Can I be your French Maid? Ch. 01

"Your what?" my wife asked as she peered above her laptop, surprised.

"My ah... makeup?" I replied.

"Are you serious?" she asked.

My well practiced smile cracked, the confidence I'd spent the past week building, quickly deflating. At that moment I had two options: I could soldier on and stick with the plan, or I could backtrack and attempt to play the whole thing off as a bizarre joke.

Had I known where it would lead, the strange adventures I'd have, I wouldn't have walked away, I'd run.

I doubled down and tried a new approach.

"Super serious," I said with a polished smile. "If you do my makeup, in exchange, I'll be your personal maid. I'll do whatever you want, no questions asked. How does three hours sound? If you ask me, and you should, it's a real bargain. I mean, look at this place. It's a total disaster."

My wife looked around our small living room. It was unkempt. The floor was in dire need of a good wash and clutter had taken refuge in all four corners, warping the room's shape.

"Ok, that part I understand but why... makeup?" she asked.

Why indeed, I thought. I needed to tread lightly, pick my words carefully.

It was the question I'd been dreading, the answer having eluded me for decades. I'd narrowed it down to one word. One word best described me. It had haunted me my entire adult life. I'd tried to ignore it, tried to purge it from my memory, convince myself it was just a phase, but it stuck to my soul like gum to a heel.

... crossdresser.

I was a crossdresser.

"Well, you're always saying I should pick up after myself. I just thought this might be a fun way to do it," I said, straining to keep my fake smile propped up.

Was she buying it? If I was implying this was a spur of the moment thing, I was lying. I'd planned this meticulously, checking every detail, then double checking them. If there was a flaw in my plan, I hadn't seen it.

I'd swung back and forth. One minute I was committed, ready to execute the plan, then the next I'd hesitate and try to convince myself it would be better if my kink remained a deep dark secret. I risked jeopardizing everything. How would my wife react? Would she be upset? And if she was, then what? Would she pretend like we'd never had this awkward conversation and let the wound slowly rot until it led to the inevitable death of our marriage?

As I stood there, I tried to read her expression. She was a blank slate. Every second was agony.

"Ok, let's do it."

"Really?" I asked, surprised.

"Sure, why not? If it means the kitchen gets cleaned, I'll play along. So... where do you want to do this?"

"Here is fine."

"Ok," she said and stood up. "Sit tight, I'll be right back."

She walked out of the living room and headed upstairs.

I stood there, smiling nervously. Unbeknownst to her, I'd already made some preparations. I'd slathered on a thick cream which, in less than fifteen minutes, had made my skin buttery smooth. I'd then showered, shaved and pulled my long, thick hair back into a tight ponytail. I wanted this to be perfect, special.

... crossdresser.

It wasn't as if I was leading a double life. I was just patient, choosing the right time and place to indulge in my secret kink. Had my wife been paying closer attention, she may have noticed a common thread woven throughout the past dozen or so Halloweens we'd celebrated together. I'd been a bit too enthusiastic, insisting I dress up for the occasion. But why a sexy witch, or a fairy princess, or a famous Hollywood scarlet?

If she harbored any suspicions, she hadn't shown them. For a while, that had been enough. There were the rare occasions when she was away for a few days, be it job related or to visit a close relative, when I could 'borrow' her clothes. Before she returned, I always made sure they were washed and returned to their original position.

I was too paranoid to keep my own stash of feminine attire. If she accidently found it, how would she react? I'd concocted an entire scenario in my head, one where she accused me of cheating.

"Whose panties and bras are these?" she'd sob. And how would I answer? Inevitably, every outcome ended in divorce. In my mind, that was far better than owning up to the truth.

Crossdresser, I thought. I'm a crossdresser. I could never bring myself to utter those three simple words and it was tearing me apart inside.

At first it'd been a mild chill, then a low fever. Sadly, after years of torment the diagnosis was terminal, incurable. I couldn't contain it anymore. I had to tell her, I had to live my truth.

... I'm a crossdresser.

Was it the onslaught of middle age? Perhaps. Or perhaps I'd run out of excuses. Why shouldn't I share it with her, what was the harm?

... I'm a crossdresser.

The thought of sitting her down and uttering those three simple words left me in a cold sweat. My compromise was my proposal to be her personal maid for the day. Yes, the plan had its flaws, but it was better than waiting for her to walk through the front door then leap out wearing a sequin gown, high heels, a brightly colored wig and shout "surprise!"

As I stood there, waiting, my heart pounded in my chest. I felt a mix of both pure joy and absolute terror. It was happening, it was actually happening! If there was a record button in my brain, I hit it. I wanted to remember every second of this.

My wife returned with her makeup. She'd grabbed everything and was carefully balancing it in her hands. She made her way back to the couch, sat down and spread everything out across the coffee table. There were small flat rectangular plastic cases, miniature brushes, cotton balls, lipstick, mascara and a host of other products, some of which I didn't recognize.

"Alright, so what exactly am I going for? Subtle, or fast and glamorous?"

"Fast and glamorous?" I asked. "What's that?"

"Lots of bold colors with a hint of metallics. It's what I normally wear on a date night, which I might remind you, we're long overdue for."

I smiled, and my cheeks went beet red. Had it been that long? Work kept my wife busy, draining every ounce of her energy, leaving her with none when she got home. She'd flop down on the couch, stare at the TV before eventually crawling upstairs to bed and pass out.

Sure, we had the weekends, but they were often filled with all the chores we'd neglected during the week. I didn't complain. I just missed the spontaneous spark that came with having few, if any real responsibilities. Now we had plenty, the sum of which, a stack of bills, was piled high on the kitchen table.

"So, yes, no glamorous?" my wife asked, pulling me from the thought.

"Somewhere in the middle sounds good," I said.

"Alright, have a seat," she said and patted the couch.

I walked over and sat down beside her.

"I still have a few loose ends to tie up for work, so I won't get in your way. Scoot a bit closer, head up, eyes closed please."

I moved closer to her and closed my eyes. She rummaged through her makeup, and I heard a pop as she opened a bottle.

She started with a foundation, using a soft cotton ball to dab it on my skin. It was cool, silky.

"So, three hours. That's quite a long stretch of time. Are you sure you're up to it? I mean a deal's a deal, right?"

"I have a list," I said, smiling.

"And you remember where all the cleaning products are? The mops, broom, dustpan, duster?"

"I think I can manage."

She set down the bottle. "Well, I'll be the judge of that. Raise your eyebrows and keep them there."

I heard a click as she opened a plastic case. "So, how exactly will I know you're my personal maid? No offense, but the ratty old PJs and a loose t-shirt are hardly professional attire."

I swallowed hard. Here was the moment, my big reveal. "Would it surprise you to discover I bought a... uniform?"

She laughed. "I was wondering why your credit card statement was higher than normal. Clever."

"It was on sale," I replied.

"I see. Anything specific? Luxury hotel? Victorian?"

"French," I replied.

"Ooh la-la," she teased. "A French maid. I don't think I've ever met a French maid named..."

"Yvette," I said, interrupting her. "That seems... appropriate."

"Yvette. Indeed, it does. Well Yvette, I think you'll like this particular shade of eyeshadow. It suits you."

My smile pinched my cheeks. She was playing along. She was actually playing along! I felt the whiskers of a brush graze my skin as I kept my eyebrows raised.

"Open your eyes and look up."

I did. Before I was looking up at the ceiling, I saw her again, smiling at me slyly. It was a look I recognized. She was up to something.

She opened the mascara and applied it to my eyelashes. I felt its weight when I blinked.

"Ok, eyes closed again. Almost done."

I obeyed and waited patiently.

"Well, seeing as you're going to be my own personal French maid, I think we should set a few ground rules," she said as she plucked at my eyebrows. Was she reshaping them?

"Like what?" I asked.

"Well first, it's not enough to simply look the part, you need to act it. That means you must be courteous, polite, speak only when spoken to and remember your place."

"How so?" I asked.

"Madame," she said, her voice carrying a hint of authority. "You will address me by my proper title: Madame."

"Yes... Madame," I said softly.

... she's really playing along, I thought. Had she secretly known about my plan? Was I that transparent?

"Good. Remember, you are my servant, not my equal. You live only to serve me, to anticipate my needs before I need them. To wait patiently for my next command. To never question my orders. To be obedient. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Madame," I replied.

"Good. Alright, Yvette, pucker up."

I obeyed, and she slathered my lips with lipstick.

"Rub them together for me."

Again, I obeyed. The lipstick was slick like a fresh coat of paint.

"There, I think I'm about done, you can open your eyes now."

I did, blinked several times and looked around for a mirror. There wasn't one.

"I think it's some of my best work. Go on, check it upstairs, and yes, your shift starts after you've changed and not a second before. Now scoot... I have work to do!"

"Yes, Madame. Thank you, Madame," I said in a voice sweeter than my own and stood up. It was strange, but I could feel the makeup against my skin. My lips were like velvet, my eyelashes had volume.

I moved quickly, darting up the stairs to the second floor. I resisted the urge to slip into the bathroom and check my makeup. I wanted to see the complete picture, and that meant changing first.

My plan was clever but it wasn't complicated. I'd hidden my purchases in my office. It wasn't an office in any traditional sense of the word, rather it was the last safe harbor for all my old junk and video game consoles. I was particularly proud of my collection of vinyl superhero statues and framed old movie posters, but even I had to admit they weren't well suited for the rest of our house. After all, grown ups lived there.

I slid open the closet door, dug through a stack of old board games and pulled out the shipping packages I'd hidden behind them. I also grabbed a long rectangular cardboard box, carried them into our bedroom and closed the door behind me.

My heart was ramped up to eleven, ricocheting off my ribs. My fingers tingled in anticipation. She hadn't lied when she'd said I'd made a sizable dent in my credit card. I'd been thorough, spent hours combing the furthest reaches of the internet, searching for the perfect French maid's uniform. I'd found it on the other side of the planet. The company had been unassuming at first, their website rather difficult to navigate. What had led me to them was word of mouth.

"The best French maid's uniform?" A user had replied in a thread I'd found on the topic. "That's easy. Lush. Good luck finding one, it's impossible."

I'd seen the name pop up again and again. Lush...

Every search came up empty. One was an obvious knock-off and several were the right company name, but the wrong product. I almost gave up hope. Then, by chance, stumbled across a url buried at the tail end of a thread in a dead forum.

... I'd found it.

The website was confusing, translated from a foreign language and lacking a main directory. I eventually made my way through the maze of links and found the French maid's uniform everyone had praised. In the few pics shown, it looked promising. I was surprised when I discovered there weren't any typical sizes. It was custom made to your specific measurements. The price was rather steep, but not absurd so I took the plunge, nervously inputted my credit card, hovered over 'order,' then hit 'confirm.'

The wait was agonizing. I tracked the shipment like a hawk, watching as it painfully moved in slow increments from the company's warehouse, through customs and eventually over an ocean where it remained for several weeks. At one point I was convinced the ship had gone down, lost below the ocean waves, my French maid's uniform a literal sunken treasure.

It wasn't the only package on route to our small house. It would be a waste of time to go to all the trouble of shipping a custom-made French maid's uniform from the other side of the planet and then pair it with a ratty old pair of boxers. This called for a new set of lingerie, one that suited the sharp contrast of the black and white material. I found it on another continent. There were plenty of local department stores I could shop at, but again, if this was my one shot at this, I wanted it to be special.

I also spoiled myself with a new pair of black Mary Janes.

All three arrived several days apart. It had been nerve wracking, finding excuse after excuse to keep an eye on our mailbox. Thankfully I grabbed them all without an incident. I then stashed them in the back of my office closet... and waited.

I set the packages down on the bed in the order I was going to put them on. I started with the smallest package first, the lingerie. I picked up a set of scissors I'd conveniently left on my bed side table and made a small cut, careful to avoid damaging its precious cargo.

I reached in and pulled out its contents. Everything was vacuum sealed in plastic. Four items were listed on the invoice: a pair of white panties, a matching push-up bra, garters and a pack of pearl white nylons.

I removed the plastic and set them down on the bed. It wasn't the first time I'd worn lingerie, far from it, but I'd always borrowed it, scavenging it from my wife's dresser. This was mine, ordered to my specific measurements.

I tore off my ragged old clothing and tossed them into a pile of dirty laundry. Naked, I sat down on the edge of the bed, reached over and picked up the white panties. The snow white popped, the silky material like fresh cream.

Mine, I thought gleefully. They're all mine.

I lowered the panties, dipped my toes in, and brought them up. They hugged my raw sex and stretched tight over my ass.

I picked up the push-up bra. It was a tangled mess of loose straps and hooks. I pressed the padded cups flat against my chest, reached back and blindly searched for the hooks. I found them on my third try, the result of years of practice.

I looked down, rediscovering my own body. Had I always had natural curves? I'd never been particularly athletic, but I kept fit, moderated my sweets and was healthy... ish.

It's an embellishment of my imagination, I thought. My mind is feverish, drunk on the thrill of the anticipation.

I thought back, remembering my wife's tone when she had insisted I call her 'Madame.'

I shivered. What had she said I was, her obedient servant? As excited as I was to wear the French maid's uniform, why did that idea excite me even more? Had I discovered a new kink?

I picked up the garters. The metal clasps dangled from the thin elastic bands. It, like the push-up bra, hooked in the back. I wrapped it around my waist. After poking around behind my back, searching for the hooks, I was successful after the fifth attempt.

I picked up the package of nylons. It was embossed in silver, the words foreign to me. It was a far cry from the plain old nylons they sold in the local pharmacies.

I peeled the tape back, opened the package and pulled out the nylons. They were as light as air, the thin material like a wisp of smoke.

I carefully rolled them up into a donut. I'd discovered from experience that nylon is a very fragile material, prone to tear if you yank on it.

I dipped my toes in and rolled it up, past my ankles, over my knees, up to my thighs. I then tugged on the garters and sunk the clasps into the hem's thick material. The garters pulled tight like a violin string.

I repeated the process with the other thigh-high stocking. When I was finished, I ran my hands over my nylon clad legs. They were as smooth as butter, hugging my skin in a gentle embrace.

I looked down, admiring the lingerie. Any trace of my old body had been scrubbed clean, replaced by a new vision of raw femininity.

... and I still hadn't even tried on the French maid's uniform yet, I thought, giddy with excitement.

It would fit, right? I'd taken my own measurements, carefully following the instructions to the letter. I'd considered trying it on before my wife had agreed to do my makeup but decided against it. I wanted to savor this experience, and that meant not spoiling my appetite.

I stood up. My garters, anchored to my hips, tugged on my nylons. Although it was a clever illusion created by the push-up bra it almost appeared like I had... breasts. A solid pair of 'B's' if I was to guess.

Impressive, I thought. I pulled my eyes away from my rather voluptuous body. I'd have plenty of time to admire it later. I was on the clock, and the madame was waiting.

I picked up the scissors and carefully opened the second package. I reached in and pulled everything out. It was more complicated than I had anticipated. There were at least seven separate articles of clothing, all neatly folded and sealed in plastic. I carefully opened each and arranged them like a puzzle.

The largest was a short-sleeved dress with a skirt that blossomed like a flower. It was accented with lace and ruffles the color of a freshly fallen sheet of snow. The collar was crisp. Two white bows were pinned to the sides of the sleeves. I hadn't expected a petticoat, but that explained the skirt's added volume.

An apron slipped over the shoulders, crisscrossed the back and tied above the waist of the short-sleeved dress.

A large fluffy black bow was then pinned below the collar and a smaller white bow was pinned to the bottom right of the apron. Another larger bow hung from the apron's knot in the back, its long silky ribbons like the tail of a kite. Two white wristbands were also included as well as a frilly headband that looked like a jeweled tiara.

As I stood there in my new lingerie, staring down at the French maid's uniform, I felt exposed, naked in a way that was more intimate than if I was wearing nothing at all.

I was magnetically drawn to it, unable to pull away. What had started as a light chill had erupted into a full-blown fever. There was only one cure.

I reached down and picked up the short-sleeved dress. I turned it over in my hands. It zipped up in the back. I undid the zipper, sat down on the edge of the bed and slipped my feet through the opening. I then stood up and pulled it up past my hips. I put my arms through the short sleeves and slipped it over my shoulders.

I wrestled with the zipper. It then dawned on me why the madame... why my wife often asked me to 'zip her up.'

I could ask her now, but I didn't want her to see me half-dressed. After some clever maneuvering I was able to bend my arms just far enough to reach the zipper and pull it up.

I brushed my hands against the flared skirt. The cotton was soft, delicate.