My Housekeeper 1

My Housekeeper

It's near the end of a most eventful day. Savoring an eighteen-year-old Glenlivet single malt. Rocks. Planning for tomorrow. I'll need to sift through some likely candidates, online, to find a new housekeeper. My previous one, Rita, resigned today. Moving away. I'm going to miss her terribly.

I'm staring at a frilly little maid's outfit, draped over the ottoman in front of me. Rita gave it to me. She made me wear it when I cleaned house. My house. For her. After which she turned me into a sex slave for her and her boyfriend. Pathetic, huh? What the fuck?

I'm shaking my head in disbelief. Had anyone - family, friends, acquaintances, complete strangers, seen me scurrying around my home, in a silly, cheap maid's outfit, dusting, vacuuming, making beds and scrubbing sinks, I'd have been mortified. Humiliated. Imagine, a man my age and station in life, engaged is such fetishistic behavior.

And then...the sexual servitude she commanded. How is it that I'm both ashamed of it and thrilled by it? Repelled by it yet seduced by it?

I'm not the least bit resentful. On the contrary, I submitted willingly, hell, eagerly to her edicts. As only a true male sub would understand, I was downright giddy about surrendering to her authority. She had conditioned me to a point where my outfit, my house cleaning, and the satisfaction of following her commands was intoxicating. The cherry on the cake was my anticipation of gratifying sex. The sexuality of female domination. My submission and my obedience to a domineering housekeeper stirred a roiling, boiling sex drive. A churning libido. Real passion. Lust. Man, she was really something. I wish she weren't leaving.

This is the story of how my relationship with Rita began, evolved and, sadly, ended.

My wife of twenty years passed away several years ago. Bless her heart, she was totally OCD and was an impossible-to-please stickler for a tidy house. Way more concerned about it than I. It tortured her that we (a childless couple) both worked all week and then devoted much of our Saturdays to cleaning bathrooms, doing laundry, changing bed sheets, swabbing the kitchen, vacuuming - all the stuff associated with impeccable housekeeping. And in her mind it HAD to be done. AND it came with a ridiculously high standard that she herself set.

She truly resented having to devote so much time to these endeavors. I accused her (and she confirmed my depiction) of perceiving herself as a princess and that the manual labor of housekeeping was beneath her position in life. It soured her mood. Her dissatisfaction evolved into rants. Rather than live with her misery, I succumbed. I assumed more and more of the "shared" responsibilities. Extensive Saturday housework became an immutable ritual in the rhythms of my life.

I probably encouraged the dynamic. We unveiled, over time, my proclivities for submission; she ordered me to do things and I complied. Subserviently. Dutifully. What can I say? I'm a sub at heart. And when I did her bidding, she'd reward me. After cleaning the bathrooms and changing the beds with fresh sheets, she might (if everything passed her close inspection) tell me I did a good job. Then tell me to drop my pants and kneel before her. Then give me a delicious cock and ball massage. Not enough to make me cum. But more than enough to make me desperately horny and eager to please her later that evening, after she'd had a couple glasses of wine and was in the mood herself. In an immaculately clean house and under fresh sheets.

This state of affairs endured and evolved for the duration of our marriage. The Domme/sub relationship especially deepened. Out of the blue, she'd order me to do something - fetch her a glass of wine, clean the mirrors in the bathroom, do the dishes, shovel snow off the sidewalks. (I recall, on one occasion, snow had accumulated to a mere dusting of maybe half an inch. In the cozy indoors I was glued to a great football game; a contest with playoff implications. She interrupted my fixation. "Go shovel - NOW!" she ordered. She exuded great satisfaction in issuing the command. She grinned as I put on my coat and gloves and exited out the door.) For these tasks she'd reward me with sexual favors that kept me hungry for more orders. She trained me well. She'd understood my submissive nature and then mastered the art of Pavlovian conditioning with me. And she was very good at sex. (As pissed as I was about the football game interruption, I was lavishly rewarded for my snow-shoveling.)

A common reward was making me kneel in front of her (or lie on my back) and masturbate for her while she fluttered her tongue over my nipples and make me repeat that I was her slave and swear that I'd do anything she'd tell me to do. Often, she'd then whisper in my ear, predictably, "I'm not going to let you cum." Then she'd make me pull up my trousers and we'd resume our normal routines. She told me that her teasing and denial kept me responsive and horny. She was right. And, at the end of the day, so to speak, her rewards were generous. Intoxicatingly wonderful. She was a fucking great dominatrix. (Those stories I can share elsewhere.)

This dynamic went on for years. And we delved deeper and deeper into a kinky Domme/sub relationship. We kept a sizeable suitcase full of fetish gear. Lots of leashes, blindfolds, all kinds of restraints, cock rings, gags, floggers and paddles, nipple clamps, vibrators, dildoes and strap-ons. Quite an assortment of toys. And extraordinary fun.

At some point, as much as I relished the kink, I realized that keeping up with her Saturday household expectations was becoming burdensome.

Alas, after some uncharacteristic nagging from me, we hired a housekeeper who came in twice a month. She was a single, elderly lady, Maureen. An eccentric soul who performed an adequate but less than stellar job of cleaning house. Painfully slow. Still, though not rising to my wife's standards, it alleviated much of the burden from my shoulders. My workload became much more manageable.

She was our housekeeper for many years, reliable and predictable. Then my wife was diagnosed with cancer. It metastasized. She passed away following a short, unpleasant battle.

Maureen continued her services, that is, until I began to do a more thoughtful cost-benefit analysis. The cost didn't bother me so much. But she really didn't do that great a job in the housekeeping department. Moreover, I thought I could handle the household upkeep myself, with far lower standards than I'd experienced with my wife. After all, how dirty could a middle-aged widower's house get? I informed Maureen that I'd be taking on the housekeeping myself, rewarded her with a triple paycheck and said goodbye.

I realized after a few months, though, that my days of solo housekeeping were over. Too much dust, dirt, cobwebs and bugs, too many spills and stains, too much washing and folding. I wanted someone who would come in and take over the physical management of the place. Somone with lots of energy and a keen sense of what a widower like me needed. Someone who would competently assess, prioritize and plan upkeep without my constant guidance. Plus, I could afford it.

I searched online and narrowed my choices. I interviewed three possible candidates by phone and then settled on Rita for an in-person interview.

I didn't know quite what to expect. I hoped for an actual professional housekeeper, a self-starter with a take-charge, leave-it-up-to-me, you're-in-good-hands kind of persona.

Rita showed up and we chatted a good for a good fifteen minutes as we walked through the entire house. She shared some references, even though she'd just recently moved here from out of state. She asked relevant questions and appeared to be taking mental notes on the location of cleaning supplies, closets, linens, tablecloths, place settings and storage areas. She also felt the need to assure me how she respected the privacy of her clients. How she'd never open a drawer or cabinet without express permission or directive from the homeowner. She added, "You'd be amazed what you learn about people from the stuff they leave out, no snooping necessary. Sometimes I think clients actually communicate with me by leaving things out on purpose."

During the initial visit I was sizing her up. She was in her late 30s (which she'd confirm later, on her 40

th

birthday). She stood about 5'4", a smidgeon under 140 pounds. Solidly built. Smooth complexion. Dark tan. She had a quirky, short, bent nose. Uneven teeth. Brown hair bound up with clips and pins into a tight bun. She was not that attractive in a conventional sense but sexy in a hard-to-pin-down way. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself. I found her raspy voice kind of cute. Few airs. Plain spoken. Salt of the Earth.

She was dressed casually, more laid-back than I'd expected for an initial interview. Flip flops, spandex shorts, low cut tank top, completely unselfconscious about her cleavage and no bra. She did not have large pendulous breasts but ample. Okay, beautiful breasts, perfect size, that tempted the stare of a tit man. (Yes, that was me.) She was slightly broader at the hips than her shoulders. I noticed some inconspicuous tattoos and a bracelet on her left ankle.

She suggested she come in every other week, on a predictable schedule. She quoted me a price which, by my quick mental calculation, was over 50% more than I'd paid Maureen. And she told me she'd only work for two hours but that she'd accomplish more in two hours than most housekeepers do in four. She had a lot of moxie. I was a little nervous about the pay and work hours. But she impressed me with her attitude, confidence and professionalism. We had a deal.

She quickly won me over with her competence. She worked extraordinarily hard and fast. It tired me just witnessing her pace. No messing around. Energetic and purposeful in all she did. The place looked great. And she filled me in on things that would need attention in the near future and further on down the line. Just what I'd hoped for.

When I was home, which was most of the time (working part-time, remotely), I'd park it in the downstairs bedroom while she'd begin her workday in my upstairs office. Once that was done, she'd call to me and that's where I'd go, into the cleaned office, shutting the door behind me to work, read, listen to music or play on the computer until she was done for the day. It got me out of the way.

When she finished, she'd tap on my office door or call out and announce that she was done. She'd give me a quick overview of the place, what she'd been working on, what she'd be doing in the future. As she became more familiar with me, she began to make a few observations and pose questions about my lifestyle, in a friendly kind of way. She was curious about my music room, remarked on the kinds of reading material she saw in the bookshelves (she pegged me for an intellectual/academic), noticed the well-stocked liquor cabinet and wine rack, and chuckled about an ashtray and marijuana pipe with its accessories, clearly left out in the open. She laughed that I appeared way straighter than I actually was. I remember she said, "I'll bet naughty waters run deep." I forgave the mix-up of metaphors as my ears perked up spontaneously.

We got to know each other well enough that it was comfortable for either of us to drop the f-bomb and other salty language. After a cleaning report, over time and greater familiarity, she began to share family stuff. Personal history. Funny life stories.

Every time we spoke I had to exercise great discipline not to peek down her blouse / tee shirt. I mean, like I said, she had great tits, never wore a bra and seemed to think nothing of revealing some cleavage. Gawd, I scolded myself and tried to refrain. But it's as though my eyes had wills of their own and I know she caught me peeking several times, much to my embarrassment. It seemed to bother her not a whit.

During these chats I learned that she was from rural Indiana, was high school educated, was a mom at 19, and had been long divorced. Her current partner, a boyfriend, was 29 years old (ten years her junior), a jack-of-all-trades currently working for a remodeling company. I learned that they worked hard to make ends meet and took pride in their self-reliance. Given the work ethic that I'd observed, I was not surprised.

She did surprise me by pointing out her ankle bracelet, revealing that it was a signal of an open relationship. She explained to me that her boyfriend occasionally liked to hit on 20-year-olds. That revelation was accompanied by an eye roll. She said she preferred older gentlemen. And added, laughing, "If I had to do over, I'd marry some old rich guy instead of some hot, hung, young guy with no money."

This went on over the weeks into months, she, doing a bang-up job of keeping my house in order. We, talking candidly when she was done. I, sneaking glances at and becoming obsessed with her breasts as well as her confident demeanor. She, tacitly allowing, maybe even encouraging the peeking and strutting her self-assurance. It turned into a routine. And I became quite fond of her. Beyond the physical attraction, I sensed a bossiness, an air of female superiority, waiting to be unleashed. That of course, was my weak spot.

One fateful day, she was working downstairs. I was still in my upstairs office. I was feeling kind of horny, and the door was closed so I pulled up a video of one of my favorite porn themes - down blouse. I just love the thought of a lady with great tits (I actually prefer modest size to Playboy-size) catching me taking a peek and then giving me permission to stare while she fondles them and teases me with ever more daring revelations. In my favored videos the actress demands that I masturbate for her, to show my appreciation for the privilege of admiring her assets. Very much a female domination over a submissive male thing. She continues the tease and, coaxing me to a climax, she reveals her nipples and allows me to cum for her. I think all those years of being instructed to jerk off for my wife still held a thrill for me. It wasn't my only fantasy. But it was one I was quite fond of.

Anyway, I began watching one of these videos. Good-looking brunette, tracing her finger over her sternum and showing off a very loose-fitting top. I unzipped my trousers and began to rub. I saw it was 16 minutes long. A nice build-up, I thought. But just a few minutes in I heard the garbage truck pulling up the cul-de-sac. Shit! I'd forgotten to put out the compost. And I had two huge bags I needed to transfer into the big bin that's picked up mechanically by the big truck. I had to get there before the driver moved on. Without thinking I jumped out of my chair and ran to empty the bags. About halfway out the back door I thought of the running video. But I shrugged it off. I knew I'd left the door shut and Rita had always called to me out loud or knocked when she was done.

I caught the driver and he was nice enough to wait while I consolidated the compost into the large bin. When it was set to go he emptied the container with the truck's mechanical arm. I thanked him for waiting. I made a gracious gesture of asking how his day was going. I got an earful. He told me how he'd been working overtime. That the city's budget shortfall prevented the Sanitation and Waste Division from hiring more drivers. How the overtime work was to the detriment of his family. How he was looking forward to retirement and his pension. He went on for some time. I couldn't extricate myself easily or politely. I listened. And I realized that some time had passed since I left the house.

I went back in. Rita was waiting upstairs for me, obviously done with the day's work. She told me that she'd forgotten to empty the paper shredder in my office and so went in and did it. "Hope that's okay," she ventured, without a hint of anything unusual. "I saw you talking to the garbage guy out there so I took the liberty."

Of course, the immediate thing that seared my consciousness was that the down blouse video was playing on my 26-inch computer screen. Fuck! Though she acted innocently enough, I was damn sure she'd ventured onto a scene of a perky British gal, fondling her tits while she instructed the viewer on how she wanted him to jerk off for her (jerk off instructions, or JOI in porn video parlance).

As a flush of embarrassment came over me she told me that she was burning up from her work. Flushed as she usually was, she grabbed the top of her tank top and fluttered it while she blew cool air through her lips and down her shirt. Then, and I'm quite sure I wasn't imagining things, she grabbed the bottom hem with both hands and pulled her shirt tight, framing a most impressive set of breasts and nipples. She held the pose just for a second. Her gaze looked across the room absent-mindedly while my eyes toggled spasmodically between her eyes and her chest. She smiled for no good reason other than to acknowledge that everything was okay and told me she'd see me in two weeks. And that was that. I was quite certain she'd seen the video and watched enough of it to size me up with ever keener perspicacity. And I was quite sure she'd deliberately given me a little show. "I guess she knows how I feel about tit teasing and JOI," I told myself.

At this point some reader out there is dismissing me as a horny old fuck with a tit fetish. I need to speak up for myself and others like me who place women on a pedestal and yearn to kneel before them. Skeptics underestimate the potency of our desire to worship and serve a female. It is deeply embedded in a male sub's essence. In our orientation to the world, femininity deserves the adulation of masculinity. Femininity is, after all, superior to masculinity in most every meaningful way. Those of us who feel that way yearn for, crave, even lust for a situation in which we can demonstrate that reverence to a woman. And what a treasure if/when we find a woman who "gets it." One who loves servitude. One who expects it. One who demands it.

That was my frame of mind every time I thought of Rita. Not just her spectacular tits. But her inherent superiority and authority. I dreamed (hoped?) that she was an enlightened woman, who recognized her superiority, who would exercise her authority and then bestow on me the privilege of some kind of worship. Someday. That's how I'd come to think of Rita, even though those dreams were almost certainly la-la land. Ironic, how I fantasized a reversal of roles between overseer and hired help. In my reveries, she was the supervisor, I the underling. She the taskmaster, I the servant.

After her next workday she shared with me some legal troubles she was having. She'd been the cause of a fender-bender and was having troubles with her insurance company and potential liability. I could tell she was upset about it. Meanwhile, her grandchild was acting out and having trouble at school. She shared these things with me as a friend and confidante. What I also noticed was that the top she was wearing was as revealing as it had ever been and that as she spoke she was pinching her top between her thumb and index finger and fluffing it, as if to circulate some air and cool down, then letting go, leaving it loosely open. If one looked, one could see ample cleavage, way more than one would ever display in less familiar company. I was convinced, as I'd been in her last visit, that she was quite deliberately teasing me with her tits. I commiserated with her troubles while I stole glances down her blouse.

On Rita's next visit, she wore yet another provocative blouse. I recalled that even in her interview, she wasn't modest about a little cleavage. But this was over the top, so to speak. As we began our end-of-workday conversation, she asked if we could sit. She had something serious to ask me. Turns out she and her boyfriend we a bit short of cash. She said she was embarrassed to ask but wondered if I'd lend her $500, to help make ends meet. Unexpected expenses. She insisted that I dock her future paychecks by whatever amount I thought fair, until she'd paid every cent of it back.