The Uniform That Turned Her into a Submissive Maid

Don Aníbal was a worldly man, one of those who knew wine, watches, and deals sealed with a handshake. But his world did not include the small, domestic nuances of work clothes. His new employee, a young woman named Lucía, was starting the next day, and he wanted to receive her with a decent uniform, something that made it clear from the outset who was in charge in that house.

At a loss among catalogs and fabric names he did not understand, he decided to ask for help. And for that there was no one better than his neighbor, Beatriz, a high-class woman with impeccable taste, a natural elegance that had always intimidated him a little. He had watched her for years from the other side of the hedge: her neck held high, her perfect dresses, that way of looking at people as if weighing their worth.

—Beatriz, forgive the bother —he said on the porch, with his best serious-man smile—. You understand these things better than anyone. I need to buy an apron for the new girl and I don’t want to make a fool of myself. Would you come with me to the shop downtown?

Beatriz, always willing to play her role as adviser and lady of the neighborhood, agreed with a faintly condescending smile.

—Of course, Aníbal. It’s very considerate of you to care about how your staff dress. I’ll guide you, don’t worry.

Poor man, she thought as she got into the car. He hasn’t the slightest idea. She liked that feeling of superiority, of being needed, of bringing order to other people’s clumsy world.

The shop was on a narrow street downtown, an intimate little place that smelled of talcum powder and freshly pressed fabric. Dark wooden shelves reached to the ceiling, loaded with boxes and clothes folded with military precision. A young salesman, soft-spoken and gentle-mannered, came over as soon as the door chime stopped ringing.

—Good afternoon. How can I help you?

Beatriz opened her mouth to take the reins of the conversation, as she always did. But Don Aníbal beat her to it. With a casual, devastating gesture, he indicated her with his chin.

—I’m looking for an apron. For the maid.

The air froze. Beatriz felt the blood rush to her cheeks all at once. Had she heard him wrong? She looked at Don Aníbal, certain he would correct himself, laugh off the misunderstanding, clarify that the woman beside him was a respectable neighbor. But he did not look at her. He ignored her completely, as if she were a stranger brought in for a fitting, a mannequin with legs.

And there was the trap. Out of politeness, out of sheer panic at making a scene in a public place, out of that absurd reflex not to seem hysterical, Beatriz swallowed the insult and stayed still. A rigid, painted smile fixed itself to her face.

The salesman did not flinch. He nodded professionally, as if dressing humiliated ladies were part of his everyday bread and butter.

—Of course, sir. I have several models. Allow me.

He disappeared for a moment among the shelves and came back with the first: a blue cotton apron, classic and functional, the sort any housewife would use without a second thought.

Don Aníbal barely looked at it and shook his head.

—No, no. That’s for a granny. I want something more feminine. Something that shows.

The salesman returned with a white satin one, with a small ruffle at the hem and a bow at the waist. Don Aníbal studied it and then let his gaze wander over Beatriz, from head to toe, with a slowness that made her feel naked beneath her expensive dress.

—It’s still too big —he said—. I don’t want it covering half her body. I want it to be obvious she’s a maid, yes, but one worth having in the house. Do you understand me?

—Perfectly, sir —murmured the salesman.

Beatriz felt a knot rising in her throat. This isn’t happening. I have to leave. I have to say something, anything. But the words got stuck, and the silence she left behind weighed like acceptance.

***

The salesman took the comment as an order and brought the next model. This time it was not a work apron: it was a black satin garment, very short, barely reaching the hips, with very thin straps over the shoulders and a neckline so deep it left almost everything exposed. More an insinuation than clothing.

—Try this on —ordered Don Aníbal, addressing her at last, in the tone he would use with anyone in the service.

Beatriz wanted to protest. She felt the refusal forming in her chest, the indignation of the offended lady. But between the firmness of his order and the expectant, almost kind look of the salesman, something in her froze. It was as if she had stepped into a script she did not know how to leave without breaking.

She went into the fitting room. The cubicle was narrow, with a mirror that reflected her whole body. She took off her dress with clumsy fingers and put on that ridiculous, provocative piece. The cold satin clung to her skin. When she looked at herself, she did not recognize the woman in the mirror: breasts threatening to spill out at the sides, long legs bare, her face flushed. She felt obscene. And, to her horror, she also felt a strange, shameful heat in her belly.

She came out because not coming out would have been worse. She walked the few steps to the middle of the shop with her arms almost crossed over her body, and forced them down.

Don Aníbal examined her with an approval that chilled her to the bone.

—Much better —he said, nodding slowly—. Now she really looks like a maid. —He paused, as if checking off a purchase—. But she needs gloves. Yellow rubber gloves. So it’s clear what she’s for.

The salesman handed them to her immediately, as if he had had them ready. Beatriz put them on. The shrill yellow against her pale skin, against the black satin, against her perfect nails, finished transforming her. She was no longer Beatriz, the elegant lady of the neighborhood. She was an object. A mannequin for the fantasies of a man who did not even look her in the eye.

—You know —said the salesman then, joining in the game with a chilling naturalness—, if the gentleman wants to make sure the uniform is comfortable for work, we have a display kitchen in the back room. The young lady could try washing a few dishes. To verify the garment doesn’t get in the way.

The suggestion was grotesque, absurd, impossible. Beatriz expected Don Aníbal to reject it with a laugh. Instead, he nodded enthusiastically, like a child being offered an extra candy.

—Excellent idea —he said—. Come on, girl. Let’s break in your uniform.

***

The back room was a tiny display kitchen: a sink, a shelf, a few cheap porcelain plates stacked up. The light was yellowish and the air thick. They ordered her to wash. Beatriz, in the indecent apron and ridiculous gloves, leaned over the sink and turned on the tap.

The water ran warm over her gloved hands. She scrubbed one plate, then another, with mechanical movements, trying to focus on the task so she wouldn’t think about the two gazes she could feel fixed on her back, sliding down the curve of her waist, stopping on her bare thighs. The bent posture exposed everything the garment did not cover. She knew it. So did they.

Then she felt a hand.

It was Don Aníbal. He had moved up silently and was running his open palm along her back, slowly, down to rest on one of her buttocks. He gave her a dry slap that echoed in the small kitchen.

—That’s how you work —he said, with terrible calm—. Ass up and mouth shut.

Beatriz bit her lip. She should have turned around, slapped his face, shouted. Instead, a shiver ran down her spine and she let out a sound that was not refusal. What’s happening to me? Why can’t I move?

From the other side came the salesman. He approached with the same softness as his voice and stroked one of her breasts, the one pressing out of the satin, pinching the hardened nipple just enough through the fabric.

—What a good maid —he whispered—. Look at her. So obedient. So submissive.

They surrounded her. Four hands exploring her while she kept holding a plate under the water, trapped in a nightmare where humiliation and arousal braided together until they were indistinguishable. Her protests drowned before reaching her throat, turning into gasps that embarrassed her more than any word could have.

She turned off the tap. There was no point in pretending to wash anymore.

Don Aníbal stood in front of her. He unbuckled his belt without hurry, lowered the zipper, and pulled out his cock, already hard, pointing it at her face.

—Enough with the dishes —he said—. Time to do some real work.

He grabbed her by the hair, not violently but without giving her a choice, and guided her downward. Beatriz, eyes shining with tears that never quite fell, knelt on the cold kitchen floor. She opened her mouth. She took him in. And as she did, as the elegant lady of the neighborhood sucked off her neighbor in the back room of a shop, she felt something inside her break and, at the same time, set free.

The salesman did not waste time. He positioned himself behind her, pulled the satin aside, and drove into her from behind in a thrust that tore a rough moan from her, vibrating against Don Aníbal’s cock. The double assault left her breathless, suspended between two men who used her like the object they had turned her into.

—That’s it —panted the salesman, holding her by the hips—. That’s what the uniform is for.

They fucked her between them, taking turns, swapping places, speaking to her with a calculated contempt that, to her own shame, only turned her on more. Every insult was a hand pushing her deeper into that role. Every order, a weight she strangely felt relieved to obey. The refined lady, the one who measured others with her gaze, had disappeared. In her place was a woman kneeling in a display kitchen, wearing yellow gloves and black satin, taking both men at once.

When they finished, they came over her, marking her, and Beatriz stayed still for a moment on the floor, panting, feeling the satin stuck to her body and her heart pounding against her ribs. She did not know whether she wanted to cry or laugh. The world she had built over years —elegance, control, quiet superiority— had just collapsed in a back room smelling of talcum powder.

***

She got dressed in silence. Don Aníbal paid for the black uniform, the yellow gloves, and the white satin apron, all neatly wrapped by a salesman who thanked them for coming as if nothing had happened. They stepped out into the street. The afternoon was still bright, indifferent.

—Thanks for your help, Beatriz —he said in the car, once again in the same courteous tone as always—. Lucía will be perfect in this.

She looked out the window, her cheeks still burning. She wanted to hate him. She should hate him. And yet, as the car rolled homeward, a dark, newly awakened part of her was already wondering, with a shiver between her legs, what other advice her neighbor would ask her for next time.