The Maid

I'd interviewed job applicants before, but this was different. Somehow it seemed a lot less formal to be talking to somebody about cleaning my home than interviewing them for a job at the office.

She was very attractive, with a body I kept finding my eyes upon, and she probably didn't realize that was a strike against her. I'd definitely have to hire somebody I could look at without blushing. She'd probably think it was because she was Hispanic or something, but I'd have to live with that.

She talked at length about her qualifications. I assume they were impressive enough, but I was too absorbed in her deep brown eyes, the perfect curves of her body, the way her mouth moved so carefully around every word.

After a while, she stopped, looking troubled. "You won't hire me, will you? You look like you made up your mind as soon as I came in. I hadn't even said anything." Even while she was accusing me her voice was soft and calm.

I was caught a little off-guard. She was right, of course. While my wife had been alive I'd had no problem with checking out a pretty girl as long as I wouldn't get caught, just peeking out of the corner of my eye, but since the accident I felt guilty over every impure thought. I needed a woman who'd just take care of the house, maybe cook a few meals, and leave me to the quiet.

I tried to think of a lie she'd buy, but floundered. "That's not it.. . . I mean, it's not. . It's just that . .. I don't want to . . . " I sighed, took a breath, then started over. "I live alone Miss Vasquez, but only since my wife and children passed away. I worry that if someone. . . well, someone as breathtaking as you were here in this house. . . .well, I get lonely. I'm afraid that sooner or later I'd get . . . well . . . extra lonely and say or do something . . . inappropriate."

She considered for a moment, then gave me a sad, warm smile. Finally, she nodded and spoke confidently "I'll move my things in at the end of the week. You need me here." By the time I thought of a response, she was already out the door. I told myself if she showed up, I'd send her away, but I was kidding myself. I interviewed two other women, but knew a few minutes into the first one that I'd already found my new housekeeper.

She showed up Saturday morning, true to her word. She was dressed much more casually, with shorts that showed off her legs and a tight white T-shirt. I showed the house, letting her see each of the four bedrooms that were unused, but far from empty, the furnishings and clutter reminded me too much of their former occupants for me to clean them out. The nicest were upstairs, and she chose the one next to mine. It was the largest available, and let in the most sun in the mornings.

I helped her bring in her things. There were more suitcases than I'd ever seen anyone use, but nothing else. In only a few minutes, we were done and she was unpacking. I made a feeble effort to help, but the first case I opened had some lacy underthings, and I mumbled an excuse to find something else to do. She kept chatting away like there was nothing wrong at all, so I leaned against the doorway, unwilling to be rude and walk out in the middle of a conversation, no matter how uncomfortable I was. As I stood there, pointedly not looking at her clothing, I noticed her body instead. Her legs were athletic and sleek, the kind you might see on a panty-hose box. They led up to a bottom that perfectly filled her shorts. Her waist was well toned, easy to see now that she'd put something away on a high shelf and let it come untucked. Now each time she reached toward something or bent, the hem slid about, giving just a tiny peek of skin. Her breasts weren't as large as many Hispanic women I've met, but they had the gravity-defying bounce of a young woman.

That was the first time she caught me looking at her. I suddenly noticed that her eyes were on me, watching me check out her breasts. I couldn't tell if she was unconcerned or fighting her displeasure with her face as impassive as it was. I immediately looked down at my own feet, trying not to blush but failing miserably. I'm not even sure what excuse I made, but I was out of there in seconds.

We fell into a routine fairly quickly. She would usually still be cleaning when I got home, eager to get everything out of the way, but would wrap things up when I arrived, make us dinner, and talk with me. Mostly she talked, of course, about the places she'd been and people she'd known, but I was surprised how often I found myself sharing a story about my childhood or a joke. I grew comfortable having her around, and was happy I'd let her force her way in.

After a week, I came home to find her bent over the back of the couch, apparently reaching for something on the floor behind it. She didn't seem to hear me, because she didn't straighten up, so I got a very good look at her. Her skirt wasn't short enough to be scandalous, but at that angle, it hid nothing. Her undergarment, a crimson thong, covered little more. I must have stood there for half a minute before she straightened, apparently victorious. She didn't catch me looking, but when I looked her in the eye pretending that something else had been holding my attention until just that second, she was staring straight at my crotch, which wasn't nearly as deceptive as the rest of me.

The whole time she cooked dinner I was thinking about the way she looked bent over the couch, all the while trying to force myself not to. For her part, she seemed unconcerned, even a little flirtatious. I appreciated her covering up for my flaws yet again, but knew I needed to keep a tighter rein on myself. Still, it's not like I could have helped walking in the front door. . .

As soon as she sat down at the table, she gave an exasperated look. "I dropped my napkin already. Would you get it for me?" I didn't think twice. It was on her side of the table, so I had to reach. It actually took me a moment to notice her legs spread wide so I couldn't possibly miss. I froze for a moment, shocked, staring. She was wet, and the sight and smell of her was intoxicating. In that instant I pictured my tongue running up the inside of her thigh, working it's way beneath the soaked cloth, and plunging into her. She put her hand on her leg, then drew it slowly across the flesh until I jumped, hitting my head hard on the table.

I brought her the napkin, then sat down, hiding my erection beneath the table. She kept looking at me, waiting for me to do something, say something, but I couldn't imagine what to say. Finally, she broke the silence. "You know that was an invitation, yes?" In my entire life, nobody had so bluntly offered me sex, and I'd never wanted so badly to accept. Still, I hesitated.

She began running her leg up the inside of mine. That broke my silence. "You work for me. I pay you to be here. I can't. . . " I didn't know how to finish the sentence, but she got the point. For the first time she looked embarrassed and rejected. She gathered her dishes and started cleaning up, her food untouched. She didn't speak to me the rest of the night. I stood outside her closed bedroom door for quite a while, not sure what to say.

That night I touched myself, thinking of her. I imagined myself beneath the table again, but not hesitating this time. I imagined her fingers laced in my hair, pulling my face tight against her. I pictured her bent over the couch while I pounded in and out of her. I fantasized that she was in my bed with me, touching me, whispering in my ear.

The next day she was smiling again. When she brought dinner to the table, she moved all the way behind me before leaning over to put it on the table, letting her body rub slightly against me. As she was standing back up, she whispered in my ear, "I washed the sheets today. "Were you thinking of me?" Her eyes were on me the whole evening, flirtatious, dangerous. When she finished, she stood up slowly. "Do you think you could wash the dishes tonight? I want to go to bed early." She'd never made such a request before, but I certainly didn't mind.

When I was done, I walked down the hall toward the bedroom, and noticed that her door was open about an inch. From inside, I could hear a light moaning. I didn't realize what it was at first, though I'd probably have stopped anyway if I had. She was masturbating, and seemed to be very involved in it.

I moved closer to her door, and could make out her bare legs from just above the knee. A particularly enticing "ooh" from her drew me closer, until I could make out her thighs, and could see just the edge of her knuckles as she moved her fingers in and out of herself. I wanted to see all of her, to watch her breasts, to see her face in it's rapture, but I couldn't without opening the door more, and I knew it had a bad squeak. Instead I listened, reveling in it. When she was done, I crept silently inside my room, then touched myself again, orgasming almost immediately.

We went on that way two more nights. She would touch herself while I listened, then wash my sheets each night. The third evening I came home to find her in a french maid's costume that could only have been purchased somewhere especially trashy. Her breasts were practically on display, and the skirt only covered half of her bottom. She even had a little feather duster to complete the image.

As soon as I'd recovered enough to shut the door, she spoke. "You were watching me." I blushed, revealing my embarrassment again. "I think you like to watch." She leaned forward, giving me a view all the way down her top, and touched the tip of the feather duster to her ankle. She looked up at me momentarily to make sure I was watching, as if there were any choice. "Sit down".

She slid the feather up slowly, teasing both me and herself. She stopped just above the knee, and leaned back down, putting the gentle device on the inside of her ankle instead. She straightened as she slid it up, bringing it all the way with her until it brushed against her pelvis. She shuddered, and I did the same.

She repeated this several times on each leg, each time smiling at me like she owned me (and in that moment she did). She stopped for a minute, then moved over to the couch. She climbed up and bent over it, getting herself into exactly the same pose she'd been in when she caught me staring, except that this time she wasn't wearing any panties, and I could see her every detail. It was more beautiful than in any fantasy I'd had about her.

She held that for a moment, giving me plenty of time to picture myself inside her, before she found what she was looking for. She pressed a button, and the music started. It was clearly Mexican, slow and emotional. She started dancing to it, languidly moving about the room, enticing me. She would move so close to me that the smell of her became a taste, and then break away again, running her hands across her body, driving me wild.

The costume came off slowly, one piece at a time. She left it across my lap, eventually dancing for me in the nude, touching herself shamelessly. She sat down on the couch and started touching more wildly, keeping up with the steady increase of the beat, never taking her eyes from mine. When finally she exploded, I thought I was orgasming with her, I was so excited. I wanted her to ask me, silently begged her to, but she didn't. Instead, she picked her costume up from my lap, letting her fingers brush my erection, then went to her room for the night.

That night, I left my door open an inch. I wanted her to hear the passion she'd inspired in me.

The next morning was a Saturday. She had the weekends off to do as she pleased, since there wasn't much need with just me in the house. Today, she was here, waiting for me when I woke up. She had a handful of bills, her paycheck evidently already cashed.

"I want to talk to you." She seemed grimly serious, so I sat right away. "You won't have sex with me because I work for you. You don't want to feel like you're paying a woman to have sex with you, or maybe you think I feel like I have to in order to keep my job. I understand these things."

She bit her lower lip, then pushed the handful of money at me. "This is everything you paid me for last week. I will give it all to you if you will have sex with me."

"I thought it through." she explained, still serious. "You can't be taking advantage of me if I'm paying you. It isn't possible." It was her turn to look shy, trying to act confident but knowing she might be pushing too far.

I smiled, immediately convinced. I'd never been paid for sex, of course, and couldn't really imagine it, but it felt like a very good excuse to me, a perfect way out of my guilt. "And what exactly would you want, for all that money?"

Her shy smile turned to a wide grin. "Well, I'd want to get my money's worth, obviously." She moved closer to me, putting a hand on my leg and smiling when I shivered. She pushed a twenty dollar bill just barely into my pants. "I want the whole day, with you doing anything I tell you. You'll lick me when I tell you to lick me, and I'll ask you a lot. You'll pamper me any way I want, and fuck me when I say it's time." This time she pressed a hundred dollar bill down the front of my pants, pushing all the way down to my testicles, and not hurrying to let go. "Do we have a deal?"

I nodded, unable to even form the words, and she started undressing me. She straddled my face there on the couch, coming across my lips twice before she dragged me down to her bedroom. We made love for hours before collapsing, and she woke me up shortly after to pleasure her some more. She was wild and totally uninhibited, making it hard for me not to follow suit. I used words I'd never used, told her my most secret fantasies while I touched her, and made more noise than I'd ever been comfortable making. We spent the entire time in each other's arms, never even stopping for food.

I fell asleep there, totally relaxed, and content.

In the morning, I awoke to find her looking at me with pouty, puppy-dog eyes. Her hand was on my thigh, teasing my penis. "I'm out of money" she complained. "But I enjoyed spending it soooo much."

I laughed and smiled wickedly. "I'm sure we can find some way for you to make a little extra cash". Somehow, the thought of paying her for sex had gone from a source of guilt to a huge turn-on.