Ms Hynde and the typing pool.

Maid Cherie: *Her wrists ache as the cuffs come off, and she pulls the tape from her mouth with a grimace. She glances at Julia one last time before leaving the office, her eyes filled with a silent promise of retribution.* "Thank you, Miss Kline," she says, her voice low and tight with restrained anger.

Narrator: The corridors of the office building stretch out before Cherie, each step echoing a mix of anger and determination. She clutches the crumpled list in her hand, feeling the ink smear slightly from her sweat. The scent of stale coffee and dust fills the air as she approaches the typing pool, a bustling hive of clacking typewriters and the murmur of efficient women.

Narrator: As Cherie enters the typing pool, the cacophony of typewriter keys hits her like a wave. The room is filled with the rhythmic dance of fingers and the occasional ding of a carriage return. The walls are lined with rows of desks, each occupied by a diligent secretary, their eyes fixed on their work. The hum of office machines and the murmur of hushed conversations create a symphony of productivity.

Narrator: Cherie's gaze scans the room, searching for any sign of Miss Hynde, the typing pool manager. She spots a neatly organized desk with a nameplate that reads "Hynde" at the far end of the room, separated slightly from the others. The desk is empty, but the chair is pushed back as if the manager had just stepped away for a moment.

SUMMARY^1: Cherie, a maid, is released from a tense situation with Julia and heads towards the typing pool, driven by anger and a promise of retribution. She holds a list tightly, her eyes on the prize of finding Miss Hynde, the pool manager. The office's atmosphere is a blend of stale coffee and diligence, with the steady sound of typewriters setting the scene. She identifies Miss Hynde's desk but finds it unoccupied, yet it seems recent.

Miss Hynde: *Miss Hynde's heels click sharply against the linoleum floor as she returns from the supply closet, her arms laden with a stack of freshly refilled ink cartridges. She's dressed in a crisp blouse and a knee-length skirt, her hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun. Her eyes meet Cherie's and she raises an eyebrow, setting the supplies down on her desk.She smirks seeing her former former now dressed as a cleaner.*

Miss Hynde: "Well, well, if it isn't the infamous Maid Cherie," she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "What brings you to our little oasis of efficiency?"

Maid Cherie: *Her jaw tightens as she approaches Miss Hynde's desk, the crumpled list still in her hand. She smooths it out and slaps it down on the desk.* "I've been sent to clean your office and cubiclesl," she says, her voice cold. "But I suspect you already knew that."

Miss Hynde: *Her smirk widens as she picks up the list, scanning it with feigned curiosity.* "Ah, yes. The new office policy. How... delightful for you. I'm sure you'll find it quite the... 'refreshing' experience after your usual duties." She sets the list back down and crosses her arms. "So, you can start with a personal touch my sore feet need some attention"

Maid Cherie: *Her eyes flash with anger, but she swallows it down.* Yes Miss Hynde."

SUMMARY^1: Miss Hynde returns to her desk, noticing Cherie's changed attire with a smirk. Cherie confronts her with the cleaning assignment list, hinting at their shared history. Despite the tension, Cherie maintains her professionalism while Miss Hynde slyly comments on the nature of her new task, asking for personal attention.

Narrator: Cherie's thoughts race as she bends down to remove Miss Hynde's sensible pumps. The leather feels warm from the manager's feet, and the faint scent of mint wafts from them. She fights the urge to say something cutting, focusing instead on her task. As she works, she notices a framed photo of Miss Hynde with the CEO on the desk, a picture that hadn't been there before. It's a stark reminder of the alliances in this office.

Miss Hynde: *Miss Hynde leans back in her chair, watching Cherie with a knowing smile. She crosses her legs and swings one foot slightly, allowing her toes to peek out from beneath her skirt. Her gaze remains fixed on the cleaner, as if daring her to challenge the order.*

Miss Hynde: "You know, Cherie, I've always appreciated the way you handle your work. So meticulous, so thorough." She says, her voice taking on a syrupy sweetness that doesn't quite mask the underlying spite. "It's a quality that's quite rare around here. Do you remember when you were CEO and you always belittled me?"

Miss Hynde: *Her smile fades, replaced by a cold, hard look.* "But things change, don't they? And now look at you, reduced to this. It's almost poetic, really." She taps a manicured nail against the arm of her chair. "But now you are going to suffer. YYou are going to clean all the cubicles and your going to do what ever the girls ask. It will not matter how humiliating their demands you will do the,"

Maid Cherie: *Cherie's eyes narrow, the anger simmering beneath her calm exterior.* "Miss Hynde, I'll do my job,"

Miss Hynde: "Good. I expect perfection," Miss Hynde says with a nod. "And don't forget to clean under the desks. You wouldn't want to miss any dust bunnies, would you?"

Narrator: With gritted teeth, Cherie starts to massage Miss Hynde's feet, her hands moving methodically under the desk. The stockings are a sheer black, hinting at the power dynamics at play. Each stroke feels like a silent protest against her own degradation. She focuses on her breathing to maintain composure.

Maid Cherie: *Her thumbs press into the arches of Miss Hynde's feet, feeling the tension build in her own knuckles. She glances around the room, noticing the smirking looks of the secretaries as they continue their work. The clacking of typewriters provides a rhythmic backdrop to her silent fury.*

Miss Hynde: "Is that all you've got, Cherie?" She asks, her voice a mix of amusement and challenge. "I've had more vigorous massages from a cucumber at the spa." She leans back, her eyes still fixed on the cleaner. "But I suppose it's the thought that counts. After all, you do want to keep your job, don't you?"

Miss Hynde: *Her foot twitches slightly as Cherie's touch becomes more firm. She's enjoying this, the power she wields over her former boss. It's a heady feeling, one she plans to savor.* "I'm sure you're eager to prove your newfound skills. Perhaps you can even teach the other secretaries a thing or two about hard work," she says with a sly smile.

Miss Hynde: *Miss Hynde wiggles her toes, watching as Cherie's knuckles turn white.* "You know, Cherie, I've always found that a little humility can be quite refreshing. It's a trait that will serve you well in your new role."

Narrator: Cherie's grip tightens on Miss Hynde's feet, but she doesn't respond. Instead, she focuses on the rhythmic motion of her hands, using the anger as a strange kind of fuel for her work. The room's ambiance remains the same, the clacking of typewriters and murmur of conversations creating a wall of white noise around them.

Miss Hynde: "Ah, I can see you're taking this to heart," Miss Hynde says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Now, off you go. Find Rita. She's got quite the list of 'special' tasks for you." She waves a hand dismissively. "You wouldn't want to keep her waiting. She's not as patient as I am."

Maid Cherie: *Cherie forces a nod and rises, her eyes never leaving Miss Hynde's.* "Yes, Miss Hynde." She says through clenched teeth. She slips Miss Hynde's shoes back on, hiding the smear of ink she's just transferred from the list. "I'll be sure to give Rita my full attention."

Narrator: Cherie's steps are measured as she leaves Miss Hynde's office, her heart pounding in her chest. She takes a deep breath and tries to compose herself before approaching Rita, a secretary known for her sharp tongue and even sharper wit. The typing pool seems to have grown more oppressive, the clacking of keys a mocking reminder of her new station.

Rita: *Looks up from her typewriter, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she sees Cherie approaching.* "Well, if it isn't the queen of the cleaners," she says, her voice a high-pitched cackle. "Miss Hynde said you'd be by. I've got a list for you. And remember, no slacking off or you'll answer to me."

Maid Cherie: *Her eyes flicker with defiance, but she takes the list from Rita, her hands steady.* "I'm here to do my job," she says evenly. "What are the 'special' tasks you have for me?"

Rita: "Oh, just the usual," Rita says with a smirk. "But since you're so eager to please, I've added a few extra surprises. You're going to start with the executive washroom. Make sure it sparkles. And don't forget the toilets. No one likes a dirty throne."

Maid Cherie: *Her cheeks flush with indignation, but she nods curtly.* "I'll see to it," she says, her voice tight. She turns on her heel and heads for the supply closet, grabbing a mop and a bucket filled with cleaning solution. The sting of humiliation fuels her steps as she marches towards the executive washroom.

Narrator: The executive washroom is a bastion of opulence amidst the office's otherwise utilitarian decor. Marble countertops, gleaming chrome fixtures, and plush towels make it clear that this space is reserved for the elite. Cherie sets to work, her movements swift and precise as she scrubs away at the porcelain surfaces. The smell of industrial cleaner fills the air, a stark contrast to the usual scents of expensive cologne and perfume that linger here.

Narrator: As Cherie works, she can't help but think of her past triumphs in this very building. The deals she'd closed, the promotions she'd earned, and the respect she'd commanded. Now, she's on her knees, scrubbing toilets for the very people who once feared her wrath. But with each stroke of the mop, she feels a newfound determination growing. She is beginning to feel some freedom fromn her servitude.

Narrator: The sound of the mop swishing against the tiles is soothing in its rhythm, almost meditative. It's in this moment that Cherie decides she won't let her pride be her downfall. She'll endure this, and she'll do it with dignity. After all, she's not just a cleaner; she's a survivor.

Rita: *Pops her head into the washroom.* "You're doing good, Cherie. Remember, the devil's in the details," Rita says with a wink before retreating back to her typewriter.

Maid Cherie: *Cherie clenches her jaw and continues scrubbing, her thoughts racing. She can feel the weight of their gazes from the typing pool, but she refuses to give them the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.* "Thank you, Miss Rita," she calls out, her voice steady.* With the restroom finished and cleaned she goes back to Rita for her next task.*

Rita: "Ah, the ever-diligent Maid Cherie," Rita says, her smirk unwavering. She glances over the list. "Alright, your next task is to reorganize the office supply closet. And make sure you don't miss anything. The last person who did it couldn't find a paperclip when their life depended on it."

Maid Cherie: *Her eyes narrow at Rita's jab, but she remains unfazed.* "Yes, Miss Rita." She takes the list, her grip firm. "I'll make sure it's organized to perfection." She walks away, her thoughts a storm of anger and resilience.

Narrator: The supply closet is a cluttered mess of boxes and forgotten office supplies. Cherie takes a deep breath, steeling herself for the task at hand.

Narrator: The closet's musty scent fills Cherie's nostrils as she begins the arduous task of organizing. Each item she touches feels like a piece of her former life slipping away, but she refuses to let the bitterness consume her. Instead, she focuses on the order she can bring to the chaos.

Narrator: The hours tick by, and the typing pool's cacophony fades into the background as Cherie meticulously categorizes and arranges the supplies. It's a task that requires patience and precision, two qualities she had once used to run the office with an iron fist. Now, she applies them to paperclips and staples.

Rita: *Pauses in the doorway, watching Cherie work.* "You know, it's actually kind of mesmerizing watching you in there. Like a caged animal sorting its food. You're surprisingly good at this."

Maid Cherie: *Looks up, a glimmer of something unreadable in her eyes.* "It's all about efficiency," she says, straightening a row of notepads. "Ensuring that everything has its place."

Rita: "Maybe there's hope for you yet," Rita says, her tone teetering between mockery and admiration. "But don't get too comfortable. I've got plenty more where that came from." She hands Cherie a new list, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Now your next task is to go around the entire typing pool and massage everyone's feet."

Maid Cherie: *Takes the list with a **** smile.* "Of course, Miss Rita." She turns to the first secretary, her eyes scanning the room for any sign of solidarity, but the women merely watch her with a mix of amusement and silent laughter.* "If you'd like to remove your shoes, I'll begin."

Narrator: The first secretary giggles and slips off her shoes, revealing a pair of feet with chipped red nail polish. Cherie suppresses a sigh, kneeling down and taking one foot in her hand. The room's atmosphere grows more tense with each passing minute as she performs the demeaning task.

Narrator: Cherie's thoughts drift to her past, to the days when she had been the one giving orders, when the very idea of massaging another's feet would have been unthinkable. But now, she's the one on her knees, her pride bruised but not broken.

Narrator: As she moves from one secretary to the next, Cherie notices the subtle changes in their reactions. Some look away, embarrassed by the situation, while others watch with barely contained amusement. Yet, there's something almost...satisfying about providing a moment of comfort to these women who once feared her.

Rita: *Her eyes never leave Cherie as she works, a smug expression on her face.* "See, girls, isn't this just the sweetest sight?" She says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Our dear former tormentor on her hands and knees"

Narrator: Cherie's hands move over the secretary's calloused feet, her thoughts racing with the potential rebellion. She can feel the eyes of the other women on her, some smiling, others gloating. Yet she refuses to show weakness.

Maid Cherie: *Her grip tightens on the secretary's foot, not quite to the point of pain.* "Miss Rita, if I may ask, why do the secretaries here feel the need for such personal attention?" she inquires, her voice measured.

Rita: *Her eyes narrow slightly.* "Why, Cherie," she says, her voice syrupy sweet, "it's all about team building. You should know that. You used to be so good at it. It is also to show you that you are just a worthless cleaner."

Maid Cherie: *Forces a smile as she finishes up with the current secretary's feet.* "Thank you, Miss Rita, for reminding me of my place," she says, her voice thick with submission. She moves on to the next secretary, her mind racing with thoughts of serving.

Narrator: The secretaries seem to take turns watching Cherie work, some whispering among themselves, while others continue typing, the clacking of their keys a constant reminder of the office's productivity. The room feels stifling, the air heavy with the scent of disinfectant and the weight of their amusement.

Rita: *Her laugh echoes through the room as she snaps her fingers.* "Alright, Cherie, that's enough for now. Stand up," she says, her voice a mix of amusement and satisfaction. She taps her foot impatiently on the floor.

Rita: "Girls, gather around," Rita calls out, her voice carrying over the din of the typing pool. The clacking of keys slows to a halt as the secretaries look up, curious about the interruption. "Maid Cherie here has something she'd like to share with all of you."

Rita: "Come on, Cherie," she prods, "don't be shy. Tell them how much you enjoyed pampering their tired little trotters."

Maid Cherie: *Her eyes sweep over the room, meeting the curious gazes of the secretaries.* "It's an honor to serve the hardworking women of this office," she says, her voice tight. "It's a humbling experience that reminds me of the importance of teamwork and respect."

Maid Cherie: *Her words hang in the air, and for a brief moment, the room is silent. Then, a smattering of applause breaks out, some genuine, others ****.

Rita: "Very well said," Rita says, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Now, let's get back to work, shall we?" She motions for Cherie to follow her.

Maid Cherie: *Her cheeks burn with humiliation as she follows Rita, the weight of their laughter heavy on her shoulders.*

Rita: "Ah, the grand tour continues," Rita says, her voice a blend of mockery and satisfaction as she leads Cherie to the first row of cubicles. "You know, I used to dread taking out the trash. But watching you do it? It's like watching a ballet of servitude."

Rita: *With a dramatic flourish, Rita points to the first trash bin.* "Your performance begins here," she says with a wink. "Every bin in the typing pool must be emptied. And remember, no spilling. The last thing we need is a mess for you to clean up."

Maid Cherie: *Cherie nods stiffly, her eyes flashing briefly with anger before she schools her features into a mask of servitude.* "Yes, Miss Rita." She says, her voice tight. She picks up the first bin, the weight of its contents surprisingly light, and makes her way through the maze of cubicles.

Narrator: The fabric of her cleaner's uniform whispers against her skin as she moves from one bin to the next, her movements a silent ballet of **** submission. The secretaries watch her with a mix of pity and amusement, their eyes never meeting hers. The last cubicle in the bin is a pair of discared pantyhose.*

Maid Cherie: *Her nose wrinkles in the aroma of sex and sweat filling her nostrils.She feels something akin to arousal between her legs.*

Maid Cherie: *Her hand shakes slightly as she picks up the crumpled pantyhose, the fabric clinging to her fingers. She forces a smile.* "Miss Rita, I've completed the task. Is there anything else you'd like me to do?"

Rita: "Oh, you're a quick learner," Rita says, her smile sharp. "But we're not done yet. I've noticed some of the coffee mugs here are looking a bit...well-loved. Why don't you start washing them up?"

Maid Cherie: *Her jaw clenches as she takes the stack of mugs from Rita's desk, the warmth from the liquid inside seeping through the porcelain and into her hands.* "Yes, Miss Rita," she says, her voice tight. She heads towards the small kitchenette in the corner of the typing pool. She places the crumpled pantyhose in her apron. She dreams of them filling her mouth and washing them with her tongue.*

Maid Cherie: *Once in the kitchenette, Cherie's mind is a whirlwind of anger and arousal as she runs the mugs under the tap, her thoughts racing.* She scrubbed each mug with vigor, the warm water and soap bubbles mixing with her own sweat and the faint scent of the secretaries' perfumes.

Maid Cherie: *With the mugs clean, she turns to Rita.* "All the mugs have been washed and are drying, Miss Rita," she says, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Is there anything else you need from me?" She clutches the crumpled pantyhose in her apron, her thoughts drifting to the intimate act of cleaning them by hand.

Rita: "Hmm, let's see," Rita says, tapping a pen against her teeth as she looks over the list. "Ah, yes.

Rita: "Miss Hynde mentioned something about the windows. They're in **** need of a good scrub. You wouldn't want the sun to think we're not welcoming it in, would you?" She hands Cherie a squeegee and a bottle of window cleaner.

Maid Cherie: *Takes the squeegee and cleaner, her grip firm.* "I'll make sure they're spotless, Miss Rita." She says, her voice a mix of resentment and resolve. She moves to the nearest window, the sun's glare reflecting off the glass.

Narrator: The warmth from the sun outside contrasts with the cool, detached air of the typing pool. Cherie's reflection in the window seems to mock her as she sets to work, her thoughts racing with every streak she clears away.

Narrator: Cherie's arms ache from reaching and scrubbing, but she refuses to let the physical labor break her. She's used to the burn of exertion, the sting of sweat in her eyes. But this...this feels different. It's not just her body being pushed to its limits; it's her spirit.

Narrator: Each window she cleans feels like a battle won, a silent protest against the indignity of her new role. The sun seems to shine brighter with each swipe of the squeegee, the light cutting through the grime and revealing the gleaming panes beneath.

Narrator: The final squeak of the squeegee echoes through the office, and Cherie steps back to admire her work. The windows are a mirror to the outside world, reflecting not just the setting sun but also the determination in her eyes. The office clock's hands creep closer to the end of her shift, and she knows her return to the mansion awaits.

Narrator: With the windows gleaming, Cherie heads to the supply closet to store her cleaning supplies. She lingers for a moment, her eyes scanning the organized shelves she's come to know so well. The thought of returning to the mansion fills her with a mix of dread and anticipation.

* This will be the final chapter of this current story.*