Andy's first working day as a maid
I was reprimanded first thing for not having coffee ready for Rafe's dad Michael, and also for not wearing my weekday uniform.
"Izvini!" I apologized, going to change, ashamed that the humiliating scolding was inflaming my arousal that hadn't abated much since last night.
On weekdays I had to wear a traditional maid's uniform, albeit with an impractically short bottom skirt and always red lips.
For now I'd decided I'd go along with things while I figured out how to reach out to the real Anya in my body and see what she knew. If she knew enough to find my itinerary she would already be on a plane to Boston right now.
I inquired later to Michael about Rafe's fainting friend in my broken English, and Michael was thoroughly confused.
Apparently Anya in my body had not fainted at all. So why had I?
It didn't really matter, I supposed.
What mattered is that my body wasn't here, and she had left with the statue, which I was pretty sure was what had granted my 'wish' since touching it at the same time with Anya happened right before the swap.
I desperately hoped this really was only for one week. It had to be.
In that case, Anya in my body would have to attend my orientation classes for the new year, and I'd have to make it up to her somehow. What does a maid, practically a slave, want as a reward? I wasn't sure yet, but I had a feeling I would know her better by the end of the week.
Rafe had left for his plane back to university as I was getting up, and I hadn't figured out how to contact my real body. Anya the maid had a very cheap cell phone, but I couldn't even remember my old phone number.
I quickly realized I was missing whole swathes of previous knowledge; my first three years of Ivy League university education, my parents' names, the location of my old home. . .
But once I was back to the kitchen in my uniform with my painted lips, I quickly remembered that Michael's wife had Pilate's classes on Mondays, so I didn't need to make a coffee for her. How had I known that?
But that also meant. . . Michael would join me again soon.
I needed to have the coffee ready! I reached to the highest level of the cabinet, straining despite the fact that in my 4 inch heels I was easily 6 feet tall.
Why were the coffee grounds so high up?
A whistle came from behind me, and I realized Michael was behind me.
"Thanks for the show, Anya." He said, but my weak grasp of English made it confusing. He wanted to see something? I just smiled and nodded, pretending I knew what he had said.
I loaded the coffee maker, wondering if they somehow usually made conversation during the mornings.
Michael approached in his robe as the coffee brewed, and the middle aged man stood unreasonably close to me as I stood next to the coffee maker. I could smell the cologne he'd applied. Did he want what I thought he wanted?
ох блин, я не готов к этому (oh fuck, I'm not ready for this), I thought. My pussy, which had started to rapidly moisten, disagreed.
Michael didn't hear any of my internal monologue, and wouldn't have cared if he somehow did.
He nudged me against the counter, pulled up my maid skirt, and caressed my pussy under my panties in a probing way. As if he was seeing what I would do. Did Anya push him away?
I didn't push him away.
Then he felt my wetness, and it was humiliating.
"Oh, look at that. You're excited for it this morning, aren't you maid?." I didn't answer, only understanding half of what he'd said but knew he was teasing me. I looked at him with a dazed expression, the situation overwhelming any rational thought with my new embarrassing lust.
He stroked me once more, spreading my wetness around my clit, and I moaned out loud involuntarily.
"Oh, that's nice." He said. "I love the enthusiasm. You've been a bit cold so far but I knew you'd grow to like it." He caressed my pussy with new enthusiasm, and I quivered at the stimulation. I could tell he was happy, and I needed to keep him happy.
I wondered if Anya had ever gotten this wet for her boss, or if that was from me.
I was suddenly glad Michael thought I was just his regular maid, just hornier than usual, as the truth would be unlivable if he knew who I really was.
I noticed with a mixture of dread and reluctant longing that his erect dick was poking out of his robe.
He didn't continue long before he pulled me from the counter and pushed me to my knees, impatiently.
"Finally," he said.
Michael's huge uncircumsized dick was now staring me in the face. I could smell that he'd showered before coming down for coffee, but there was still a hint of musk. My lips parted involuntarily, my mouth filling with saliva.
I have to do this or he'll ship me back to Russia, I thought, the notion of my tenuous situation inflaming me further.
I took his dick in my hand, and hovered my painted lips around his head. I was a little worried about scratching his dick with my braces, since they still felt oddly unfamiliar on my teeth.
I still sucked very gently, making only slight contact, not really sure what to do and incredibly nervous about what was happening.
Я сосу член! (I'm sucking a cock!) I thought. Sort of, anyways, with my lips barely touching his hard phallus.
"Tsk," Michael said, and put his hand behind my head, guiding my lips back and forth on his hardness. "This is how you do it, Anya. I'll teach you." I felt a pulse in my tummy at his impatient control of me.
Wait - teach me? I knew those words.
Had Anya never done this for him?
Even with my lips now sliding back and forth with a pleasingly close sensation, I was surprised it didn't taste like anything. Probably because he'd had a shower.
I wonder what it would taste like unwashed? A sick part of my brain wondered. Would he ever make me suck it like that?
It's not like I could say 'no', even if it smelled and tasted bad.
Hnggh.
After only a minute or so, Michael pulled me up from my kneeling position, turned me around and pressed me to the counter. He lifted my right knee to up onto the surface, and rubbed the head of his cock against my swampy pussy.
"Mmmmmm" I moaned again, just before Michael pressed himself into me, finding little resistance due to my conspicuous arousal. Anya wasn't a virgin, not a big surprise.
My boss fucked his maid, in her uniform, right there in the kitchen to an incredibly embarrassing orgasm before unloading into her pussy.
That maid was me. I was Anya, and it made my brain melt, despite knowing I should be horrified instead.
+++++
Michael fucked me almost any time his wife was away that week, and I wondered if she knew about it. She had to know, I decided.
Regardless, the perverted middle aged man had no issue fucking me into an orgasm every day, my kink for this making me much more pliable than the original Anya, to the point that he kept complimenting me on my new acceptance of the role.
The depravity of my situation was amplified by the learning that the old Anya had never been eager for any of this. Not like me.
As far as I could tell, she'd never even fucked him at all.
Until I became her. Did that make me a slut?
"I know what you're doing, maid. Your eagerness is appreciated, but you're not getting a raise or anything." He told me once, after fucking me against the pool table. He could tell I didn't really understand. He finally wrote something down, which I could translate later for myself using my phone.
"Learn English"
"Use makeup always and do your nails"
When I looked up the translation later, I knew I didn't really have a choice.
When not being fucked, I busied myself with organizing, dusting and cooking. I did a good job, and felt pretty good about it.
I wondered if Anya in my body was studying or just blowing off my classes.
On Saturday, I didn't have the day off but did have the "privilege" of working in plain clothes instead of my uniform.
Then it was Sunday again, one week after the swap, and I waited for the transformation.
It didn't happen.
I woke up on Monday, still Anya. I probably wasn't going to change back automatically, and I had no idea how to reach the real Anya.
I'd created some accounts on social media and had even found my old profiles, but my friend requests and stilted messages had gone ignored. None had any posts or comments since the swap, as if she didn't look at them.
She hadn't reached out to me, so she probably didn't want to change back.
Это может быть навсегда! (This could be permanent!)
My pussy throbbed amidst my new existential crisis.
(Author note: from here on out assume that internal thoughts are in the language of the original body. Andy as Anya still thinks in Russian.)
+++++
One month later
I was still Anya, the sexy teen maid. I knew if I did nothing, I would soon be a sexy maid in her twenties, then an older but still sexy maid in her thirties, a sadder less-sexy maid in her 40s. . .
My brain rebels at this thought.
I bemoaned the possible future as I made sure the bedspread was perfect on a Saturday morning, careful not to snag one of my long press-on nails. I'd been reprimanded about a crease the day before.
A week as a maid had been titillating, but doing it for the rest of my life would not be. The humiliation of cleaning every day had worn off already after just one month, and most of the arousal from cleaning went with it.
I'd done some research using Anya the maid's shitty phone. I'd found rumors and myths of the idol that changed us, and learned that it was rumored to make an exchange between two people who each had something the other wanted.
Exactly what had happened, though if the myth was true. . .
It implied that the change had only happened because I wanted it!
Humiliating.
It was embarrassing to admit I might have wanted to be Anya enough for the change to happen. But even then, I only wanted it temporarily! Just for the one time experience.
Not permanently. Never permanently.
But. . . Anya had the statue still. Or at least I hoped she did.
Could I get her to change us back? I couldn't even contact her. I'd redoubled my efforts to connect online, but it was fruitless.
I needed her phone number, which I didn't have and neither did Michael.
I briefly considered somehow flying to Boston and confronting Anya directly. But while I did have Anya's passport, I didn't have a credit card, so how would I even book a flight?
Even I could do that, I didn't even remember where my dorm was, or my classes, or anything about my university really. How would I even find her?
Plus, the idea of trying to travel without speaking English was daunting, and Michael would probably think I'd run away and might report me to Immigration. That wasn't an option.
But then, Michael told me that Rafe was coming to visit today, to celebrate Michael and his wife's anniversary.
I could get my old number from Rafe.
I made plans. If I couldn't get into his phone easily, I'd have to find a way to get the number elsewhere.
That night after Rafe arrived, I looked for an easy opportunity to get his contacts from his phone, but one never arose.
So I went to plan B.
I doted on him, finding any reason to be near him. I brought him drinks, rubbed his shoulders. . .
Just before he went to bed after his parent's anniversary dinner, I found an isolated moment to whisper in his ear "Come. Room. Night."
I smiled at him, and put his beefy had on my waist.
He looked at me surprised, but he nodded.
++++++
By the time 10 PM rolled around, Rafe hadn't showed and I fell asleep. I'd been working all day and couldn't help it.
But then I was awoken by a hand on my face, and a masculine thumb rubbing my soft lips. I forced a smile to my face, then sucked his thumb into my mouth to show he hadn't made a mistake.
He smelled of whisky, and I knew he and his old man had spent some father-son bonding time. I saw him set his phone on the nightstand, and made sure not to look at it directly.
Rafe let me suck on his finger for a few more moments, and the fact that I was submitting so wantonly to my old jerk friend ignited that damned humiliation horniness center in my brain. The fact that I was about to complete a father-son set fueled it more.
He trailed his hand from my mouth down the curve of my neck, then stopped to get a full handful of breast.
He squeezed my full breast gently, and I moaned at his touch. He played with my perfect tits for over a minute, which I didn't blame him for, but it was starting to drive me a little wild.
I bucked my hips slightly, involuntarily. "You fuck now." I said in my best English, and he finally got the hint.
Rafe rubbed against me, the head of his dick quickly becoming lubricated from my copious wetness. He worked himself into me, a slight challenge because he was significantly bigger than his dad, the only other cock I'd had inside me.
"Здорово!" I exclaimed, too loudly, when he was all the way in. Rafe covered my mouth with his hand and I looked up at him with wide eyes, melting from his control of me.
He took me then, clearly no virgin at the age of 22. His thrusts were confident and deep, but also not so hard he was trying to hurt me. It didn't hurt; it was amazing.
I writhed beneath him, knowing my slim busty body must be a true sight to see from Rafe's perspective.
I realized this was actually the first time I'd had sex in my own bed in my little maid's quarters. It felt naughtier in a different way than when Michael would take me in other parts of the house.
"Да! Трахни меня!" I whispered with a moan, trying not to let the others hear.
I panted girlishly until I came, predictably, my long nailed hands grasping at the pillow case.
Rafe grinned down at me, likely looking forward to having an eager bang-maid now everytime he visited home.
He was much better at this than his father, surprisingly.
And he's so much hotter, I thought, before I could squash that embarrassing thought.
Rafe sucked, and I knew I hated him.
But he'd just fucked me so good. . .
++++++++
That night, Just as I'd hoped, Rafe actually stayed and fell asleep next to me in my little bed. It was small for both of us, with his bulky frame and my own legginess, but this is what I'd wanted. Even if his snoring was awful.
I was able to prise his phone from his limp hand without waking him, and held up the lock screen to his face for a recognition unlock.
Success.
I scrolled, looking for my old name. I knew enough to at least spell that.
I finally found it, and pumped my fist, limply due to my long oval nails pressing into my palm. I had the number!
+++++++
The next morning, I called my old phone from Anya's budget smartphone but got no answer. I decided to text, finding it difficult with my long nails but persevering. I didn't have anyone to text in this body normally, so I hadn't gained a ton of experience.
This real Andy! I texted my old phone number. When change back?
The text got a checkmark, showing it had been seen. But no response.
I followed up with ????????
Still, I didn't hear back for two hours, despite checking every 10 minutes.
Finally, that night, I saw the blinking dots indicating someone was typing.
"Hi Anya! Are you sure you want to change back?" The text replied. "It took you over a month just to ask, and I know you wanted it in the first place or we wouldn't have swapped." I copied that into a translation app, then growled.
Yes want change back!!!! Not have phone number then but have now! Jerk!!!! I replied eloquently.
Alright, alright. But I'm not going back to being a maid. In two years when your trust fund releases we'll discuss it. I get 75%, you get 25%. Deal?
I didn't even care she wanted most of my trust fund, but two more years of this? I felt a quiver. I couldn't do that. After that long, what if. . .
No!!!! Change now!! I responded.
It's two years, or never. I'd rather have my body back with money and freedom, but I'll stay like this forever before I'll ever be a maid again. Take your pick.
After I got the translation, I just stared at the phone. Two years as a maid.
What if I said no? Then she might just block me, forever.
Fine!! I responded, my tummy a gaping pit of dread and other feelings I couldn't face.
"ублюдок!" I said aloud.
Fortunately the family was out today, leaving their maid behind while they went for lunch, because for some inexplicable reason I needed to masturbate right then and there.
++++++
The next several months
So, I settled into being 'the maid', now that I at least had a known end date and it's not like I had any other good choice.
Being a maid was pretty easy, if you're ok with wearing a slutty uniform and being available all day, cleaning up after people with no respect for you, for very meager compensation. I had a lot of time on my hands, as it wasn't overly difficult to keep up being a dedicated maid for just two people (three when Rafe was around), but I didn't have much freedom or time just for myself given I was always on call.
I did have my Sundays off, and I had enough money for some minor luxuries. I bought a small TV for my little maid's quarters along with a DVD player, and I worked relentlessly on learning English again by watching American DVDs I got from the local library, along with some helpful books. They even had a section of books in Russian language, which were nice for relaxing where I could fortunately read easily.
Other than that, this stupid family basically owned me. I didn't have time to make friends, which was difficult with my language barrier anyways. I couldn't date, for those same reasons plus the fact that I was not allowed to bring anyone back to the home.
So perhaps it was inevitable, for a poor maid with so little human interaction or stimulation, that the bright spot her life would become the one person who gave her any attention at all.
Despite my disgust with myself, I started to actually look forward to when Rafe visited.
A lot. To the point I'd smile and hum the mornings I knew he was coming in, before catching myself.
He wasn't any less of an asshole, and it's not like he grew to respect me or anything, but I craved human interaction so much that his attention when he was around became something I involuntarily craved.
At night, when I masturbated, I couldn't even keep him out of my fantasies.
I found myself starting to 'let go' around Rafe during his visits, doting on him and using him to satisfy the cravings we both had. I was stuck like this for a while, and sex was the one release I had.
Outside of sex, and unlike his father, Rafe would also actually talk to me. A little. Either through his phone translator, or patronizingly letting me work on my English with him. I told him about the American shows I was watching and he would answer my questions on the finer bits of American culture I didn't understand.
Compared to his mother, who completely ignored me, or his father Michael who traveled a lot for business and didn't even really talk to me other than to say "bend over" or 'on your knees'. . . Rafe was positively entertaining.
While I had more sex with Michael, he cared nothing for my pleasure, even if I still couldn't really say I 'hated it' with him.
Rafe, however. . . he liked to make me squeal and moan. He would take control of my in ways that I never could have imagined I wanted, back when I was Andy a million years ago.
A pathetic part of me wished that Rafe lived here, instead of away at college. He could fuck me a lot more often then.
Or maybe I could just be HIS maid, my mind wondered traitorously, the thought coming as I came again from Rafe thrusting behind me. His dominance, with his hand clutched around my face and his finger between my lips, brushing against my braces, always short-circuited my brain and made me think strangely.
Though he never moved back, Rafe's parents would wonder in the coming months why he was now visiting at least every other weekend when in the previous three years it had been only special occasions and summers.
They didn't know he was fucking my brains out in my little maid's quarters, or in his much nicer rooms, or in every corner of the house, every day and night he was home.
+++++++++
One evening, alone and thinking about starting to rub myself, I had a horrifying realization.
I couldn't remember what it was like having a male body anymore.
I tried to remember what it was like, being masculine, and having sex with women (which I vaguely remember I had done a lot at college even if it felt ethereal now). I couldn't visualize it, my mind would just wander to images of being fucked in this body.
Even more, the thought of being hairy, and having a penis flopping around down there. . . it felt. . . weird and undesireable.
Had I been trans all along? Or was this whole thing just messing with my brain?
My research and 'Andy's' had confirmed this change meant at least a small part of me had really wanted it. . . but it was just a kink, I was still sure.
Once I change back, my brain will change back too! These thoughts would go away, along with all the Russian culture shit I'd gotten from Anya. I'd be an American man again, and a confident one.
Oddly, my mind flitted back to my orthodontic appointment last week, in which the doctor had shown me the progress of my teeth straightening from the braces. For some reason I felt happy to know that by the time was up, Anya would have nice, straight teeth. But, why did I care, when I'd just be giving up the body anyways?
And why couldn't I couldn't deny that I felt euphoria every time I explored the lines of my body as Anya?
Giving in slightly, I wondered if after we changed back, the real Anya might be willing to come to some arrangement where we could sometimes swap back temporarily, in a way where I couldn't get stuck like this. Where I was in control.
No, that was stupid. Once I was back, I couldn't risk losing it all again. My future was more important. No matter how good some of this felt.
Either way, I just didn't want to be a fucking maid anymore. Especially not a 'fuck maid', even if it was the only enjoyable part about the job. This couldn't be my whole life. It just couldn't.
Another year and a half.
I just had to endure.
