Katey's Cootchie
Twelve Months - Thursday, July 1
The young woman in the French maid outfit looked closely at the baseboard she was cleaning. She had wiped only the first eight feet of it, and there were about thirty-two feet to go in the long hallway that morphed into the great room of her boyfriend's spacious house. But each time she thought what she had wiped was clean enough, the older woman kneeling alongside her said no, pointing to a blemish or streak or spot of dust that had been missed.
Her attire was classic Fetish - high-collared behind the neck and low-busted in front, mid-thigh in length, in the customary black with the white-accent apron. It was accessorized with sheer black nylon stockings, held up by elastic garters, rather than pantyhose - indeed she wasn't wearing panties at all. Medium-heel black patent peep-toe pumps with ankle straps -- expensive because they were custom-ordered size 5 - completed the look. The effect was to accentuate the cleavage of her unusually full bustline, for a woman of just five-foot stature, and also her moderately oversized thighs, which a regimen of exercise had been chosen to gradually reduce, while the heels gave a toned look to her calves. The only thing that didn't quite fit with the costume's look was her very short spiky bleached hair.
The darker skinned and much older woman beside her was dressed much more casually, but no less provocatively above the waist. She had on plain gray sweatpants that were past their prime, and comfortable sandals, but the red top was something one of her underlings had recently bought on Amazon, the web page for it featuring keywords SEXY GOTH BABYDOLL LOW COWL BUSTY CLEAVAGE PARTY TRENDY SHIRT TOP, and she had taken it for herself. She was too old by probably 30 years to really carry off the look, but she liked it, and because she had on a good support bra, it showed off the top half of her medium sized tits, and that was enough reason for her to choose it.
"That's not how I show you do it," María told the younger woman, and gave her a light swat on the rear end, then stood up. At five-foot-three she was far from tall even for a woman but was a few inches higher than Katey would be even if standing.
Katey didn't take the correction well. "Everything I do is wrong," she said defensively.
"Señor Mitch want you *perfect*, bomboncita."
"I'm *not* perfect, María. I never will be."
"I make you perfect, amor. Come El Cuenca. The weekend. Back here Monday, Tuesday? I make you perfect."
The 22-year-old fully understood the implication of that offer. María no longer did much housecleaning herself and had by now established a business where the six housecleaners she employed did the work, while she managed their appointments and took a percentage of their earnings. These housecleaners performed normal cleaning duties, but they also were open to the possibility of providing services of a, ahem, personal nature for an additional price on request, by a client whether a male or, increasingly often, a bored female facing too much time on her hands with hubby at work and insufficient sexual outlets yet the need for discretion. María of course collected a percentage of those earnings too; the girls knew better than to try to hide anything from her. In addition, she provided housing for these younger women, in the large home she had bought in a poor section of town, and these girls often shared beds with one another, and at times with María herself, when they weren't with boyfriends of their own. So Katey understood that to spend a weekend there with her, in effect as a cleaning apprentice, would also mean no defense against intimacy with as many as seven women. And she had told Mitch, before he left for his day's errands, that this was unacceptable. Mitch had merely shrugged and said to keep an open mind. He had paid for this day of at-home training, and he was adamant that he get his money's worth, in terms of Katey learning at last how to keep house properly, now that she no longer had her outside job at the DMV.
Besides, she had an excuse. "We're flying to DC tomorrow. To see the fireworks. Isn't that cool? So I'll be gone."
"Next week, then. A week, I make you perfect."
"I'll never be perfect," Katey countered. "I just need to be *better*. To be good enough. I didn't know it would be this hard, when I moved in. It's starting to feel like I'm his *slave*, instead of Happily Ever After." It had been less than two weeks since she had tried to work the word "love" into the conversation with Mitch and had been rebuffed with platitudes about moving too fast and not sure of his feelings and wanting to see where things took them and their relationship. At least, he had been willing to use the word "relationship." But she had been hoping to work up the courage to mention "marriage" or some related term.
María knelt back down beside her. "Señor Mitch want you perfect," she insisted. "He say he kick you out. Then what, cariño?" She placed her hand on Katey's backside and caressed her right buttock through the lower part of the black fabric.
"He wouldn't say that, señora." Katey tried to retain some formality, through her term of address.
"He *tell* me, *señorita*. He kick you right out. For real. Your last chance." She reached under the dress and tried to fondle Katey's pussy from behind, which was wet from Mitch having insisted on her masturbating shortly before María's 9 a.m. arrival. "Me, *I'm* last chance," she added for emphasis, "for you."
"He doesn't mean it." Katey shifted her position slightly to evade the intimacy, while she rubbed at the recalcitrant spot on the baseboard and tried again to speak with a tone of authority. "Don't touch me there on my cootchie."
"Spread your leg, mi amor," the older woman said firmly, and tried again to finger her.
"No." Katey straightened up from her crouch and put the dust rag down. "I'm not your love. And I can't concentrate on what I'm supposed to be doing, if you do that."
Painfully, María stood back up; the arthritis in her left knee was only getting worse. With a swift motion, she pushed down the gray sweatpants and the white panties underneath them, revealing an unusually thick mass of black pubic hair. "You are so pretty. I teach you many thing, cariño," she said.
"Gross," Katey said, looking away from her bush.
María laughed pleasantly enough. "You suck Señor Mitch's ugly pija," she replied. "Qué asco. No. I teach."
"You don't need to teach me. I already know how to suck a cock. That's the one thing he *doesn't* bitch about. He never had it so good. Not in that department."
"No. No blow job. You know how. This. Much, much easier." She moved her hips for emphasis. "And more money."
"I'm not some dyke puta. So keep your pants on. Just teach me what Mitch *paid* you to teach me." Katey said this while her gaze remained averted.
"I teach, give *you*, first?" She gestured with her palms upward, making clear she was offering something, presumably oral, to the girl. Nevertheless, María pulled her underpants and the sweatpants back up after receiving a stone-faced response to her crude overture. She surely understood the slang slur that Katey had hurled but chose to maintain a placid demeanor in order to continue her approach.
"You know what I mean. Cleaning. It's not like I don't know how. He just wants it, you know, *better*. Like I'm his slave."
"Señor Mitch say, you come El Cuenca, one week."
"He didn't say anything about *that*."
"Maybe I teach slave?"
"Forget I said that. That's just my word for it. He just wants me to clean the house."
