She Told Me She Wanted Me to Do Her

She told me she wanted me to do her at her job....

She sent me a message suggesting that it would be best if I arrived at the address by 9 o'clock tomorrow morning, so I'm planning to be there on time.

I pulled up to the address just after nine, but instead of parking right out front, I chose a spot a few houses down--something about the quiet street felt a little too exposed. I texted her to say I'd arrived. A moment later, her reply lit up my screen: 'Take the path behind the house. It leads to the back door. I'll be there--having a smoke.' The message was short, almost too casual, and for a second I hesitated. Then I stepped out of the car, the early morning air sharp against my skin, and made my way toward the narrow, overgrown path that disappeared behind the house.

As I stepped around the corner, I caught sight of her standing just outside the back door, framed by a thin haze of smoke curling around her. She hadn't seen me yet. Her faded work jeans clung to her in a way that made it hard not to stare, hugging her hips and revealing just enough to make my pulse skip. The soft blue of her top clung to her frame, slightly sheer in the morning light, hinting at the outline of her bra and the perfect curves beneath.

She took another drag, her eyes scanning the yard--and then they landed on me.

I didn't say a word as I stepped up to her--close enough to smell the faint trace of smoke on her breath, the warmth of her skin in the cool morning air. Her eyes met mine, steady, almost daring. I slid my hands around her waist and pulled her in, feeling the curve of her body press against me. My palms settled on her hips, then lower, gripping her firmly as I leaned in.

Our lips met in a kiss that started slow but deepened fast--hungry, full of everything we hadn't said yet. She responded instantly, melting into me, her fingers finding their way into my hair as the world around us seemed to fall away.

"Not so fast," she murmured against my lips, her voice low and laced with a smirk. She pulled back just enough for her eyes to meet mine, a flicker of amusement dancing there. "I'm not done yet," she said, nodding toward something behind her--tools, maybe, or a half-finished task that hadn't made room for distractions.

"But," she added, brushing her fingers lightly along my arm, "if you give me a hand, we might just get done faster... and start a little earlier on what you really came here for."

She turned then, walking back inside with that same deliberate sway in her step, tossing a glance over her shoulder that made it very clear--this wasn't over. Not even close.

What's still on your to-do list?" I asked, stepping into the kitchen where the faint scent of lemon cleaner hung in the air. My eyes followed her as she wiped down the counter, the cloth moving in slow, deliberate circles. "And how sure are you," I added, leaning casually against the doorframe, "that the person who owns this place isn't about to walk in on us?"

She looked over her shoulder, that same mischievous glint in her eye. "Relax," she said, smirking. "I've got the whole morning. They're out of town until tomorrow."

She turned back to the counter, bending just slightly to reach a lower shelf, her jeans stretching in all the right ways. "Just a bit of cleaning left," she said, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. "If you're feeling helpful, grab the vacuum. If not... stand there and keep distracting me.

She straightened up, tossing the cloth into a nearby bucket with a satisfying splash, then turned to face me fully. "If you start vacuuming the upstairs bedroom," she said, voice smooth like she was offering a dare instead of a chore, "I can finish mopping the downstairs floor. Then..." --her eyes lingered on mine a moment too long-- "we'll have the house to ourselves."

The way she said it made it clear: she wasn't just talking about a clean house.

Without waiting for a response, she handed me the vacuum hose with a playful smirk, her fingers brushing mine. "Better get started," she whispered, "unless you'd rather take your time and risk getting caught."

"Okay, deal," I said, holding her gaze. "But on one condition--" I stepped in closer, lowering my voice just enough to make her lean in. "I want to see you mop the floor... with one less item of clothing."

Her eyebrows lifted, amused, but she didn't back away. Not even a step.

I reached out, my fingers finding the button of her jeans, slow and deliberate. "Starting with these," I murmured, as I slipped it open and eased the zipper down, the sound cutting through the quiet room like a promise.

She bit her lip, watching me, that playful fire still dancing in her eyes. "You're bold this morning," she said, almost breathless.

"And you're not stopping me," I replied, gently sliding my hands to her hips.

I slid my hands into the back of her jeans, feeling the warmth of her skin and the perfect curve beneath my palms. Her breath caught ever so slightly as I slowly worked the denim down over her hips, savoring every second. The fabric gave way inch by inch until it gathered at her knees, revealing a glimpse of deep red lace--thin, delicate, and leaving little to the imagination.

I knelt in front of her, my hands steady, and she instinctively lifted one leg, then the other, stepping out of her jeans with a grace that made it feel almost ceremonial. As I straightened up slightly, she placed her hands on either side of my head--gentle but firm--and guided my face closer to the heat between her thighs, to that bold red fabric stretched just right across her.

The scent of her was already pulling me in, and the way she looked down at me--commanding, playful, completely in control--made it clear: she wasn't finished teasing just yet.

"Now let's both get to work," she said, her tone sharp, trying to reassert control--but I caught the subtle flush rising in her cheeks. She turned quickly, pretending not to notice my grin as she grabbed the mop again, but the way she moved--bare legs, that red thong peeking with every step--told me she knew exactly what kind of effect she was having.

I stood up slowly, still feeling the heat of her skin on my hands, and reached for the vacuum with a smirk. "Sure," I said, heading for the stairs, "but just so you know... this is the sexiest cleaning arrangement I've ever agreed to."

She shot me a glance over her shoulder, half a smile playing on her lips. "Better vacuum like you mean it," she called out, "or I'm keeping my top on."

The vacuuming barely took five minutes. I moved through it fast, distracted, my mind replaying the last few moments over and over. When I headed back downstairs, I expected to find her finishing up--but she was already outside again, standing in the garden with a fresh cigarette between her fingers.

She hadn't noticed me yet.

The morning sun hit her just right, catching the faint shimmer of sweat on her skin, the mop leaned casually against the wall behind her. Her work jeans were still crumpled on the floor inside--and now, so was her bra.

She stood there in just that clingy blue top and the red thong, the outline of her chest fully visible now through the fabric. I could see the way her shoulders shifted slightly, the restless movement of someone trying to act calm but buzzing underneath.

She took a drag, then glanced over and finally saw me watching her from the doorway. Her eyes locked with mine, wide and charged--nervous, excited, a little breathless.

And she didn't move. She just held my gaze... waiting.

She exhaled a slow stream of smoke, her gaze still locked on mine. "We can head upstairs in a bit," she said, voice low and just slightly shaky. "Last task for me is to mop the stairs."

I stepped in behind her, close enough for her to feel my breath against her neck. Without a word, my fingers slid to her hips. I hooked them around the waistband of her thong and, in one smooth motion, tugged it down her legs. It slipped over her thighs, brushing down to her ankles before falling soundlessly onto the tile.

"You won't be needing that while performing your last duty," I whispered into her ear, my voice barely more than a breath.

She stood perfectly still for a moment, her body tense, caught somewhere between shock and anticipation. Then, slowly, she stepped out of the thin fabric, letting it join the pile of clothes behind her.

"Careful," she murmured, glancing back at me with a dangerous glint in her eye. "You keep that up, and the stairs might stay dirty for a while."

"Get going," I said, my tone firm but laced with a grin. "Show me how quickly you can mop those stairs... wearing just one item of clothing."

She turned her head slightly, giving me a half-laugh, half-challenge. Her cheeks were flushed, but she didn't hesitate. She dropped the cigarette, crushed it under her bare foot, and picked up the mop with a smirk that told me she was fully aware of the game we were playing now--and loving it.

As she stepped back inside, the blue top clinging to her and absolutely nothing else, I followed slowly behind, eyes tracing every curve, every movement. The mop hit the first step with a soft swish, her body bending and swaying with each stroke. She glanced back once, just to make sure I was watching.

I was. Every second of it.

I followed her every step up the stairs, the sway of her hips, the soft creak of each wooden step beneath her bare feet, the silence between us thick with unspoken tension. By the time we reached the bedroom, the air felt electric.

"On your knees," I said softly, not as a command, but something more--something she had clearly been waiting to hear. She lowered herself slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. "Arms up."

She raised them above her head without question, breath steady but shallow, lips slightly parted. I took my time, fingers curling under the hem of her top, lifting it inch by inch until the last bit of fabric slid over her head and joined the rest on the floor.

For a moment, we just stared at each other, everything laid bare between us--want, trust, heat.

Then, with a look that burned straight through me, she reached for my waistband, fingers moving quickly to unbutton and unzip my jeans. They dropped to my knees, and the surprise in her eyes made her smirk deepen into something hungry.

She looked up, breathing faster now, her hands settling on my hips as she leaned in, slow and deliberate--like she'd been thinking about this moment since the night before.

Oh man, was she good at it. She had this rare kind of confidence--effortless, electric. If I let her, she could've had me unraveling in minutes. Maybe less. She knew it too, the way her eyes flicked up at me, daring me to let go.

But I didn't.

Instead, I reached down, stopping her with a gentle touch beneath her chin. Her breath caught as I pulled her up to her feet, holding her close for just a heartbeat--then I lifted her, one smooth motion, and carried her across the room.

Her laugh was soft and breathless as I laid her down on the freshly made bed, the contrast of her bare skin against the crisp sheets making the moment feel impossibly vivid. She looked up at me, flushed and wild, every inch of her radiating anticipation.

And then I was on her--mouth, hands, body--like she was the only thing I'd ever wanted, the only thing that had ever made sense.

For her, it wasn't just about the moment--it was about the rush.

The thrill of doing this while on the clock, when she was supposed to be mopping floors and wiping down windows. The buzz of knowing she was getting paid to behave anything but professionally. And most of all, the delicious danger of doing it in someone else's house--slipping out of her clothes, breathless and bare, just rooms away from photos of a family she didn't know and a life she didn't live.

It was reckless. It was wrong.

And that was exactly why she needed it.

There was an exhibitionist in her--a playful, daring part of her that fed on moments like this. Moments where the rules didn't just bend, they shattered. Where the world felt like it might catch her in the act at any second.

And with every stolen minute, every whispered breath, I could feel that wild part of her coming alive.