


              TRANSFORMATION OF A MIDDLE-CLASS WOMAN 

                             by 

                          Conchita 

       (Translated by The Nerdly and edited by C. Lakewood)


                           Part 1


Translator's Preface:

This is a translation from the French of a story entitled 
"Transformation d'une Bourgeoise," which was uploaded to the 
files section of the now-extinct Yahoo Group "Arrogant Women 
Embarrassed" in the fall of 2004.  As far as I can determine, 
the story was first posted to a French site that specialized 
in a fetish for nylon smocks (which are somewhat similar to lab 
coats and are typically worn by working women, such as cleaning 
ladies).  The story's primary focus is on this type of clothing.  
I am not a devotee of this fetish, but do hope the translation 
does justice to this aspect of the story.  There is also a 
secondary focus on humiliation and D/s, which is of more 
interest to me, and, I suspect, to the members of our group.

The story exists in several variants.  I uploaded one such 
variant in English to the "Arrogant Women Embarrassed" group.  
Subsequently, I noticed that, to me, the French version is 
more interesting than the English version.  For this reason, 
I undertook to provide the members of the group with a new 
translation.

I studied French for one year long ago.  To overcome my lack 
of skill in the language, I ran the story through Babelfish 
to produce an English version.  The latter was almost totally 
unintelligible, but did provide me with the meaning of all the 
French words.  This greatly reduced the number of trips that I 
had to make to my French dictionary.  I then compared the 
Babelfish translation with the original French and attempted 
to come up with a version in colloquial English.  Finally, I 
sent it to C. Lakewood, who further massaged it.  The translation 
is a very free one, but I believe that it does a creditable job 
of capturing the spirit of the French version, and it does read 
like English.

To preserve some of the flavor of the original story, I have left 
a few terms in the original French (or in metric measurement), 
including:

	À tout à l'heure: "So long."  (This, of course, has been 
	corrupted into English slang as "toodle-oo.")

	BCBG: A French abbreviation that translates into English 
	roughly as "very chic, very stylish."  It is applied to 
	elegantly dressed women.

	Hectare: Equals 2.47 acres

        Kilo: Equals 2.2 lbs.

	Serpillière: An elegant sounding word that refers to the 
	cleaning rag used by washer women to scrub floors on their 
	knees.  It acts more or less as a symbol of humiliation in 
	the story.

	Size 44: Equivalent to Misses' size 16 in the U.S.

	Tout de suite: "Right away."


The previous English variant (mentioned above) was translated by 
someone using the name "Monica."  Her introductory note is not 
without interest:

"At the time [of this story,] Portugal was still a very poor 
country and not a member of the European Union.  [Portugal did not 
join the EU until 1986.]  Lots of poor girls and married women were 
coming from there to work in France as factory workers, cleaners, 
and maids.  Many of those girls were working as live-in maids in 
many Parisian bourgeois houses or apartments.  If they were working 
in apartments, they had their own separate rooms at the top of the 
building, usually on the 6th floor, what was called 'la chambre de 
bonne' (maid's room).  Of course, there were no elevators in those 
late 19th century buildings, and the maids had to go down the back 
service stairs to the kitchen door of the apartment where they were 
working.  They were not allowed to use the front entrance of the 
building, even when they were out of uniform and off-duty.  For 
them, there was the back or side service entrance to come and go, 
the same way that the garbage was coming down, as well.  All those 
apartment buildings had their own live-in concierge who had a 
little place to stay, either by the entrance or in the basement.  
The concierge was usually the 'terror' of all live-in maids because 
she was checking on them all the time, reporting back to their 
employers.

"So the term Portuguese maid/housekeeper or 'femme de ménage 
Portugaise' was synonymous with a poor, backward, and often 
illiterate peasant girl or woman coming from rural Portugal 
to work in sophisticated Paris.  The rich bourgeois Parisians 
had the tendency of course to look down on them.

"At the time...[there] were lots of specialized shops in those 
rich Parisian...[suburbs], selling 'domestic workwear' for those 
in live-in service.  Those shops were called 'blouses et tabliers 
boutiques'...[that is, 'smock and apron shops'].

"In today's Paris, as elsewhere in the western world, live-in maids 
are a rarity.  Portuguese women are often rich and elegant and go 
to Paris to shop.  The 'blouses et tabliers boutiques' are nearly 
gone."


So much for methodology and historical background.  Now, the 
story....


		******************************                


Episode 1


Some nine months ago, at the end of September 1982 to be precise, 
I was living in a pleasant Parisian suburb with my husband of 10 
years, a famous surgeon, in a beautiful home in the center of town. 
After we'd been married for about 3 years, I quit my job as a 
physical therapist in my husband's clinic and have, for the last 
7 years, spent my days meeting friends for tea, visiting the 
beautician, shopping, keeping in shape at the gym, and trysting 
with my lover (the town notary, a seductively handsome bachelor). 
 
At home, I didn't do any housework; Monica, my cleaning lady, did 
all of that.  I just concentrated on looking chic.  And, being 
blonde, about 5'6" tall, and very shapely for a 40-year-old woman, 
this was not too terribly difficult.  I dressed with sophistication 
and practicality, generally buying my clothes off the rack, by 
Carroll and MaxMara.  (They may not be the most prestigious 
labels, but, on the other hand, they are high quality and look 
good in my dressing room and on me.)

I will confess, however, that I was a bit bored.  

My orderly life began to change the day after my husband told me 
that he had decided to leave his clinic to practice in Italy.  I 
learned later that he had left with an Italian cleaning lady, one 
of those who wear pink smocks and clean up around the clinics.  I 
know that my husband and his lover are currently living together 
and that she has hung up her mop for good.  (I prefer not to go 
into any more detail because I don't want to run the risk of being 
identified.)  My husband left me the clinic, which generates a 
comfortable income, as well as the 4-story house with its two 
parlors, dining room, six bedrooms with adjoining baths, and a 
kitchen (which I had never visited, since I don't know how to 
cook).  In addition, the fourth floor had some rooms that I had 
visited only once. 

The day after my husband left me, a Tuesday, I awoke about 10 in 
the morning, still a little groggy from the sleeping pill I had 
taken in the wake of my husband's news.  Monica was there, having 
arrived about 8 o'clock.  She had already finished many of her 
chores and had prepared breakfast for me.  When she saw me, she 
immediately sensed that something was wrong and asked what had 
happened.  I began to weep, and, between sobs, I told her 
everything.  By the time I'd finished, I was crying uncontrollably. 

Her reaction was surprising.  She slapped me and said, "Madam, you 
are financially secure, whereas I have to work hard to support 
myself.  Moreover, madam, you are yourself not above reproach -- 
you're having an affair with Phillipe Garnier, the notary."

She then softened and put my head on her shoulder.  I was 
surprised, but it did make me feel better, and I closed my 
eyes to rest a bit.  She roused me by kissing me on the cheek, 
finishing with a long and passionate kiss on my lips.  Reflexively, 
I began to caress her body through her blue smock and to run my 
hands along her legs.  She responded by fondling me under my 
nightgown and lingerie.  After a long, unforgettable moment, I 
asked her to spend the day with me to help me through this 
difficult time...even longer if she could arrange it. 

She answered immediately, "I will accept only on one condition: 
that you, Marie Bénédicte, the Mistress, no longer treat me as 
your servant.  Instead, we will start out as Monica -- no, Monique 
-- and Marie, two friends and social equals."

"Very well, I agree to that," I said.  "But I want you to remain 
here for the rest of the week." 

(I must confess, however, that there was some under-current to this 
conversation that didn't seem quite right.)

"Okay," she replied, "but I must tell my mother about my absence, 
and I must call a co-worker to have her take over my cleaning 
duties at the airport.  Also, you must lend me some clothing and 
makeup, since I don't have anything besides my cleaning uniform, 
and I don't want to resemble a common cleaning lady."

"Of course," I answered.  "I have a huge wardrobe; you can choose 
what you like."

"Also, as a token of your good will, you can let me forget about my 
cleaning duties and spend the rest of the week as your guest.  To 
start with, I would like to use your bathroom to take a bath, and 
then make myself over into a very BCBG woman.  And, as a further 
token, I think you should take my place and finish cleaning the 
kitchen...AFTER you prepare my bath.  Now.  I will accompany you 
into the bathroom."

She led me through my bedroom and into the master bath.  I drew the 
bath water, added bath oils to soften her skin, and asked her if 
she needed help to disrobe.  (Actually, I wanted to touch her and 
see her naked.)

"Why not?" she said, with an air of confidence.

I first took off her blue smock and then her old-fashioned 
department store pinafore-dress, which had been hidden beneath 
her smock.

"My clothes aren't very stylish," she said. 

I didn't know what to say, because I didn't want to offend her.  
And I was also feeling more than a bit intimidated by the 
proximity of her earthy, naked body....

Sensing that I wasn't going to reply, she said, "I'll lend you my 
clothes; you can wear them to keep from getting dirty while you 
clean the kitchen."

		******************************                

Episode 2


"Hurry and change," she said, "so that I can see you as a cleaning 
lady before I take my bath.  Then you can help me dress.  I didn't 
take a shower this morning.  Believe me, when one gets up at 4 in 
the morning to do a full day's work, one doesn't have time to be 
elegant.  Now, hurry up and undress."

She no longer addressed me as "Madam," but rather as a social equal 
(or even a bit of an inferior), and it came naturally to her.

I removed my silk nightgown and stood naked before her.  I didn't 
know at the time that I would never wear these clothes again.

She smacked me on the bottom and said, "Hurry up, girl."

I put on her knickers and cheap pantyhose.  They were warm and 
damp.  She smiled with an air of triumph to see me dressed for 
the first time in discount-store underclothing and her old dress, 
which reached my knees and did not flatter my figure in the least. 
As the pièce de résistance, she held out her blue smock.

"Put it on.  It completes the customary uniform of your new 
position.  You'll soon learn why you need to wear it." 

I put it on and buttoned it up.  I felt oddly comfortable in these 
clothes.

"Come look at yourself in the mirror," she said.  "You no longer 
resemble a middle-class woman; you look like a Portuguese house 
maid.  We'll need to shorten your elegant blonde hair and dye it 
dark.  You'll find short hair much more practical for housework."

I borrowed Monique's slippers and stood before the mirror.  Whoever 
said that the habit does not make the monk was mistaken.  I was 
no longer a middle-class woman, but rather a working woman from 
the public housing projects.  The flat shoes, the long, worn 
dress, and the smock proclaimed my new profession and the lowly 
station to which I now belonged.

"Off to the kitchen, girl," she said.  "Your housework will begin 
with cleaning the sink and floor.  For your first day, you won't 
use a mop, but will get down on all fours with a serpillière, the 
cleaning rag that Portuguese maids like you use to scrub the floor. 
It's what you wanted, so hurry up and get busy!"

"But first, say 'cheese,'" she said, as she snapped a photo of me. 
"It's for your notary friend AND your lady friends in case you 
change your mind."

Abashed and humiliated, I went off to the kitchen, leaving Monique 
to take her bath.  I would have liked to remain with her in the 
bathroom, but I had accepted this reversal of roles to keep her 
happy.  When I got to the kitchen, I washed the remaining dirty 
dishes, cleaned the sink as instructed, and swept the floor with a 
broom.  All that was left to do was wash the floor, so I put on 
some rubber gloves and began to mop.  I had barely begun when the 
door opened, and Monique appeared in my bathrobe.  She regarded me, 
flushed, and slapped me.

She upbraided me, sounding a complete bitch.  "What did I tell you, 
girl?  You are to get down on your knees and scrub the floor with 
a serpillière like the Portuguese maid that you'll soon become."

I quickly did as she ordered, secretly experiencing a sort of 
guilty pleasure from the slap.  For the first time, I found 
myself on my knees, washing the tiles on my own kitchen floor 
with a serpillière, in front my former cleaning lady, who was 
casually flinging insults at me.  The dress and smock dragged 
the ground and became stained from the dirty scrub water.  I 
now understood the utility of this uniform and why the clothing 
of cleaning ladies was always dirty and worn.

Monique smiled at my obedience and said, "After you're done with 
this filthy work, you'll phone your hairdresser, cancel your 
appointment, and arrange one for me.  You'll do the same with 
the beautician.  Then you'll come and help me dress.  Now, hurry 
up, girl!"

I finished cleaning the kitchen in a hurry as Monique commanded and 
arrived at the bedroom door soaked in sweat.  I knocked on the door 
of my former bedroom and waited for permission to enter.

After a moment, Monique answered, "You may enter."

The aroma of my favorite perfume filled the room.  It contrasted 
sharply with the odor of my sweat.  Besides everything else, I 
hadn't had a chance to bathe since yesterday.  She immediately 
noticed my expression and read my thoughts. 

"You are beginning to smell the perfume of your new condition," she 
congratulated me.  "I find that that scent suits you better; Chanel 
isn't appropriate any more.  The smell of your sweaty, unwashed 
body should help you experience your inner woman and your new 
status to the fullest."

She looked me over with a veiled smile.

"In fact, I think you should complete the transformation and become 
a cleaning lady and maidservant for, say, a year.  It would be a 
kind of sabbatical from your middle-class existence.  You'd come 
to know my world -- and I yours, the middle-class world of luxury 
into which you were born."

She paused, thoughtfully, and reached out to me.

"Accept my proposal, or I will leave," she said softly, caressing 
my bottom and thighs.  She pressed her lips against my neck and 
whispered, "Go ahead, take the plunge."

I was distraught and confused, but I knew that I didn't want to 
lose her help in my time of distress.  If she left, I feared my 
world would totally come apart.

"Where are you from?" I asked her, temporizing.

"My family is Portuguese, and I still have many friends in 
Portugal," she answered, with a curious, far-away look.  "When 
my family arrived in France, my mother was first a cleaning lady, 
then a concierge, along with my father.  My good friend, Conchita 
Da Silva, took over my mother's job in my building.  I'll introduce 
her to you.  She's a part-time hairdresser."

She frowned and made an impatient gesture.

"But no more dawdling -- you must decide now," she said.  "Either 
you serve me for a year, or I'll leave this place immediately and 
for good."

"Mon Dieu...."  I was afraid of saying "yes" and having to 
endure a year's servitude, but terrified of saying "no" and 
being abandoned....  "A whole year?  A few days, perhaps...."

"A year...or nothing."

I-I...a-accept," I answered.

"Answer again, but this time like you really mean it," she snapped.

"Yes, I agree.  I really want to be your maid," I replied.

"Is that how you to talk your soon-to-be mistress?  Show me the 
respect I'm due.  Again." 

"Madam, I beseech you to do me the honor of permitting me to become 
your humble maid," I pleaded.

"That's an improvement," she said.  "You must learn to be more 
polite to your betters.  Now, write out the agreement and specify 
that I will own all your assets and possessions.  I'll send it on 
to Master Garnier, the notary.  At the same time, you'll own all 
that I have, which isn't much."

After I wrote the document and signed it, she took it away and 
locked it up.  At the time, I didn't realize how much this simple 
document would cost me.

"Since you're finished resting, with nothing to do, choose an outfit 
for my afternoon excursion and help me get dressed," she ordered.

I picked an outfit with a gray silk blouse that my tailor -- now 
HER tailor -- had made for me.  She became positively regal as I 
sank to my knees, slipped high heels onto her feet, and pressed my 
lips against a pair of shoes for the first time in my life.  Like 
me, she had become unrecognizable.

"Let's get down to business," she said.  "I'm confiscating your 
entire wardrobe.  You'll meet with Conchita, the concierge of my 
building, who'll do your new hairstyle.  She'll give you a curly 
cut and dye your hair dark.  Since you don't have any money, you'll 
pay for this service by asking to do all of Conchita's cleaning 
work.  And you'll start by cleaning the staircase of the building 
while your hair is drying.  She'll lend you a smock.  She likes 
ones with flowers.  You'll finish by cleaning the bathroom.  Of 
course, you'll take the bus, since I'll be using your car this 
afternoon.  Here's a ticket.  I left my old plastic raincoat in 
the broom closet in the entryway.  It's yours, now."

She made a dismissive gesture.

"And you'd better remember that I am 'Madam Monique' from now on, 
yes?"

"Y-yes, madam," I murmured.

		******************************                  


                           Part 2


Episode 3
 

After 45 minutes on a crowded and smelly bus, I arrived at the 
right stop.  I'd never been in this quarter of the city before; 
it was full of public housing.  But I found building 12A at the 
end of the street.

I opened the door to the building and immediately recognized 
Conchita, who was cleaning the windows along the entrance hallway.  
She was a brunette with a big rear end, common in 35-year-old 
cleaning women.  She was dressed in black pantyhose, a pink smock 
decorated with flowers, a tight black skirt, and worn sandals.

Greeting her, I mentioned that I had been sent by Monique.

"Ah, I have been waiting for you," she said, with a smile.  "You're 
the former lady of the manor."

She looked me over, carefully. 

"Show me what it is like to have never worked," she said, as she 
took my hands.  "They are so beautiful.  I've forgotten how smooth 
and soft one's hands could be.  Look, girl, at what fifteen years 
of housework can do to your hands."

She showed me her hands, which were wrinkled and swollen, with 
hard, cracked skin.  Her nails were dark, with flecks of nail 
polish.

"You have such a slender figure," she said.

"I watch my diet and work out at the gym with a trainer and a 
masseur.  I exercise, stretch, and swim each week.  That keeps 
me in shape."

"Now you'll be exercising each day," she said.  "It's not the same 
as working out at the gym, but you'll be exhausted every evening 
and will forget about the gym, I promise you.  Your new exercise 
regimen will strengthen your arms, your thighs, and, especially, 
your ass.  Your new exercises will make you very hungry.  But, 
with time, you'll become accustomed to it."

"Enough chitchat," she said.  "Monique told me that you want 
to change your hairstyle to something more practical and 
representative of your new job.  I propose to shorten your 
hair and curl it.  You'll save time at 4:00 in the morning when 
you get up, because you won't have to worry about arranging 
your hair.  I'll make you a brunette because that's the only 
color I have."

She then began to caress my body and face, and she kissed me on the 
neck.  I couldn't help responding and began fondling her bottom and 
breasts while I passionately kissed her.  We retired to her room 
and there began slowly discarding garment after garment.  She told 
me to take off her sandals, and, in the heat of the moment, I 
kissed her feet.  I embraced this Portuguese woman and pulled her 
against me.  I felt happy; I had forgotten my middle-class 
inhibitions.  I kissed the tattoo on her shoulder.  She even 
made me kiss her derrière and deep between her meaty thighs.

For now, I was hers.

We made love to each other for more than an hour.

		******************************                     

"How do you come to have a tattoo?" I asked, afterward.

"I have a friend who can do amazing things with a tattooing 
needle," she replied.  "But you have work to do.  Get dressed.  
I'll lend you clothing for this afternoon.  I want you dressed 
like a Portuguese cleaning woman."

After our marvellous hour together, I could deny her nothing.

She lent me knickers with garters, old thick black stockings with 
runs, and a rose-colored, one-piece "combination" made out of 
nylon.  (I didn't know that anyone still wore those.)

And to make sure that I didn't get these clothes dirty, she handed 
me a worn, long-sleeved smock decorated with pale blue flowers.

"But first, let's make you beautiful," she said.  Follow me to the 
kitchen."

She removed the dirty dishes from the tiny sink.

"You'll wash them afterwards.  Put this dish towel on your 
shoulders.  You can use it later to dry your hair."

This was quite a change from my usual hairdresser's salon with 
its red leather chair, its white walls with mirrors, a white 
silk dressing gown for me, and, of course, an endless supply 
of soft towels.

		******************************                  

Episode 4


After she cut my long blonde hair, dyed it brunette, and put on all 
different kinds of curlers she had in a plastic bag, she lent me a 
tattered, dark blue towel to cover my hair while it dried.  She had 
styled my hair in the fashion of her country.  In one morning, I 
had passed from being a blonde middle-class Frenchwoman, who wore 
very BCBG silk evening gowns from the finest establishments, to 
being a brunette Portuguese maid, who wore short nylon smocks 
decorated with flowers, rough wool stockings, and cheap plastic 
sandals.  

Nevertheless, I felt content, especially after my sensual tryst 
in Conchita's arms.  Mon Dieu!  Was I now a lesbian, too?

"One can't work on an empty stomach," Conchita said.  "Do the 
dishes and move the table over here while I finish cooking a meal.  
Next time, the lady will serve the concierge.  I adore seeing the 
world turned topsy-turvy, and I see that you like it, too.  Put on 
this apron, and you can begin."

"I have some gloves that I brought from home to use cleaning the 
kitchen.  Wasn't that a good idea?"

She became very annoyed and said, "Monique doesn't want you to use 
gloves.  She's jealous of your beautiful hands.  She said that the 
cleaning you're to do here must be done without gloves.  She wants 
you to learn what her life has been like."

She stretched.

"But enough chitchat," she said.  "Get busy.  I'm starting to get 
hungry."

"Me, too," I replied.  I'm usually never hungry in the middle 
of the day.  The work I did this morning must have given me an 
appetite." 

"That's good.  We're having a stew made with onions and potatoes. 
I cooked enough to feed a regiment, and we can wash it down with 
a bottle of wine."

Wearing a threadbare blue apron, I finished washing the dishes.  
Then I moved the table to the middle of the kitchen and covered 
it with a red and white oil-cloth, while an American soap opera 
blared on the TV. 

We devoured the stew.  I had three helpings, drank several glasses 
of vin ordinaire, and joked with Conchita.

As we were finishing up, she began scolding me.  "Monique will 
change you physically, but if you wish to become my true friend, 
you must alter your way of speaking, too.  You're too chi-chi, 
and that embarrasses me because I never went to school.  So 
you must change your manner of speech -- speak louder, make 
grammatical mistakes, use slang and generally cruder language, 
swear occasionally (when not around your betters).  Also, you 
must always refer to Monique as "Madame." 

We finished the meal with a café au lait, a Portuguese tradition, 
and a cake with nuts and almonds, one of Conchita's specialties.  

"Off to work, Maria," she finally said, pushing herself from the 
table.

"But my name is Marie Bénédicte," I protested.

"Look in the mirror in the entryway.  You don't look like Marie 
Bénédicte.  You look like Maria, who has just arrived from 
Portugal."

I have to admit that anyone looking at me -- no makeup, cheeks 
flushed with cheap wine, wearing a head scarf and a smock -- 
would not recognize the woman who regularly ate with her friends 
at Chez Phillipe, the best restaurant in the area.

My future would no longer be filled with visits to fine 
restaurants, bridge parties, teas, manicures, nights at the 
theatre or opera, but rather with nourishing meals in front 
of the TV, physical work, vacuuming carpets, waxing parquet 
floors, washing tiles and staircases -- and (the height of 
humiliation) cleaning and scouring toilets.  All of this will 
be paid for with rebukes and threats of being fired by women 
at the bottom of the pay scale, such as secretaries and 
receptionists, who want their workplace to be impeccably 
clean.  What I still don't like after months on this job 
is the habit these women have of putting Post-It notes on 
their computer screens demanding that I clean the carpet 
under their desks or some similar thing.  But Monique and 
Conchita tell me that the contract stipulates that, to keep 
my job, I have to avoid offending these spiteful people, who 
are my superiors.

But all that lay in the future.  At the moment, I had my first 
staircase to clean and polish.

		******************************                    

Episode 5 


"You can use the equipment under the staircase," she told me.  
"There's a broom, a dustpan, and a dust-bag.  For washing, there's 
a gray iron bucket with a serpillière inside, which you'll put 
into one of the pockets of your smock.  You'll stuff your other 
pocket with rags for cleaning the handrails and the windows on 
the landings.  Two of the floors have a tap that you can use to 
fill your bucket."

After having collected the appropriate equipment from the musty 
closet, I started to climb the stairs, trying not to drop anything. 
One loses all her dignity when she is struggling with this type of 
paraphernalia.

When I reached the sixth floor, I put my gear in the corner and 
filled the bucket with water.  Because it was dirty, I rinsed the 
serpillière, and wrung it out.  The water was cold and chilled my 
hands.  After I swept, I got down on all fours like any cleaning 
lady and began to scrub the floor, pushing the bucket ahead me.  
It was hard on my knees, and, little by little, my legs began to 
cramp, making it difficult to maintain my position.  I became a 
lot less ladylike in my posture and movements.

Then I heard Monique's voice.  "My, what beautiful black 
knickers," she sneered.

		******************************                  

Episode 6 


My face turned red from sweat and shame.  Monica the maid had been 
transformed by the hairdresser into Madam Monique, a dark blonde 
with a very classy haircut that commanded respect.  Moreover, her 
new charcoal grey outfit and high heels flattered her figure.  On 
my knees on a staircase, wearing an old smock and a used apron, I 
was from a totally different world.  I could not understand exactly 
why I had accepted this position, but the die was cast, the 
arrangement was documented, and there was now nothing I could 
do about it.

"I have several things to tell you," Monique said, with the 
confidence of a true mistress.

I wanted to get up, but she prevented me.  "Just remain on your 
knees and listen.  You're to finish cleaning this public stairwell 
under Conchita's supervision.  You'll then meet me at exactly 3:30 
this afternoon at the working women's shop in the Rue Victor Hugo, 
where I'll select some new clothes for you.  This evening, I've 
invited some guests over.  This will be your debut as a serving 
maid, and you'll wear the customary uniform of a soubrette.  
Tomorrow, you'll take over my cleaning duties at the airport.  
I've arranged everything.  You'll arrive at 4:00 in the morning 
at the terminal building.  The janitorial services van will take 
you there.  I've given my locker keys to a colleague named 
Ginette.  You'll find my smock in the locker, and she will 
train you.  Tomorrow, I'll pay for a tattoo on your rear end 
to announce your new trade.  Since most people in your new 
social circle don't know how to read, you'll need a picture 
to help them out: a naked woman on all fours scrubbing the 
floor should do it.  Men, in particular, really like that 
kind of tattoo."

She nodded.

"Within a week, I'm sure you'll have become accustomed to your 
changed condition: your new clothes, your new friends, and your 
new milieu -- kitchen and servants' quarters, as well as grimy 
stairwells and filthy toilets in factories and public places."

With a smile, she turned to go.

"À tout à l'heure, Maria," she said, as she departed.

I wondered how she knew my new name?

		******************************           


                           Part 3 


Episode 7 


I arrived at the shop in the Rue Victor Hugo at 3:30 as instructed, 
and then I waited for twenty minutes.  Monique finally drove up and 
casually left the car for a valet to park.

The door to the shop opened as Monique approached it; she must have 
telephoned for an appointment.  She motioned for me to follow.  A 
saleslady watched me enter and examined me from head to foot 
without smiling or welcoming me.  (Conchita had not allowed me 
to change back, so I was still wearing her old dress and laddered 
stockings, together with a short blouse with ridiculous pink lace 
that she hadn't worn for more than 10 years.)  It was understood 
that I was not an actual customer.  That was Madame, who wished 
to buy clothes for her new cleaning lady, just arrived from 
Portugal.

She wanted to buy me an entire ensemble: smocks for cleaning, a 
maid's outfit for serving a meal, and a simple dress that would 
allow me to shop for Madame. 

She whispered to the saleswoman (but I heard anyway), "Nothing too 
expensive -- second hand if possible.  She has just arrived from 
Portugal, and we mustn't spoil her.  As it is, she'll think coarse 
pantyhose and out-of-style underwear are great luxuries."

Monique, very beautiful and elegant, was offered a chair. 

		******************************                     

Episode 8 


When she was seated, Monique took control and ordered me to walk 
forward and turn around.

She commented on the appearance of the knot on my apron, "Maria, 
you'll have to learn to tie a better knot than that; you aren't 
working in a Portuguese cafe, now, but in the home of a lady."

She remarked to the saleswoman, "That dress suits her well.  She 
wears it like it was made for her.  Do you think you could find a 
similar used dress for everyday service and a pair of simple, flat 
black shoes?  That style of clothing will encourage her to be 
humble and servile."

The clerk nodded.

"For housework," Monique went on, "she needs two kinds of smock: a 
pink one for light duties, and a blue or grey one for heavy work.  
I want something that is strong, wrinkle-proof, easy to clean, and 
good value."

I didn't say anything.  I had become the object, an insignificant 
thing that was being fitted.  Monique made all the decisions 
without asking my opinion.

"I recommend nylon," replied the saleswoman, "I have some with long 
sleeves, with or without a white collar."

"One of each will supplement her wardrobe nicely," Monique replied.

She looked at me.  "Get on with it, girl, and try them out."

I took off the smock that I was wearing and put on one of the new 
ones.

"Walk over here, girl," she ordered.

She felt the garment with her fingers and tried to wrinkle it.  She 
liked this material, which breathed.  She remembered how pleasant 
it would have been to have worn something like this when she'd been 
a servant.... 

Noticing my quizzical look, she shrugged.  "Very good, it suits 
her."

(After this incident, I had an idea that one day she would again 
submit herself to such clothing.)

"Don't forget to buy some underwear and pantyhose," suggested the 
saleswoman. 

"What do you have in size 44?" asked Monique.

Both the saleslady and I wondered why she asked for clothing that 
was 2 sizes too large. 

Very discreetly, the clerk asked, "Why that particular size?"

"You and I both know," said Monique, "that girls who come from 
Portugal to work in France encounter food at their employers' homes 
that is richer and more abundant than what they are used to.  They 
quickly gain 10 to 15 kilos in weight.  When this happens, their 
mistresses have to buy them new clothes."

"You are completely right, madam," said the sales lady.

Monique smiled.  "But you know, Mademoiselle, I find women with 
that extra weight very sensual, particularly when they are on their 
knees scrubbing the floor.  Their generous curves are beautiful 
under their smocks."

The clerk looked thoughtful, then continued with business.  "To 
round out the wardrobe, I can recommend some dresses to wear when 
she is running errands.  Simple, inexpensive dresses.  I have 
some out-of-fashion inventory with round collars, some with lace, 
straight, without pleats, and reaching to the knees."

I became agitated when I heard this and decided to refuse to wear 
that sort of thing.  Monique could not seriously consider buying 
me such clothes. 

The saleslady returned with several large garments.  I became even 
more upset when I saw how ugly the dresses were.

I said, "I refuse to wear such clothing."

Monique became angry and put on her "do-you-want-me-to-send-your-
friends-and-family-copies-of-the-photographs?" face.

I panicked and quickly backed down.  Head bowed, I continued with 
the fitting.

Monique had me try on a flower-print dress.  When I returned from 
the fitting room wearing this formless dress, my cheeks were 
flushed with shame, and I felt humiliated having to play the role 
of a lowly immigrant who is no longer allowed to decide anything 
for herself.  To console myself, I imagined that I was again in 
the arms of Conchita.

"For winter wear, I would choose that brown one," I suggested.

"Let's try on the last one," said Monique to the saleswoman, 
ignoring my suggestion.  "My maid has no taste."

The one Monique chose had a pink stripe and was of a style that 
had never sold.

"Now, Maria," said Monique, "you must return to the house to 
prepare dinner.  These clothes are costing me a lot of money."

(Yesterday, the cost of this clothing would not be enough to buy 
me a pair of knickers.  How quickly values change.)

"To get home quicker, I'll take you.  Follow me and be quick about 
it."

		******************************              

Episode 9


Out in the street, I walked with head down, red with shame, afraid 
that I would be recognized, and followed behind Monique, who looked 
very stylish in her classy tailored outfit.  I, on the other hand, 
wore my ugly, ill-fitting new dress, and carried two packages with 
the rest of my new clothes.  (Before, two dressing rooms, each 
4 x 5 meters, were insufficient to contain my wardrobe.) 

I followed Monique into a shoe boutique to pick up some earlier 
purchases.  I was familiar with that expensive shop and hesitant 
to enter it now because the sales staff knew me very well -- I 
had always acted like an arrogant bitch when I shopped there.  

The saleswoman greeted Monique rather obsequiously as she entered.  
Monique introduced me as her new Portuguese maid (I certainly 
couldn't pass as one of her friends in the dress I was wearing) 
and asked the clerk to give me the packages.  The woman told me 
to accompany her to the rear of the boutique.  In the back, she 
stared at me for some time.  I began to sweat.

At last, she said, "I know you." 

Looking me in the eyes, she continued, "I've seen you here 
before...a thoroughly disagreeable lady, a spoiled brat, 
haughty with all the boutique workers in this quarter."

"No," I murmured.  "I come from Portugal."

She slapped me.

"You don't have an accent, and I don't believe you."

She slapped me a second time, and the tears welled from my eyes.  
I confessed and started to explain.

She interrupted me immediately.  "I don't want to know.  But I do 
congratulate you on your transformation; it suits you very well.  
I do hope Mme. Monique will give me a chance to avenge all the 
junior employees that you have humiliated with your rude remarks."

I trembled, but I felt my knickers getting wet....

"Now you do housework in a smock like us saleswomen," she said.  
"The only difference is that your smock is less flattering than 
ours and is dirtier.  A broom and serpillière are your new toys.  
'Pride goeth before a fall,' my girl."

She laughed.

"I see that you no longer wear those smartly tailored clothes that 
flattered you so.  You always irritated us when you were in the 
fitting room and flung clothes on the floor without paying any 
attention to the price.  Just one of those pieces of clothing cost 
more than any of us makes in two months."  She pursed her lips.  
"Your new dress is hideous, but that's what lower-class women like 
you wear.  Raise your dress so that I can see your underwear.  All 
the saleswomen used to admire your silk panties and exquisite 
hosiery."

I obeyed her.  I had to.  

"Ah, you now wear common, out-of-style panties that make your ass 
look bigger and pantyhose that makes your thighs look chunkier, 
holds in the heat, and sags at the knees.  But people don't notice 
working women like you.  Bravo to Mme. Monique for succeeding with 
such a magnificent transformation."

She paused and looked closely at my crotch.  A sinister expression 
stole across her face.

"I think that I would like to see you work as the cleaning lady for 
this boutique, you who were so haughty.  It would give me so much 
pleasure to watch you vacuuming the carpet, washing the windows, 
and pushing your serpillière across the floor.  You may begin your 
new duties by kissing my shoes."

I said nothing as I reddened both with shame and with pleasure at 
this new ordeal.  I sank to my knees as she ordered and kissed her 
shoes and stockings.

"Very good.  Report for work tomorrow morning."

"I can't, madam," I said.  "I have to work at the airport tomorrow."

"Well, well!  You used to arrive at the airport dressed BCBG and 
accompanied by a servant pushing a caddy filled with YSL luggage.  
Now you yourself will be pushing a cleaning cart and wearing a 
shabby smock with the word "cleaning" on the back -- just in case 
someone doesn't recognize your trade.  I would die of humiliation 
if I were a cleaning woman in front of everybody at the airport."

My panties were getting wetter.

"Are you free the day after tomorrow?" she asked.

"Yes, madam," I answered.

"Good.  Report here promptly at 8 AM, girl."

I left the shop, walking along behind Monique as before and 
carrying the packages, more luxury items that I would not be 
wearing. 

She understood what had happened in the shop.  

		******************************              

Episode 10


When we arrived at the parking lot, Monique opened the trunk of the 
car, and I stowed the packages, both the expensive ones belonging 
to her and the cheap ones, which were gifts to me.  I desperately 
wanted to talk with her in private and ask her to ease up, because 
she was pushing me too hard. 

She told me to take the wheel; she would sit in the back.  As we 
left the parking lot, I was about to start a conversation, but she 
did not let me begin.

"Wait, Maria," she said, "I must stop at the caterer's shop."

She ordered a meal for four people and specified that the food 
should be delivered in time for her slovenly servant to finish 
the preparations.

"She is just beginning her service," Monique told the caterer.  
"So I will be lenient with her this evening."

When we arrived back home, I put the car in the garage.  She told 
me to hang up her purchases in her dressing room. 

She also told me that I could move into a little room under the 
mansard roof on the top floor, which was ideally suited for a 
servant such as me. 

"I see that your womanhood is blossoming hour by hour in your new 
position.  You like submitting and wearing nylon.  And, though I 
do like the feel of your new smock, I prefer silk and the respect 
that it gets you with tradesmen, hairdressers, beauticians, and 
saleswomen.

"It's really pleasant to have both nice and not-so-nice people at 
your beck and call.  You, on the other hand, are embarking on the 
road to Purgatory.  You'll see when you begin cleaning the airport 
tomorrow.  The people you'll be working for are not nice to the 
cleaning staff.  Just obey orders.  Don't protest when the 
supervisor feels you up or makes you...."

After a moment, she shrugged. 

"But now that's your problem.  Go up to your room -- here's the key 
-- and change into your pink smock, an apron, and a maid's cap.  
You'll clean the front parlor and the dining room, vacuum the 
carpet, dust the furniture, and wash the mirrors.  You'll then 
scrub the floor of the entranceway on your knees with your 
serpillière as I've taught you.  Then you'll go to the cupboard 
and arrange the dishes for the meals that will be arriving.  You 
will set out the glasses and prepare an apéritif.  Me, I'm tired 
and feel the need to freshen up.  I'm going to take a bath with 
bath salts."

Timidly, I asked if I could take a shower in my room before I 
started.

She sighed.  "I know I'll regret this kindness....  Oh, very well, 
but hurry.  I believe your room has only cold water, and the 
shower is dirty."

My room was only 3 x 3 meters.  (This morning, I'd had a 15 x 20 
bedroom.)  I found a worn wooden bed, mattress stuffed with straw, 
a rickety table holding a cracked bowl of plastic flowers, and an 
armoire containing some wire hangers, one of which held a maid's 
uniform, dating from before the war, made from a thick black fabric 
with no ruffles, and a large white apron with wide straps that tied 
in the back.

In a corner, there was a dirty shower stall with no curtain and 
no shower head.  I turned on the water, which was indeed cold.   
Unfortunately, I really needed a shower.  A scrap of soap enabled 
me to lather myself (after a fashion), but the cold water made me 
shiver.  Nevertheless, it did wash away the sweat from riding the 
bus, making love, cleaning the stairwell, and scrubbing toilets....

To dry myself, I had to be satisfied with the dirty rag hanging on 
the wash basin.  No more thick, scented, hot towels and bathrobes 
that absorbed water.  No lotion, either, or cream to soften the 
skin.  I put on a pink nylon smock instead of a dressing gown, 
beige knickers, pantyhose, and a white apron, tied with a motion 
that was to became habitual.

As Monique ordered, I cleaned the parlor and the dining room.  And 
I again assumed the humiliating position used to scrub the floor 
with a serpillière instead of a mop.  Monique eventually finished 
her bath and appeared in a silk dressing gown and slippers.  
Without paying any attention to the work I had done, she walked 
up and demonstrated her power over me.

"You missed a spot," she said.  "Take care of it, tout de suite.  
Then make me some tea and bring it to the front parlor."

At this exact moment, the doorbell rang.  Monique crossed in front 
of me and opened the door.  It was Odette Renard, the gardener's 
wife, who lived in a small house at the back of the garden.  She 
used to help Monique prepare for my big parties, but not often, 
because I found her so vulgar.  I was convinced that she abused her 
husband, the nice, efficient gardener who worked the 5 hectares of 
my ex-garden.

"Ah, my dear," Odette said.  "What have you done to your hair?  
You look like a princess.  Is your mistress on a holiday?"

"No...."  Monique laughed.  "If you only knew.  Come in, and I'll 
tell you all about it.  Maria, prepare a second tea and bring it 
to us with some little cakes."

When Odette entered, she saw me on my knees with my serpillière.  
She was dumbfounded when she recognized me.  Then Monique winked, 
and Odette seemed to understand the situation and quickly regained 
her composure.

"Hurry up, girl," she said, nudging me with her foot.  "I don't 
have all day."


To be continued....

___________________               

Note:
Despite her promise, Conchita never finished the story.  
 
