Cleaning Girl

My wife called from the airport just before boarding her flight. "Pete," she said. "I forgot to say, but there's a girl coming round at midday for the cleaning job. I tried to phone her yesterday to cancel but she wasn't answering."

A girl? Coming here? Interesting, I thought. Julia had found a last-minute flight to Spain and decided to take the children to spend Easter fortnight with the grandparents. They'd left at six that morning and I'd been feeling horny as fuck ever since I woke up.

"Midday?" I said. "I'm not sure I'm gonna be here, I'm meant to be having lunch with the accountant. But don't worry – if I'm still here when she comes, I'll get her to come back in a couple of weeks."

"Thanks darling. Her name's Sandra. I've got to rush."

I wasn't being entirely honest about any lunch date. I'd told the accountant I'd pop in sometime this week to sort out the quarterly figures on our little Internet business, but I wasn't planning on going anywhere at all today. It was pissing down with rain and when the wife and kids are away, I never seem to get much work done. And besides, the last cleaning girl had been a peach. Kept her legs tight shut, the bitch, but she was still a total peach.

The doorbell rang at a couple of minutes before noon and I closed down the porn site on my PC and adjusted my cock. We've got quite a big house, which is why my wife decided we needed a cleaner, and by the time I opened the front door everything was nicely smoothed over.

And there she was, just standing there. I knew straightaway that I was going to be a naughty boy, or give it my best shot.

I've been dreading this bit, having to describe her. Was she beautiful? No. Good-looking? Neither. A peach? Definitely not. Sexy? Well she was to me that day. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred I'd probably have walked straight past her in the street -- but as I told you my wife was away and I was feeling horny as a fucking rabbit.

She was quite short, with medium-length blondish hair. She had a bit of a piggy face with small pudgy lips. She was wearing a light grey leather jacket over a thin blue pullover and tight black leggings. (Grey leather! I hadn't seen one of those since the 70s!) She was on the plump side and looked more than a bit shy, like young, plump girls often do.

And she was sopping wet.

"You must be Sandra," I said, reaching out to shake her cold, limp hand and looking straight into her bovine brown eyes. "Christ, it's horrid out there, you'd better get in out of that rain."

I escorted her into the house, fussing over her like a father-in-law with a crush. I insisted she take off that jacket, went to fetch her a towel, and even started to dry her lank wet locks for her. "You'd better come into the kitchen, Sandra," I said. "You look like you could do with a nice hot cup of tea."

She walked past me, clearly embarrassed at the entrance she'd just made, and that was when I got my first glimpse down at her breasts. I'd guessed just right. They weren't just large, unfeasibly large for a short girl, but those kind of pointy ones that seem to jag out at the nipples. When I was young and virginal I'd sat next to a girl at school with big pointy tits too, and they'd kept me going with wanking material for the past 20 years. Anyway, this Sandra had a pair every bit as impressive over a little belly and a nice, bulbous arse straining to get out of those leggings. She couldn't have been more than early 20s, but she was dressed like a middle-aged housewife who'd finally decided to stop wearing skirts. I wondered if any man had ever his way between the cheeks of that arse.

I put the kettle on and sat her down at the kitchen table, sneaking a long look over her shoulder at that magnificent chest. Then I began a profuse apology for my wife's absence. "She tried to call you to say she couldn't make it," I said, "but we really need someone to start right away. So maybe I should ask you all the questions and make the decision for her?"

Sandra nodded her piggy little head, and I began to fire away. I'd printed up a questionnaire, acting as if we always grill our domestics, just so I could find out more about her. She was 20 ("oh, a Gemini?" I said when she told me her date of birth), lived the other side of town in a flat, unmarried, no kids. I expressed surprise that she wasn't married yet, but only a little bit – she was too young for the really corny shit. I let my hand brush against hers as she handed me her references – and then read them through every word, oohing and aahing like she'd just handed me a long-lost sonnet by Shakespeare. I looked up at her every few seconds as though I couldn't believe my luck.

"I'm very good at cleaning," she said, proudly.

"Well I don't know what to say," I told her, letting my hand fall on to her forearm. "We've had a couple of other ladies in to see us, but you know how it is when as soon as you meet someone, it kind of feels right?"

She nodded again, not sure what I meant. "You're not just easy to talk to, you've actually got proper references. You're pretty much perfect. When can you start?"

Sandra looked at me and her chubby little lips broke into a grateful smile. She clearly didn't know how to take all my babbling but it wasn't often someone paid her such luscious compliments. I kept the eye contact furiously, though mainly just to stop myself staring at those tits.

And, that was settled. We'd got a new cleaning girl, starting the next day, and all I had to do was show her round the house and explain her duties. I didn't tell her she wouldn't have much to do because my wife's the neurotic type who keeps things spotless anyway. I just showed her the ground floor, the kids' bedroom, the guest bedroom and then our bedroom. She was visibly impressed by the en suite spa bath – and giggled nervously when I told her she could use it whenever she wanted. The only thing you've got to be careful about is this shower, I said, guiding her over to some shiny Italian monstrosity my wife had got installed. "It works fine," I said, turning the tap to show her, "only sometimes..."

And there she was, all sopping wet again.

Perfect, I thought. For a spur of the moment thing, that worked out just fine. And I started to apologise louder than ever. Out came another towel and I found myself excitedly dabbing water off the light pullover covering those beautiful pointed breasts. They were every bit as firm as I'd imagined, like two ostrich eggs in a sack.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, fumbling away and almost dropping the towel in my half-feigned excitement. "I didn't mean to touch your breasts."

"That's okay, I can do them," she said. And she took the towel and dabbed herself for a few seconds, before realising what she was doing right in front of me.

"You'll never get them dry like that," I said. "You'd better take that pullover off and I'll get you a T-shirt... No, I insist. I'm not having you catching cold."

I left her sitting on the edge of the bath as I went to fetch her a T-shirt, a white freebie one from one of my software suppliers. That wasn't why I chose it – it was the only one I had that was a medium and I sure as hell didn't want her in anything too baggy. Then I carefully passed it round the door to her, acting the perfect gentleman, and told her I'd make another pot of tea.

I rushed down the stairs, tucking down my cock as I went, and put the kettle on. I must have given her bra a good soaking with the shower too because when she came down a couple of minutes later there was no sign of it. The little T-shirt could barely restrain those marvellous missiles. A couple of inches of her bare, pale stomach showed through over her leggings. Her chubby arms only added to the picture.

"I think it's a bit small," she said.

"Small? You look fantastic Sandra," I replied quickly. "That's how all the women wear their T-shirts now, isn't it? Come and have some tea to warm you up -- and we'll try to avoid any more spills."

She walked across the kitchen to fetch her steaming hot cup of tea, laughably self-conscious about those beautiful tits sticking out in front of her. I stared at them openly as she approached.

She stood in front of me, waiting for me to pass her the mug, and I decided that enough was enough. I'd played the babbling fool for long enough and it was time to step things up. Do or die and all that stuff, Pete.

I passed her the cup, and let loose a long, sad sigh. "Shit," I said.

"What's the matter? I didn't mean this to happen," she said, looking up at me as though I was blaming her for what happened in the bathroom.

"Sandra, Sandra, you've not done anything wrong. I just don't know if this is going to work."

"What? What work?" she asked.

"Me, us, you, you working here. I don't know," I said. "And it's my fault entirely. Can't you see what effect you're having on me. I've been babbling like an idiot since you walked in the door. I've become a clumsy fool. What do you reckon I'd be like if you were here every morning, walking around with your duster?"

"Oh," she said.

"But it's my problem, not yours Sandra. You deserve this job, you're perfect for it – and it's not your fault if some guy 15 years older than you can't help himself when you're around. And I couldn't, I know that. It's all I can do to stop myself taking you into my arms right now."

She stood there in front of me. She was almost still but for a slight quiver of the chest. Her nipples were stiffening behind that flimsy white T-shirt. One, two, three seconds, I counted, and she was still just staring at me. I knew I had her.

Gently, I lifted my hand to her face and brushed aside a lock of hair. "You've got no idea, have you, what you're doing to me, Sandra. Since the moment you walked through that door I've wanted to touch you, to kiss you, to run my hand over..."

I moved my hand down her chubby little cheek, past her neck and slowly traced a line until my right palm was lightly cupping her left breast. Still, she didn't move.

I took a step in towards her, touched her left cheek with my other hand, and leant in to kiss her. I know I called her lips pudgy earlier, but they felt pretty good as they opened gently and we began to kiss. My right hand moved around to her waist and pulled her into me. Those stunning pointy breasts pressed into my stomach. My tongue gradually worked its way into her mouth and met her sweet-tasting tongue.

I moved my head back a few inches and asked her: "I'm almost too frightened to ask. Do you feel the same way?"

"Yes, I think so," she said.

I kissed her again, combing my hand through her hair and pulling her tightly against me. Those tits felt absolutely fucking amazing and my hand dropped down to grope her beautiful big fat arse.

I broke off and smiled at her broadly. "Then I think you might have to start straightaway, Sandra. We're going to be very busy over the next couple of weeks."

To Be Continued...