Qatsu, (pronounced Kat-soo), was a foxy little Brazilian maid my wife employed to help with our first child. I was never sure who had the more baby-like looks, Qatsu the maid, or Bunny our child. It was a close run thing. Bunny had her good points, of course, don't get me wrong, but what Qatsu had that Bunny hadn't, was a deliciously appetising little body. Qatsu was shaped the way females in a perfect world would all be shaped: round and soft and curvy where round and soft was best, sleek and smooth and firm where sleek and firm worked best. But it was her headlamp-sized eyes, and gorgeously overflowing lips -- separated by a pert little exclamation point of a nose -- that set Qatsu apart from others. She oozed sex appeal. An appeal I seemed unable to resist. Potentially, to my peril.
It all started when I was helping bath Bunny. I reached out for Bunny, to take her from Qatsu. Kate, my wife, was out at something. Post-natal get-together with other recent Mums, or something. When Qatsu put the wet little bundle into my arms the back of my hands sank unintentionally into Qatsu's delightfully-formed, and intriguingly assertive, breasts. The contact shouted out at me, in letters some ten meters tall, that beneath her neat little French maid's uniform, that my wife insisted she wear, she wasn't wearing a bra! When I gave her back the Bunny bundle, on some pretence or other, I made sure that the backs of my hands eased against the same two delectable mounds a second time. I was rewarded, not by an angry snap of censure, but rather by two soft eyes looking suddenly sultry and "no comment"-ish, back into mine. I did it again the next time the two of us had bath duty. It became a routine. I ended up bathing baby Bunny with Qatsu, even when Kate was at home.
It was the way that Qatsu handled my, by now, regular, frequent, and clearly unambiguous advances, that really turned me on. As if she was as well aware as I was where my hands were, and was as affected by the touch of them being there, as I was! By the third or fourth time I gestured to Qatsu that I was ready to give her back the baby -- because she had emptied the bathwater, or put the baby bath away, or got the clothes out, or some such thing -- she simply turned and faced me and her huge eyes on mine as if to say: "Go on ... then." It was as if her eyes themselves were waiting to see what I would do. It made my groin squirm!
I would move towards her with the baby in my arms. She would hold her ground as the back of my advancing hands eased against her breasts. Her eyes would stay on mine, big and full like moons, as the back of my hands, and the front of her breasts, pressed softly, then not-so-softly, together. Unhurriedly, as if waiting to see if anything else might develop between my hands, and her breasts, her smooth arms would rise from her sides to take the baby from me. But she wouldn't take it right away. She wouldn't even try to hold the baby, until she sensed I was ready to release her. And if that were preceded by a gentle moving of my hands across her breasts beneath the baby, then so be it ... she was willing to wait.
Bad girl.
As our evenings, bathing baby, became more of a regular event, I would sometimes walk Qatsu gently back against the bathroom wall. As she leant against it, forced there, uncomplainingly, by my advance, I would turn a hand around so that I might more interestingly caress what was there. All the while, as I was giving attention to her breasts, she would wait, patiently, innocently, for the signal from me -- the signal that said, "Okay, the baby's yours," and then she would take her from me -- but in the interim she let herself be still, giving my hand and fingers free rein. She would lean back, acquiescently, big eyes on mine as if to say, "I can wait, I am doing nothing else, and if I give you pleasure in so doing, then so be it, I am happy." She'd almost purr if I kept the baby from her, prolonging my attentions to her lovely breasts. All she did was slide down the wall, a little, her pelvis easing towards me.
From fondling her breast to dropping a hand and stroking her thighs was only a matter of time. Trouble was, when my precious child was relying on the pair of us to keep her from crashing to the tiled bathroom floor, I could hardly fondle my foxy little maid, up top, and down below -- as Qatsu's lids grew heavy and she clenched her little fists by her shapely sides -- and successfully care for my child. We had to exercise a surprisingly high degree of self control!
I remember once ... a Thursday I think it was ... Bunny was gurgling and grinning in her little bath, when I mimicked lifting her up and cradling her in my arms. I stole a glance at Qatsu. She was watching me. When she caught my eye, with these huge, almost indecently inviting, "come-to-bed" eyes of hers, it was as if she caught on before I even knew what I had in mind. She backed against the wall of the bathroom of her own accord, and lent languidly against it. She held out her arms for the imaginary baby in my arms. I moved it towards her -- the imaginary baby. I held it close to her so that my hands gently sunk into her breasts. I looked at the face of the imaginary baby with a lost and loving look in my eyes. She did the same. Both of us staring at the hole in space inside my arms, gazing at a baby that wasn't there, as my hands rolled against the maid's plump, warm, lovely breasts. Her eyelids, as they tended to do at such moments, closed. Then I started, using both hands, to seriously excite our foxy little maid's delectable tits.
She never wore a bra at bath-time. She did at other times, when working around the house, but not when bathing baby. When I first dropped my other hand lower on her perky little body, and snuck it under her little black French maid's skirt -- my wife's unwitting contribution to events -- it was with some surprise that I discovered she wore nothing there either. Except a welcoming expression, perhaps! My fingers were certainly made welcome. Judging by the lather of juices already there when my hand arrived, it was clear that considerable excitement had already built up within her, not to mention between her legs. I also discovered, that same delicious evening, that it didn't take much to make Qatsu come. Some fondling from me, some vigorous kicks of the pelvis from her, followed by three sharp gasps, as her nicely-shaped hips pumped hard at my hand -- as if she needed to ride away fast, and my hand and fingers were the saddle of her bike! Her gasps, when she came, were unusually loud. Her eyes drifted open the merest moist slit, showing the merest glazed white, the irises themselves lost high her skull.
The first time Qatsu reached noisy orgasm the baby stopped gurgling in the bath and seemed to stare at us, as if we were something odd. Whether excitingly odd, or worryingly odd, I'm not sure I knew. I don't think the baby knew either.
Pretty soon baby's evening bath became an institution. A welcome quiet time for Kate, my wife, to watch some of her soaps on TV. A more arousing time for the man of the house, and the maid. Baths started taking longer -- although if Kate ever noticed, she never mentioned it. (Liking her quiet time, perhaps.) We started to lock the bathroom door, Qatsu and me. I told Kate it was "just in case". I was never required to expand the thought. I often wondered what Kate would think, having got so much pleasure out of choosing Qatsu's pretty little French maid's uniform, if she knew how much pleasure I got, getting into, what she had got so much out of!
Inside her uniform Qatsu was unimaginably cuddly, and arousable, and soft. Her skin was smooth and lusciously warm. I couldn't get enough of her. But the nicest thing about it was this: she couldn't seem to get enough of me either. Like a warm pet, she loved to be stroked and caressed. She loved my hands on the inside of her legs. Loved to have me chewing on her nipples: pea hard while her areola ridges were rominent, like little fins. She loved me licking her throat, sticking my tongue in her ear. She loved me slipping two fingers inside her, as she jizzed and fidgeted, gasping with sharp little intakes of breath. Once, when feeling especially adventurous, I slipped a first finger up her pretty derriere. She gasped, then clenched her teeth, then breathed in long and slow, as her shoulders climbed up around her ears. She seemed as keen to try new things as I was, to try them out on her.
How we avoided outright screwing in the bathroom, I can't really explain. Perhaps it was the baby being there -- because the baby liked to watch. You almost felt it was trying to figure things out: what was the purpose of what we were doing? Or how could we find it of benefit? What it thought of the arousal, the sighs and the gasps, the kissing and the petting and the squeezing, I have no idea. I had visions of the baby in later life, grown up, asking questions about what we were doing. Asking for explanations, or something. Which possibly explained my not going all the way with the mouth-watering appetising Qatsu in the bathroom. "Keep it simple," seemed to be the unspoken rule. Besides, I couldn't see myself justifying my more rampant part going into Qatsu, though I felt pretty sure she'd allow it. (Probably welcome it, the hot little minx!)
Bunny had started teething when Qatsu and I first fucked. When teething started she was fractious and irritable, especially in the evening. She refused to go to sleep when she was meant to -- Bunny I'm talking of here, not Qatsu. I don't think Qatsu would ever go to sleep, not as long as I was toying with her juicy little body. Her sexual appetite was wanton, and constant, and every bit as hot and urgent as mine seemed to be! But Kate didn't like to care for Bunny at night, not when in one of her moods -- Bunny I am talking of here, not Kate. It was down to Qatsu and me, just as it was with the baths, to make sure Bunny went to sleep. Or stopped screaming.
Bunny's room was down the corridor, the door past ours, two doors from the den where the TV was -- which is where Jane watched her soaps on TV. After Qatsu and I had bathed little Bunny, and I had caressed the softer parts of little Qatsu, and she in her turn had closed her eyes, gone soft and acquiescent, gasped and squirmed and more often than not reached a powerful orgasm with a series of yelps and a dazed wild look in her eyes -- she would take Bunny, and feed her in the kitchen. Dinner over, Qatsu would bring her to the TV for a goodnight kiss, then take her away and settle her down. Qatsu's job was to stay with Bunny until she was asleep. It often took hours. The first time I went in to relieve our devoted little maid was after an hour of solid crying from Bunny, and a twist in the plot of Kate's TV soap that was just too stupid for words.
"I think I'll go and relieve her," I said, getting up from my chair, stretching. "Don't wake the baby," said Kate.
"Can't you hear. She's yelling blue murder," I responded.
"You learn to tune her out," Kate replied, her eyes never leaving the TV screen.
So off I went. The door to Bunny's room was slightly ajar. The light inside was off but the night light was on. The room was filled with a pleasant glow. I could see the cot, the baby's shape, the changing table; brushes, nappies, mirror, chest of drawers. I eased the door slightly ajar, which is when I noticed Qatsu, standing with her back against the wall, just inside the door, frozen like a statue.
"What are you doing?" I whispered, as Bunny, in her cot the other side of the room, yelled blue murder.
"Pretending I'm not here," she whispered back. "Why?"
"If Bunny thinks I've gone she sometimes stops crying and goes to sleep."
"Really?" I whispered, wondering about the harsh white light from the corridor spilling into the room. "What about the light from the corridor?"
"It's better with the door slightly closed."
