Mirage

The house felt vacant, hollow, and huge after everyone left.

The whole Marco family went one by one for their three-week individual summer trips. The master and his wife, Mr and Mrs Marco—in whose household and care I have the honour to serve for the past several years—took a cruise, though I know for other personal reasons than the usual tour.

"I'll go wakeboarding, guys—two weeks in Thailand," Mongo said, the eldest of the kids: sports fanatic, tall and handsome, muscles bulging with tattoos on either shoulders running down both arms like past girlfriends running after him. "I found a fantastic bitch, you know," he continued, smirking, the lovely Asian teens posted hot and alluring in their thongs in the resort site fresh in his eyes, describing it to me. He'll beach-bum with his gang, he said, in a secluded spot off the coast of Thailand where he intends to drop his girl also, already sliding away from his mind.

Mongo and I share more than casual secrets, kept hidden from the whole family. Aroused perhaps or out of curiosity, I caught him once peeping inside my room. He was eighteen, at the peak of his macho popularity enjoying the adoration of college girls, ticking them off like discarded playing cards. I was twenty seven—sexy, aware and in full bloom.

Taking my noon break after my chores, I was sure the closed door, though unlocked, was clear enough to show anyone I needed privacy. The weather was hot and I was tired and sleepy. I removed my undies and wore only a short chemise, translucent in its silky, delicate softness.

Comfortable and refreshed, I was tickled by my little indecency, preening in the mirror. The luscious slopes of my breasts half-revealed in the low neckline, my nipples and cone areolas visible, puffy against the light cloth, while the laced hem glided up the delicate smoothness of my inner thighs. I eked out a girlish giggle, elated at my seductive charm, unaware the door was ajar.

I massaged my tired legs and arms with body lotion, preparing for my nap. My drowsiness slowly replaced by a warm, intimate quiver in my flesh as my hands kneaded the smoothness of my knees, caressed higher the glossy silkiness of my thighs—when I noticed Mongo's face in the mirror peering in, watching me, devouring my sexuality.

"Mongo—you need something?" I said, catching his embarrassment, as I whirled in my seat to face him. My body exposed indecent before his sinful eyes, as my knees locked tight to cover my shaven pussy.

"Jeez—I-I thought—shit!" he said, fumbling for explanation, opening the door fast and closing it after him, standing flat against it. "It's true what they say—you're fucking gorgeous, Omma!" he said, hushed, keeping his excitement down. His cock bobbed, struggled hard against his shorts, bigger than I imagined or supposed. A tingle of mischievous pride coursed through my body, shameless in my malicious response—smiling, I grabbed his hand and pulled him closer to me, locking the door behind.

I was thrilled by the trembling arousal of the boy, his hands eager to touch my breasts, to slide underneath my legs and play with my pussy. I glided from him backing away and lay in bed provoking his arousals more, opening my legs slightly enjoying his wide-eyed stare. I allowed him to gloat at my succulent flesh, my wet nakedness—I was so aroused I didn't think of any consequences. I am only an unschooled household help.

I gave Mongo a blowjob after he ate my breasts and fingered my sex, more than delighted to lick and touch my wet pussy, stout and warm in his shaking palm as he exploded in my mouth in our cavorting sixty-nine in bed. Soon, it became our secret sport, sneaking into my room whenever he feels horny and wants quick, satisfying eruptions. In return, I enjoyed his sexual excitement, admiration, and lies, coming to me as my secret lover hidden in the house.

But I did not allow Mongo to fuck me, for reasons we both understood. After all, he has more girlfriends to choose from, and I am not prepared for it yet.

"And your last week?" I heard Rica said, breaking my pleasant, amoral thoughts. The only girl in the brood, she opted for a mountain climb with her friends in the Cordillera. To hone their strength and stamina for the international rock-climbing competition, she told me then, beaming, their college team sponsored by the school. Yet I know Rica plans to enjoy some outdoor fun with her girlfriend, the kid growing into a bouncy, athletic lesbian.

Didn't Rica knock on my door too? Didn't the young butch, intrigued of the gossips she heard about me from the other servants, almost begged for lessons in erotic, female to female love play? Didn't she entice me with her toys, intriguing me and promising to show me how to use and enjoy it?

Of course, I obliged. I have nothing to lose, and the girl at twenty is attractive and sexy. We woke up naked and exhausted each following morning, unable to untangle ourselves from our sweet, delicious embrace—tonguing our wet kisses, exploring our sex with gentle fingers, moaning in excited pleasures as we exploded again and again, her dildo strapped on me. It lasted for us, for no one knew I was Rica's personal coach—climbing, assaulting, challenging my carnal perversity—her sweet lips and lascivious tongue in my asshole and pussy.

"N.Y.F.B., baby—NYFB!" Mongo said now, almost giving his sister the finger. Then abruptly turned in my direction, winking, our little bitch secret secured like the others.

"C'mon, moron—you'll bring Jen?" Rica continued, amused, provoking her brother in front of their parents.

"Who's JEN? Jenna? Jennifer? Jenjen?" Mongo said, clowning, both hands flying in hip hop innocence and surprise, and got hit with a throw pillow fast.

"Wait—what's that? What's N...Y...D—?" Mr Teddy Marco said, a CFO for an overseas bank, stopping a pillow fight between the shouts and laughter of his kids. At fifty six, he'd become used to the riots that usually happened when the family plan their vacations. For him, it's all in the budget, like his intended stopover in Singapore on the way home.

The fuck can't wait to see the newest casino, a dream of beginner's luck in the sky park rousing his appetite. These I overheard, with Mr Marco talking on the phone, bragging about his gambling plans. The same way he bragged about his potency, when he burst inside the servants' bathroom catching me all naked and wet, slippery as spit, gagging me with his erect cock.

True, he was potent, not mucho or macho but close enough. He made me sucked his cock. "Deep throat me, Omma—ooh, ooh!" he whined, ordering me, gripping my head, fucking my face with ravenous delight, inserting the whole length of his cock in my mouth.

For several seconds I sucked, pulled, and gobbled, using all the techniques I learned and tried, his cock stretching harder like a pipe until finally he exploded, full and at the hilt, choking me. "Swallow it, bitch! Swallow my cum! Beg for moo—oohh!—you fucking whore!!" he screamed, his dirty abuse ringing in my ears, hurrying me as his body writhed and convulsed.

We lay in the bathroom floor...Unmindful of our sweat, our saliva, the smell and touch of cum that squirted uncontrolled all over our trembling flesh. The master opened the warm shower—refreshing, washing, falling lightly on our skin as we entangled again, comfortable with our naked selves, fondling me as I stroked his cock once more.

"Only gays can give the best bjs, Omma," Mr Marco said, hugging me closer to him, caressing my head, shoulders and back, pampering me with temporary affection, admiration, and lust—my delicate fingers tightening around the shaft of his cock.

"Is that true, Sir?" I said, and petted the swollen head with my lips, my tongue pointed, darting in and out fast to lick the slit. Mr Marco moaned, legs kicking out, lifting his crotch from the floor, his hands squeezing, gripping my breasts. He gasped, groaned and squealed like a pig with mouth wide open unable to answer or mumble his filth.

My tongue swirled slow around the crown of his cock, red and engorged inside my mouth. He squirmed, twisted and trembled exploding once more, shuddering hard. I felt feverish, filled with cum and malicious bliss. My decency already ignored, trampled, dissolving in the lewdness of my humiliations, my immoral submissions, all wicked and depraved in my mind's eyes.

The master came back like the rest, equipped with his sex toys, plastic rings and long rubber tubings. "Shit, Omma—if only every woman is like you—oohh!" he said, writhing, exploding in our slippery, untidy mess. He woke me one late evening and ordered me to masturbate under the breakfast table, lying in the clammy tiles of the kitchen floor—my trembling legs wide open and fastened to the table's posts—while he used his tools with batteries and little strings.

Mr Marco recognized I was ripe and did not hesitate to claim his rights. I was only an obedient slave to his master, after all. He tied me and gagged my mouth with his brief already moist with our sweat, saliva and cum. My breasts reddish, swollen, held and strapped up high with loops of plastic rings. His rubber tubings coiled tight around my body with my arms and legs fastened and opened apart—the lips of my pussy and the cheeks of my butt spread wide.

The master poked and probed, opening my asshole loose with his slurping tongue and eager lips. Then he inserted his throbbing cock—tearing, pounding, ravaging me without let up. He baptized me in a cock-numbing, cunt-squirting butt fuck --my first and not the last—my asshole tightening harder than my mouth, gripping the bulbous head of his cock, holding his orgasms at bay, which made him buckle and bounce noisily on the floor. Without my gag, I think the whole household would have woken and found us.

"Nevvah-evah-Yearn-Fellah's-Babe-ah," Mongo said, looking at me, sticking his tongue out, tickling my senses with another erotic hint—will he come tonight before they leave tomorrow?—fingers rapping in tune. More laughter erupted, pillows raining on him.

"Hey, hey—wait! I asked a question here," Mr Marco said, faking seriousness.

"That's 'None-of-Your-Fucking-Business', Dad," Pico said, sniggering, catching the glares of his Dad and Mom. "I mean—that's what it means, Daddy—ha-ha!" And pandemonium broke loose.

The youngest at twelve and my favourite, Pico camps and treks with his classmates and teachers in a mountain resort in China. An effeminate leaning more towards gay dispositions and practices—how many times did I catch him putting on my lipsticks while wearing a pink wig?—Pico acts as the clown in the family: laughing on the outside. The latest I heard, the boy's attitude is condoned by his art teachers.

"Watch your tongue, Pico—there's a lady in da house!" Mongo said, pointing to me with a tilt of his head while I prepared some snacks and drinks, all eyes in my direction at once.

"Omma is not a lady!" Pico shouted running to me, hugging me, tickling me, teasing me. I love the boy like my own.

"Oh, Pico—Omma will poison you soon, you'll see," Mrs Flora Marco said, shaking her head, ruffling her son's hair as everybody laughed. Flory to her fellow dermatologists and still attractive in her early fifties, she insisted on a cruise intrigued by the lavish ballroom parties. Of course, the handsome and beautiful D.I.s presented to the guests are always a remarkable collection available for all sexes. And with Mr Marco glued in the casino, the old lady can have her ways, her secret bi-ways. This, I am privy, too, as Mrs Marco often confided to me, sharing a lot of her sexual wishes and activities.

Yes, I was not exempted from Flory's sexual needs. The woman actually likes me, admires me, covets my youthful looks. And because she was instrumental in my growth and confidence as a woman—guiding, soothing, assuring my personal doubts—I always obliged. I kept my little secrets safe this way, since each one except the youngest, Pico, were all involved in our sexual family escapades.

Flory would come to my room unannounced when she's feeling ugly and old, desperate of her advancing years no cosmetics or surgery can cover or avoid. We would undress; shave our pussy before we rub our favourite scented oils on each other, slowly building the heat of our arousals for whoever man or woman interested us both, identities hidden, giggled fantasies unspoken, remaining untold.

And then we fucked. I strapped on her glass dildo, straddling her while she ate my breasts, fingered my sex, as I mashed and squeezed hers, too, until we both collapsed on my bed, suppressing our screams and delirious agonies until our depravities subside in the early mornings. That way, my benefactor and friend, Mrs Flory Marco, remained happy and at ease while my secrets stayed safe.

With everybody gone for three weeks, and all the important responsibilities dumped in my care as the official housekeeper, I'd be alone in the house. I require no compulsory services of the other servants and caretakers. I can manage by myself, and if I need any of them, each one is a phone call away.

Thus, with kisses of goodbyes and "take cares" smothering me, the family left in a rush—school kids out for recess. "Goodbye, Omma—we'll see you soon!" said Mrs Marco, hugging me, kissing my cheeks before handing me the keys, the couple, the last to leave.

Omma, an endearing mispronunciation of Mongo at two years old, unable to say my real name, Roman, and got stuck. After more than thirty years, the name filled and flowered with sincerity and love, an honest acceptance of everyone for what I am—a homosexual at birth—adopting the name and staying here longer than I planned or thought I could endure. After all, I was only eight when my parents sold me as domestic help...One less mouth to feed in our family of thirteen kids.

Alone to contemplate my future in the near cavernous silence of the quaint villa, I welcomed with excited restlessness the recurring desires and past experiences coming so vivid and private during the summer months: My dirty little escapades, treasured and kept intact, spicing my uneventful life somehow.

Uneducated, with only the ability of a Prep School kid to read or write, and without social grace or special skills to balance my disadvantages except for the unusual provocative allure my body acquired, I acknowledged with shame and secrecy my physical abnormalities. Though feeling distraught and confused, I accepted my continuing transformation, adapting everything like my new name.

Yet I became conscious, more than embarrassed. My breasts swelled when aroused, the nipples stretching hard, aching with a desire to be touched, to be milked, squeezed and sucked. But what surprised me most was the ticklish sensation of wetness spreading warm inside and around my pubic mound, awakening sensual urges new and exciting to me—a yearning to be fucked.

I discovered quite late I was born a hermaphrodite, as Mrs Marco disclosed, with me even unable to pronounce or spell the word. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, Omma—you're so unique!" the woman said, gushing with admiration at my slender built and silken flesh. "You're delicately attractive and girls your age will surely die for your unblemished, soft skin."

At eighteen, my breasts blossomed, already full like a woman, with wide cone areolas and long nipples. My waist, small and supple, curves along my generous hips and butt, sliding down the length of my smooth, hairless, shapely legs. While my male genitals developed more like a cunt: My pubic mound a cupped hand where my tiny prick receded, behaving like a large clit enclosed in the folds of the foreskin and embedded deep within the velvety cheeks of my hollow balls forming stout luscious lips. Sensitive and ticklish, my sex becomes moist and profusely wet, especially, when I'm wearing a dress and ogled and gawked at by men.

The gardener, on an excuse asking for a glass of water, groped between my legs early on. The driver displayed an erection protruding in his pants each time the brute catches me alone. And the cook enticed me with pastries while the old man ogled the swells of my breasts. Each man and those like them provided me life lessons I nibbled quick and spat out, more concerned in keeping my decency and pride intact, yet treasuring my pleasures that remained unforgettable even now.

"Come often, Omma...eat my delicious cakes," the cook said, giving me a small plate. His eyes glued in front of my delicate blouse, my breasts bobbing and bloated, restrained only in my low-cut bra. "Look, your tits will grow bigger and more beautiful," the old man whispered, excited. His warm breath caressed my ears while his eyes licked the soft swells of my breasts, my nipples titillated and aroused, unmistakable in my flimsy top.

For who else would buy my seductive clothes but Mrs Marco? All my sexy lingerie, nighties, and revealing dresses handpicked and given by the woman thrilled to shop for me, exhilarated when I wore a stylish, expensive dress for the first time.

"Oh, you're lovely, Omma—you look gorgeous! How I wish I have your tits!" Mrs Marco said, as I pranced and pirouetted, giggling in front of the mirror, already a woman.

Tits, though I heard it often from the gardener, the driver, and the cook every chance they got to corner me, I tried to ignore it. A gentle tremor so perverse wakens in my flesh each time I remember the look in their greedy eyes—devouring, undressing, molesting my feminine reality—sending ripples of excitement from my nipples way down deep my inner thighs. My breasts ached, tight and swollen, while my sex felt on fire, moist and slippery, burning with an itch my fingers cannot reach or satisfy.

Until one afternoon without cause or reason, the cook grabbed me and squeezed my breasts. The tingling pleasures of his touch electrified me, shocked my senses as I reeled disoriented, unprepared for the peculiar sensation quivering in my flesh. He fondled my tits, eyes wild and excited—mashing, kneading the luscious yielding roundness. I screamed in silent revulsion of my desecration, and ran away from him.

My whole body trembled as I hurried in tears for the privacy of my room—angry, disgusted, and irritated with myself—I cannot understand what I felt and why I did not resist. Why did I allow him to fondle my breasts, to grope free inside my blouse? Oh, how long did his hands enjoy touching me, stroking my breasts?

The immorality of his indecency wriggled in my sleep even as I prayed, stirring forbidden scenes of sinful acts I dared not dream or imagine. His stout warm hands came anxious and alive once more—cupping the roundness of my breasts from below, stroking slow the smoothness upwards removing my bra—baring the luscious ripeness, titillating my flesh. Goose bumps crawled and bristled all over my body. I felt a delicious tingle kicked in my sex, squirting my pleasures as his fingers teased my puffy areolas, squeezing, stretching the nipples—his unclean desires enfolding, fondling my breasts, uncontrolled.

The lewdness of the thrill pressed down on me, crushed my body while I lay excited restless in bed. The erotic recollection of his hands squashing my breasts—oohh!—more than alive as I groped and touched myself.

Yet to my surprise, it shredded away my inhibitions and taboos, absorbed my anger, my indignation and fears. My whole being overwhelmed and dumbfounded—quivering, craving for the joy of human intimacy, of male strength, dominance, and passion that made me embrace, relish, and understand more a woman's delicate, vulnerable beauty—and came back, without hesitation, for more.

The gardener no longer made an excuse to slide his hands between my legs and fondle my arousal, stroking the smoothness within, pushing higher and higher as I squeezed my thighs together hoping to stop him...Yet letting go with a squirm when he touched the wetness of my panties, caressed the soft delicate lips of my sex, spreading wide my legs to let him in with a shudder and a bitten, muted scream.