Wet and Wild…

From a saucy French maid, a 50’s housewife working naked, to a serving wench, I have been most domesticated servants in some category or other. My clients seem to enjoy the sight of a scantily-clad sexy London escort working in their home. I can’t think why…

However, the polite request to be a ‘washer-woman’ left me slightly dumbfounded. I wasn’t quite sure how I was supposed to pertain to that, given that I don’t do muscly arms and a belly over my waistband. I had visions of some cartoon-esque dame a la Tom & Jerry, and I can’t say it did much for my libido or self-image. So, for the first time in ages, I asked what my client meant.

This client was Henry, a divorced father of two in his mid-fifties. Resident in the affluent area of Bayswater, Henry described himself as having a natural thing for water, especially water splashed all over the place on a willing participant. He asked me to wear white, tie my hair up and not to wear a scrap of makeup. With these instructions, I arrived promptly at noon on Saturday and was ushered through to a high-walled garden with an immaculately cut lawn. In the centre of the patio, in the blazing sunshine, was a wooden tub full of suds and, next to it, a scrubbing brush and board.

Henry was reclining on a sun lounger, sunglasses on, regarding me as I stood in the patio doorway. He waved me over and stretched out a hand. As he passed me a glass of Pimms, he explained simply that he wanted me to scrub the clothes in the tub and get soaking wet in the process. “Plenty of splash, my dear! Give those old flagstones a soaking! And make sure you get it all down your front…”

Well, thank God for the small mercies of a brilliant sunny day. I hauled the sheets out of the suds and gave them a good going over, slopping water everywhere and mostly over myself. My top and underwear went see-through, and Henry leaned forward on his chair to get a better look. I used my arm to brush my hair out of my eyes, soaking my face and letting it run down my neck. I figured I resembled a drowned rat, but Henry was delighted.

“Peg them on the line when you’re done, will you?” he called gleefully as I stood up to wring out my long white skirt. I was drenched and longing to lie in the sun to dry off. He chucked me a towel and invited me to do just that. Thankfully, his sun-trap garden had me drying off within twenty minutes, and I was able to chat a little about the job I’d done. “Splendid effort…” he said, beaming.”I will have to call you again!”

A change of clothes and a hair dryer later, I went home to Mayfair to glam up for my evening date with Oscar. It just wouldn’t do to let too many people see me in that state; I have an image to uphold.

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