See See Tv

Mona was her name. She was our maid. Later, much later, (right at the end in fact,) Sal changed all that and she became, 'Our Little Guinea Pig'. Which is what brought matters to a head, as it were.

A cold and stormy night it was, (the end), rain falling wetly in the yard, window frames rattling fit to burst. A terrine of iced gespachio was hurled at my head. Seventeen stitches. End of relationships all round, I'm afraid. Finito, finished, done.

"See, See!" was the key, of course -- it's easy now, on thinking back -- but the problem was I didn't, see. Not then. Not when it mattered. Otherwise engaged, one might say. Missed it completely.

She had no alarm clock, you see, (you will,) and she was not a naturally early riser. Some people are, many aren't, Mona wasn't. Perhaps it was her youth. Perhaps it was the work she got through in a day. Perhaps it was how late she went to bed. Who knew? But I didn't complain. I'd bought her a TV for her room and I knew she watched it late. Sal, my wife, grabbed a bite on the train to the technical campus where she worked so Mona's not being up before she left was not a problem. Sal was an early bird. Mona, our maid -- the one who hadn't an alarm and couldn't get up in the morning -- was not an early bird.

Mona was from the Philippines. A pretty, rather foxy little nineteen year old. Her lips and eyes were huge -- her lips were almost negroid. Her eyes were sultry pools. She had a hard, and very shapely bod ... as they say.

Anyway.

We had worked up a bit of a routine, Mona and me. It started off with my making an effort to welcome Mona into our family by being friendly. Then it started to irritate. Then something else had slithered into the mix. Sal warned me that my usual reserve might well alienate the youngster, her being so far from home -- we live in San Diego -- so I had gone out of my way to try to make her welcome.

Her second day, almost nine o'clock in the morning, no breakfast on the table, Sal long gone, I'd knocked on the door to her quarters. (We gave her a small wing to herself, overlooking the garden. A bright airy bedroom, shower and toilet off it, the laundry room, an ironing room.) There was no response. I tried the handle, found it open, went in calling her name. "Mona!". Again, no response.

I wondered where she was. I looked through the archway into her bedroom to see the girl, stretched out on her bed -- large and square, so big that the girl was almost lost amongst the sheets -- dead to the world. I cautioned myself, 'Be approachable. Be kind. Be considerate.' I moved into the room, up to the bed, noting how long the girl's legs seemed to be. They were stretched from the thin folds of sheet that covered the rest of her as if thrown away (or at least fairly thoroughly abandoned).

"Mona," I whispered, keeping it kind. No reaction. She had a pillow, one of three, clutched in her arms in a fond embrace, of sorts. "Mona," I tried again, my knees now touching the bed. No response. I reached forward to where I could see a single shoulder peeking out from her sheet. "Mona," I said a third time, this time shaking her shoulder as well. (This girl knew how to sleep!)

"Mona. Wake up. Mona!" I continued to shake her sleeping form, none too gently by now. Lazily her eyelids opened. I don't think she knew where she was. I remembered what Sal had cautioned -- approachable, kind, considerate. "You're in San Diego, Mona," I whispered to the girl, finding a smile and sticking it hurriedly onto my face. She was meant to wake me. Not me her. Wasn't that what maids were for? Never mind the matter of my breakfast! "San Diego," I repeated. All my comments triggered in her girlish face (with the huge lips and sultry eyes) was a rather vacant look. As if she wasn't really awake at all. "And I'm Doug Trabert," I added, stopping myself, just in time, from saying, "Mr Trabert". (Another Sal admonishment!)

"Oh," said Mona, softly, lifting herself onto her elbows. (Pretty shoulders.) I wondered what came next. The sheet had fallen from her shoulders but covered the rest of her, other than legs, (but I'd seen those already).

Should I tell her she had my breakfast to get? I wasn't sure that was the best way for her to waken to a new day, and a new country too, for that matter ... poor kid! So with Sal's message about 'being nice' ringing in my ears, and realising that a maid on my side was a damn sight better than a maid who hated my guts, I found myself sitting down on the edge of her bed, and saying -- damn smile still there -- "How are you normally woken. At home, I mean?"

This got a lazy smile, at first, then the smile drifted from her face and she eased herself back against the pillow, arms behind her head, seemed to stretch (nice stretch), and murmured ... "My father always woke me with a kiss."

"Really," I said, though wasn't sure why it surprised me. Sal and I have no children, you see. (Never got round to it really.)

"Step-father, actually," she amended.

"Mmmh," I responded, non-committally. And then, to the surprise I think of both of us, I leaned over, kissed her gently on the forehead, and said, "Good Morning, Mona."

"Good Morning, Mr Trabert," she said back, her expression one of surprise. And then she smiled. I took this to indicate that I had handled matters as Sal might have wished me to. Thus assured, I got up off Mona's bed and with a cheerful, "See you in the morning room whenever you're ready." I left her to get ready for the day. I felt I had handled that rather well.

Over the next few mornings I 'rubbed in' my 'Mr Nice Guy' act, by going into her room around eight to eight-thirty, depending on when I got up, gave her a shake of the shoulder calling her name all the while and when, finally, her big girlish eyes fluttered open, I'd wish her a cheerful, "Good Morning," and give her a kiss on the brow ... or sometimes, if she was facing away, on the cheek ... or once, because she moved, on those rather extraordinary lips of hers.

(Surprisingly pleasant, I have to say.)

After a couple of weeks of this, however, I was beginning to get a shade irritated at this additional chore. I had enough to do, after all. I had my work, for a start. I work from home, (did I explain that?) Sal is a research boffin with a video conference firm but I, or so I like to kid myself, am of a more creative bent. Freelance graphic artist. I have my studio in another wing of the house. Views all the way to the sea.

I start work right after breakfast. (But my breakfasts were getting later and later of late.) And besides, why should I be waking her? I thought of buying her an alarm clock. I thought of having a phone installed in her room so that I could call her from mine. I thought of informing her that if she couldn't get up at a decent hour then she could pack her bags and get back to Bulalao -- or whatever it was she was from. But I didn't.

I didn't, because she was bright and fresh and lively and a pretty little thing. She was fun to have about the house. She smelled fresh, looked fresh, even felt fresh on the few occasions she brushed against me getting to a corner with her duster. I was starting to feel that having this sort of presence around would help to keep me young. So I continued to wake her with her kiss just like her step father used to. And once or twice the kiss ended up on these extraordinary lips of hers. Once, I confess, I got the kiss on her extraordinary lips before I started shaking her pretty little shoulders overmuch. More than once, in fact. (Her lips seemed to wake before her eyes did!) Then, one Sunday ...

Sal was away at a video equipment conference, to do with her work -- (this happened now and then). On Saturday night I'd had wine with dinner to compensating for Sal's absence, brandy in my study afterwards. Mona had come and given me her goodnight kiss. (This was the routine we'd fallen into. I kissed her good morning. She kissed me goodnight. Seemed fair.) I watched her leave. She had a pretty little rear. A lovely ass, in fact, though I suppose they all have at that age. But hers was especially pert. And she knew how to move it. Nice! Anyway ...

I woke the following morning with that slightly dreamy, slightly randy feel you get after drinking a little more than you're used to. And I'm not used to much. So, when I turned the door-handle to Mona's quarters the next morning I remembered how nice her little bottom had looked the night before, sashaying towards the door. (As I say. Nice!)

Perhaps because of this, I went through the alcove and into her bedroom with less sound than usual. Her long legs were bared and abandoned and poked out from underneath the sheets. (Always did.) A pillow (lucky pillow) was in her tight embrace. Her plump lips, in a pout, were slightly open. Her breathing was long and slow and easy. She was in her standard morning pose, in other words. I approached her bed. I could have shouted out and she would not have woken right away. I knew her now: it took an age to wake her.

I leaned forward and pushed lightly on a shoulder. (I'd done this before.) She stretched and sighed and languidly rolled onto her back. I took the pillow from her. (I'd done this before, too.) I placed it beyond her on the bed, atop another one that lay there. I lifted off the sheet. (And yes, I had done this before as well.) I could move her all over the place. Then put her back together again: with pillows between her legs, in her embrace -- once, even, over her face! -- and she wouldn't wake up. Little Mona slept very, very deeply.

After she'd rolled her on to her back, and I'd deprived her of her pillow, and arranged her arms above her head, and lifted off her sheet, I looked at the T-shirt and panties she wore. Her pubis was proud and pronounced, her labia thick and pouting. The crease of her labia lips had sucked up the material of her panties sometime during the night. (Common occurrence.) Her T-shirt had their pleasantly-shaped mounds doing their usually pleasant 'moundly things' beneath the T-shirt's message, (which read, today, 'Manila Babe'). One of these mornings I wanted to see the impression of a nipple showing through. But hadn't yet.

I leaned my lips to hers. So soft. I had discovered this some days ago: that her lips, as she slept, were unbelievably soft. When she was asleep I could do things with them as if they had a life of their own. Suck the top or bottom one into my mouth. Slip my tongue underneath and lift it in. Push one of my lips between hers. Or my tongue. Close both my lips around both of hers and make them pout then suck them into my mouth. With lips as large as hers there was no end of things I could get up to! But this morning I was, as I say, just a tiny bit randy, so I opened her mouth by the simple means of pulling on her chin with my finger and thumb, and let my tongue have access to her mouthly cavern.

A girl's mouth is so much tastier to explore than its adult counterpart, I thought, as I found the back of her line of teeth, and felt her head angle round towards mine. She seemed to make it easier for me. (Always did, compliant lass!). I looked for her little tongue, and there it was, just starting to wake, or so it seemed to me. I felt its length then softened my own tongue against it like an affectionate pet. This caused no alarm in her. And besides, I hadn't started to shake her yet.

I left my tongue in her mouth, for a time, gently playing with hers. Feeling the push of hers as it played with mine. Wondering what, in her sleep, she thought it was. (My tongue, inside her mouth.) I sensed her lips had started to move against mine. To close around the base of my tongue and suck, just a tad. (Now that ... was really nice!) It was my imagination, of course. At least I think it was.

I disengaged my lips, and my tongue, from her lips, and her tongue. Much younger than mine. Much softer too, I guess. Her lips gently settled back into sleep. After some moments of silent admiration of her rather lovely sleeping form, I reached out my hand. "Mona," I said softly, my hand closing over her shoulder. She didn't stir. "Mona," I repeated, letting my hand caress her shoulders just a tad.

But still she didn't stir. (She rarely did until the fifth or sixth awakening.)

"Mona, my little princess," I said next, embroidering my awakening words as had become my practice, while, as had also become my practice, I let my fingers slip gently along her shoulder to her neck. Her skin was satin smooth as only the skin of young necks can be. And long, like a swan's, I thought, fingers slipping up it to her ear.

"Mona, precious love," I whispered to the girl as my fingertips played with her tiny lobe. I lowered my lips to her ear. It was tiny. (I had done this before, so knew how delicate it was.) I traced its inner whorls with the tip of my tongue. She seemed to wake. I lifted my head. Her eyes were drifting open. "My little fox," I whispered, keeping my head close to hers as her eyes came fully open.

She needed time to adjust to wakefulness. (Always did.) I gave her time. I waited for her smile. She always gave a smile when she saw that it was me, and that I had come to wake her, and give her her good-morning kiss. She smiled now. I lowered my lips onto hers and gave her a longer kiss than was our norm. Half way through, she began to kiss me back. (Nice.) Then I raised my head, and said, "Good morning, Mona, pet."

"Good morning, Mr Trabert," she replied, and looking at me, sighed.

I'd never called her 'pet' before. Her expression let me know she hadn't missed it, but also seemed to say she didn't mind. "Sunday. Beautiful day," I enthused, getting up from her bed, making for the curtains, drawing them. It WAS a beautiful day.

"Mr Trabert," said Mona, sitting up in bed, oblivious to her lack of covering. This morning she wore an oversize sleeveless vest, many sizes too big, and the surface of two chubby breasts peaked out either side. "You're very sweet to me," she said, looking tender. I may have blushed.

"I'll see you in the morning room," I said, going out, hiding my blushes perhaps.

From then on, as if by some unbidden agreement, my wake-up kisses were on her lips. And every kiss was unashamedly returned by Mona -- or was, at least, once her state of wakefulness was sufficient to know that I was there, and the lips on hers were mine. In its own little way this development warmed me further towards the girl. As if my being nice to her -- by giving her a good-morning kiss as her step-father had -- had made our relationship more personal. My kiss now being on her mouth, as was hers in the evenings on mine (I had noted), showed that she was special. It was not, for example, something I did with all my maids. And I feel she sensed this; or guessed it, perhaps. I found that I liked this little advancement in our relationship. And so did she, I think. She sang more around the house. I enjoyed more her being there, around me as I worked.

Sal was delighted, of course. She liked having Mona around. It meant she didn't have to do the housework, or the cooking. In the past, maids we'd tried had driven me to distraction. They have all, therefore, had to go. Sal knew the length of time maids stayed in our house, and therefore stopped her being required to do the housework, depended on their continuing ability not to 'piss me off', as Sal put it. But with Mona it wasn't like that. Mona could stay. Mona's presence helped my work, made me creative, made me optimistic, positive -- and cooked and did the housework, too!

"Give her a raise," said Sal, with a grin. So I did. The following day. Quite a handsome one. I took it in to her bedroom in the form of a cheque, usual time, Sal off to work in the city. Mona was stretched out on her bed like a long-legged fish, or kitten ... something warm and soft. I leaned forward and gave her plump lips their usual pre-wake-up call: rewarded, as usual, with the lovely warm softness of living girl. I wondered, mid-kiss, how to give her her raise. (It was, as I say, a handsome one.) I lifted off, and melted for some moments at the sight of her. Then I gave her lips another kiss. Their softness gave against me. I licked my own for hers were dry, and gave her a third little kiss.

This time I stayed where I was with my lips against hers for a moment, or two.

Or, three.

Her lips softened even more then started to gently squirm against my own. This happened, sometimes, when her lips were especially available, as they were this morning, and particularly relaxed, as they also were this morning. I ran my tongue over her lips, moistening them further. Then again, doing it some more. The tip of my tongue slipped underneath her top lip and lifted it in between mine. I sucked on it gently, like a rubber lollipop, and felt her lower lip ease around my own lower lip. I wondered what she dreamed of in the morning, while our lips were playing like this? Did she dream at all?

I let her upper lip slip, moistly, from between my own, as I gently withdrew the tip of my tongue from her mouth. My hand, which held the cheque, was held away from her. My other had curled around her hip. The sheet was (as usual) laid across her midriff like a ribbon, legs long and naked, widely spread -- right straight, left neatly bent, like a dancer. Her arms were over her head (one) and out to the side (the other). Her breasts bulged as impressively as usual in her T-shirt's sweet message, 'Kiss me!' in pink. She was, this particular morning, in that particular T-shirt, looking very foxy indeed.

I softened my lips even more. Hers softened back against mine then moved, ever so gently. But moved, nevertheless. I let my lips drift open, just a tad. Hers responded by opening too. I reached for the ribbon of sheet and drew it off her midriff. The hem of her T-shirt was high. Well above her neat and deeply-seated little belly-button. Her tummy was taut and smooth. I let a finger tip ease its way inside the little dimple of her button ... attempted to ease inside, at least ... (it was too small and tight). I flattened my hand on the naked stomach: the girlish midriff, stomach flat, ridges of muscle beneath. My fingers drifted lower and although it had not be my intention to end up where they did, they ended up there, with the tips just inside the waistband of a pair of tiny briefs. I hadn't meant to do that. But I had.

My fingertips eased inside. The elastic waist-band tight across the back of my fingers, half way down. The flatness of her stomach and the soft girlish curve of her hips left a dip either side. My lips covered hers but my eyes angled down to my hand, and her stomach, and the interesting dip either side of her tummy, before the hips rose with the waistband of her skimpy briefs tight across the tiny chasm ...into which my fingertip had inadvertently strayed ... and now sat, waistband over knuckle. It gave me an idea.

Her lips were soft against my own and moving gently, stroking their insides against the insides of my own. My idea was this: I would put the cheque in the waistband of her briefs and see what she would make of it. (She could hardly be annoyed at a bonus of three months salary, now could she, I reasoned, moving the cheque to her panties, slipping it underneath, waist-band lightly lifted to facilitate the move, even if it WAS found there!). I withdrew my hands, but left my lips with hers.

Her lips were wide awake and perky -- or if not awake certainly involved in something lively in her sleep. I let my own keep pace, softly pursing and opening and stroking her now quite aggressive fat things. They were moist now, lots of saliva involved. Her tongue coming out in little forays from her mouth. Darting into mine with more moisture from within. I put my hand back on her tum. Feeling her starting to move. The hips, first left, then right. Her knee, from the bed, rolling up in the air. I ran my tongue deep into her mouth. Her teeth were wide, her lips even more so, grinding up against my own. Her arm came round my neck. I flipped my eyes to hers but they were closed, though something inside her was far from asleep!