Can I be your French Maid? Ch. 03

As we sped through the city, I crouched down in the passenger side seat of my wife's new Sporitti sports car, terrified that someone might see me in my French maid's uniform.

"Having second thoughts?" my wife asked as she peered at me from above her sunglasses.

I straightened up and peeked out the window. "Oui, Madame," I replied, nervously.

"Don't be, honey. Own it. You look adorable."

"Promesse?" I whimpered.

"Absolutely. I mean, look at those stunning legs. If I could pry them off you and swap them for my tree stumps, I'd wear miniskirts exclusively year-round."

It was an odd thing to say, I thought, but she wasn't wrong. I looked down. My thigh high stockings peeked out from below the ruffles of my petticoat. In the snow white nylons, my buttery smooth legs were spectacular.

As I sank back in my seat, I brought my hand up and followed the lines of my push-up bra through the uniform's tight short-sleeved dress. It was unlike anything I'd ever worn before. It zipped up in the back, once sealed, it hugged every curve of my body.

How had I gotten here? I was still struggling to recall.

It had started with an odd proposal. If my wife did my makeup, I agreed to be her personal French maid and tidy up around the house. Only a crossdresser would have thought up something so bizarre and I, being one, had.

It had all gone according to plan with one minor hiccup. My wife had been on a call with her IT department, unaware that her laptop's camera was switched to the front and had accidently filmed my grand debut.

I still didn't understand what had possessed them to build a website advertising my services. My wife had described it as a miscommunication.

... miscommunication? I'd asked in horror. A miscommunication!

That miscommunication was the reason why I was now being driven to clean for my first client. In less than 24 hours I'd gone from roleplaying as a French maid to actually being one.

"Coffee?" my wife asked, snapping me back into reality.

"Pardon?... oh. Oui, Madame," I said, politely.

"Superb," she said as we pulled into a small coffee shop's parking lot. "Can you run in and grab me an iced latte with oak milk? I totally forgot to reply to one of my client's super urgent emails."

I turned and stared at her wide eyed in disbelief.

She pulled her phone out of her purse then looked up at me. "Oh right, what was I thinking?... the dress," she said.

I looked down as if to say, "Well, duh!"

She reached back into her purse, pulled out her debit card and handed it to me. "No pockets. Got it. Been there, done that!"

I took it from her, stunned. Before I could speak, she started to scroll through her phone.

She didn't actually expect me to walk into a coffee shop wearing a frilly French maid's uniform, did she?

Was she taking any of this seriously?

I was.

Crossdressing wasn't just a game for me. I'd spent my entire life guarding it like it was the blueprints for a military secret weapon. It was something I only did in the privacy of my own home with the curtains drawn, lights low and ideally late at night. If it ever got out in the open, if people knew... it would ruin me.

That was what decades of being battered in popular media had done to me. Crossdressers portrayed as serial killers. Crossdressers portrayed as the butt of a joke, laughed at, mocked, jeered... it had taken its toll.

Sure, I'd made small steps, challenged myself. But this... this was too far.

... and yet.

I don't know what possessed me to open the door. It may have been fear, it may have been excitement, or a mix of both. All I knew was I couldn't turn back. Not now. As mad as this journey was, I needed to see it through to the end.

I stepped out of the car and stood there in the parking lot waiting... waiting for the alarms, waiting to be shouted at, pointed at, chased to the city's limits and exiled from society.

... none of which happened.

I took in a deep breath and absorbed everything around me. It was midday. The sun hung low in the pale blue sky like a saucer. The lush vegetation blotted out the city's skyline. There were quite a few cars in the parking lot, but none appeared to be occupied. The coffee shop had a rustic appeal, the thick mahogany wood the color of maple syrup.

As I took in every detail a warm summer breeze whipped between my nylons, the ruffles of my petticoat dancing as it passed by.

... then the door to the coffee shop opened and two patrons walked out.

Act!, my brain screamed at me, but my body refused to move. I tried to see what they saw: a crossdresser loose in the streets like a wild animal. What would I do in that situation? Obvious. Call the cops and have the feral animal hunted down and mercifully put out of its misery.

... none of which happened.

They walked to their car, got in and drove off.

I stood there, stunned.

Ok, it hadn't ended in complete disaster... but the day was still young.

I took a deep breath, rallied my courage and walked to the front door of the coffee shop. My heels rang off the asphalt with each stride, the hem of my short-sleeve dress bobbing up and down.

I reached for the doorknob, pulled on it and stepped inside.

Packed. That was the first word that popped into my head followed closely by 'run.'

Every table was occupied. A long line snaked from the cashier to where I was standing. Before I could turn and dart out of the door, I realized I was standing in it. A second later someone was behind me.

I fiddled with the debit card, trying to will myself to be invisible and... it seemed to work. Everyone appeared absorbed in their own conversations or captivated by their phones. There may have been a few quick glances, but none lingered.

The line inched forward, and I kept repeating the order to myself over and over again, terrified I might reach the cashier and forget it.

Finally, it was my turn. The cashier smiled at me warmly, unfazed by what she saw. "Good afternoon. What can I get for you today?" she asked.

I looked up at the chalkboard hung above her as if I didn't already know what I wanted, then back down. "Bonjour, oui... je voudrais un latte et un..."

Oh god, was I still speaking French? Should I slip out of it? Would that be too embarrassing?

"And what would you like with that?" she asked. "Oat, almond or regular milk?"

"Avoine," I replied, surprised I knew the correct word.

"Is there anything else I can get for you today?" she asked, smiling.

I ordered a regular coffee, afraid I might bumble my way through anything more complicated.

"Can I get a name for the order?" she asked.

"Yvette."

She rang up the total, and I paid, tapping my wife's debit card on the machine. Thankfully the transaction went through. Had it not... well, I suppose I'd find out how fast I could run in heels.

I stepped to my right, found a small pocket near the wall and waited for my name to be called. Without a phone to distract myself with, my eyes wandered, admiring the coffee shop's decor.

In a past life, it may have been a garage. There were still faint echoes of it in the design from the closed bay door to the scarred thick concrete floor. They'd leaned into it, using old, discarded car parts and tin signs. As my eyes drifted around the coffee shop, a flash of daylight caught my attention as the front door opened.

I suddenly didn't feel so alone...

I may have been wearing a French maid's uniform, but that paled in comparison to what the girl who had just walked in through the door was wearing. Her name was Valerie. In a few minutes I'd learn that when the barista called out her mobile order. I paid close attention to her because I'd never seen someone wear a skin tight short latex dress, at least not in public.

The wet plastic shine was familiar, reminding me of the blood red catsuit and the strap-on dildo my wife had worn the night before when she had strolled out of our bathroom like a spider...

... ah, yes, the strap-on dildo. How could I possibly forget? I could still taste it, the intoxicating mix of playful lube and rubber lingering on the tip of my tongue.

The memory was still wet like a fresh coat of paint. I thought of it again. I was on my knees, lips wrapped around her strap-on dildo, staring up at her. There was something there lurking in her eyes, an oily shadow I'd never seen before, fueled by... was it passion, rage?

In the skin tight latex she was almost... feral, an animal on the prowl and I was her...

... and the things she'd said.

Her words were foul, laced with obscenities as she barked orders at me. I'd obeyed every single one. Reluctantly, she pried me off of her strap-on.

As I obediently waited for her next command, she glared down at me with a venomous smile. "There you are," she whispered. "... there you are."

What did she mean by that? I thought as my eyes drifted down, drawn to her strap-on dildo. My mouth started to water again, and I nervously bit my lip.

"You're such a dirty girl," she laughed. "You can't keep your eyes off of it, can you?"

I blushed as my eyes darted away.

"Don't be embarrassed. I always had my suspicions you craved cock. You weren't very subtle about it either. All this nonsense about dressing up. Honestly, you were only fooling yourself. But I, I know what you are... what you really are."

As she spoke, she gently stroked her strap-on. It glistened, the glittery lube she'd smeared on it sparkling like distant stars.

"You should really thank me. All you needed was a gentle nudge, a push in the right direction. You'll finally be able to live your truth, be the sissy little cocksucker you've always secretly dreamed of being and I...," she said, and smiled devilishly. "Well, you'll find out about that, soon enough."

"Now..." she said as she reached out and pushed me down onto my back. "Let me give you just a taste of what to expect in your new role."

She crawled over me like a spectre and I gasped as the force of her strap-on dildo shook my foundation. She pounded me, relentlessly, as if possessed. I looked up. Her lips were pulled back into a snarl, teeth bared, eyes burning like a wildfire.

... I swear I could smell ash.

With every thrust of her strap-on dildo, I fell more under her spell. I was hers, her obedient pet... her toy.

Wait, was that how it had actually happened? Was my memory clouded? The pleasure of living out one of my fantasies tainting it... had it been corrupted?

Did I care? No, not really. If it meant I could wear a French maid's uniform, I was willing to accept just about any reality.

I shook the thought out of my mind. It was like rocket fuel for my libido, but this... this is a new contender, I thought as I stared at Valerie. Her latex dress was snow white, hugging her skin like a thick coat of wet tar. Was she wearing anything underneath? Unlikely, I thought. I, as well as everyone else, could see every curve of her raw sex.

Did she care? No. She strolled in, eyes shielded behind a pair of aviator sunglasses and walked directly to the pick-up counter.

My eyes remained fixed on her. She exuded the type of confidence that paid seminar's promised but often failed to deliver.

She stood close to the counter and started to scroll through her phone, waiting for her order to be called.

"Valerie?" The barista called out.

She stepped forward to collect her order.

From beside me I heard someone snicker. "Is the circus in town? Cause it's like a goddamn clown car in here. Now there are two of them!"

Terror gripped me like a fist, and I froze. The brute who had spoken was holding his coffee, waiting on one of his goons. He was big, boxy, bald. He looked like he was cast from the original mold of a school yard bully.

I've met my fair share through life and have never found an easy way to avoid their cruelty. And that was when I wasn't wearing a frilly French maid's uniform. I could feel his shadow looming over me like a gray cloud. Standing there, waiting for my order, I was a sitting duck.

Valerie picked up her order and spun around. I have only a vague idea of what happened next. She appeared to trip, and I remember seeing her collide with the bully. His coffee exploded, soaking him, and he yelped like a wounded animal.

"Whoopsie," Valerie smirked, turned, winked at me and walked to the front door carrying her order.

"The fuck," the bully cried and scurried off to the washroom, whimpering as he batted at his stained shirt.

As I watched him go, I allowed myself a devilish smile.

"Yvette," the barista called out.

I approached the counter, smiled politely, picked up the drinks, left the coffee shop and returned to my wife's sports car. I set them down on the roof, opened the passenger side door and peeked inside. She was still on her phone. She looked up at me and gestured at the armrest. I grabbed the drinks and placed them in the cupholders.

"Sorry about that. Dumb ass client couldn't follow simple instructions, and I had to walk them through it step by step," she said as she pocketed her phone, picked up her latte and took a sip.

"All set?" she asked.

I looked back at the parking lot, half expecting to see Valerie hop into a white convertible and tear off into the city. She wasn't there. She was already gone.

"Oui, Madame," I said and reached for my seatbelt.

My wife started the engine, and we continued on our way. As we wove through the city, I started to relax. I took a sip of my coffee and looked down at my frilly French maid's uniform. I loved the way it hugged my body... and the bows. I was like an elaborate wedding cake, bathed in a thick layer of sugary icing.

I could get used to this, I thought, smiling.

"Could you imagine living out here?" my wife asked. "It must cost a bloody fortune to maintain the lawns."

I peeked out through the window. It was as if we'd taken a detour into a luxury magazine. Everything sparkled. The concrete was even, the lush hedges trimmed and manicured. The cars lining the streets were like colorful exotic birds.

"If they offer you a full-time position, take it," my wife teased.

I looked over at her and scowled, playfully.

"Kidding, kidding."

We passed by the emerald green lawns and lavish gardens before turning into a driveway.

"It was nice of them to lower the drawbridge for us," my wife said as we passed through an open black iron gate.

I gasped when I saw the house. Its polished facade and rows of columns were as white as snow. I counted dozens of windows and several small balconies.

The driveway looped around to a set of stone stairs that led to the front door.

"This has to belong to a wealthy politician or maybe a celebrity. If it's any of the influencers I follow, try and get me an autograph."

"Bien sur," I muttered, mesmerized by the large fountain in the center of the lawn.

"I packed everything up and stuck it in the trunk. Keep your phone on you. I'll just putter around town for an hour, check out the local shops then pick you up when you're done. Sound good?"

I looked over at her and smiled timidly. "Oui," I said.

"Chin up doll. You've got this. Need a hand with the cleaning supplies?" she asked.

"Non, je pense que je peux gerer," I said nervously. "Une heure, non?"

"And not a second more."

I undid my seatbelt, grabbed my phone, tucked it into my apron, opened the passenger side door and stepped out.

I walked around the car and opened the trunk. My wife had packed a mop and used the bucket to store a variety of simple cleaning products as well as a rather foolish looking feather duster.

It's like a burlesque show... but with a feather duster, I reminded myself.

I set everything down and closed the trunk. From the open driver's side window, I heard my wife speak.

"One hour. Have a blast and remember, burlesque show!" she said and drove off.

I stood there suddenly very aware that I was alone. One hour, I thought. One hour and not a second more.

I turned and walked up the stone stairs to the front door. My stomach was a ball of knots, my lips dry.

I started to entertain a host of hypotheticals: what if this was the wrong address? What if it was a prank? What if my wife was delayed? What if she never came back?

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and rallied my courage. One hour... one hour.

I adjusted my skirt, checked my apron, rang the doorbell and waited.

... and waited.

I tried the doorbell again, stepped back, held the bucket with both hands, straightened my posture, smiled politely and waited.

... and waited.

Was no one home? I stepped forward and knocked on the door. It creaked as it slowly opened.

"Bonjour?" I asked.

There was no reply. I pushed on the door. "Bonjour?" I asked again.

I've got my work cut out for me, I thought as I absorbed what I saw.

It was like the aftermath of a tornado. Trash and debris were scattered across the floor. There were several unattended red plastic cups, half-empty beer bottles and an overturned bowl of chips that looked like a fleeing turtle.

I recognized the universal signs, I knew what had happened. They'd had a house party.

Was I sure I was at the right house?

"Bonjour?" I asked.

... again no answer.

As I stepped into the lobby, I noticed a small note taped to the spiraling staircase.

"Hello maid service. Sorry about the mess."

A burlesque show with a feather duster my ass, I thought bitterly. Well... a job is a job.

I did a quick tour of the first floor. There were no carpets, just rich looking tiles. Most of the rooms were vacant or sparsely decorated. The kitchen appeared to be ground zero, the wreck of the party having washed ashore on the kitchen island.

It was going to be a big job, I thought. Way bigger than I could do in one hour. I grabbed my phone from my apron and sent my wife a quick message.

This place looks like an atomic bomb hit it, I wrote as I filled the bucket. As I waited for her to reply, I checked under the sink for soap.

Just do your best, babydoll, she replied. And have fun! And remember... she wrote and attached a small emoji of what I assumed was supposed to be a burlesque dancer.

Have fun, I thought as I looked around at the chaos surrounding me.

... and surprisingly, I did.

After I filled the bucket, I started to clean, moving from one mess to another. As I was bending over, shoving trash into a thick plastic garbage bag I caught my reflection in the mirror in the hallway. My pigtails paired with the little French maid's headband was adorable. I looked like a beauty pageant contestant after she'd been crowned with a sparkling tiara.

It was absurd how short my dress was. If I tilted ever so slightly, I could see my frilly lace panties peeking out from underneath the petticoat. And as for my legs... my wife had said she'd been jealous. I understood why.

As I worked, I had the sneaking suspicion that I was being watched. After all, that was the whole point, wasn't it? They'd paid a bloody fortune to hire me. It seemed wasted if I didn't have an audience. I checked the corners of the rooms, half expecting to see the small indication of a hidden camera but there was nothing, at least nothing I saw.

I continued to work, collected all the trash then washed the floors. As the end of the hour approached, I'd stacked seven garbage bags inside the entrance to the garage and mopped the entire floor... twice.

It was hard work, and I'd broken a sweat. As I passed the hallway mirror, I checked my makeup. Still perfect, still glamorous.

I checked the time. My hour was up. I looked around. I hadn't gotten to everything, but it was a vast improvement from how I'd found it.

Whose house was this anyways? I hadn't meant to pry, but I hadn't seen any family photos. There were no sticky notes on the fridge, or a pile of shoes by the front door, nor coats in the hall closet or any of the hundreds of other telltale signs that a house was a home.