by Leslie

It is a very pretty French maid uniform that I'm wearing and it is exactly the one I chose. I wasn't modest in my choice of style, quantity or cost when selecting them. I chose one each in velvet and satin, and two in cotton. That's what I specified in our e-mail exchanges saying they are what a proper sissy maid should wear and that's what I ended up in. I wanted different fabrics for different levels of formality, different weather conditions and differences in ease of care and now I wear all four during the course of the year, but mostly the cotton ones. In winter I'll wear the velvet uniform with heavy tights and the satin or cotton uniform in fall and spring with pantyhose instead of the tights then in summer it's the cotton ones exclusively and with Mistress's permission, no pantyhose. Besides that, if something happens to one, it's good to have a backup. Prior planning, that's what I have always I believed in. Anyhow except for the fabric, they are all the exact same in cut and color - black with white trim and apron. As far as cost, I wasn't the one who would foot the bill so that wasn't a priority. They're expensive and with the full white petticoats, they are very pretty. I know I'm pretty when I'm wearing them and I always try to look my best. Everyone loves the outfit. Everyone except me, that is.

To paraphrase Robert Burns, "The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry." In my plan, my situation was supposed to be much more glamorous that it turned out to be, and a lot less work too. Well, I'll admit that it is glamorous with; the French provincial mansion, manicured gardens, swimming pool, tennis court and the fancy cars. Now Mistress has it all and I'm kept on a very short leash. It's all very glamorous for her, just not glamorous for me. I'm her minion.

It turns out that this job really does suck, but I had laid out every aspect of it and every task to be performed in our emails and I'm being held to exactly the standards I wanted. I said exactly what a sissy maid job should entail, but there's a difference between fantasy and reality, between theory and practice. Now, I'm trapped, really trapped. But, it could have been worse. My plan called for a 24/7 sissy maid. Thank goodness this turned out to be for just two days a week. I couldn't survive 24/7. The other five days I get to go to my real job, the one I'm paid for and nobody there knows about this job. The way things turned out is just so humiliating.

You might say. "Why don't you just walk away?" I'll tell you why I can't "just walk away", but first I'll tell you how I got ensnared in this situation so it won't happen to you.

This gorgeous house was supposed to be mine. Now that woman's name is on the deed and mine isn't. She's the mistress and worse yet, that bastard Matt is the master. I knew them both before my reversal of fortunes and he's the one whom I blame. He screwed me both literally and figuratively and then kicked me out of my beautiful home into a crummy apartment. Well, truth be told, I'm the one to blame. I did it to myself, but he did his part by luring me in. He did it to perfection then they lowered the boom. I didn't know what hit me. But, I made all the decisions and I signed the documents, so ultimately all responsibility rests with me. And then there were those damn pictures. They were the real straw that broke the camel's back. I'm a fool, and you know the old saying; "A fool and his money are soon parted".

They lord over this estate while I do the work in my cute little French maid uniforms so their guests can ogle the pretty servant mincing around in her five inch heels. Yes, the five inch heels were my idea too. Mistress doesn't have to show off her ass to the whole world. She only shows it off for him. But I am the one who picked out the skimpy outfit, so once again I deserve it. That's what everybody else says, so I get no sympathy. At least my legs are prettier than hers. I've got that! And my ass is nicer too.

In retrospect it's much too big. Their house, that is - not my ass. When people acquire a five thousand square foot home, they don't think of all the cleaning that must be done to keep it up. And that doesn't even count the giant garage full of expensive cars that I have to occasionally clean and wax. I also have to vacuum the garage floor. It must be kept as clean as their house because they entertain there. She even had a kitchen installed out there.

Her "other half", that bastard Matt, loves to watch me bent over the hood of their low to the ground sports cars so he can leer at my butt while I wax it. The car that is, not my... Well, you know that.

Each of those cars probably cost as much as I make in a decade, now that I was fired from my good management position at the bank. And he's the one who reaps the benefits of my hard work. Is that justice? He'll look, but he won't touch me now, because he belongs to Mistress. They're in love - barf! He won't even say "nice ass". He just smiles and limits our conversation to "good morning Miss Leslie" and "good evening Miss Leslie" or "thank you Miss Leslie". He's so damn polite now.

Just sweeping the flagstone patio in front of their house takes twenty minutes and that's the most pleasant task of the day with the smell of Mistress's old garden roses permeating the air. At least I don't have to mow the lawn or pull weeds; she deigns to pull the weeds but they have a gardener to do that too. The difference is they pay him.

It's been a long day of scrubbing toilets, doing laundry, mopping floors, walking their dog on the sidewalks of their lovely neighborhood (yes, in my French maid dress and five inch heels) and I even had to wash one of the cars in the driveway near the street while teenage boys from the neighborhood whistled at me and some even offered to, well you know, me. That's a downside to working on weekends; the idiots are out of school. I'm tired and ready to go back to my tiny depressing apartment and rest. I hate weekends. But, now, it's time for the final humiliation of the weekend.

I have to go into the parlor on the house I used to live in, curtsy to the mistress, she's the one I actually work for, and then give her my usual Sunday evening speech:

"Thank you mistress, for giving me the privilege of cleaning your beautiful home. I have completed all of my assigned tasks to the best of my ability. I will return next Saturday morning at nine o'clock to do it again. Thank you for the opportunity you have given me."

As usual, I said it with a smile, she politely thanked me, and I exited gracefully to my heap of a car that I will drive home to my dump of an apartment where I will change out of my pretty little uniform and launder it for next weekend.

My life sucks. All that wealth and luxury that I just left would be mine if I hadn't gotten involved in this sissy maid thing that dragged me down the rabbit hole and to my ruination. I know some people can pull it off, and even have fun and fulfillment with this lifestyle. I've seen it on the Internet and there are just too many accounts for it all to be fantasy. But, that's not the way it worked for me. So, how does a girl mold a man into a sissy maid against his will?

For the prospective mistress there are all sorts of inducements; the thrill of holding absolute power over a man, the promise of leisure time, showing off to friends - prestige. Who wouldn't want another person's devotion to your every whim, even if you do have to keep it private? In the event of transfer of assets it can be quite a windfall. Personally, I should add that I simply like the look of a pretty sissy maid in her uniform and I've always been fascinated by the switching of traditional gender roles. I know I'm not alone in this opinion that is shared by mistresses and sissy maids alike, but I was remarkably naive about all this.

If one can find a nice cross dresser with a French maid fetish and a slender body that would look good in the outfit and if he has just the right temperament, then a prospective mistress has got it made. For the guy who wants it, or should I say the prospective sissy maid, it may be his fantasy to wear the pretty clothes and he's willing to pay his dues for the privilege of doing so. Or, he may have a desire to escape the complexities of everyday life and have someone else take care of him. His would be an easy conversion to sissy maid status.

A sweet little sissy maid living and working in a mansion is taken care of. She has her duties but more importantly she is protected from the outside world. In exchange for her independence she is relieved of many burdens. Her responsibilities are limited to household chores and everything else; paying bills, taxes, food, shelter, security, transportation etc are not her problem. It's not really such a bad deal for the sissy if he can do it full time and if he doesn't mind the opportunity costs. Simply sign over the house and stock portfolios and Mistress will handle all those bothersome little details for you. What a blissful life awaits him if he also has her love.

But what about the prospective sissy maid who doesn't yet know he wants to be a maid? It might be the furthest thing from his mind. He might need some convincing. And that can be a hard sell. It's like a wild horse that must be broken. Sometimes a little pain must be inflicted on him. No doubt there are women who are up to that challenge. I don't know if they could take any man and turn him into a sissy maid, but at least they can do it with some. My situation was halfway in between, a shy cross dresser who liked the outfits but, wasn't quite ready to sign the contracts and submit to serving a mistress. It would prove the importance of patience.

Money, money, money, why does it always come down to money? Any enterprise must be kept on a sound financial basis. That includes governments, businesses, families, hobbies and even lifestyles like mine. There are no exceptions. Someone must foot the bill, and in this case there was plenty of money to do so.

Like everything, my misadventure in sissydom started with an idea. Three young ladies who were roommates in college with too much time on their hands wanted to see how far they could push their feminine powers. They were good friends who stayed together after graduation. They knew guys will do all sorts of stupid things for a pretty girl, and decided to see just how far a guy can be pushed. Will he sign his life away and become a slave for love or sex? Well, the simple answer is probably not, but some guys will. Somehow the three of them hit on the topic of sissy maids and that ultimately lead to me getting sucked into this lifestyle.

The girls reasoned; Why not turn these guys' fantasies into a business opportunity? Why not "monetize" their fetish? Simply dress them up, train them and rent them out to clean people's houses? Make it a business paying minimum wage for sissies to do what enjoy doing anyhow but charge big bucks from the customers they serve. The girls would pocket the difference. Come on, that's nothing new. Everybody has seen this possibility. The reason it doesn't work is the difficulty in recruiting real dependable good looking sissy maids that one can trust.

Where would they find their workers? So, they set their minds to solving the problem of recruitment. Rejecting the Internet and local personals as too dangerous, they wanted to have control over any contact situation. Two of the girls worked in a local department store and hit on the idea to just be more observant of shoppers. They would scout out the male shoppers in the women's sections. If he looked like a good candidate, they would follow him. It was a dumb idea that would ultimately be dropped, but not before it would yield its one and only sissy prospect landing me in my current misery.

Just by chance a prospect appears on the scene. He is handsome, well dressed, in good physical shape, not too big and best of all, shopping in the lingerie department of a high end downtown department store. High end means he probably has money, well dressed means he has a good job or at least good taste. He could be buying a gift for a wife or girlfriend, but there is no ring on his left hand. The girls wouldn't approach the subject; they would simply observe him and take candid pictures for future reference. Does he go to menswear, or does he go to look at women's shoes and women's outerwear? What size clothing is he looking at? He's looking at his size. Bingo!

The gentleman in the photograph proved the old adage that it's a small world. When the pictures were shown to the third girl, she recognized him as one of the vice presidents of the suburban bank where she worked. Earnest, industrious and dull, he was no prospect for their minimum wage job. He was a rising star at the bank and from a rich family. While he didn't need a minimum wage job, perhaps he was in need of a mistress to run his life?

With her inside knowledge of his interests, it wasn't hard for her to strike up a relationship with him at work. It started with an elevator ride with her wearing the exact same outfit he had shown great interest in three days before at the department store and it ended with a date, her having his personal email address, a wild night and both of them in lingerie. He was the perfect prospective sissy maid and prospective husband. An email with an attached picture said "I'd love to see you in a French Maid outfit." And the reply was "sounds like fun". Well, that was easy!

They dated for a while and she eventually moved into the French provincial mansion he had inherited from his grandfather. A nice rich young cross dresser with a French maid fetish was quite a find for a prospective mistress, but things were happening fast. She was promoted to assistant manager at a branch bank so email on private accounts became a useful and fun method of communication. When she finally found the perfect outfit for her sissy maid and just the right shoes to match she sent him the link and he said he loved them but wanted to slow down a bit. Everyone knows that a good sissy maid shouldn't ever second guess her mistress.

She had read many stories on the Internet about reluctant sissy maid prospects being prodded into sissydom with the gentle suggestion that incriminating pictures would be posted online or shown to friends and co-workers. She had no shortage of pictures of that type and picked one of her favorite pictures of the two of them in matching Playboy bunny outfits. She sent it to him and told him flat out that it was time to buy his French maid uniforms or find this on Facebook. His response was "I don't believe you." So, with the intention of taking it down as soon as he saw them, she called his bluff and posted it, along with a few pictures of him in different feminine outfits. His immediate response was one of sheer terror begging for them to be taken down. He promised to come right over to her office and they would go to her seamstress for a fitting if she would just take them down at once, which she did.

Victory was at hand, and another prospective sissy maid was under the thumb of her mistress, as it should be. She immediately removed the pictures and told him to stop by the house on the way over to pick up the corset and anything else he would wear under his new uniforms, so they would have accurate measurements. He emailed back that he would do as instructed and would see her soon. He even added "Thank you Mistress for taking down the pictures, I guess we know who wears the pants in this relationship." She smiled as she read it.

Upon arrival at her office he closed and locked the door so they could talk in private and he removed the corset and some lingerie from a bag placing them on her desk. "Well, I'm here as agreed. Thank you for taking those pictures off of your Facebook account. You know that kind of thing could ruin a banker." And that was followed by a long discussion of our wants and needs. Then for some reason it seemed that he started talking about a dress code and I, sitting at my desk said, "You bet there will be a dress code."

"What the hell are you babbling about Leslie?" he said.

It turns out Matt didn't say, "dress code", he said, "duress code". And my reply was, "What is a duress code?" I told him that didn't know what that was and then the mansplainng started. "A duress code is a secret word used to let people know that you are in danger of trigger people into a specific action, like arresting a criminal. Do you know what my duress code is?" he said as he removed a microphone from behind his neck tie. "It's the word "harmonica". I can use it in a sentence like, Can you play a harmonica?"

Just then, all hell broke loose! My office door was smashed open and cops were streaming in. There was even a guy wearing an FBI jacket. That son of a bitch, Matt, just got up, handed him the microphone and transmitter and simply walked out of my office without saying another word to me. The FBI agent, local and state police all read me my Miranda rights in turn. I was hauled out of the bank with my hands cuffed behind my back. It turns out that the suggestion that you should blackmail someone can be very bad advice.

What an asshole! He was proud of the picture of us in the Playboy bunny costumes and while he pretended fear of exposure, he really didn't give a damn. Actually, it was worse than that. He shared my email and the pictures with some trusted friends at the bank, including my manager who, as I was being lead out in handcuffs, told me that I was fired. It turned out that some of them already know, and it wasn't that big of a secret. I was also presented with a ten day evection notice while I was still in jail. It seems after my little nudge; Matt didn't want to be my sissy maid after all, and I was no longer welcome to live in his house. Big surprise there!

Regarding the signing over of assets, while Matt has a feminine streak, he doesn't equate femininity with stupidity. My mistake! The three of us only looked at those men as people to be exploited, not as real people. The authorities agreed not to charge my two girlfriends for the parts they played in my crimes, and I was thankful for that. But, the cops did get their phones.

Federal charges of extortion, and wire fraud were deferred pending state charges of blackmail and revenge porn, a new law passed in our state to prevent posting of incriminating pictures of ex-lovers on the Internet. I was screwed! Bail was set at $50,000 dollars which I didn't have and I was in jail for two weeks until Matt finally took pity and posted my bond.

The federal charges were eventually dropped at Matt's request. But in the intervening year that it took for the case to be resolved there was a peace bond against me to stay away from him, his house and from the bank. During that time he rekindled his relationship with his old girlfriend Maloney and they were married.

I wasn't invited. But it was a big deal in the local newspaper, "Debutant Marries Banker". Under our state law she is half owner of their domicile so her name is now on the deed. It should have been me.

My lawyer managed to kept me out of prison and free of a felony conviction. In a settlement the state dropped all felony charges and I agreed to a plea deal. The judge was incredulous when she saw my e-mails and all the pictures from my phone, some of which I would never have shown to anyone, not even Matt. At the sentencing hearing, the judge looked at me as I stood before her and she asked me one simple question; "Young lady, do you believe in the Golden Rule?" My reply was, "Yes your honor."

"Then you were not going to do anything to this man that you wouldn't want done to you? Is that right?" I had never thought of it in those terms. I wouldn't want that done to me. I could either admit that I had just lied to her or double down, so I stuck with my lie; "Yes your honor."

"Well, lucky for you, we have abolished slavery in this country, so the 24/ 7 servitude you wanted to inflict on another human being is unconstitutional, but I can give you a small taste of your own medicine. Matt Jones is unwilling to accept responsibility for your work release program, but his wife Maloney Jones is willing, so in lieu of a five year prison term you will be put on a five year work release under her supervision doing exactly what you wanted her husband to do."

She continued, "She has agreed to help you get a full time job and supervise your court ordered work on weekends. You will report to her each Saturday at 9 am and work eight hours, not counting your lunch that she will provide and then you will report on Sunday at a time specified by her to work another six hours. Then after your work is done to her satisfaction you will report to her before going home and she will certify your performance to the court each week. I see you even picked out uniforms and have a preference for specific shoes that you think a maid should wear. Congratulations, I concur with your taste. And your comments about different fabrics for different levels of formality, different weather conditions, and differences in ease of care seem very well thought out. You will be a very pretty maid in those outfits and shoes that you had picked out, which you will buy, pay for, and wear while you are on duty at her house. Your emails show a thorough understanding of the tasks to be performed and this will allow you to make amends to your intended victim. Do you have any questions?"

I had a thousand questions, but my lawyer said, "No your honor" and the hammer fell. "It is so ordered."

There you have it. Now you see why I can't "just walk away". I overplayed a winning hand and gave it all to Maloney. I don't doubt that she really does love Matt and vice-versa and I think she really does want to help me. I hate do-gooders!

Anyhow, be careful what you put in writing and what you post on line and think long and hard if you are tempted to blackmail someone. He might just be an asshole like Matt who doesn't really give a damn.

The End
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