The Cleaner Girl

To SweetSara with love and spanks.

I lie in bed feeling nicely spent after my morning romp with Sara, and watch her pad back from the shower to dry off in front of the full-length mirror. She runs the towel over her petite, young body and, as a tease just for me, bends forward slightly and moves it slowly between her legs, back and forth to dry those delicate, bare lips. She loves to put this show on for me and to dress for me as well. Today, it's a lacy bra and panties set and a smart, black trouser suit. It's her first day at her new job at the bank and the ensemble makes her look so mature and professional, every bit her 25 years.

She grabs her car keys and leans over the bed to kiss me on the way out, whispering in my ear, "Let's play when I get home." I laugh and tell her we'll wait and see – she might be feeling exhausted after her first day. She shrugs this possibility away. "Just be ready for me okay?" and with that, she picks up the posh new brief case I bought her and a canvas laundry bag. I wonder just what she's up to with that but she's gone before I can ask. I will have to wait all day to see now.

************

I've been so engrossed in my writing that only the doorbell prompts me to glance at my watch - 5.30pm already! I go downstairs and open the door, expecting a salesman or charity collector, but there's Sara on the step, wearing the shortest little dress I've ever seen her in, probably and deliberately a size too small. It hugs her curves and the tight, low-cut bodice pushes her small breasts up into a teasing cleavage that just about covers her well-toned ass. Her legs are bare and she's wearing a pair of light, summer mules. Now I know why she took the laundry bag with her to work this morning. Images flash before my eyes of her changing outfits in her car, an awkward and ungainly procedure for her perhaps but in my head incredibly erotic.

She stands in the porch with studied nonchalance, leaning against a supporting pillar, arms folded, ankles crossed. She's chewing and blowing bubble-gum and, every time a bubble bursts, its fragments spatter on her lips. She pulls them back in her mouth and chews them into a ball again, tossing it on her tongue from cheek to cheek.

"Hiya mister! Want your house cleaned? I'm good!"

I play it straight. "I might. How much do you charge?"

"Ten bucks an hour will do it."

"Oh? Well that sounds reasonable. So you do everything?"

"Sure mister! All the usual stuff!"

I look her up and down again. "You look very young to be working full-time?"

She suddenly stops her frantic chewing and rolls her eyes. "I'm 18, Mister!" she claims, handing me her national ID card.

I check it over, playing the part probably too carefully and realistically for her liking. She always accused me of being too pedantic sometimes, especially in situations where directness was crucial – like now.

She moves to grab back the ID card and the initiative. With a sultry, provocative look, she adds: "And there's extras, too!" She hitches up her dress to flash me and, of course, the whole neighbourhood.

Her brazenness makes me blush. Just a couple of years ago, she loved to flash me and have sex with me in public. We didn't care who saw it until, that is, we settled down and got respectable. So in a sense, our role-play is about recovering the fun and spontaneity of those carefree days.

After giving me a twirl, she lets her dress drop down and pops another bubble, glancing at her wristwatch. "Hurry up, Mister! I haven't got all day, you know!"

"Tell you what", I say, "let's see how well you do with the 'usual stuff ' before we talk extras?"

"Sure thing. But extras will cost ya!"

"Of course. So you can start right away?"

"Yeah, whatever," she mumbles, lifting the canvas bag and pushing in past me.

She looks around the hall and peers into the rooms off, like some builder estimating a quote for renovations. Throwing down the bag, she glances at the framed photos on the wall to her left, of her and me on holiday in Spain. She nods to them and pops a bubble. "That your wife, mister?"

"Yes, that's Sara."

She flashes me a coy smile. "She's cute! Does she do the usual stuff, too?"

"Reluctantly, yes," I say, meaning the housework but I know what she's implying.

She frowns at my insolence, looking me over, her glinting, grey-blue eyes lingering at my crotch. "But she gives you extras, right?"

I want to laugh but I play along, knowing how much she is enjoying this. "Of course she does!"

"Oh yeah?" she says defiantly, stooping forward to rummage for something in the bag, exposing her delicate cleavage. "I bet they're not as good as mine!"

"Well, I'll just to have to take your word on that, won't I?"

She pulls out her I-Pod and headphones. "Oh I think you'll take more than my word when you see how good I am!"

She puts on the headphones and stuffs the I-Pod into the bodice of her dress. I gaze at her longingly for a few seconds and then tell her I'm going to start dinner.

"Oh you go to it mister!" she says with a dismissive flip of her hand. "I'll get started here. Where's your hoover?"

I lead her to the cupboard under the stairs and leave her to it, wondering to myself how she's going to get out of this one. It surely isn't part of her script to do housework for fun? Yet, as always in her role-playing, she gives nothing away and thrives on the plot development and on the tease.

From the kitchen I hear her rattle round with comic exaggeration. Then comes the clatter of rickety wheels as she pulls the hoover across the hall to the lounge. I hear her start it up and I know she's running it across the carpet hoping I'll give in and come and get her and do something really dirty to her. In fact, over the past few weeks, she's been prodding at me to go a bit further with her, to go somewhere darker than I've ever done, but I've always resisted. I guess I've turned into 'Settled Married Man' but what does that make her? 'Bored Young Wife'?

So, again, I resist the urge to break out and, instead, focus on the more pressing task at hand: chopping some garlic and basil for my pasta sauce. But after a few minutes, it all goes suddenly quiet out there. I stop chopping and cock my ear to hear her pad and squeak over the tiled, polished hall floor until she appears at the wide-open kitchen door.

"Hey mister?"

I look up to see her, one arm propping up the doorframe, blowing and popping at her gum, headphones hooked round her neck. I suppress a grin. "Yes?"

"You need a new hoover!"

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, really," she says flatly, flicking dust off her chest. "No suction."

I shrug. "Never had any trouble before! Are you sure it doesn't just need a new dustbag?"

Locking her eyes on mine, she approaches and slips her hand down over my crotch. She starts to rub me, making me moan, making me harden again. "No," she says. "I checked it over. Definitely a suction problem! I'll show you what I mean."

Kneeling down on the floor, she yanks down my shorts and starts jerking me off while, at the same time, rolling the gum into a ball on her tongue, slipping it out of her mouth and looking around for somewhere to put it. Looking up at me with a sly grin, she sticks it on my groin, just at the base of my cock. Then she slides her hands round behind me to cup my buttocks and tilts her head at me. "Don't let me forget to take it back, okay Mister?"

I nod, impatient for her to start, and she's soon getting right into one of her amazing blowjobs, loving me with her warm, wet, succulent mouth. She pops my cock out of her mouth and gazes at it, wet and swollen now in her delicate, warm hand. She jerks it some more and gives out a girlish giggle. "Geez Mister! This is one big cock! Does your wife like sucking it for you?"

"Yes she does," I say, looking down into her eyes.

She smiles and squints, still stroking up and down, playing her fingers on the swollen, veiny shaft. "Can she fit it all into that little mouth of hers?"

I shake my head, barely able to speak, but she presses the issue further. "No? Have you tried forcing it? You know, grabbing her head by the hair and stuffing this big thing down her throat?"

I look at her wide-eyed, wondering at this sudden shift in tone. "No, I wouldn't do that to her!"

"Oh you should!" she murmurs, slurping her tongue along the underside of my cock, from base to head. "I bet she'd love it! I know I would but no one ever tries it on me!"

With that, she pops me back in her mouth and starts to bob on me, using her lips, her tongue, her hands to drive me crazy until, just as suddenly as she started, she stops. With a coy smirk, she stands up and puts me back in my pants, zipping me up. "See mister? That's what I mean by

proper

suction and your hoover doesn't have it!"

I can't believe she's left me hanging like this but she's got me in role now and I have to keep playing. "Can't you manage for now and I will get a new one for next time?"

"Look, Mister," she sighs, rolling her eyes, hands on hips, "I can't do the job right without the proper equipment!"

And with that protest, she goes back to work, leaving me in peace, I hope, to cook. I think again about what she said to me as she sucked me off. We have always enjoyed oral sex but she's never before hinted on a desire to take it to any extreme. Then again, she might not have been hinting at something she actually wanted from me. Maybe this was just part of her script to provoke me, tapping into a deep, dark desire that I might not like to admit? It seems to be her thing these days so I decide that's the most probable explanation.

About ten minutes later, she appears back in the kitchen, a big bundle of laundry in her arms. "So where's the washing machine?"

I point her to the utility room just off the kitchen and she flip-flops past me, nudging me with her hip and winking back at me over her shoulder. "Sauce smells great!" she says. "Your wife's lucky!"

"You can have some, too, when you're done!"

"Oh I should be done when the washing's done!" she calls back from the utility room, again making great fuss and noise for me to hear but eventually calling for help. "Mister! This machine's like a spaceship! How do you work it?"

Leaving the sauce to simmer and reduce, I go to help her and find her leaning over the washing machine, hitching up her dress in a slow tease. She looks back at me, biting her lower lip and wiggling her ass as she exposes herself to me once again. She reaches a hand back to rub the soft, wet lips, pouting and sighing and cooing as she plays. "So? Want to turn it on for me?"

I come up behind her and place one hand on her warm, bare ass, making her whimper with excited anticipation. I set the programme with the other, skipping to high-speed spin. As the machine clicks and whirrs into life, she looks back at me, her eyes desirous, expectant. I very casually spank her on each ass cheek, making her yelp. "A right little tease, aren't you?" I say, my voice stern now.

She nods and simpers. "That's what all the boys say, Mister!"

I undo my pants and push them down, along with my shorts. "Shocking!"

She gazes back at my full sized erection. "You're telling me! But they don't do anything about it. Why's that?"

"Because they're just boys, not men!" I explain, placing two fingers over hers, pressing them down on her clit and rubbing with her.

She lets out a long, low moan of pleasure but keeps up the tease. "Mister, aren't you a bit old for this?"

I give her another hard spank and tell her to be quiet. She squeals and sobs, rubbing her slapped ass to soothe the hot sting. She makes to get away from me but I pull her back and pin her head down on the machine and roughly stuff my cock in her. She whimpers and yelps, surprised by my aggression. I sink it as deeply as I can, stretching the soft, wet lips round the thick shaft and then, spanking her hard once again, I start thrusting in long, hard strokes. It's such a relief to be inside her again, enjoying her wonderful tightness, fucking her the way I love best, but there's something else about this that excites me all the more. For the first times we've been together, she wants me to play rough with her.

As I build and intensify the rhythm and force of my thrusts, she jumps and squeals, slapping her hand down on top of the machine, taunting and provoking me, wanting me to let go and lose control, to give into the urges that frighten me most. "Come on, Mister! Fuck your cleaner girl! Give it to her hard!"

Without warning, I grab her roughly by the hair and hump into her, not as a lover or husband but as some brute from the street. The washing machine shakes and shudders under us, sending its violent vibrations through our hot, sweating bodies. We are excited beyond belief by this, our inhibitions lowered more than ever before.

Then she turns her head back to me and says something that taps into our most forbidden fantasy, one she knows is best used sparingly. She's my wife, a woman in her twenties, but today she's the young girl only too well aware of her illicit appeal to an older man like me.

.

"So you like my 18 year-old pussy, Mister?"

I nod, thrusting into her, hard and steady still, my face contorted with effort. She stays prone and submissive over the shuddering, rattling machine, her small breasts squashed down on the cold top. She feels how intense I am, how close I am, my thick cock stabbing into her. With her pussy gripping tighter now, she keeps on taunting me, provoking me with words she's never spoken to me before, not even in fantasy. "Oh yes mister! Fuck my virgin cunt! Use it good!"

That does it! My body convulses in one of the most intense orgasms I've ever had. Giving her ass one final slap, I grunt, and squirt heavy, thick shots of cum deep inside her. I pull her body up off the top of the machine to hump up into her with two, three aggressive thrusts, sending her into a shattering orgasm, her legs shaking, her knees buckling under her, weakened by all this punishment. The washing machine also reaches its screeching, whining climax and shudders to a stop. It clicks to reset and flashes a message in the LCD display window: CYCLE COMPLETE. PLEASE REMOVE CONTENTS.

I pull out of her and stand, panting, hands on hips, my slick, swollen cock drooping between my legs. I am still shocked at myself, how aggressive I have been with her. It has never been that way with us before, yet it's clear that this was exactly what she's been wanting from me for weeks now. She has set out to provoke me, to test my limits, and I have to admit there's a part of me that is happy she did.

Letting out a low moan of pleasure, she slides off the machine and squats down to lick and suck me clean, winking up at me to hint she's still in role. "Promise you won't tell my dad, Mister? He'll kill you!"

"Oh don't you worry about that!" I assure her. "He will never need to know!"

She giggles and gives me one last deep suck and a pop before stretching a hand up to me, fingers wiggling. "OK! That's twenty for the usual stuff plus ten extra for the blowjob and another twenty for the fuck! So that's fifty altogether, Mister – in tens if you can manage it?"

I fix myself first and then pull out my wallet to pay her, grumbling to myself about the rising cost of domestic service these days.

"Admit it! I'm worth every cent!" she replies with a cheeky wink.

Somehow, paying her is as erotically charged as the rough, heated sex that went before. As I count out five, ten-dollar bills into her hand, she gazes up at me with an innocent smile of a girl on her first ever payday and, once I settle with her, she rolls up the notes and sticks them into her bodice. Standing up now to fix her dress, she hands me a business card: "EEZYKLEAN GIRL. ALL JOBS DONE. WORK GUARANTEED."

Then, with a cheesy grin and a wink, she leaves me with a solemn promise. "Just remember, Mister! I do the kinda jobs your wife would never do!"