Sameenas Christmas Clean Up

'I don't know, Lucy. Christmas isn't really a thing for us.'

'Who's us?' Lucy asked. 'You told me you're the least devout Muslim you know. Anyway, of all the things that are weird about this idea, you're going to try and tell me your religion is the main one? I've seen you drink.'

Sameena chuckled at that. 'Rarely. Alright. You're not wrong about that.'

'I rarely am. So, what do you say?'

'You're sure there'll be enough stuff for it to be worthwhile?'

'If it's anything like my parents' house, there'll be piles of the stuff. Besides, even if it doesn't work out at least you'll be getting overtime.'

'What's in it for you?' Sam asked, a slight hint of wariness in her voice. 'Will I find out you've been watching on CCTV or something?'

'Ha! I wish. No, nothing like that. Just consider it my Christmas present to you -- some festive charity.'

'It has been a while since I got out and about.'

'Exactly! Trust me, you're going to love it.'

'Alright, alright. I'll do it. Tell Frank I'll be there.'

'Awesome. You won't regret it, I promise.'

Sam replied calmly and bid Lucy farewell. She hung up the phone, but her stomach was dancing with nervous excitement. Christmas was two days away. Most of the country was excited to spend time with family, open presents and get pissed. Sam, thanks to Lucy, couldn't wait to go to work.

Sameena's work uniform was about as dull and dowdy as you might expect of a cleaner's but pulling her stockings up gave her a little thrill. She smiled as the memory of her first steps into being a messy slut played out in her mind. She could practically feel the weird mixture of slop on the Sploshwood Studio floor seeping through the flimsy nylon, even now. The sensation was so vivid in her memory that she had to glance down to make sure she was imagining it.

Getting dressed for a public messing had become somewhat ritualistic by now. She looked at herself in the mirror, noting how her white mesh knickers stood out against her skin. Normally Sam wore a thong, but she needed space to fill today. Her bra matched, of course. It was important that the clothing she was going to ruin was worth ruining, like how the most satisfying sandcastles to kick are the ones that someone clearly spent a lot of time on. Besides, this one pushed her tits up and made them look even better than they already did.

It was a crying shame to cover them up, she thought, pulling her company-branded polo shirt over her head. Maroon in colour, and exceptionally unflattering, it almost managed to hide her curves but not quite. That was an impossible task.

Finally, she pulled on a plain black skirt and that was that: time for another day on the job. Still, Sam couldn't stop thinking about what Lucy had set-up for her. Nothing about cleaning up after someone else's dinner would have excited a normal person, but Sameena had long since accepted that she wasn't a normal person.

And, to be fair, it wasn't the cleaning up she was looking forward to.

Freshly dressed and made up, Sam grabbed a couple of slices of toast and headed out. She'd never been to Spurtley Hall, but knew exactly where it was, having driven past it hundreds of times. She pulled into the car park, checked her make-up in the mirror -- she wouldn't bother with this on a normal day, but this was no normal day -- and stepped out into the frosty chill of late December.

It was dark. Sam could see her breath in the street lights that were dotted about the car park. Through the large, misted-up windows, she could also see that the party was winding down. The buffet was in ruin, half-empty glasses were discarded all over the place, and only a handful of people remained. Indeed, Sam smiled politely and several inebriated revellers who stumbled past her when she reached the front door. Some of the more sober ones looked her up and down, which she might have taken as a compliment in other circumstances, if the party-goers -- or party-leavers, in this case -- hadn't all been twice her age.

Instead, Sam maintained a polite but chilly smile, held the door open for another pair of rich old men, and eagerly stepped inside.

The difference in temperature was noticeable immediately, and Sam felt her whole body relax as though she were luxuriating in a bath. She glanced around, found the reception desk and strode towards it. 'Sameena,' she said to the warmly-smiling woman behind the desk. 'I'm here to clean up.'

'Perfect,' the woman replied. 'Well, they're nearly all out now. You can wait here if you like or you can get started if you don't mind a bit of an audience. They won't see much, the state they're in.'

Sam thanked the woman -- slim, with pale blonde hair, a few years younger than her -- and considered her options as she went through another door into the function room. Whether or not she would prefer an actual audience, as opposed to the exhilarating thrill of the potential of being seen, was an unending debate for Sam. She tended to err on the cautious side, though she knew full well that her proclivities were far from cautious by most people's standards.

The state of the prospective audience made that decision easier than usual. Clearly this had been a meeting for some rich old golf buddies, or whatever it was that boring old white men did for fun. The loiterers were three wrinkled old fellows with varying amounts of wispy white hair. One of them had an impressively large beard -- festive, but genuine -- and all three were snoring loudly. The idea of getting caught being naughty lost a lot of its lustre when this was the audience, Sam felt. Her gratification would have to be delayed more than she had intended.

Seeing no way round it, Sam shook out a bin bag and started her work by picking up a few bit of discarded wrappers and spent Christmas crackers. Frankly, though, she could see clearly that there wasn't a lot of just picking things up to be done. Luckily for her, during her first spot of tinkering around the edges, one of the sleepers woke himself with his own snoring. After smiling politely at Sam, the old fellow took a moment to remember where he was, turned to wake his friend, and the two of them left together, maintaining impressively straight paths towards the exit.

The third man continued to snore loudly. Sam hid her frustration well -- after all, she couldn't really enjoy herself till the staff left as well. Still, the longer this guy stuck around, the longer the staff would have to be here too. On the bright side, there did only seem to be the receptionist remaining. Sam had seen what she assumed to be the bar staff leaving already, and the kitchen staff must have left some time ago.

Tidying in earnest now, Sam found herself eyeing up the many leftovers, contemplating what she would do with them in the hopefully-near future. She had been roughly aware of what kind of stuff she might find laying around, but it was an interesting experience to see the stuff in person. Gravy, obviously she recognised immediately. Cranberry jam? Sauce? Something deep red and sticky, and full of messy potential, anyway. Apple sauce looked very promising. She knew Christmas Cake wasn't particularly appropriate, but the sauce that many of the half-eaten remains were doused in looked to have some potential.

With a frustrated yearning, Sam considered nudging the final party-goer or even just coughing loudly in a bid to wake him and be free. She opted for a tentative cough, and the old man did stir. She tried again, louder, and this time he cursed before finally opening his eyes and asking Sam where he was.

'Christmas party,' she replied. 'Finished some time ago.'

'Bloody hell,' he said in a cartoonish posh accent. 'Fallen asleep again, is it? Call me a car, would you? Bloody brandy. I'd have been here all night if you hadn't disturbed me, you know.'

Sam smiled thinly and offered him an arm. He took it, slowly pulled himself to his feet, muttering about his sore head, and, mercifully, headed for the door. Sam breathed out a sigh of relief and returned to her tidying, though her eyes constantly darted from the job to the reception desk. The woman there had the expression of somebody who had really had enough of pretending to be interested in the conversations of men who made her annual wage in a day. Sam could appreciate that position all too well, and was grateful on her behalf when a sleek black Mercedes pulled up outside the front door. The old timer shuffled his way out into the crisp night air, and Sam watched with a sense of camaraderie as the woman's flimsy smile completely dissipated.

Still, the receptionist evidently still had some work to do before she could lock up and leave Sam a key, so Sam was forced to press on -- and continue to wait. She did find herself tempted to treat herself to an accidentally-on-purpose entrée, though. Maybe she could accidentally spill some of this white, custard-looking sauce on herself, or perhaps something subtler. She found herself getting excited by the idea more and more as time passed. She would glance toward the receptionist, see her still tapping away at a computer, and think of a new way she could she could get messy right now while still maintaining some plausible deniability. Perhaps she could be too distracted when picking up a plate and just let her hand sink completely into the leftovers.

The more she thought about it, the harder it became to talk herself down. She ruled out the more outlandish ideas quite quickly, storing them in her mind for later. After all, it would be difficult to explain why a bit of a spill down her top had resulted in her taking it off altogether. Sitting on a half-eaten plate of food, though? That could work. Who would expect there to be a plate on a chair in the first place?

Sam felt a tension growing within her. She really wanted to take the naughty, thrilling risk, but, as usual, she wanted the risk of being seen rather than to actually be seen. The fact that she knew without doubt that the receptionist would have to pop in before she left meant that any visible mess was guaranteed to be seen. That naturally made her wonder about just stuffing something in her underwear right now, but that meant a huge risk of being seen performing the act, which would then be much harder to deny. No, Sam reasoned, if she was going to give herself a physical tease to go with the mental one she was already inflicting on herself, it had to be something that could realistically be explained away.

Then she saw it: the perfect crime. Somebody had left a tray of drinks, in various states of emptiness, precariously balanced on the edge of a table. It wouldn't exactly give Sam the sloppy, slimy, gooey feeling she craved, but it was something, and it could be easily dismissed as an accident. It was already late, after all, and the tray really was in a less than ideal spot.

Before she could talk herself down, Sam went for it. She turned her back on the table in question, leant over to pick something up from the one beside it, and very deliberately swung her hips so that her sizeable, round arse bashed into the drinks tray. She waited in that position for one delightfully vulnerable moment, hearing the crash of glasses colliding, the tinkle of them falling over, and then, finally, feeling the wet splash of multiple liquids soaking the lower back of her t-shirt and most of the back side of her skirt. It took another moment for her to feel the chill of wetness soaking through her flimsy white knickers but when it hit, she shivered delightfully. She also remembered, as she finally stood up, that she had some very easily-exposed stockings on. There was a very real chance that, if she had looked up at the crash, the receptionist would have spotted the nylon.

Sam's first instinct, which she had already overridden, was to straighten up and try to deal with the dampness. Her second, which she heeded, was to look over and see what the receptionist was up to. The blonde was indeed making her way over to see what all the fuss was about. Sam found that she was more amenable to her first instinct at this point, and begun making an effort to be seen wringing out her polo shirt with one hand while gathering up the glasses with the other. Mercifully, none of the glasses had broken, but they had drenched her quite severely, Eyeing them up beforehand, it hadn't seemed like much -- a third of a pint of beer here, an inch of discarded whiskey there. Combined, though, her lower half had taking quite a soaking.

Sam didn't have time to really assess the damage to her dignity, though. The receptionist was already opening the door into the function room before Sam clocked that her accidental cocktail was trickling down her nylon-clad thighs like a different kind of accident.

'Everything alright?' the receptionist asked.

'Yeah, uh, just knocked a tray over. Nothing broken as far as I can tell.'

The receptionist looked her up and down in a way that Sam felt crossed the line between practical and inappropriate. 'You're soaked,' the receptionist said. 'Can I get you something to change into?'

'I'll be alright,' Sam said. 'Anyway, I'm supposed to keep my uniform on.'

'Even when it's drenched?'

Sam shrugged. She didn't really know what to say to that.

'Tell you what, you just slip out of those wet things and I'll put them through the dryer so you can put them back on when you're done.' There was a pause, very brief, but Sam felt it was also very deliberate. 'And I'll bring you one of our spare uniforms in the meantime.'

Was this woman implying that Sam just strip down to her lingerie in front of her? 'Honestly, it's no bother,' Sam replied. It was believable because it was true, as was her follow-up: 'I'm sort of used to it, anyway.'

The receptionist, now with hands on hips, gave her another appraising look. Sam felt like she was being judged, but somehow it was both exciting and nerve-wracking in equal measure. She wasn't entirely sure, and the circumstance didn't really help sway her one way or the other, but she felt like she was being checked out.

'It gets nippy in here after hours,' the receptionist said. 'Once I leave, I have to turn off most of the heating, lights, et cetera. I can't in good conscience leave you cold and wet. Look, you wait here and I'll go get you something else to put on.'

This woman clearly wasn't going to take no for an answer, but at least now she was giving Sam the opportunity to not just undress in front of her like it was nothing. That was what was being suggested here. Sam couldn't be totally sure if everything else was sexual and not just practical, but the fact that the other woman had suggested she remove her clothes there and then was starting to convince her.

Another naughty idea occurred to Sam as she waited. What if she just went with it? What if she removed her polo shirt and her skirt and just stood there, waiting in the middle of the function room in nothing but lingerie, for this unfamiliar woman to come back and find her. It would be incredibly uncomfortable if she had read the situation wrong, but she could at least try and explain it away as being no big deal. In theory, she could act like she undressed in front of people all the time and thought nothing of it.

Sam didn't trust herself to play it that cool, though. Besides, the receptionist was back within a couple of minutes and Sam was still in the fantasy stage of planning such an exhibition.

'Here you go,' the receptionist said, holding out neatly-ironed white work shirt and a pair of plain black trousers. The name Spurtley Hall was embroidered on the breast of the shirt.

Sam took them from her, but hesitated.

'Would you prefer me to look away?' the stranger asked precociously.

'I'd prefer you not to be here at all,' Sam replied, not quite honestly.

There was a brief flash of disappointment on the woman's face, but she hid it again impressively quickly. 'Of course. Sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. Well, I'll be at the desk for another ten minutes and then I finally get to clock off. Here's your keys. This one is for the function room, this one is for the laundry. You can figure out how to use the dryer yourself, I'm sure. If you need anything in the next ten minutes, you know where I am. My name's Katie, by the way.'

Sam thanked her, but waited till she had left the room before she started undressing. Realistically, it didn't make a huge difference, since the walls of the room were mostly glass, as was the door, but it felt safer -- more private. Again, she couldn't be totally sure -- maybe she was just out of practice, or maybe she still wasn't used to reading signals from women as well as she did from men -- but it seemed like the emphasis Katie had put on the word "anything" referred to more than just cleaning.

It came as no huge surprise to Sam that her knickers were wet with more than just lukewarm beer. Having chickened out of stripping completely in front of Katie, Sam thought the next best thing would be to strip completely in fairly plain sight. Rather than the sensible option of removing her top and immediately replacing it, she removed her top and alcohol-soaked skirt one after the other, only then pulling the shirt into place. With another rush of adrenaline, she opted to turn her back on the reception desk, bending over at the waist to pull the snug-fitting trousers on one leg at a time. She felt herself blushing at the knowledge of what she was doing. Even in briefs -- mesh ones, at that -- she knew she was showing off a lot of butt, and the fact that the knickers were somewhat see-through only added to the rush.

There was a problem, though, and just not the fact that she had just potentially shown her most internally contentious feature to a complete stranger. The uniform didn't fit. Sam couldn't bring herself to turn back around just yet -- couldn't face the reaction she had gotten out of Katie, if any -- but now she was standing upright again it was clear that she couldn't fasten more than a couple of buttons on her shirt. The trousers were extremely tight and restrictive, too, and she had struggled to pull them up over her thick cheeks. Whether Sam turned to face Katie now didn't really matter; she would have to talk to her about this new problem. She tried experimentally leaning over to grab something off a nearby table and could hardly move in the restrictive trousers. The unbuttoned shirt she could handle -- it would even come in handy when she got messy -- but the job part of her night required free movement and these trousers were in no way suitable for that.

In a weird way, what she did next required more courage than the way she had undressed and re-dressed. She fastened as many buttons as she could, adjusted the trousers as best she could, and stepped out of the function room into the reception.

'Hi, uh, Katie?' Sam said uncertainly.

'Hi. Can I he-- Oh. I see.' Katie was stifling a smirk. Had she planned this or was she simply reacting to an amusing situation? Again, Sam couldn't be sure, but she reasoned that it didn't particularly matter right now.

'It's a big, er, snug,' Sam replied, motioning with both arms to the general state of her clothing.

'I see, I see. Yeah, sorry about that. I guess I misjudged. Well, listen, I'm heading off any minute now, but I can't leave you like that. You've got your uniform off, so hand me that and I'll go put it in the dryer and while I'm there I'll grab you the next size up.'

'Thank-you so much,' Sam replied in earnest.

'Don't mention it. Although, there is one thing you could do to help me,' Katie said, lips pursed in that increasingly familiar coy expression.

'Sure. You're helping me, I can help you.'

'Well, I am off the clock any second now, and I would like to get home, so rather than me making multiple trips to the laundry room it would really help speed things along if you could hand me that uniform now. Turn two trips into one.'