buying one for my wife as a gift, then sneaking it on when the opportunity arose, but never found the right time. I'd tested the water, dropped subtle hints, but they had all been ignored and life... well life got in the way.

I could buy my own corset, tailored to my exact measurements. I could pick the color, the fabric, leather? Lycra? Latex?

There had to be a catch, I thought. No one in their right mind would pay that much money, not for a cleaning service.

"And I'd only be cleaning, right? Nothing else?" I asked.

"Yup. I read through the contract IT wrote up. If there's one thing I've drilled into their brains it's to always be specific in the fine print. It explicitly says you are there to clean... and nothing more."

I stood there, expecting the voice of reason to emerge, object to this mad idea, and restore sanity to my world but it didn't.

"So, is that a yes?" my wife asked. "I mean I don't want to pressure you. It's your choice."

I turned, looked at her and smiled nervously. "Ok, let's do it."

She smiled and for a brief second, I thought I saw something below her polished veneer, something sinister. Then it was gone. Had I played competitive sports, I would have recognized it as a finishing blow.

"... and confirm," she said as she pressed the enter button on her laptop. "Ok, you're not scheduled to arrive for a few hours. That'll give us plenty of time to prepare. Nervous?" She asked.

I nodded.

"Don't be," she said and closed her laptop. "Trust me, you're going to have a blast."

For the next few hours, I puttered around the house, my eyes never straying far from the clock. I checked the French maid's uniform. It was machine wash friendly. I tossed it and my new set of lingerie into the washing machine and set it to a gentle wash cycle.

"You look like a nervous wreck," my wife laughed as she saw me aimlessly wandering around the living room.

"Come with me," she said and took me by the hand. "I know exactly what will help ease your mind."

She led me upstairs to the bathroom. It was small but cozy. It had all the basic fixtures plus we'd installed a few shelves for towels and my wife's regiment of beauty products. The ivory white tub was spacious, the multi-spray shower able to generate a light rainfall.

"Strip," my wife commanded as she checked her reflection in the mirror.

"What?" I asked.

She turned, stared at me and raised an eyebrow. It was as if she'd drawn a revolver.

Reluctantly, I obeyed and took off my t-shirt and pajama bottoms. Standing there, under the harsh fluorescent lights, I felt like a bloated beached whale.

"Start the shower," she said and walked out of the bathroom. "I'll be with you in just a sec."

The smooth porcelain was cool against my bare skin as I sat down on the edge of the tub. I turned on the facet and ran my hand under the water. When it had warmed up, I stepped in, letting the hot water embrace me. I closed my eyes, as it traced the curves of my body.