Claire was her best friend. She shopped with Claire, drank cocktails, caught up over coffee, moaned about boyfriends. Claire was her only friend. And then she wasn’t. She knew this when Claire stopped answering her texts until the time she invited Claire to her birthday and read the reply
“Your birthday? Certainly not!”
She knew although Claire would not tell her. She knew that she had destroyed the only friendship she had. She remembered Claire’s words. from a couple of years earlier.
“I am hard. I give few fucks for people who are disloyal”
She tried to hate Claire. Tried hard. But she could not. She loved Claire. She was doomed to adore her. She decided she would show Claire how much. She would serve Claire. She would abase herself before her.
The idea came to her the day she passed a workwear shop in town. She saw the maid dress in the window, went in, took one off the hanger, stroked the cotton, thought of Claire.
“Can I help you Madam?”
“Er no it’s OK”
She left the shop in a hurry feeling herself going red as if everyone could read her thoughts.
The next day she went back and bought the dress. She hung it on a hanger on the wardrobe door. She laid out her cleaning materials and rubber gloves on the dressing table. She lay on the bed and masturbated, not to Claire, but to the hours of chores, the washing up, the brushing of the toilet, the shoes to polish. She would work until she was exhausted, until her hands hurt, until her skin was calloused, until she collapsed into a heap at Claire’s feet, begging forgiveness, having shown that she cared, that she was truly sorry.
When she woke, it was light. She was still in bras and panties, still wearing her make up. She couldn’t remember coming though she must have done, She had slept so soundly. She looked around, saw the dress, the enticing pink marigolds, and remembered. She stood up, took a glove, put it on, frigged herself, frigged herself hard, rubbing the palm of the glove, with its grip, hard, hard against her clit. She wanted it to hurt, she had to start today suffering. Today was to be her day. Of catharsis.
“I so want to hate you Claire,” she kept saying. “But I can’t. I am doomed to worship you even as you despise me.”
She dressed quickly in the maid dress, dabbed on a powder foundation, grabbed the cleaning tray and left.
Ten minutes later she was at Claire’s door. The door opened. Before Claire could find words she had bowed her head and curtsied,
“Good morning Ma’am. I want to be your skivvy.”
A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here for more wickedness