Can I be your French Maid? Ch. 04

"Got a second?" Valerie asked when she found me in the kitchen.

I lowered my phone and looked up at her. I'd been furiously typing, trying to reach my wife. What had started out as a simple cleaning job had escalated into a full blown disaster.

... simple cleaning job.

Ok, that may be a bit of a stretch. Typically the cleaning staff weren't crossdressers wearing frilly French maid's uniforms. That being said, it was how the service was advertised.

... service.

It was wild how quickly I'd swallowed it hook, line and sinker. Was it that complicated? No. My wife's IT department had set up a website advertising my services as a kinky maid after she'd accidentally filmed me prancing around our living room in a French maid's uniform. She'd promised to take it down on Monday but not before I fulfilled one contract.

It was just one job. What could possibly go wrong?

Quite a bit, apparently. The cleaning part of the job had been simple enough. Some light dusting, mopping the floors, wiping down the kitchen surfaces. That sort of thing. It was when I had crept up to the second floor, looking for whoever had hired me that things had gone off the rails.

What was his name again? I'd heard the director say it before he stormed out of the room.

... Josh.

Aside from the absolute shock of walking into a porno shoot, I was wrestling with something else.

That toned body, those chiseled abs, the jaw that was cut from a slab of granite. I wasn't... attracted to him, was I?

I brought my hands up and traced the lines of my push-up bra through the soft cotton of the French maid's uniform.

No... of course not. I wasn't gay. I was the textbook definition of masculinity.

I looked down and counted the absurd number of frilly bows on my dress.

... ok, maybe not verbatim, but I knew my own sexuality. I'd never questioned it before. I was exclusively attracted to women.

... well that was before you became one.

Nonsense, I thought. It's just some harmless crossdressing. I'm not gay. I'm not!

"Yvette?" Valerie asked, snapping me back into reality.

I stared at her with a blank expression.

"Would you feel more comfortable if I spoke French? Cela ne me derange pas," she said.

French, of course. Incredibly, I'd been using it so long as my primary language, I no longer noticed.

"Non... No," I said softly and looked down. There was still no reply from my wife. "It's ok."

"Good," she said, smiling. "Because that was about the extent of it."

I smiled and looked up at her. I still had no idea who she was. I remembered her from the coffee shop. How could I forget? That short snow white latex dress was burned into my memory. It hugged her body like a thin layer of paint, the hem eager to make the acquaintance of the plunging neckline.

See, straight! I tried to reassure myself. As if to prove it, my eyes drifted down to her breasts. Stunning, I thought in both languages.

"Can I get you anything?" Valerie asked me as she leaned forward, and pressed her body against the kitchen island, her breasts almost spilling out of her top. "Coffee, perhaps?"

My cheeks turned beet red and my eyes darted away. "Thank you," I said, politely. "I'd like that."

She smiled again, turned, filled a kettle with water, set it down on the stove and turned on the burner.

"It's actually pretty good. I brought it. It's organic. Do you often visit that coffee shop?" she asked.

"Ah... no," I replied.

"A shame. Besides, I think I would have remembered you had I seen you there before," she said with a sly smile.

I looked down. She would have. How often do you see a French maid in the wild? My apron had weathered the intense hour of cleaning unscathed. The bows were still untarnished, my push-up bra was perky, casting the illusion of breasts. From the waist down I was all legs, the hem of the short-sleeved dress barely covering my thigh-high stockings.

It was strange, but as I stared down at my French Maid's uniform, I couldn't imagine wearing anything else. Why would I?

The uniform was tailored to my exact measurements. It was quite literally made to be worn by me and me alone. Everything else I owned was generic, one size fits all. A lie! I, being rather tall and naturally thin, was the one size it excluded.

"By the way, thanks for collecting all the empties. I bet after I haul them in, we may cut even on this shoot."

"It's not your house?" I asked, confused.

"This? No," she laughed. "I wish. It's a rental."

"Oh," I replied.

"And to answer your next question, yes the owners are aware of what we're up to. In fact, the house is almost exclusively used to shoot in."

"Really?" I asked.

"Yup. There's about five properties in his neighborhood that are booked solid, months in advance. If you have a keen eye, you may have seen several of them shared between productions."

"And you shoot... pornos?" I asked, timidly.

"This is where I would normally say 'adult entertainment,' but to be honest I prefer calling it as it is. We film pornos. Top tier, the best quality. We're quite proud of that fact."

"I see," I said, as I looked around, remembering that an hour ago the first floor had looked like it had been hit by an atomic bomb. Had that been part of the shoot?

As if able to read my mind, she laughed and replied to the question I hadn't asked.

"No, that wasn't us."

As she spoke, the kettle whistled.

"Are you familiar with the popular influencer Sparkle E?" she asked as she turned and took the kettle off the burner.

I wasn't. I lived in a bubble, shielded from the endless whine of social media.

"I can't say I have," I replied.

"Google her," she said as she searched the cabinets.

I picked up my phone, loaded an internet browser and googled her name. It retrieved a horde of photos and short videos. The majority appeared to have been taken at a nightclub, concert or on the bow of a yacht. In all of them she was baring skin. Low tank tops, skimpy skin tight dresses and bikinis. Every photo was a tease. I scrolled, half expecting to find one where she popped out of her top. Surprisingly, there were none. What did she have to do with a porno shoot?

"She's been teasing for weeks that she's ready to take her career to the next level. Go hardcore. Naturally she was swarmed, inundated with offers. After some tense negotiations, we emerged victorious," Valerie said as she set down a French press, scooped out some ground coffee from a small bag and dropped it in.

"Congratulations," I said.

She poured the boiling water into the French press. "Well, that remains to be seen. We booked her for two days. Yesterday she arrived with her crew and proceeded to trash the place. Girl knows how to party, I'll give her that."

She turned, searched through the cabinets again, pulled out two coffee cups and set them down.

"It only took them a few hours to wipe out all the alcohol we'd brought for the 'wrap party," she said using finger quotations.

"And what do we have to show for it? Nothing. She insisted she needed to be in the right headspace before she... well, before she gave head. It was literally what we had argued her contract down too. I suppose I can take some solace in the fact that I negotiated the most expensive blowjob... ever."

She sighed as she poured the coffee. "Honestly, I only have myself to blame. I gave her space, assuming, when she was ready, we would get down to business. When that failed, she promised us she'd be here bright and early in the morning. And here I am, standing with our hired maid service, checking my phone every five minutes, endlessly being spun around in circles by her agent."

She handed me a cup of coffee. "Sugar, milk?" she asked.

"One of each, please," I said politely.

She turned, pulled a carton of milk from the fridge and brought over a small bowl of sugar from beside the sink. I helped myself.

"They drank all the booze but didn't touch the coffee," she said and laughed. "Their loss, I suppose."

I smiled, took a sip of my coffee then checked my phone again. There was still no reply from my wife.

"What happens if she doesn't show?" I asked.

"Well," Valerie said and took a sip. "Then we'll sue the bitch."

"Oh," I replied. "I see."

"That's why I know she's going to show up. Influencers like her may play dumb online but they're smart enough to not expose themselves to possible legal litigation. It's expensive, eats up time and no one looks good under the harsh fluorescent lights of a courtroom."

She took another sip from her coffee cup, leaned forward and pressed her body against the kitchen island. Her breasts almost spilled out again. This time I didn't look. Still straight, I reminded myself.

"She'll be here. She's going to wander in, minutes before the contract is set to expire and give us the bare minimum of what she's required to do, then leave and collect a fat check. If I wasn't on the hook for loans I can't repay if we don't get that shot, I'd laugh."

I smiled politely, wondering, what exactly any of this had to do with me. Was she just venting? Happy to have a friendly ear while her career imploded? It wasn't exactly in my job description. On paper I was literally just the maid.

... and why is she looking at me like that?

As I looked up at her. There was something there, lurking behind her eyes. She was up to something.

"If she does show up, is it really worth it for one... well, you know," I said, timidly.

"Yes and no. I'm sure the clip will go viral, but we won't make a cent off that. The goal is to sell a full-length video, and that means padding... lots of padding."

"Padding?" I asked, confused.

"Yea, the plan was to use a stand in. Someone who resembled her. Someone who we could shoot from the back to pad out the film. We were going to shoot that another day, after we knew what we had to work with. I won't lie, the script is paper thin. I mean, I get it, no one's buying these movies for the prose but like... it's nice if some effort is made to string together a few scenes before the actors go at it, right?"

I nodded in agreement, though I had only the vaguest idea of what she was talking about. Sure, I'd seen my fair share of pornos... or at least their highlights. There was a script? Really? Who was writing that crap? Who was reading it!

I took another sip and smiled. She stared back at me like a circling vulture.

... again, why is she looking at me like that?

"It's not exactly the most original plot, but it works. Sparkle E was going to play a horny rich trophy wife. She spends most of her time home, alone, the pool boy her only companion. There are a few sweet scenes where we learn more about him. He's got dreams, ambitions, a dark past, yada, yada, yada. With a few edits we could reduce Sparkle E's lines to just a few grunts. Maybe she's the strong silent type. Maybe she accidentally drank bleach and burned out her vocal chords. It doesn't really matter. With a good stand in we could cheat our way through the rest. And we could make changes. It wouldn't be that hard. Who says she needs to be a rich housewife?"

She finished her coffee and set her cup down in the sink.

I continued to cradle mine, oblivious to what was about to happen next, my attention divided between my conversation with Valerie and my phone. Where was my wife, why hadn't she replied?

I looked back up. Valerie stared right back down at me with a venomous smile. She pulled out her phone and set it down on the table.

"This is a cutthroat industry," she said, her eyes locked on me. "You need to be prepared to think on your feet, adapt to situations as they arise and stay focused. Failure is not an option. Not when you have everything on the line."

She looked down and typed on her phone. "For the hour," she said, then looked back up at me.

"Every production is its own nightmare. The stories I could tell..." she said, drifted off then came back, looked down at her phone and typed again.

"... and for the dress," she said, then slid the phone over to me. I stared at her, confused. What dress?

I looked down, shocked at what I saw. The number was absurd, lined up in a neat row with several zeros to keep it company.

"I won't lie, it's everything we have left and I'm willing to gamble it all... on you."

"Me?" I asked, stunned. "Why me?"

She smiled warmly. "Honey, I'm looking at you now, unfiltered. At the right angle, no one would even know the difference."

I continued to stare up at her, unable to process what she was offering me... a job, in a porno?

There was no fucking way, I thought.

... I looked back down at the number.

She caught me staring down at it. "I want to be crystal clear. These would only be for coverage, shot from behind. I wouldn't dream of asking you to do anything you're not comfortable with, nor would you need to. When Sparkle E finally shows up we'll hand her your clothes and wrap up the shoot. Hell, a kinky French maid who gives a pool boy a blowjob? That's a thousand times better!"

I stared up at her, my mind short-circuiting. My phone buzzed, pulling me out of my trance. I looked down. It was a message from my wife.

Sorry, delayed, she wrote. Going to be late. At least an hour. Is that ok?

It was as if the cosmos was pulling invisible strings, hell bent on seeing me in a porno.

I took one last look at the number, not seeing it as a digit but as... a corset... several corsets, garters, babydolls, a chemise. I could stock my closet, line it with expensive lingerie. I could buy shoes and stock my dresser full of new sparkling French maid's uniforms. I looked up at Valerie and smiled.

"Ok, you've got me for one hour and not a second more."