Content warnings for this story (click here for guide):
Eleanor cursed under her breath as her knees began to ache. She’d been camped beside the toilet for half an hour, trying in vain to get Tom’s nephew’s ‘artwork’ off the porcelain, but the spray she’d endorsed wasn’t shifting it.
“What IS this crap?” She picked up the bottle and squinted at the ingredients list. It read like a health food shop inventory.
“Fuck, what I’d give for some bleach,” she grumbled, standing up to shake her legs. The jingle of the chain linked to her collar made her flush angrily.
Her eye fell on something in her Pretty Maids kit: a pink kneeling pad.
“Oh, thank God,” she sighed, pulling it out and slipping it beneath her knees.
The intercom rang.
“Elly? Are you ready for me to inspect that toilet?”
Eleanor remembered Tom’s earlier threat, gritted her teeth and answered:
“Not yet, Sir! It’s a little stubborn.”
“Really? Aren’t those sprays working?”
“Not really,” Eleanor admitted.
“Do you want something harsher and less greenwashed?” taunted Tom.
Pause.
“Yes.”
“Yes…?”
“Yes please… Sir.”
“Good girl,” Tom chuckled over the intercom. “Well, as much as I’d love to think of you chained to my toilet and working up a sweat to please me, I have other tasks for you. Bob me a sweet little curtsey (I’ll turn on the camera). If it’s cute enough, I’ll bring you some normal cleaning materials.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes as the camera pinged into life.
“Aww, sulky little Elly,” teased Tom. “I’m waiting.”
Eleanor pinched the sides of her silly little skirt and bobbed a curtsey. The camera beeped and she realised Tom had taken a short video of her.
“Arsehole,” she muttered.
“Beg your pardon?” said Tom.
“I said, thank you,” she scowled.
“Sure you did,” beamed Tom. “But fair’s fair: you looked very dainty doing your little bob for me, so I’ll bring you your things.”
A minute passed, then the door opened and Tom deposited a bucket beside Elly. It was full of bleach, vinegar, cream cleaner and all manner of cheap-but-effective cleaning stuff.
“Thank you… Sir,” said Elly, not meeting his gaze.
“Good girl,” said Tom. “Come on then. Back to it! I want this finished in fifteen minutes, tops, or I’ll add another demerit to your book.”
Eleanor grabbed the bleach and squirted it into the bowl, relieved at how quickly it melted away the evil nephew’s crayon.
Tom chuckled. “I see you found the kneeling pad in your little kit.”
“Uh-huh,” said Eleanor, not looking up from her scrubbing.
“I do like the writing at the back of it,” said Tom. “Just between your feet.”
He closed the door.
Eleanor frowned and twisted back to look at the pad. She winced as she looked at the patch between her heels. In dancing pink font, next to the Pretty Maids logo, it read:
“On My Knees to Please!”
Not for the first time, Eleanor Kennick cursed her past self.
With thirty seconds to go, Eleanor was finished. Tousled and fed up, she got up and pressed the intercom.
“Yes, Elly?”
“I’m done.”
“Ah, so close. But you’re forgetting my instructions about tone. Try again. Looks like you have a few seconds left before you’re written up for punishment.”
Click.
Eleanor punched the intercom, livid. Nobody had ever hung up on her in her life! That was her job!
“Yes, Elly?”
“I’m done, Sir,” grimaced Elly. “Your bathroom is sparkling clean.”
“Better, but I can see you scowling, and even if I didn’t have video, I could hear it in your voice. Not the sweet little maid I asked for. Ten seconds left. I’d better look out the hairbrush for this.”
Click.
Eleanor took a deep, furious breath, closed her eyes and hit the intercom one last time.
“Yes, Elly?”
Eleanor cringed as she found herself smiling vapidly.
“Oh, that’s much nicer!” said Tom. “Do you have something to tell your master, Elly?”
Eleanor’s eye twitched but she forced herself to simper:
“I’m delighted to say I’ve cleaned your bathroom, Sir!”
“Lovely, Elly, and with five seconds to go! Good girl!”
Eleanor’s eye twitched again at the patronising praise.
“And did you enjoy making everything sparkle for your master, Elly? Do you feel proud of yourself for trying so hard to please me?”
Eleanor was disturbed to feel herself getting a little wet at the humiliating comments. What was happening to her?
“Three seconds, Elly…”
“Oh yes!” she gushed in panic. “I love being a good maid for my master, and making everything pretty for him! I love it so much!”
“Good girl!” cooed Tom, mockingly. “Now, give me a little curtsey and we’ll call that a job well done. Then we can unchain you.”
Eleanor quickly bobbed a curtsey, her doll-like smile still plastered across her face.
A little alarm beeped.
“All done, and just in time,” said Tom over the intercom. The familiar click sounded and the door unlocked.
He walked past Eleanor and inspected her work thoroughly. Finally, he nodded.
“Very good work, Elly. You were made to clean toilets!”
Eleanor’s face burned as she pictured her past life of first-class flights, sleek suits, commanding board rooms and raking in bonuses. She could have demanded anything and a minion would have brought it to her in 10 minutes flat.
Right now, all she wanted was to be unchained, so she bit her tongue while Tom applied the key to her collar. He removed the chain, but left on the collar.
“It may well come in handy with a feisty little mid like you,” he chuckled. “Besides, it pleases me to see Eleanor Kennick in a cute collar. There’s something poetic about it, given the way you trapped and controlled your workers. Not sure they’d recognise you now, would they?”
Eleanor blanched at the thought. Seeing herself in the bathroom mirror, she was shocked at the contrast with her chic former look. Her hair was sweaty beneath her frilly cap, and her make-up was overdone and smeared. Her cleavage bulged obscenely out of her top above her cinched waist and flouncy little skirt. Ughhh, she thought. Thank God this was house arrest.
While she was lost in the mirror, Tom flipped up her skirt and patted her frilled bottom, causing her to whip round and just miss slapping his hand away.
“Ah, that doesn’t get old,” he said. “I’ll have to be careful how I train you, Elly. I do want to see the exploitative Eleanor Kennick reduced to an obedient little maid who runs around in cute dresses, trying to please me, buuuuut at the same time, I don’t want to lose that little pang of embarrassment and outrage. It makes this whole process so much more satisfying.”
He handed her her cleaning kit, cautioning: “Don’t forget these, Elly! If you report for a job without your tools and sprays, you’ll use those useless eco-versions instead and it will take you much longer. Forget smartphones, platinum cards and expensive gift baskets: these are your essentials now.”
Tom led Eleanor to the kitchen and told her to clean down the counter while he looked for something upstairs. Relieved to be out of the bathroom, she got on with it. Fuck it, she could imagine it was a mindfulness exercise.
Once the side was clean, Eleanor looked around. Cloth in hand, she began idly wiping the sink. With no sign of Tom, she shrugged and scrubbed the tiles.
She looked up at the staircase. This seemed like a good opportunity to snoop. Maybe she could find some blackmail material of her own to get her out of this.
One more peek in the direction of Tom’s room. He was whistling up there and shifting objects from one place to another.
She might not get a break like this again. Anyway, she would surely hear him if he came back.
Trying to step lightly, so her heels didn’t clack on the hardwood floor, Eleanor snuck across the open-plan space. Beside Tom’s antique couch, she found a locked bureau.
If there’s anything juicy, it’ll be in there, she thought, pulling out a hair grip and slipping it into the lock.
How many times had she picked the locks on her directors’ desks, working out which ones were loyal and which seditious? How many times had she jimmied the lockers of her PAs, frightening them later with her forensic insights into their lives? Lock-picking was a very useful tool for consolidating power, cultivating fear in her subordinates and generally seeming omniscient. Thankfully, Tom didn’t know she knew how.
The bureau squeaked open, and Eleanor shot a glance upstairs, heart pounding.
She breathed out when she heard Tom’s footsteps moving around, and the sound of a clock being wound.
The bureau was impeccably organised, with papers categorised by topic and alphabetised by client. It seemed oddly old-fashioned to keep paper records, but Tom was very…
She felt her pulse climb again.
Precise, she thought. He’s very precise. He wants to to control everything.
She ran a hand over her leather collar, imagining a pink-handled lead being attached to it, then shook her head, appalled at herself.
Get it together, Kennick! she scolded herself. Don’t get Stockholm Syndrome now. Dig out that successful bastard inside and find that blackmail gold!
She flicked rapidly through the papers:
Boring, boring, boring… wait.
Her hand fell on a strange bump in the back of the bureau.
No.
She pressed it gently and with a click, a secret compartment opened.
An envelope lay inside, labelled Project Elly.
“Jackpot,” she hissed to herself.
“Elly!” called Tom. “Are you done with the kitchen counter?”
Eleanor had no time to scowl. She snatched the letter and closed the compartment, lining up the papers in the bureau before shutting it and using the grip to lock it once more.
Tom’s footsteps could be heard on the stairs. Eleanor looked at the envelope in her hand in panic and pushed it into her bouncy cleavage. She grabbed her cloth and pretended to be working away at the spotless hob.
“Good girl, Elly! This looks splendid,” beamed Tom.
Eleanor curtsied to him, feeling the corner of the envelope brush against her ribs.
“Well, this is a big improvement in your work,” said Tom. “But cleaning is only part of a Pretty Maid’s job, isn’t it? We shouldn’t let standards slip.”
He ran a finger along the hem of her skirt, landing a sharp smack on each thigh. Eleanor yiped in surprise, but didn’t protest. She wanted to get away from Tom to a private room and read the contents of the envelope. Tom’s fingers skimmed the edge of her frilled knickers, and she bit her lip, annoyed at the sudden wetness triggered by his touch.
“Now then,” said Tom, patting her bottom. “Before dinner, I’d like to make a uniform inspection.”
“Why?”
“Well, a) because your manual says I can, and b) because I can’t have a scruffy maid serving my guests. I need you to look impeccable for me.”
Eleanor froze.
“GUESTS?”
“Calm down, Elly,” shushed Tom, running a finger up and down the bones of her corset. “Just a few of the new board of directors for the company. We’ll be in deep, dull discussion about the takeover. They’ll hardly even notice you.”
“Hardly even – how could they not know my face? I’ve been all over the news! I’m not going to let some old men laugh at me!”
“That’s not going to happen, Elly,” said Tom. “And you are going to serve my guests nicely, or I’ll smack your bottom in front of them.”
“You can’t!!!” barked Elly, scarlet with rage.
“‘Appropriate discipline’, you argued in court,” said Tom. “But I’m prepared to save your blushes a little. You can wear this if you like.”
He handed her a black silk half-mask.
“You can be my anonymous little maid, clearing our plates while the important people have their business meeting,” teased Tom. “But I will expect you to respond if any one of my guests needs something.”
Eleanor clutched the mask. It was something. At least she could go unrecognised. Still, the idea of being ordered about all night by guffawing men made her feel queasy.
“Oh yes,” she said. “I bet you’re going to enjoy watching me get groped by a bunch of old Etonians.”
“Absolutely not,” said Tom. “My guests will be respectful of house rules. While you’re doing your job, they will not grope you.”
Eleanor looked at him sceptically.
“I know what these board types get like after a couple of glasses.”
“You have my word. Have I lied to you so far?”
He wasn’t smiling.
“I suppose not.”
“Well, then.”
“And you’re not going to tell them who I am?”
“I will not reveal your identity to my guests.”
Eleanor sat down, a feeling of dread in her stomach.
“Do I have a choice here? Can I opt out of this party and just – I don’t know – pay for a waitress?”
Tom came up behind her and whispered along her neck:
“Nope.”
Eleanor grimaced.
“If you make me cook for you, I’ll put rat poison in the food.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Tom. “I wouldn’t trust you with the cooking. You’ve probably not made a meal for yourself in years! No, don’t worry. The food will be delivered. You’re just going to present it prettily to my guests.”
“Is that all?” Eleanor raised an eyebrow.
“Well, that and provide general good service: top up their glasses, laugh at their jokes, curtsey when you leave the table. Be hospitable and polite. Make sure they’re all happy and we might even discuss extra privileges for you. Some time off, a massage from my therapist, uniform relaxation… lots of options. I make it point to recognise good work, as you know.”
Eleanor considered this. She really did want to change this horrendous uniform. And a massage sounded so appealing right now. She ached all over.
“How many guests?” she asked.
“Twelve.”
The idea of serving the vultures taking over her company made Eleanor’s blood boil, but if she could get through this, the rewards were very promising. Besides, she might pick up some useful material for spying on the new company. She could destroy it from the inside.
“Fine. Since I don’t have a choice. But I’m wearing the mask.”
“Of course,” smiled Tom.
Eleanor turned and walked toward the dining room. She had to look at the contents of the envelope.
“Where are you going, Elly?”
“To set the table for twelve people.”
“Haven’t we forgotten something?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” muttered Eleanor, and bobbed him a grumpy curtsey.
“No,” said Tom. “Although that was very cute. No, before you start preparing things through there, you’re due a little uniform inspection.”
“Now?” said Eleanor, feeling the envelope sneak its way down her corset.
“Right now,” said Tom, firmly.