Rebecca’s text triggered the panic button, and in my haste to get ready I stubbed my toe on the bathtub. Ignoring the pain, I focused on my mission: “house needs clean.”

Because it was a Saturday and I wasn’t worried about concealing a lumpy garment beneath work clothes, I wore my new French maid’s outfit. I’d purchased the dress online a few days earlier while in the throes of Rebecca Strickland-Martin Withdrawal Syndrome, but was having second thoughts about wearing it, fearful my masters might think it was over the top. I took a chance and donned the uniform, covering it with a lightweight, loose-fitting tracksuit for the drive over.

Rebecca answered my knock dressed in sweats, wearing no makeup, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She obviously hadn’t done a thing to gussy up, yet she was lovelier than ever.

“We’re gonna do a schedule,” she said as she led me into the house. The “Juicy” logo on her swaying ass made me oozy but I tried to concentrate on what my beloved was telling me.

“Karl says he don’t want you coming over all the time, but after a few days the house gets real messy — obviously.” Rebecca gestured toward the living room, where the carpet was littered with crumbs, while dirty dishes and open containers were stacked on the coffee table. “So, we’re thinking you can swing by after work Mondays and Wednesdays to pick up a little and do the dishes, and then do a real deep cleaning, and laundry and all the other stuff on either Saturday or Sunday, depending on what we got going.”

I swallowed my excitement at the news that I’d be seeing my darling Rebecca — or at least cleaning her house — three times a week minimum. “Yes, Mrs. Martin,” I replied in my most professional voice. “Thank you, Mrs. Martin.”

“Yeah, that’ll probably work best, at least for now,” she mused. “I’m trying to get Karl to trust you so you can clean when we’re not here or after we go to bed. But he’s still leery.”

“Uh … no, I … I wouldn’t … um, Mrs. Martin, I would never …”

Rebecca waved her hand. “Oh, I know you’d never steal, Chrissie. I think Karl’s more worried about you going through our dirty underwear.”

My ears burned but Rebecca just giggled.

“Anyway, go ahead and get started. The backyard’s a real mess from the BBQ last night, so you’ll want to get that for sure, although don’t be wearing your sissy clothes outside. Oh, and the kitchen needs a lot done — especially that fridge; Stupid-Ass got drunk and spilled OJ everywhere. So, make sure you clean that out real good.”

“Yes, Mrs. Martin.”

I drew a breath and peeled off my tracksuit, revealing my maid’s uniform, watching for Rebecca’s reaction. There was none. After all my apprehension, she didn’t comment on the outfit, instead ordering me to fix her a Diet Coke and bring it to the bedroom before I started cleaning.

When I knocked on the boudoir door, Karl looked up from his spot on the bed next to Rebecca, where they relaxed watching Netflix.

“Hey, sissy, bring me a beer,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” I set Rebecca’s beverage on her nightstand before scurrying to fetch one for her husband, feeling the dress brush against my stockings with every step.

Karl smirked as I handed him his can of Bud. “Thanks, Chrissie. Did Becca tell you about the car?”

“Um … the car, sir?”

He took a sip and smacked his lips. “Yeah, my transmission blew out and the damn junkyard said it was gonna be two weeks before they get one in. I was gonna have to go out to the rent-a-car place today, but I got to thinking: fuck it, I’ll just send you out.”

“Um, okay, sir … um, do you want me to go now, or should I keep doing my chores for a while since … um, since I’m already dressed? I can check to see when they close if you want, sir.”

Karl rubbed his chin. “I don’t know, Chrissie; hell, if you really was our slave, you’d just loan me your car until mine gets fixed.”

“I … uh … um, s-sir?”

He stared at me. “I said: If you really was our slave like you say you are, then you’d let me use your car.”

Rebecca smiled into my soul. “OMG, Chrissie, that would be soooooooo awesome of you.”

“Um, I …” I melted under her gaze, and two syllables — “OK” — somehow escaped my lips.

My angel’s eyes twinkled “You are such a little doll, I swear.”

“I … uh … t-thank, you, Mrs. Martin …”

Karl smirked. “Great, Chrissie, now be a good little doll and bring me them keys. The registration, too.”

“Um … uh, y-yes, sir?”

As I started to slog away, wondering what the hell had just happened, Rebecca tittered. “Hee-hee, I think you like having a slave more than I do.”

I didn’t hear Karl’s reply as I continued down the stairs to the hall closet, where I’d left my gym bag. Trembling, I had a difficult time controlling my fingers as I fished the car registration from my wallet and twisted the key fob off the ring.

Rebecca beamed as I handed over my keys and paperwork to her hubby.

“It really takes a giving person to want to be someone’s slave, and do stuff like this for them,” she said. “Seriously. Thank you, Chrissie.”

“Um … you’re welcome, Mrs. Martin. Um … can I ask a question?”

“Sure, sweetie.”

“Um … how … how am I gonna get home?”

Karl snorted. “There’s a bus stop on Waldo Road. It’s only about a mile walk.”

I blinked back tears.

Rebecca made a sad face. “Aw, Chrissie, we’d give you a ride, we really would … but we weren’t planning on going out today; we had a little too much to drink last night, and just wanted to make this a laying-around day. Okay, baba?”

A single tear worked its way past my defenses and slithered down my cheek.

My beloved tilted her head. “Don’t be sad, Chrissie. You want to make my life easier, don’t you?”

“Y-yes, Mrs. Martin, I do.”

“Then, don’t you also want to make my husband happy, and make his life easier, too?”

“Y-yes, Mrs. Martin.” I couldn’t bring myself to look at the smug sonofabitch but I could feel the heat of his sneer.

“See?” Rebecca smiled. “All better now, baba?”

“Yes, Mrs. Martin.” I cleared my throat. “Um, uh … when I’m done cleaning, is it okay if I just call an Uber to take me to the rent-a-car place, so I can get a car?”

Karl propped his hands on the pillow above his head and pondered my request. “Naaaaaah, I don’t think so. Take the bus for a while, sissy. If you really want to be a slave, then you need to come down a few pegs.”

With the tears now freely flowing, I glanced at Rebecca, whose hand covered her mouth in an obvious attempt to hide her mirth.

“Poor Chrissie,” she sang. “You put up with so much, don’t you?”

“I … I don’t know.” I hung my head and sobbed more.

“Aw, poor thing. It’s not easy being our slave, huh?”

“Buh-buh-buh-buh-buh,” was all I could manage.

Rebecca searched my face. “Listen, Chris, seriously — is this slave thing even something you want to do? You said you wanted to, but you act so bummed out about it all the time. I thought this was your thing, but I don’t want to keep doing it if all you’re gonna do is cry.”

“Oh, no, no, Mrs. Martin, please.” I sniffled and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Mr. Martin, sir, please, no, take my car for as long as you need it, sir. And I’ll … I’ll take the bus, no problem. Whatever you want. Please, I just … I just want to … I want to keep serving you. Please.”

I dropped to my knees, clasped my hands, squeezed my eyes shut, and eked out one final “Pleeeeeeeease.”

Karl scoffed. “Fucking sissy.”

“Oh, hush, I think it’s sweet.” Rebecca looked down on me. “Get up off your knees, Chrissie. We’ll still let you be our slave if you want to. Just stop all the crying, okay? I know Karl’s mean to you sometimes, but that’s just how he is. If you’re gonna really try to make this work, you need to deal with it without all the drama. Okay?”

“Y-yes, Mrs. Martin. T-thank you, Mrs. Martin. Thank you so much. No more crying. I promise. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, baba,” she said. “Now, why don’t you go ahead and get started?”

Rebecca hadn’t been kidding about it being a “laying-around day” for them. They cuddled and binge-watched “Ozark” while I scrubbed, scoured, fetched and polished. I worked as slowly as I dared, trying to draw out the day as long as possible, making excuses to pass the bedroom as I cleaned so I could peek in at my Princess, even if it meant having to see her nestled in that asshole’s arms.

When the house was spotless, and I could no longer delay the inevitable, I reported to Rebecca and her husband.

“Um, the … the house is all done.”

By then, they’d turned off Netflix and were each kicked back in bed going through their phones. I stood before them in my maid’s dress, feeling even shorter than 5’6 while they ignored me.

Rebecca finally looked up. “All done, sweetie?”

“Yes, Mrs. Martin. Um, is … is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, baba, I’m good.”

I gritted my teeth. “Sir? Is there anything else you need?” I hated myself for kissing up to the sonofabitch, but I was desperate to stay in their good graces.

Karl rubbed his chin. “Nah, you were a good little sissy slave for us today. Thanks for the car. Is there gas in it?”

“Oh, yes, sir, I just filled it up the other day, sir.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m all set then.”

“Um, okay.” I stood there for another second. “Uh … see you later. T-thank you for letting me serve you.”

“You’re welcome, Chrissie.” Rebecca giggled. “Say hi to the bus driver.”

\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\//

As I waited for the bus it started pouring. There was no shelter so I stood on the corner and cried in the rain.

With every thunder boom, I hoped like a sap that Rebecca might realize how bad it was outside, feel sorry for me and come give me a ride. She knew where I was, since her husband had just ordered me to walk a whole fucking mile to the bus stop on Waldo Road, and there was no way they couldn’t hear the thunder and driving rain, so I kept thinking that perhaps … maybe … perchance …

A speeding truck rumbled through a puddle and the spray smacked me in the face — reality setting in. Who was I kidding? Rebecca wasn’t feeling sorry for me; every time it thundered, she probably giggled with her husband about the infatuated little toady who’d just handed over his car keys and cleaned their house and was now getting soaked.

“Say hi to the bus driver.”

Those were her last words to me as I’d left their house. It was a mean-spirited statement, and she said it for no other reason than to be cruel. I wiped mud from my face and gritted my teeth. Karl’s nastiness had rubbed off on my pristine angel.

It took about a half-hour for the bus to arrive. The driver shot me a strange glance but I shrugged it off. I had other problems. Slumped in a rear seat dripping water, I couldn’t get the vision out of my head of Rebecca and Karl snuggled up in their warm, comfy bed, laughing at me.

The storm hadn’t let up by the time the bus got to my stop, so I trudged a half-mile through the deluge, rain mixing with tears, until I finally made it home.

My mood tumbled even further when I walked into my condo and saw my reflection in the mirror — my maid’s dress showed beneath the thin material of my soaked tracksuit. Blood drained from my face when it dawned on me why the bus driver had given me a funny look.

And then, out of the blue, a miracle occurred and all my troubles melted away: When I switched on my laptop, I saw that Rebecca had friended me.

Her acceptance of my friend request meant I now had access to all her Facebook photos, not just the single profile pic I’d been pining over. My old phone had crapped out a few years earlier, and I’d lost all my pictures of Rebecca from when we’d dated. Since her Facebook security settings blocked non-friends from her account, I had been relying on the one profile photo, which unfortunately included Karl — and because their faces were smushed together there’d been no way to cut the prick out of the pic.

There were hundreds of photos in her picture folder showing her alone and with Karl doing all sorts of partying with different people, and I realized how popular she was. Rebecca had 993 friends. I had seven.

It didn’t matter, because one of my Facebook friends was Rebecca Martin.

I spent hours in a narcotic haze poring over her photo albums, feeling like an archeologist who’d just discovered the blueprints for the Pyramids.

A photo of Rebecca sitting on a rustic wood fence was probably my favorite, but there were so many other good ones.

Her smile lit up the pic from a few years earlier when she and her girlfriends had gone to Vegas.

Even though Karl stood next to her, I couldn’t help feeling mushy at how happy my angel seemed in the photo where they posed in front of monkeys in the zoo.

I teared up when I came to the baby picture. My precious, precious Rebecca Anne Strickland-Martin … so utterly adorable.

Then, there were the wedding pix. It appeared to be a low-budget affair, but they seemed so infatuated with each other — which also brought tears to my eyes, but for a different reason.

After finishing with the photos, I started stalking Rebecca’s timeline. I sifted through a few mundane posts before absorbing a major gut punch — some woman named Cyndy Rae had tagged Rebecca in a photo showing me from behind as I walked from the Martins’ backyard, accompanied by the hashtag, #RebeccasLittleBitch.

This Cyndy was obviously the woman who’d been at the BBQ the other day and it appeared she’d snapped my picture with her cellphone after I’d dropped off the groceries and was so embarrassingly dismissed. Following the initial shock of seeing the photo, I felt a twinge of relief that at least my face didn’t show; and then I wondered if Rebecca had replied. There were sixteen responses. I almost didn’t want to look. But I did.

The first post in the thread was a second photo showing the groceries I’d brought, with Cyndy explaining: “Rebecca’s ex simps for her like crazy. He just dropped off beer, Jack and steaks! Party on!”

I was beyond mortified, but also relieved that Cyndy either didn’t know about my crossdressing or had decided not to post about it. I figured with Rebecca and Karl’s crowd, they’d probably kept that part under wraps, lest their friends think it weird.

No, my beloved and her asshole of a husband seemed perfectly happy with everyone just thinking I was some lovestruck ex-boyfriend who was making a fool of himself.

The next post in the thread was some smartass named Jonathon Beeder who replied to the photo of the groceries I’d bought: “Bud? Shoulda had him get Sam Adams.”

Carole Johns, whose profile photo was stunning, wrote: “I used to have a guy like that. Wish he was still hear but had to move to Cally cuz his work. He wanted to married but didn't want that but din't mind using him for his money LOL”

“Dude should have some self reapct WTF,” a guy named Joe Polanski wrote.

Carla Keller warned, “You might want to be careful. A lot of these ex bfs are obsessed and they can be dangerous so don’t lead this guy on if he creeps you out at all.”

Tom Mobley was brief: “incel cuck”

Rebecca finally weighed in two hours after her friend had composed the post: “Be nice guys.”

I broke into tears. My angel had stuck up for me on Facebook.

\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\//

The alarm clanged way too early. I rolled out of bed, grumbling to myself that nobody should have to wake up at the ungodly hour of 4:45 am. But since I wasn’t sure how long it would take for the bus to get me to work, I had to err on the side of caution.

After donning a baby blue teddy beneath my suit, I trekked the half-mile to the nearest bus stop and cooled my heels in the predawn darkness for nearly an hour. When the bus finally came, I was relieved that it wasn’t the same driver who’d spotted my maid’s dress beneath the soaked material of my tracksuit after I’d been caught in the big thunderstorm two days earlier.

The market broke even and it was a relatively stress-free Monday at the office. After work, I was happy to find a bus stop less than a block from the firm, although that turned out to be a mixed blessing when my boss, Mr. Colburn, drove by and saw me standing there.

He rolled down the car window. “Hey, Chris, why are you taking the bus?”

“Uh, um, my car broke down,” I lied.

“Oh, well, get in. I’ll give you a ride home.”

Thinking fast, I sputtered: “Um, thanks, uh … but my friend is fixing my car, and, uh … I’m, uh, headed to his house to pick it up.”

Mr. Colburn shrugged. “Hop in, I’ll take you to your friend’s.”

I kicked at the sidewalk. “Um, uh … that’s okay. I’m good.”

“You sure?” My boss frowned. “Listen, is everything okay, Chris? You’ve seemed distracted the last few weeks.”

“Yes, yes, everything’s fine. I … uh …” I thought up another lie: “Um, I just been having some family issues lately.”

“All right,” my boss said. “You take it easy, then.”

He pulled away and I exhaled, relieved that he was out of my hair, but also upset that I’d have to start walking to a bus stop farther from work until I got my Mercedes back so my boss wouldn’t see me — and according to Karl, that wouldn’t be for another two weeks.

After catching the bus and walking a mile, I didn’t get to the Martins’ house until well past 8 pm. My ears turned red when I saw my Mercedes in the driveway, although I noticed the absence of Rebecca’s Neon.

Karl answered my knock and stood in the doorway towering over me.

“You’re late,” he snapped.

“Sir, I’m sorry … I took the first bus that came after work, sir. It … it just takes a lot longer to get here on the bus, sir.”

“You’ll be alright.” Karl chuckled and let me inside. “It’ll do a rich boy like you good to ride the bus for a while; see how the other people have to live.”

I wanted to tell the low-class, redneck piece of shit that I’d grown up dirt-poor and had worked two jobs to put myself through college. Sure, I was making high six figures and drove a $150,000 Mercedes GT63 S — or, I did before Karl took it — but nothing had ever been easy for me.

I bit my lip and scanned the room for Rebecca.

“She’s out with her girlfriends from Best Buy,” Karl said. “She probably won’t be back until late; go ahead and start.”

Sniffling back tears, I shed my suit, revealing my teddy. Karl tittered.

“So, wearing that shit makes you want to clean the house?” He plopped on the couch, set his feet on the coffee table and smirked up at me. “I don’t understand that shit. How does wearing women’s underwear make someone want to clean a damn house?”

“Um, well, sir, it’s, uh, kind of hard to explain,” I said. “It’s not really the clothes that make me want to do it … um, it’s just … well, when I was a kid—”

Karl waved his hand. “I don’t want to hear that shit.”

“Y-yes, sir, sorry, sir,” I said, seething inside, since he was the one who’d broached the subject in the first place.

Resentment ate me alive as I scuttled about picking up dirty plates, cups, empty chip bags, a pizza box and other trash from the coffee table while Karl chilled and watched a ballgame. He didn’t move his feet so I worked around them before heading to the kitchen to do the dishes. After the kitchen was spotless, I did the bathroom. The living room carpet also needed vacuuming, although since Karl was still watching TV, I figured I’d better check with him before firing up the appliance.

“Um, sir, everything’s done except the vacuuming, but I didn’t want to make a bunch of noise with you watching TV, sir.”

“Yeah, I’m trying to watch the game; don’t be turning on the damn vacuum cleaner.” Karl jerked his thumb toward the laundry room. “Go get the whisk broom and the dustpan out of the closet in there.”

“Yes, sir.”

While the smug sonofabitch relaxed on the couch watching the ballgame with his feet on the table, I maneuvered around him on my hands and knees sweeping up crumbs.

During a commercial, he leered down at me.

“Tell me something, Chrissie: You in love with my wife?”

“Um, uh … I … er … sir?”

“It’s a simple question. Are you?”

“Sir, I don’t … I …”

He scoffed. “It’s okay, sissy boy. I know you are. I don’t blame you; she’s beautiful, ain’t she?”

“Uh, um, y-yes, sir.”

“You think about fucking her still?”

“Um … I … uh … no, sir.”

Karl snorted. “Bull fucking shit. I see you all goo-goo-eyed whenever you look at her.”

“S-sorry, sir.”

He studied me for a few minutes. I squirmed under his gaze.

“She says you’re a pretty nice guy; you just get turned on by this crazy shit.”

“I … uh … I guess, so, sir.”

“Well, you work hard, I’ll give you that much. It’s been nice having you around; that garage looks fucking great.” He stared at me a few seconds more. “Tell you what: When you finish up here, you can go ahead and call an Uber, and rent a car if you want to. I’ll let you.”

“Oh, sir … t-thank you so much, sir.”

Karl shrugged. “No problem. Like I said, you’ve been working real hard for us. Becca loves it; the girl hates a dirty house, but she hates cleaning even more. And I sure as hell ain’t doing it. So, it’s great having you, Chrissie. You’re a good slave.”

“I really, really appreciate it, sir … um, and I do like serving you and … uh, Mrs. Martin, sir.”

He picked up the remote. “Well, great. Hey, before you go, how about you whip me up some nachos?”

“Oh, yes, sir, right away, sir.”

“That’s a good little sissy.”

The insult made me smile.

\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\//

I chose the most expensive Beemer at the rent-a-car place and drove to work with a grin on my face.

The only drawback to my buoyant mood was that it was Tuesday, a non-cleaning day, meaning I wasn’t scheduled to see my angel, although I wore a white teddy and panties beneath my suit anyway on the off-chance Rebecca or Karl might summon me. I wasn’t worried about using the bathroom at the office anymore, having figured out that spreading a newspaper across my lap obscured my panties and covered me from possible prying eyes in the adjacent stalls. So, I threw on my girlies just in case.

My boss had mentioned how distracted I’d seemed recently, so as the opening bell rang, I did my best to put Rebecca — and Karl — out of my mind. It was, of course, impossible. Since Karl had treated me halfway decently the previous evening, I’d been in turmoil, fighting a deep desire to submit to the hillbilly sonofabitch — the same subservient, mushy feelings I’d always had for Rebecca. The more I tried not to think about it, the more I did, and the more I hated myself for it.

I tried to reason away the terror and doubt that churned my gut, to no avail. Karl had acted like he’d done me the biggest solid in the world by allowing me to rent a car while keeping my Mercedes for himself — but I was ashamed to admit that I FELT like he’d done me some huge favor. It scared me how much power he held over me through my infatuation with Rebecca. And he knew it, too. He was well aware that his pretty little wife had me wrapped around her pretty little finger, and that he could get me to do anything he wanted simply by having her tell me to do it. As a result, I felt like my fate rested on his whim, while any little favor or nicety he deemed to mete out had me wagging my tail like an overeager, pathetic puppy.

The day ended with a decent Tuesday tech rebound, and with me concluding that my best bet was to just keep kissing Karl’s ass and hoping he stayed in a good mood. The alternative was to allow him to bother me, cry about it all the time and have Rebecca bar me from serving her. That was a fate I didn’t want to contemplate.

As I drove home from work, my cellphone rang, and I almost careened into a ditch when I saw Rebecca’s number.

I engaged the Bluetooth. “Uh, hey, Mrs. Martin.”

“Hey, Chrissie. You home yet?”

“No, Mrs. Martin, I’m on my way, though.”

“Oh, good. There’s a new Whataburger on the strip, and Karl’s never had one. Pick us up a couple Avocado Bacon Burgers, and I guess two large fries.”

In the background, I heard Karl yell, “Onion rings for me.”

“He wants onion rings,” Rebecca relayed before telling her husband, “you’re gonna love that burger, watch.” Then the line went dead. For a nanosecond I considered calling her back, thinking maybe we’d been accidentally disconnected, but with a sigh, I realized that she’d simply been rude and had hung up on me without saying thanks.

Her disrespect didn’t keep my spirits down for long, though — I was getting an extra chance to spend some time with my beloved angel, even if it was just to drop off dinner.

I picked up my masters’ Whataburger order and sped to their house, seething when I spotted my car in the driveway covered bumper-to-bumper in mud. Karl answered the door and whistled at my rented BMW.

“Nice ride.” He grinned. “Race ya.”

“Um … er …”

Karl reached down and ruffled my hair. “Just kidding, Chrissie. You are gonna have to wash that one, though; me and Tom was doing a little off-roading. Nothing major, don’t worry. Just a few donuts.”

I gritted my teeth. “Y-yes, sir.”

He smacked his lips. “Okay, let’s have them burgers Becca keeps talking about.”

He led me into the living room, where Rebecca sat on the couch, still in her Best Buy uniform. “Oh, hey, Chrissie, go get plates,” she said.

After I’d set the table, laid out their food and fetched drinks from the kitchen, Rebecca and I watched as Karl took a bite of his burger.

“Mmmm.” He nodded with his mouth full, causing Rebecca to grin.

“Told you,” she said before looking up at me. “Thanks for getting those, Chrissie. I guess we’ll see you tomorrow after work.”

“Um, okay, Mrs. Martin, thank you.”

Karl glanced out the window. “You know what? It’s still light outside; why don’t you go ahead and wash the Mercedes now, instead of waiting until tomorrow?”

“Uh, y-yes, sir.”

“Thanks, Chrissie.” Karl winked at me. “Hey, Chrissie — watch this.”

He leaned over and yanked up his wife’s Best Buy shirt and bra, exposing her breasts.

Rebecca playfully slapped her husband’s hand, causing her tits to jiggle. He ignored her and grinned at me.

“Lookie there, Chrissie,” he said. “How you like them apples?”

I tried to formulate words but all that came out was “bububububdadadadaabababebebe.”

Rebecca pulled her shirt down. “You’re so funny. See you tomorrow, baba. Thanks again for the burgers.”

“T-thank you, Mrs. Martin.”

“Make sure you turn off that hose and lock up the garage when you’re done washing the car,” Karl said.

“Will do, sir, thank you, sir.” I instantly cursed myself for being such a suck-up to the man who’d stolen my angel’s heart.

The vision of Rebecca’s lovely breasts was stuck in my head all night, offsetting my resentment as I scuttled back and forth in the driveway washing my own car after Karl had taken it joyriding it through the mud. Once again, though, instead of being massively pissed off, I left their house feeling indebted to the sonofabitch for showing me his wife’s boobs, and hoping I’d washed the car to his satisfaction.