THE CLEANINGLADY
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Acting As A Cleaning Lady - Chapter 7 - A Born Cleaning Lady free porn video
Acting as a Cleaning Lady
An Unfinished Story by Susannah Donim
Chapter 7 - A Born Cleaning Lady
A new career beckons for Maria, the hard-working cleaning lady and
laundry maid.
As promised, Anna and Phil came round at about eight o'clock to see
how Maria had turned out. I answered the door and took some pleasure
in seeing their open mouths and gasps of astonishment.
"Por favor, pase, Se?or y Se?ora," I said in character, holding the
door wide open.
They came past me, eyes fixed on my face and curves.
"It's unbelievable," Anna said. "You'll pass easily. You make a
brilliant Spanish peasant girl!"
"Gracias, Se?ora."
"I must admit, I never thought they could make you look this good,"
said Phil, as I led the way into the sitting room.
They greeted Sally and took their seats. She poured some wine for us
all.
"I really thought you'd have to give up this whole idea," Phil
continued. "What's it like under all that... stuff?"
"Surprisingly comfortable, actually," I said, reverting to English.
"It's quite heavy, but that's OK, 'cause that makes me move right; I
mean, as a woman who's this shape would move. I didn't expect to be
so fat, but they said it was necessary to conceal my male figure -
broad shoulders, thick waist, and so on."
I handed out the wine. As I moved Anna was eyeing me up, appraising
my silhouette.
"Yes, I can see that," she said. "And they're quite right. You're
plump, but your figure is entirely feminine - classic hourglass,
even."
Phil was nodding vigorously. I wondered if he had a thing for the
fuller-figured female. Bad news for Anna if he did. She was stick-
thin.
"So how much do we owe you for the Transformations invoice?" Sally
asked, ever practical.
"Oh don't worry about that for the moment," Anna smiled. "Let's just
see if Maria's earning power is everything we hoped for. Then we can
discuss paying us back."
She smiled sweetly, but I have never trusted that smile of my
sister's. Still, it was a very pleasant evening - the last day of my
enforced holiday. Tomorrow it would be back to work - and how.
= = =
On Monday morning I shaved carefully around my facial prosthetics,
although I couldn't actually see any growth. I dressed in another
pair of Carol's slacks and a floral blouse. Sally helped me twist my
long hair up into a bun, and with a headscarf keeping it out of my
eyes, and my cleaner's smock to protect my clothes, I was the perfect
image of a hard-working charlady.
My first client was a Mrs Woodford, who lived about half a mile away
in a slightly more upmarket area. She insisted we call her Joyce
until Sally reminded her that I didn't speak English and would
probably just call her Se?ora. She didn't seem put out by that.
Sally described how we had managed with Dorothy. Joyce should lead us
around the house explaining what she wanted in each room; Sally would
translate her instructions into Spanish; and I would take notes.
Joyce was happy with that. She had clearly spoken to Dorothy at
length and understood the process.
The house was much bigger than any of the three I had cleaned before.
It had two large reception rooms, a study, and six bedrooms on three
floors. It was at least half as big again as Dorothy's. The
Woodfords had four children from seven to sixteen, two older girls and
two younger boys. The girls, Joyce explained, had been press-ganged
into helping their mother keep the place clean since the demise of
Pinner Maids. Apparently they were close to open revolt - they were
particularly resentful at being expected to clean up after their
younger brothers - and so were delighted with the arrival of Maria.
Joyce worked part-time for an Estate Agents. She did a lot of work on
her computer in the study but would also come and go throughout the
day to conduct viewings. The irregular hours of her job were the main
reason why she needed help with housekeeping. Her husband, Peter, was
something in the city. He caught the 7.15 train into London in the
mornings and was rarely back before seven in the evening, so it was
unlikely I would ever meet him.
I could tell Joyce was seriously stressed and I was beginning to
understand why: a big house to run, four children, an absentee
husband, and a job of her own to hold down. I was amazed she was
functional at all.
At first glance it seemed that the three ladies' efforts focused on
hygiene rather than tidiness. Clothes, magazines and other clutter
were strewn all over the children's bedrooms so, as at Anna and Phil's
place, vacuuming would have to be deferred till after tidying up.
However the kitchen and bathrooms had been kept quite clean. They
would need a top to bottom spring-clean, but at least the girls'
efforts meant that the whole house wasn't a disease death trap.
I asked Sally in Spanish to ask Joyce whether she wanted me to
organise the family laundry too. I pointed at the sheets on the bed
in the room we were currently in. Joyce confirmed that she would want
that, and that I should assume that any clothes lying around on the
floor were dirty. She also asked me to be careful with the girls'
underthings, but by now I was becoming familiar with the principles of
washing delicates. I realised I would probably need to wash each
family member's clothes separately to avoid mixing them up. If I
needed to do whites and coloureds separately too, that could mean as
many as twelve washes! That would mean three washes a day! And a
hell of a lot of ironing. So now I wasn't just a cleaning lady; I was
officially a washerwoman too. Great!
I told Sally that with the laundry I might not be able to finish
everything in a single week. She looked worried and reminded me that
I was booked to move on to another client next Monday. She turned
back to Joyce and explained our concerns.
"I quite understand," she said. "I know it's a big job. I suppose I
could wait till the following week for Maria to finish..." Then she
had a bright idea. "...or if she was willing to carry on into the
weekend I'd be happy to pay double rate?"
Seeing money was no object for Joyce, Sally quickly accepted that kind
offer on my behalf. There went my weekend.
She went on to talk about payment and gave Joyce the bank account
details of our trading company, explaining that she had set up Maria
as an employee under European Union employment law to minimise the tax
burden for both of us. I had no idea whether this gobbledygook
actually meant anything, but Joyce nodded wisely and said that was
fine with her, as she did all of her banking online.
"Oh, by the way, Lucy - that's my eldest - is studying A Level
Spanish," she said. "I'm sure she'd love to practise with Maria."
It was a good thing I'd been rehearsing my Maria voice.
= = =
I made steady progress through the week. I developed a routine: put
in a load of washing; clean a room (working from the top of the house
downwards); take the washing out and put it in the tumble-dryer or
hang it outside if the weather's fine; put another load in; clean
another room; and repeat. I got a great deal of satisfaction at
seeing a sparkling clean bedroom or a tidy pile of ironing, and I got
a warm glow from putting neatly folded clothes away in their owner's
chest of drawers.
I stopped cleaning when the kids came home from school. Then I set up
the ironing board in the kitchen and Lucy and I conversed in Spanish
while I did the ironing. She was very keen, despite it having been
her mother's idea. We concentrated on her vocabulary and use of
idiom. As for most people taught a foreign language in school, her
usage was grammatically correct, but no one in Spain ever actually
spoke like that. We mostly talked about the country; what it's like
to live there; and a little history and geography of places Maria
could be expected to know. No politics - sixteen-year-old girls and
we twenty-something laundry maids aren't interested in politics.
I had to tell her quite a lot about myself - that is, my fictional
Maria-self. I leaned heavily on what I knew about the real Maria and
her family, the Ortegas. I just hoped I would remember everything I
made up and wouldn't contradict myself. Lucy was sharp. She was a
pretty, friendly girl, and the only one of the children who ever
looked at me. When I finished the ironing she helped me put the
clothes away in the appropriate wardrobes and dressers, still chatting
away in Spanish.
On the Wednesday her Spanish homework was to write an essay on how
technology was changing modern life. She begged me to help but I had
to be careful here. Dave was an expert on digital transformation,
financial information systems, social media, artificial intelligence,
the cyber threat - you name it - but Maria wouldn't know about any of
that. I could only help her with the language; anything more could
raise suspicion. Lucy's understanding of IT was basic and she made
some glaring errors in the content, which I couldn't correct, but I
don't suppose her teacher would know any better.
As the end of the week approached we had become firm friends. To my
relief she never seemed to doubt that I was anything other than what
my appearance suggested. I grew steadily more confident in my
performance.
When Sally came to collect me at half-past five each day, I was worn
out. With the extra forty pounds I was carrying my whole body felt
like lead. All I was good for when we got home was stripping off,
showering, eating a quick ready meal or a takeaway, and dozing in
front of the TV with a glass of wine. Some nights I didn't even take
off my false bottom, so we just cuddled in bed, rather than enjoying
the rampant passion of the previous weekend. I promised to make it up
to Sally when I was better rested.
= = =
One evening that week, I sat at the dressing table in Maria's room in
my bra, panties and neglig?e, checking my makeup. Still no detectable
beard growth. I stared at my strange new self in the mirror and
marvelled at how quickly this had become routine. I was used to
putting on and removing makeup occasionally of course, from my years
on stage, but it still surprised me how easily I had gotten used to
the lingerie, the big boobs, the padded butt, and my unrecognisable,
feminine face. I removed the pins from my bun and watched my long
black hair fall down over my ears, onto my neck, and down my back.
For the first time, and to my astonishment, I realised that I was
actually enjoying being Maria. Was it because of the work? Maybe - I
hated dirt and untidiness and had always taken pleasure in clearing up
and cleaning. Sally often joked that my obsession with cleanliness
was the main reason she married me, as she hated housework herself.
Or was it the continual acting, immersing myself in a part, very
nearly 24-7? I was sure that was a big part of it. I was never going
to be a professional actor now, but this was a great substitute - the
opportunity to fool people and make them think I was somebody else -
even a working-class immigrant girl - so different from my real self,
the married male IT professional and owner of a nice house in a
prosperous area.
Or was it simply being a member of the opposite sex? The new
experience of being female, to be admired, pursued, seduced, rather
than the male of the species, admirer, pursuer, seducer? That line of
thinking was beginning to make me uncomfortable. I knew I was
entirely heterosexual, so actually wanting to spend time as a female
would make me... what? A transvestite, certainly. Perverted? Maybe.
I threw off my neglig?e and lingerie and went into the family
bathroom. I reached for a shower cap. I would need to discuss some
of this with Sally. I needed to know what she thought.
Not tonight, though. Too tired. Every muscle ached.
= = =
"I could come and help you on Saturday," Sally offered.
"That's a kind offer," I said, "but a bad idea."
"What? Why?"
"Firstly, you're not a working-class cleaning lady; you're a middle-
class professional."
She looked at me sceptically, clearly about to interrupt. I held up a
hand to stop her.
"No, I know - you and I aren't class-conscious like that, but a lot of
the people around here are. It's a wealthy area. If any of our
neighbours found out you were cleaning houses, and getting paid for
it, we'd both be stone dead, socially. And my sister would never
speak to me again."
She raised an eyebrow. I grinned.
"OK, so it wouldn't be all bad. But my point is, this is a temporary
situation. Sally and Dave have to live here when our financial
problems are over and after Maria has gone."
"OK, I accept that," she said. "You implied there's another reason?"
"Well, secondly, I'm getting double rates," I continued, "and the
longer I work, the more we make. This could stretch over the whole
weekend. We don't want to cut that short. If you're desperate to
contribute, you can do the shopping, cooking and cleaning at home."
Predictably, her face fell.
= = =
By the end of my week at the Woodfords there was only the ground floor
left. I had completed the laundry, washed all the upstairs windows,
and thoroughly cleaned all six bedrooms, three bathrooms, two landings
and the staircases. On Friday evening, when Sally came to collect me,
Joyce declared herself delighted and was very grateful that I had
agreed to finish over the weekend. Through Sally we made arrangements
for the Saturday. She promised to keep the family out of the way as
much as possible. She also demanded that they all tidy up downstairs,
and threatened that any books, magazines, letters, videos or games
left lying around anywhere would be in the bin by Monday morning.
Sally dropped me off on the Saturday morning a little later than usual
and I started on the kitchen as soon as the family finished breakfast.
After that, Joyce and Peter spent most of the morning ferrying their
kids to and from ballet lessons, football and hockey, and squeezing
grocery shopping in between.
I began by clearing out all the cupboards. I checked all the
saucepans, bowls, crockery and cutlery and ran those that looked
grubby through the dishwasher - three loads in all. I isolated all
the bottles and jars of sauces and preserves that were long past their
'Use By' dates for disposal, with Joyce's permission. Then I scrubbed
out all the cupboards and replaced their cleaned contents. Finally I
swept and mopped the kitchen floor. I stood back to assess my
morning's work, and felt a now familiar pride in my achievements.
I was left undisturbed until about half-past twelve when the family
returned en masse through the back door. Joyce just managed to stop
the boys in the utility room before they trampled my clean kitchen
floor in their muddy football boots.
I helped Joyce and Lucy prepare the family lunch, Lucy acting as
interpreter. I also helped carry the food into the dining room but by
mutual agreement I ate alone in the kitchen - as befits a servant, I
mused ruefully. Though to be fair the conversation would have been a
little stilted if I'd joined them, I being a stranger and unable -
they thought - to speak English. I picked up a copy of Marie Claire -
either Joyce's or Lucy's, I assumed - intending to read it as I ate.
Just in time I realised I could only look at the pictures as Maria
couldn't read the articles.
After lunch, while I was clearing up and loading the dishwasher yet
again, Joyce inspected the kitchen. She was clearly delighted. She
could only tell me so in English of course, which I had to pretend not
to understand, but her smiles and 'thumbs up' signs were enough for me
to show that I realised she was pleased. I smiled; muttered 'Gracias,
Se?ora'; and even bobbed a sort of half-curtsey. Joyce seemed
especially happy with that.
So far I hadn't had much to do with the master of the house but at
about half-past one, while I was hand washing the china and glassware
that Joyce didn't want to risk in the dishwasher, Peter came by and
tried to engage me in conversation.
Lucy had told me that his Spanish was pretty much limited to "Una
cerveza, por favor," but he had clearly spent a little time with an
English-Spanish dictionary, or maybe Google Translate. As he spoke,
he kept glancing down to a scrap of paper in his hand. His accent was
atrocious but I got the gist.
"Gracias por todo tu arduo trabajo, Maria," he began. "Has hecho un
excelente trabajo!"
Well I was glad he appreciated that I had been working hard all week
and that I had done a good job.
"Muchas gracias, se?or," I said softly, hoping this conversation
wouldn't go on for long. My hopes were quickly dashed.
"?Por qu? una chica tan guapa como t? trabaja como limpiadora?" he
went on.
Well for the money of course! Why did he think 'a beautiful girl like
me' was working as a cleaner?
Wait - beautiful girl? Me? Is he kidding? Oh God, is he trying to
chat me up? Another high-flying banker, who thinks he's God's gift!
Mind you, Sally and I were - had been - high-flying bankers...
Before I could answer, I heard Lucy's voice from the doorway.
"Leave the poor girl alone, Dad, for heaven's sake!" she said,
angrily. "We want her to come back next week!"
Peter had the grace to blush and left hurriedly, calling, "Come on,
boys! Time to go - before the pool gets too crowded."
Lucy turned to me apologetically, saying in her halting Spanish,
"Sorry about that, Maria. He didn't mean any harm. He's just...
being a man, you know?"
This little girl was old beyond her years. I assured her that I
understood, and that no harm was done, and that I wouldn't say
anything to her mother. Well how could I? We didn't speak each
other's languages. I returned to tidying up.
= = =
When everyone had gone off to their various afternoon activities, I
moved on to the utility room, where I had to clean around the washing
machine, tumble-dryer and freezer. I couldn't move any of them, of
course, so it was mostly dusting, removing cobwebs and scrubbing the
floor clean of muddy bootprints and more. There was a shower in the
utility room too, much used, and that clearly hadn't had a really good
clean in a long time. It took a lot of Joyce's scouring powder and my
elbow grease but it eventually came up gleaming white.
It was now after half-past three. I would just have time to do the
downstairs bathroom. That would leave dusting and vacuuming the rest
of the downstairs for Sunday.
At about half-past four, I stopped and stretched. I was aching all
over, but maybe I didn't feel as sore as I had on the first couple of
days? Perhaps I was adjusting to being forty pounds fatter?
I checked my thin ladies' watch, tight around my thick male wrist,
hopefully concealed by the frilly sleeve of my top. I stopped for the
day and took off my headscarf, which was getting sweaty and
uncomfortable. I took out my hair grips and my long black locks fell
around my shoulders and down my back. I took a scrunchie from the
pocket of my smock and gathered them into a ponytail.
I was putting my cleaning materials away and getting ready to leave
when Joyce came back with the girls. They had all been to the
hairdresser. I told Lucy in Spanish how beautiful they all looked and
she passed it on to her mother and sister. Claire, the younger
sister, said she thought my hair looked lovely too. I tried to look
blank until Lucy translated.
"Muchas, gracias, peque?a se?orita," I said, smiling.
At that moment the doorbell rang. Sally was there to collect me.
After greetings were exchanged, and Joyce sang my praises for the
wonderful job I was doing - I tried not to look embarrassed as
theoretically I didn't understand her - I told Sally in Spanish what
was left to do for Sunday. She passed that on to Joyce, and we left,
promising to return at half-past nine in the morning.
"We really must do something about Maria learning English," she said
in the car on the way home. "Your girl voice is quite convincing
enough, and it's not realistic that you should be over here for months
and not pick up any of the language. As Mrs Willoughby said, most
European girls come to England to improve their English."
She was right. Besides it was only a matter of time before I gave
myself away.
"I'm not going to evening classes," I said. "We can't afford to waste
the money."
"I'll drop in at the library during my lunch hour on Monday," she
said, "and pick up some books. At least that will give you an idea of
how a foreigner goes about learning English; what rate of progress is
reasonable; and so on."
= = =
When we got home I saw that Sally had made an effort. The fridge and
kitchen cupboards had been replenished and the surfaces in every room
were tidy. I thanked her and suggested perhaps we might go out for a
meal - at a reasonably priced restaurant, of course. Having been
working hard all week neither of us felt like cooking. So Saturday
night became date night, except that Sally was going out with her
live-in cleaning lady, rather than her husband.
I raided Carol's wardrobe again for a nice dress and chose a lacy, off
the shoulder, black and white number, with a black silk belt. It fell
to just above the knee.
"I don't remember seeing your mother wearing this," I said. "Do you
think it's too short?"
"It looks great on you," Sally said. "Of course it would be longer on
Mum, as she's shorter than you are."
"What about the shoulders? Do you think I should be covering up
more?"
"It's fine. Your boobs are easily big enough and that chin and neck
prosthesis covers up everything there that might be a giveaway. But
it would be a good idea to wear a shawl. It's cool out tonight."
This was the first time we had gone out together in the evening, so
remembering Vera's instructions, I shaved again. There was some
visible five o'clock shadow but it was nothing like as bad as I would
have expected, so the anti-androgen cream was obviously working. I
hadn't noticed any diminution of libido, but Sally had been so
passionate on those nights when we had had the energy to remove my
false butt, that lack of sex drive on my part was hardly a problem.
Nor was getting and maintaining an erection.
Sally helped me put my hair in an updo and lent me some earrings.
Then she supervised my efforts at doing an evening makeup. I had
qualms about all this getting dolled up, but she firmly squashed them.
"You're a young woman now, Maria," she said. Noticing my wince, she
quickly continued, "If you don't make the best of yourself, you'll
only attract attention for the wrong reasons."
I sighed and picked up a blush brush.
We decided to return to the distant restaurant we had gone to when I
was practising being Fifi, as there was little chance of seeing anyone
we knew. We did attract a certain amount of attention but Sally
assured me they were admiring glances. Anyway, no one bothered us.
It may have been that we were conversing entirely in Spanish; or that
Sally was giving the evil eye to any wandering male who came too close
to us.
We had a great meal, and reminisced about the changes we had been
through since our previous visit.
"You don't look like my mother anymore, Maria," she said, "with your
dark Hispanic looks, but I still can't stop thinking about what's
lurking under your dress."
I looked around hurriedly to make sure no one had overheard that last
erotic remark.
"Look, Sal," I said, "are you sure you're OK with this... whole...
Maria thing?"
"I'm fine with it - really. I can see why you might have your doubts,
but I promise you I love it. And I think you're very brave to go
through with it all. I don't know what else I can do to convince you
- apart for what I've got in mind for when we get home..."
= = =
What she had in mind for Saturday night nearly made us late on Sunday
morning, but everything went well enough. The Woodford family kept
out of the downstairs rooms. It was mostly just dusting and
vacuuming, lighter work than I'd had up to then, and I finished around
lunchtime. I called Sally to come and pick me up. When she arrived
she and Joyce discussed our final invoice and Joyce insisted on adding
another fifty pounds because she was so pleased with the job I had
done.
"I hardly recognise the place," she gushed.
She also asked if I would be able to come regularly, suggesting that
three hours every two weeks might be enough. Sally readily agreed, of
course.
"You've obviously missed your vocation, babe," Sally said in the car
on the way home. "You're a born cleaning lady."
Music to my ears, I don't think!
Grace
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