The Demotion

Dear Reader:

This chapter contains paragraphs that explain the colonial history of the Philippines. It's important to the story, but I also realize that you're here for gratification, rather than a history lesson. I'll use the diamond ♦ symbol to separate that section to allow you to skip it if you'd like.

I hope that you enjoy this newest chapter. An anonymous Literotica reader commissioned this story. If you would like to commission a story for your fellow Literotica readers, please reach out to me through Literotica's feedback system.

The following is an erotic work of fiction that may be unsuitable for some readers. Additionally, it may contain trauma cues for sensitive readers. All people and entities are fictional; any similarities with real people or entities are unintentional. Enjoy!

---

The Demotion, Chapter 4

It took me an hour to finish sorting the mess of papers on Dr. Ramos's desk. Sorting papers for a rich, asshole doctor would not have been the top of my after-work to-do list back in the States. Back in the U.S., I was the youngest MD at a prestigious research hospital. Back in the U.S., I was 'Dr. Janet Nguyen' to my patients and colleagues. But after offending a powerful, well-connected director, I was just 'Nurse Janet,' a peon over here in the Philippines. And at the hospital where I'd been relocated, being a nurse didn't carry even the prestige that it carried back home. At this hospital, us nurses were forced to perform menial tasks at pittance wages.

To add insult to injury, those low wages forced me to function as a live-in maid for the hospital's head MD, Dr. Ramos. I knew that if I ever wanted to get back to the U.S., I needed to keep Dr. Ramos happy. Though given that he relegated me to a demeaning maid uniform only rubbed salt in the wound. And to make matters worse, Nurse Diwa (the head nurse and my mentor) acted like a giddy, subservient slut around him.

A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts.

"Lyka," Diwa called from outside the door, "When you're finished, come downstairs to the kitchen. I'm making dinner for Dr. Ramos and his wife, and I could use some help."

"Salamat sa iyo." Even though she'd only been 'training' me for a short while, I knew to respond to Diwa respectfully and with 'Yes, Ma'am' in Tagalog.

"Mabuting batang babae!" Diwa called through the door. Or 'good girl!' as I'd recognized it.

Despite myself, I felt a warm sense of gratification at the comment. I was a good girl. A mabuting babae.

After putting the finishing touches on the former mess that was Dr. Ramos's desk, I left to go downstairs. I had to be conscious of my movements as the French maid uniform and garter only allowed tiny steps. Further, the heels clacked noisily with each step.

As I descended the grand staircase, I had to keep my arms up and bent at the elbows to stay balanced. Worse, the garter's tightness forced me to shift my hips and rotate my body to take each step. The burn in my quads as I slowly lowered myself surprised me. Had I just let myself fall with each step, my shoes would have resonated with a garish

CLACK

. And Dr. Ramos--Sir--would surely not be pleased.

When I finally reached the kitchen, I saw Diwa bent over the kitchen sink sifting the starch from a pot of rice. Her skirt--like mine--was short enough that I could see the bottom half of her ass cheeks with even that little bend. A conspicuous red handprint marked her left cheek. It looked as though Sir liked to mark his territory.

"Hi Diwa," I called and waived awkwardly from the kitchen door, "What can I do to help?"

When Diwa turned around, something white and translucent half covered her face.

"Uh, Diwa," I pointed at the half of my face that mirrored hers, "You have some cu- you have something right here."

Diwa laughed and blushed as she wiped her face off with a paper towel. "Oh, thanks Lyka! He likes to see me marked after he's finished, so I usually leave it on until I'm in a separate room. Guess I forgot to take care of it. Oopsie!"

What. The. Fuck.

She just forgot that our boss/landlord/'Sir' had finished on her face. And when I pointed it out, she laughed it off with the same level of chagrin as if I had told her that her zipper was down. What the hell was happening here? Did someone drug her? What the hell was up with the women from this hospital?

"Uh, Diwa," I continued, "Does Dr. Ramos--sorry--does

Sir

often ask you to do that for him?"

"Oh, don't be a prude, Lyka!" Diwa playfully swatted in my direction. "Now come over here and help me separate this. I'm trying to get the starch out of this rice before it's cooked. Can you finish while I start chopping veggies?"

I had much on my mind, but I couldn't help but consider the sanitation concerns of cooking rice with a face-full cum. But as much as I loathed Dr. Ramos, she could have spit in his dinner as far as I cared.

Surprisingly given our first interaction, cooking dinner served as an opportunity to ask Diwa more about her history.

"So, Diwa, what brought you to the Philippines? It sounds like you were successful back in the states. Why come here? Especially given the low wages and your," I hesitated to find a polite word for 'maid' and 'fuck doll,' "night job."

♦

"Oh," Diwa gave a knowing laugh, "I wanted to extend a middle finger to colonialism. Thus, I came here. Admittedly, growing up in a middle class and mostly white community, my feminism hasn't always been intersectional. But coming back to the Philippines has helped me explore my family's roots and other ways of living.

I dropped the pan in my had. My jaw could have hit the floor. Was she talking about intersectional feminism and fighting colonialism? While wearing a maid uniform? While cooking for her boss and landlord? While working for shit wages below her skill level? After having given her boss/landlord a blowjob? Am I living in the Upside-Down here?

"You okay there, Lyka?" Diwa looked at my shocked expression, concerned.

"Um, yeah, I guess I wasn't expecting that from you."

Diwa feigned offence, putting her hand against her collarbone. "Don't worry, Lyka, no offense taken." The sarcasm was palpable.

"Sorry," I looked back down at my task, "I didn't mean it like that. It's just, you've got to see the irony, right?"

"Lyka, do you know why Filipinas take such pride in nursing? And why so many of us work in healthcare?"

"No, can't say I do." Nor did I care, though I didn't want to be rude.

"It has deep cultural roots. In the Philippines, people have always appreciated the value of 'menial' labor. Things like cooking, cleaning, caring for children. Just like in the west, this work tends to falls on women. But unlike in the U.S., servants carry a degree of pride and respect in their work. And other people respect them for it.

"It's not a coincidence that many of the biggest strides in feminism happened in the west. Particularly in the U.S. You see, white women have long exploited Black and Brown women--including Southeast Asian women like you and I--to free themselves up for their 'career.' So that they can 'lean in' to roles that are traditionally masculine. But they only make these strides by exploiting poor people.

"Even today where servants and, at least formally, slaves, are no longer a thing in the U.S., white women exploit Black and Brown people to free themselves up. When a 'Cindy' orders dinner from a food delivery app instead of cooking, that meal will probably be prepared and delivered by someone less economically advantaged, and probably a Black or Brown person. When a 'Stacey' drops her kids off at daycare so she can pursue her job as a lawyer, the person watching and cleaning up after that kid is disproportionately Black or Brown. When a 'Kaelin'," I couldn't help but laugh as Diwa rolled her eyes to speak that name, "hires a housecleaner, that housecleaner is most likely Latinx. In short, Lyka, most of the economic gains that women have made in the west have only been made possible by exploiting people like us."

"I mean," I stuttered, "Sure, but it's complicated, right? Isn't the better solution for more men to pick up that slack?"

"Sure," Diwa rolled her eyes, "But why tell the other gender to pick up the slack when you have a system of colonialism that allows you to exploit other people."

"Fair point," I conceded, "It hasn't shaken out well for people like us. Even within professions."

"Exactly!" Diwa was practically preaching at me now, "Even within professions, like nursing, white women give Filipinas the shittiest, most dangerous jobs. Did you know that during the Covid-19 pandemic, while Filipina nurses constituted merely 4 percent of all nurses in the U.S., they accounted for 34 percent of nursing deaths from Covid-19?"

"Wait, seriously?"

"Yeah!" Diwa nodded fervently, "Look it up."

"I can't believe. I was a doctor back home, but I had no idea things were that bad for Filipina nurses."

"And that ignorance is intentional, Lyka. And it's a pattern with colonialism. My parents immigrated to America to pursue the 'American dream.' And they did just that. In fact, they'd be the first ones to tell you that America made their dreams possible. But that clean little narrative oversimplifies the story of why they had to go to the U.S. in the first place.

"After passing the U.S. Immigration Act of 1965, the U.S. government specifically targeted the Philippines as a source of cheap healthcare labor. They'd bombed us to hell during World War 2 and destroyed our economy in efforts to push out the Japanese. Afterward, they convinced us to hate Japan but revere America. And now that the country was in shambles, they used an unbalanced international finance system to waive cash at poor, hardworking Filipinos and Filipinas, exploit them for their labor, and convince those poor workers to be grateful for the opportunity.'"

♦

"Wow." I didn't know what else to say. "That's heavy."

"No shit." Diwa laughed. "To make a long story short, I wanted to put my middle finger to that awful history and come back to here. And I feel like I'm honoring my country's history by taking pride in this work."

"I think that's admirable." Diwa's position was complex. Just like her. Even though I hated the way she acted like a ditzy, obedient lapdog to Dr. Ramos, admired her thoughtfulness.

"Diwa," as I finished rinsing the rice, I didn't know how to say what I wanted to say, "You and I've kissed. Deeply. Twice. And you've made me..."

Diwa picked up the slack where I trailed of. "I made you climax against a washing machine, and then again against my knee?"

"Well, yeah. That."

"And?" She looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

"And... where does that put us? Do you...," She looked at me patiently while I hesitated to continue, "Do you do that to all of the new hires?"

"Not at all," Diwa chucked, "But there's just something about you that makes me want to

possess

you. At least while I can, before Dr. Ramos claims you."

"Wait--what?"

"Yeah," Diwa rolled her eyes as she shoved a board of chopped veggies into a wok, "He's made conquests of most of the nurses. Repeatedly. Honestly, it's like he has his own harem away from home. I expect that he'll make his claim on you soon."

Diwa's blasé attitude toward this dynamic repeatedly shocked me.

"I-I don't want him to claim me."

"You sure about that?" Diwa sounded doubtful. "You look at him like a golden retriever looks at her master."

"I do not!"

"Okay," Diwa turned away from the stove and squared her shoulders at me, "When you serve him dinner tonight, Dr. Ramos is going to do something sexual to you. I don't know if it'll be a pat on the ass, or a lewd comment, or something else entirely. But it's something he does to establish himself over a new girl. I'm challenging you right now: do something about it. Tell him to stop. Tell him that you're not comfortable with that."

"In a maid uniform? While serving him dinner?" I thought that my retort was obvious. "And he's still my boss and now landlord. There's a power dynamic there. Just because I'm not willing to challenge him doesn't mean I want it."

"I feel like the lines blur," Diwa's arms were crossed, "Even if you don't do anything about it, I'm going to ask you about it afterward. Whether you enjoyed it. Whether it sent electric signals through your body. I have a feeling that it will. And I have a feeling that you'll want it to go farther."

---

Less than an hour later, Diwa's prediction came true. Dr. Ramos sat at the end of his long outdoor table on the veranda. His wife sat next to at the edge of the long end of the table.

"Silog with Sir's favorite veggies and beef!" Diwa announced as her and I carried plates out to the table. The plates were only for Dr. Diwa and his wife. It was made clear to me that Diwa and I would be eating separately--after Dr. Ramos had finished--in the kitchen. I returned to bring Dr. Ramos a Mestiza, his favorite cocktail.

As I turned around, I heard a sharp

clink

as a utensil hit the ground.

"My mistake," Dr. Ramos grinned as he looked up at me. "Could you pick that up that and get me a fresh one?"

It was easily in his arm's reach. Whereas I was wearing heels, a short skirt, and a tight garter that wouldn't allow me to squat down. My only choice was to bend fully over to pick it up. My options were to give Dr. Ramos a show of my ass by facing away from him, a show of my cleavage by facing toward him, or a show of my bent silhouette if I bent down angled to the side.

"Here," Dr. Ramos placed his hand on my thigh, angling me away from him, "I know that the uniform can be restricting. I'll hold you up."

That fucker. So, I'll be facing away from him. While he's holding my thigh for 'support.'

I looked to his wife for help. I was sure that she'd have a problem with this or even try to save me. She didn't. Mrs. Ramos just looked at me impatiently, as if the situation were my fault.

"Food is getting cold, Dear." Dr. Ramos sounded a condescending prick behind me.

I slowly bent down. I later realized that I arched my back and slightly angled out my thighs to improve my shape. Why did I care what I looked like while this creep ogled me?

When I stood up with the utensil in hand, I saw Diwa through the glass door smirking at me. Her prediction about Dr. Ramos's behavior was correct. And I hated that--based on the tingle I felt on my leg where Dr. Ramos's hand had been--her second prediction had also come true.

Sir's thumb lightly caressed my thigh as I came back up. I shuddered against the tingles that shot through my legs. I tried to move, but Sir's hand held me in place. I was surprised by how firmly his fingers could hold onto my bare skin. I assumed this dexterity and steady hand to be related to his profession as a surgeon.

"There's a good girl," Sir was pleased. I tried to ignore that my breath caught at the remark. "Now get Sir a fresh one. And be quick."

I tried to get away before he could slap me on the ass, but I was unsuccessful. The tight garter and heels prevented me from taking steps of more than a few inches at a time. Which further put me at the mercy of this asshole. I felt abased as my ass wiggled--with a fresh handprint--daintily away from the doctor and his wife.

If I hadn't yet been 'claimed,' as Diwa put it, I didn't know what else there was to do. I was pattering around in a humiliating outfit, obeying this creep's every command. And saying nothing when he forced me to bend over in front of him. I hated myself for how far I'd allowed myself to fall. I hated that, though I was probably a more competent doctor than this asshole, he had all but humbled and conquered me.

Would I eventually be broken like Diwa? Would I, at Dr. Ramos's whim, sink to my knees and work his cock until he plastered my face? Would I also feel nonchalant about wearing his seed all over my forehead and cheeks? How far would I fall?

Diwa continued to look at me with a bemused grin as I wiggled back toward the door. "Told you so," Diwa muttered as we pattered to the kitchen.

When we were out of sight of Sir, Diwa lithely slid a hand under my skirt. Not that she had to reach far to get under the pathetically short ruffles.

"It feels like somebody enjoyed herself!"

"Stop!"

My pathetic, raspy complaint fooled no one. Diwa kept her hand under my skirt, and pushed me back against the corner wall. Had I shifted a few feet to my left, we would be in full view of Sir. She kept her hand placed directly on me as she lightly touched my face with her other. Her face came close to mine, as if she was leaning in to kiss me. My mouth opened, but I was disappointed when she just whispered.

"I am

so

grateful that Sir brought you here."

Diwa and I shuffled back to the table with a fresh serving fork, a bottle of wine, and a pitcher of water. In perhaps the most humiliating display yet, Sir expected that Diwa and I stand silently behind him and his wife. I held the wine; Diwa held the water. As soon as either of them emptied a glass, Diwa and I quickly leaned forward to refill it. We stood there like silent statues as Sir and his wife talked casually. Diwa and I might as well have been statues or human serving trays.

When he had finished, Sir threw his napkin on the ground by his chair and stood up. His wife quickly followed suit, though I couldn't tell whether she wanted to be finished. Her portion was much smaller than his, but I could see her eyeing it as she walked away. I wondered how difficult it was for her to maintain that slender figure for him.

After both were out of sight, Diwa and I sprung into cleaning. We cleared the table, wiped it down, swept and mopped around the table, then went to work on the dishes.

As we were nearly finished, Diwa sighed thoughtfully. "This is

much

faster when I have help! You did well today, Lyka. You should feel good about that."

I was standing next to her over the sink, drying as she ran a spuddy sponge along each dish. Despite myself, I blushed at the compliment. At a higher level, I knew that I ought not allow myself to become invested in this menial, degrading work. But in the moment, all I could do was thank her.

After the last dish was put away, Diwa took my hand and led me out of the kitchen and toward the steps.

"I was thinking, Lyka," I had a hard time concentrating on what Diwa said, given that we were obviously heading to our shared bedroom, "That you should take some language lessons. You're obviously a natural--just a few days of Tagalog audio lessons and you're already picking up on basic phrases. But your pronunciation could use a

lot

of work. And your accent might be off-putting to some of the local patients."

So that explained Diwa's thick accent, despite growing up in Miami. She had taken lessons to mimic the local accent to blend in. And to come across as more authentically Filipina.

"For example, earlier today, I overheard you using the word 'bukas' to describe a door. But the way you pronounced it actually meant 'tomorrow.' You meant to say

bukás

, which means open."

"I have to admit," I became more nervous as we ascended the grand staircase, "I'm having a hard time telling the difference."

Diwa laughed. "I thought that might be the case. You'll need to slow down and be mindful of everything you say."

We hit the top of the stairs, and began making our way to our tiny shared bedroom. My heart was racing.

Diwa continued, "When I first arrived, Sir was annoyed by how hard I found it to get the pronunciation just right. One day, he made me get a tongue piercing. And the ring he picked out for me was particularly bulky and heavy. That forced me to slow down my words and be mindful of every syllable. It helped a lot!"