This is a continuation of the Allerednic story "Transformation of 
a Middle-Class Woman," by Conchita, which was translated from the 
French by The Nerdly and then edited by me.  I have not attempted 
to copy the style of that story -- which, in any case, was an 
amalgam of styles -- but I hope that the differences may be 
ignored.  I have, on the other hand, tried to impart a certain 
Gallic flavor by sprinkling in a few French phrases here and 
there.  (They're fairly simple, but, if you're puzzled by any 
of them, there's a glossary of terms just below.  You may wish 
to skip over it initially, but come back to it if you encounter 
something that you don't know and can't intuit.)  I am also not 
nearly so preoccupied as Conchita seems to have been with 
Frenchwomen's clothing of a quarter century ago...and have 
substituted a rather more overt sexual content.


GLOSSARY

61 kilos: about 134 lbs.
168 cm: about 5'6"
Allerednic: "Cinderella" reversed (a term The Nerdly told me about)
Bon: "good"
Café-au-lait: "coffee with milk"
Carte d'identité: official "ID card"
Chatte: "cunt"
Chérie: "dear"
Coq au vin: chicken in wine sauce
Excusez-moi: "excuse me"
Femme facile: slut (literally "easy woman")
First Empire: Empire of Napoleon I (1804-14, 1815)
Haricots verts: "green beans"
Hein (an interrogative): "eh"
La Maison du Tatouage: "The House of Tattoos"
M: "Mr." 
Mlle: "Miss"   
Mme: "Mrs."
M'sieu (a contraction of "monsieur"): "sir"
Ma petite: "my little one"
Merci: "thank you"
Merde: "shit"
Mon Dieu: "my God"
Nettoyage: "cleaning"
OAS: "Organisation de l'Armée Secrète," a group, 1961-63, 
    violently opposed to granting independence to Algeria
Petits pois: "green peas"
Sapristi: an interjection comparable to the Spanish "¡Caramba!"
Second Empire: Empire of Napoleon III (1852-71) 
Tout de suite: "right away"
Vin ordinaire: inexpensive, non-vintage wine





            TRANSFORMATION OF A MIDDLE-CLASS WOMAN 

                            by 

                        C. Lakewood

                          Part 4 


Episode 11


I quickly prepared Odette's tea and served it, along with a plate 
of little cakes and croissants.  Then I stood by, in case either 
woman should require anything else.

Mme. Monique was regarding my appearance with a scowl.  I thought 
she should be pleased with my dowdy, working-class look, but she 
didn't seem to be.  

"What did I tell you to wear, Maria?"

"A-a pink nylon smock, a white apron, and a maid's cap, madam."

"And what ARE you wearing?"

"A pink nylon smock, a white apron, and a maid's cap, madam."

She sighed heavily.  "Yes.  And what else?"

"Oh...well....  J-just...beige knickers and pantyhose...and 
slippers."

"So!  You will remove everything except the cap...right NOW.  
I swear I will teach you obedience, girl."

Trembling, I stripped to the skin and then stood cowering in front 
of them.  They made me stand up straight, with my arms up.  Monique 
(or rather "Mme. Monique") had already seen me naked, of course, 
but it was a novel experience for Odette, who looked me over very 
closely.  I blushed.

"Nipples very erect," she sniffed.  "And she's wet.  I wouldn't 
have guessed it; she always seemed such a cold fish.  But she 
seems to be flourishing in her new position.  Her hair's in the 
wrong places, though, for a woman of her sort.  That untidy 
shrubbery between her legs'll just collect filth and be a breeding 
ground for disease.  I can fetch what I need from the house and 
have that off her, tout de suite."

Monique smiled.  "I'm sure Maria will be properly grateful." 

While Odette was getting her materials, Monique -- Madame Monique, 
that is -- caressed my ticklish arm-pits.

"She's right, you know.  These are much too chic for your sort.  
Well, we must wait for time to correct your appearance here....  
What color is it when it grows out?"

"A-about the same as my pubes, madam."

"Then we'll have to dye it, too, in the end.  But I don't suppose 
you'll mind visiting Conchita again, hein?"  

I shivered; more of Marie Bénédicte was being erased.  But Mme. 
Monique was right about my wanting to see Conchita again....      

But she was still talking.

"After you are properly shaved, you will continue your cleaning 
chores until the food arrives from the caterer.  You will then 
see to that.  And you will remain dressed as you are until I give 
you permission to do otherwise.  Understand?"

"But...but...yes, madam."

"But?  But it excites you for others to see you this way -- naked 
and servile?  In fact, you're in heat right now, aren't you?"

"Yes, madam."

"'Yes, madam' what?"

"Yes, madam, I-I am in heat...."

"Bon!  You will be in heat very often, I think."  She gave me a 
cool, but somehow mischievous look.  "The four for dinner will 
be me, Odette, her sister, and Mme. Mouton from down the street."

I blanched.  Odette was a proletarian bitch and Odile a 
26-year-old apprentice bitch, while Gervaise Mouton was 
a pretentious, bourgeois bitch.

Madame then sent me scurrying off for a basin of hot water, a 
bar of soap, and a towel.  By the time I had fetched those items, 
Odette had returned and was laying out her things on my -- Mme. 
Monique's -- carved Moroccan coffee table...shaving soap, a mug, 
a leather strop, and a cut-throat razor.

Odette was very efficient...and she clearly enjoyed the job.  
She washed my crotch with care (fingering me shamelessly in the 
process) and lathered me thoroughly (with more manipulation).  
Then she flourished the razor, warned me to stay still, and 
whisked away every vestige of my pubic hair.  She removed even 
the few hairs that grew between my buttocks.  When she rinsed 
off the last traces of lather, I was as smooth as I'd been as 
a child.

But she wasn't finished.  She spread some sort of foul-smelling, 
greenish-brown paste thickly over the shaved area.  It soon began 
to tingle...and then to itch like sin....  But I had to wait 20 
minutes while whatever it was worked on me.  The two women sat 
and finished their tea and watched me writhe. 

At length, I was allowed to dash outside, to the gravelled area in 
back of the house where we often parked.  Odette then proceeded to 
turn a garden hose on me, and, though the flints hurt my bare feet, 
I had to prance around in the icy spray until my crotch had been 
washed clean, front and rear.

It still itched, though.

"Well, express your gratitude to Mme. Renard for all the trouble 
she has taken, Maria,"  Mme. Monique purred.

I was cold and wet and at a loss for words.  I hesitated; I was 
shivering, humiliated, my poor hairless crotch inflamed and 
itching like mad....  But suddenly I knew what I should do.

I fell to my knees, slipped off one of Odette's espadrilles, and 
kissed her grubby foot.  "Merci, madame," I murmured.  I loathed 
the woman, but it felt proper that I should do this.  But now I 
desperately tried to think of an excuse for going off by myself, 
so that I could attend to m-my...my "chatte"....

"The other foot, too, girl," Odette ordered.  And I obeyed, so 
eagerly that they both laughed.  Mon Dieu!  I was not only a drab, 
but something else, now, too.  I trembled...and not from the cold.  

"And speak more distinctly," Odette added.  With that irritating, 
la-di-da accent, you may as well be saying 'Merde-ci'!"

I looked up, with a contrite expression on my face.  "Excusez-moi, 
madame."

"Dry yourself, girl," Mme. Monique said, tossing me a coarse towel. 
"You may wear your cap and apron, but nothing else until you leave 
for work in the morning.  Also, from now on, I don't want you using 
the shower in your room.  You will wash under the garden hose, 
supervised by Mme. Renard or her husband.  Now get along and finish 
your cleaning."

I scrambled to my feet and curtseyed awkwardly.  "Yes, madam."

		******************************          
     
Episode 12


The caterer's van arrived in good time.  While accepting the 
order, I tried to hide myself within my apron...unsuccessfully.  
The deliveryman was a burly Corsican named Cézar, who flirted 
with me shamelessly and would not go away until I agreed to 
meet him the following evening for drinks.

Fortunately, the dinner was not terribly elaborate and the 
caterer's written instructions were both simple and thorough, 
so finishing it up was relatively easy...even for me, who was 
quite unaccustomed to cooking.  

When I served the apéritifs, dressed only in cap and apron, Mme. 
Monique seemed tranquil and aristocratic, Odette looked smug, 
Odile only partially repressed a giggle, and Mme. Mouton covered 
her surprise with a sneer.

Odile, six years younger than her sister, affected the garb of a 
bohemian of twenty-odd years ago.  It was a total sham, of course.  
She was virtually tone-deaf, barely literate, and didn't know one 
end of a paint brush from the other.  We had not associated much, 
but she demonstrated that she had very much entered into the spirit 
of the occasion by ostentatiously presenting Mme. Monique with a 
coupon for 20% off at "La Maison du Tatouage."  Even the peevish 
Mme. Mouton was amused as Mme. Monique described the tattoo she 
had in mind for me.

The dinner itself went off well: lobster bisque, salade Niçoise, 
coq au vin, petits pois, haricots verts, appropriate wines, 
strawberry tart, and coffee.  As I moved around the table, 
serving and removing plates, Mlle. Odile in particular took 
pains to touch me in passing...intimately.  The touching and 
the looks I was being given by the four at the table (a gauntlet 
I ran with each course), in addition to my own lustful, twisted 
thoughts, had me on edge all evening.  By the end of the meal, 
I was red-faced, certain everyone could smell my arousal.

When they had at last retired to the lounge, I was allowed to 
eat what was left over.  It was tepid, but still somewhat  
tasty...and certainly filling.  My primary problem, however, 
was that Mme. Monique had some perverted etiquette manual in 
Italian -- ITALIAN! -- that recommended that maids remain 
standing while eating.  And, of course, she insisted that I 
conform.

As I was washing up, Mme. Monique came up behind me and caressed 
my naked derrière.  I rubbed myself against her hand.  Her fingers 
wriggled between my legs and deep into my wetness.

"Merci, madame...."

She laughed.  "Oh, I know you're in heat, chérie, but there'll be 
no play-time for you this evening, I'm afraid.  You must get up at 
2:00 in the morning, so that you can get to the town square by 3:00 
and catch the janitorial services van, which will take you to the 
terminal.  But don't worry.  For the rest of us that will be the 
shank of the evening, and Odette will wake you in time.  Here's 
your carte d'identité, made out in the name of Maria Menino...Date 
of Birth: 14 July 1942, Height: 168 cm, Weight: 61 kilos, Hair: 
black, Eyes: green, Nationality: Portuguese, Status: resident 
alien, Occupation: servant....  Carry it with you; it IS official.  
Wear your new pink-striped dress tomorrow.  I'll see you when you 
return.  Now, off to bed!"  And she gave me a stinging slap on my 
bottom.

My room was stuffy, and the bed was lumpy, but I lay down 
exhausted, caressed myself only briefly, and was soon fast 
asleep.

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

Episode 13


I slept like the dead until Mme. Renard and her sister roughly 
shook me awake...their drunken laughter in my ears and their 
inquisitive fingers all over my naked body.

Having turned me out of bed, they tossed me my clothes and watched 
me huddle into the coarse bloomers, thick black stockings, cheap 
plastic sandals, and, of course, that atrocious pink-striped dress. 

In a pocket of the dress, I found a sketch-map of the terminal and 
my carte d'identité.  I stared at the latter a moment, shivering.  
So the chic and well-to-do Mme. Marie Bénédicte L'E_____, from an 
old and distinguished French family, had indeed officially become 
plain Maria Menino, impoverished Portuguese immigrant laborer....  
For a whole year!  At least, Mme. Monique Lionne PROMISED to resume 
being Monica Leoa and let me have my nice life back.  She DID 
promise....

Odile handed me a brown paper sack.  "Breakfast," she said.  
"Bread, cheese, sausage, and a litre of vin ordinaire.  Eat 
it while you wait for the van."

And so I scurried out into the darkness and down the street 
toward the town square.

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

I was still bone-tired as I chewed my coarse meal, hunched over in 
the town square amongst the several others who waited for the van.  
I remembered the sort of breakfasts I had enjoyed in the past -- 
after a good night's sleep on a feather bed -- lovely soft-boiled 
eggs, crisp bacon, warm croissants and Danish butter, lush fruits, 
perfect café-au-lait...Sèvres porcelain and First Empire silver 
and thick, soft linen, monogrammed white-on-white.

My crotch still itched.

The van arrived on schedule, and we all boarded.  It was crowded 
and stank of sweat and garlic.  There were no seats; we sat on 
burlap bags filled with coir.  It was a long, hot ride, but I was 
able to wriggle about and rub my thighs together, under the 
pretense of trying to get comfortable.  So the trip was not 
without its compensations.  I had to stifle a moan FOUR times 
during the trip.  I was congratulating myself on my cleverness, 
when, as we descended at the South Terminal, one of the men winked 
at me.  He knew!  I managed an embarrassed smile.

He swaggered up to me.  He was swarthy and pock-marked.  "I'm 
called Jules.  Sit with me on the return trip, ma petite, and 
I'll make sure that you are more 'comfortable,' hein?"

I nodded, shyly, and hurried off to the women's locker room, 
following the sketch-map.  I wondered what had happened to me, 
in less than 24 hours.  Before, I'd had sex with my husband every 
month or two, with my lover once or twice a week, and very 
occasionally with my tennis instructor.  And, even when I was 
doing it, I frequently wasn't thinking about it, but rather about 
a bridge hand that I'd played very well or very badly (thank God 
there were many more of the former than of the latter) or my next 
beautician's appointment, tennis lesson, shopping trip, or lunch 
date.  Now, however, I seemed to be continually aroused and 
continually giving in to these desires.  It was as if my interests 
had narrowed down to purely carnal pleasures: eating, drinking, 
sex....

And I knew that I would sit with Jules on the return trip.  God 
help me! 

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

Ginette, madam's friend, turned out to be short and rather stout, 
with a scowl and red, frizzy hair (obviously dyed).  She let me 
into what was now MY locker, where I found only a shabby grey 
smock with "NETTOYAGE" across the back in faded red block letters.  
She insisted that I strip off my dress and underpants and go to 
work wearing just the smock, stockings, and sandals. 

I remembered sauntering through airports, elegantly dressed and 
followed by a porter with my equally stylish luggage.  I was often 
both amused and disgusted by the bustle, the babel, the stench.  
Now I, plodding along in my drab smock with my cleaning bucket, 
was part of the clamor and the smell.   

I spent the next two hours scrubbing the floor around the check-in 
counters of Air Algerié, Turkish Airlines, Egypt Air, and Air 
Maroc.  Ginette did a lot of overseeing and very little work.  
The general run of passengers for those lines seemed to me very 
unsavory.  (Twenty years ago, my father had very much admired the 
OAS, but I thought it better not to say so in that neighborhood.)

Since I was naked under my smock, I'm sure that my position, on 
hands and knees, gave all that scruffy Islamic trash a wonderful 
view of my intimate areas.  The work was hard, but my exposure 
kept me aroused, and my fantasies served to distract me from my 
fatigue.  I would choose one of the passengers hanging about and 
imagine him (or her!) ravishing me...right out in public...for 
the entertainment of passersby.

I'd been at this task for some time when two familiar voices cut 
through my reverie...the compelling baritone of Phillipe Garnier 
(the town notary and my erstwhile lover) and the appalling nasal 
drawl of young Sofie Moreau (once a rival and now, I suppose, my 
successor).  They were passing behind me, chattering about their 
impending holiday in Morocco.  I crouched lower.  Mon Dieu!  If 
they should recognize me, I would die.

Their footsteps paused directly in back of me.

"How vulgar!  Displaying her naked ass in public.  Foreign 
riff-raff, I imagine.  No pubic hair...probably a part-time 
whore, too."  Sophie's sneer gave me a chill, and I wondered 
if my ass were blushing.
      
Phillipe's voice sounded thoughtful.  "Mmmmm....  Except for that 
lack of hair, it seems familiar....  Ah, yes.  It rather reminds 
me of...a former interest...."

"Marie Bénédicte?  That prune?  I wish it WERE her.  I'd put my 
toe....  Oh, well....  She was then, and this is now.  You'll 
have a much prettier (and cleaner) derrière to admire, mon cher."

And they went on their way, laughing.  I, on the other hand, shed 
a few tears.

The incident did make me very wet, though.    
 
		****************************** 

At 6:00, I was introduced to my Algerian supervisor, M. Hassan 
Sayid, who took me into his office for an "interview."  I was on 
my knees for half an hour, but I wasn't scrubbing floors.  I was, 
as they say, "polishing his knob"...three times.  I hated doing 
it, for he was such a swine, but I guess it was my place.  

Afterward, he pronounced himself satisfied with my work.  

An hour of cleaning toilets then was succeeded by half an hour 
with two Turkish clerks.  They were younger than M. Sayid and 
tasted better, but they were just as self-absorbed.  By the time 
I finished, it was too late to find Ginette and to change my 
clothes; I had to hurry to catch the company van.  So I just 
continued wearing my grey smock and stayed naked underneath.

Jules didn't seem to mind.

		******************************
      
Episode 14


The van was even fouler on the return trip.  But I don't suppose I 
was exactly sweet-smelling, either.  All in all, it was much more 
pleasant than the ride out to Orly had been.  Unlike M. Sayid and 
the Turks, Jules seemed almost as concerned with my satisfaction 
as he was with his own.  We sat in the back of the van, kissing 
and cuddling and playing with each other.  He was very manly, and 
I was tempted to go further, especially after I realized that none 
of my fellow workers much cared what we did.  Still, it WAS broad 
daylight.  Perhaps next time, on the trip out, when it was dark.... 
Bourgeoise Marie Bénédicte would have been mortified at the very 
thought, of course, but Maria, the Portuguese femme facile, simply 
licked her lips and shrugged. 

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

It wasn't until the van had dropped me off and I'd begun the walk 
home that my good spirits evaporated, my self-consciousness crept 
back, and I started to feel both very tired and very ashamed of 
how I'd been behaving.  It was almost as if I had two personas.  
When I was with people who had never known Marie Bénédicte, I 
could function as Maria with some ease...but, back in familiar 
surroundings, or around people who had been part of my old life, 
my shame became a torment.

I turned into my pleasant, linden-lined street...trudged past the 
pretentious, faux Second Empire home of Mme. Mouton...prayed 
desperately that I'd encounter no one who had known me before...and 
finally reached my house -- my former house -- and circled round 
it.  I sighed as I approached the back entrance (for the use of 
tradesmen and servants).

Sapristi!  I spat when I remembered that I had to go ask that 
cursed Odette to hose me down.

Rather timidly, I knocked on the cottage door, my former 
insouciance completely spent.  At length, it was answered, 
not by Mme. Odette, but by her husband, Claude.  Only slightly 
taller than I, he was at least 25 kilos heavier.  He was paunchy, 
balding, and seemed always to have a week's stubble on his face.  
Notwithstanding, he'd always been a pleasant person and suitably 
respectful towards me.  

"I suppose you want a shower."  He sniffed me and belched.  
"You certainly could use one.  Strip down, girl, tout de 
suite.  Odette's out somewhere, so I'll handle the hose."

I was both angry and humiliated by this reception.  I mean, he WAS 
right, but he might have been gentler about it.  What happened to 
the modest, deferential man I had always known?  Vanished along 
with the chic Marie Bénédicte, I suppose.

I stripped, blushing hotly, my timidity at appearing naked before 
Claude considerably greater than if I were showing myself to 
Jules...or Cézar...or to any of the men I had serviced at the 
airport.

Claude took my meager clothing and disappeared back into the 
cottage, re-emerging a moment later with a large jar of that 
awful hair-growth inhibitor paste.

"Oh, please, no more of that.  It makes me itch so!  Please!  I-I 
could be very nice to you, if...."

"Bah!  You'll be 'very nice' to me, regardless.  Won't you, my 
girl?"

"Y-yes, sir.  But...."

"Now spread 'em.  A few more of these treatments and you should 
be permanently hairless."  He beamed.  "Hairless....  That'll 
be nice, won't it?"

"Yes, sir," I said, miserably, spreading my legs.  He proceeded 
to massage a great glob of the stinking paste well into my crotch, 
fore and aft.  Then he lounged on the porch, affably watching me 
hop about in a useless attempt to extinguish the terrible itch 
that possessed me.  After that, I had to "be very nice" to him 
until it was time for me to be rinsed off.

I capered about in the garden hose's frigid jet for a long time.  
It certainly entertained M. Claude, and it washed away all the 
paste and much of the sweat and grime my body had accumulated, 
but it reduced my stink only slightly.

When he turned off the water at last, he leered at me.  "You're too 
pale.  Let the sun dry your skin and put a little color into it at 
the same time.  Madam should be back in an hour or so...."  He 
chuckled.  "Take it easy...while you can."