Wanted: Flexible Houseeeper

I chuckled and shook my head when I saw the profile description on the hook-up site.

"This guy either has an odd sense of humor, is confused about which website he's on, or is just flat-out strange," I said aloud as I read the words again:

**WANTED. Male housekeeper to clean, cook and do miscellaneous chores several days per week. Must be flexible in all regards and adapt well to changing demands. Compensation to be determined upon acceptance of position. DM here if interested.**

I quickly ruled out that the ad-placer accidentally posted to the wrong website when I saw the two photos on the profile: A shot of a shirtless barrel chest and midsection, covered in thick reddish hair, and a second photo of a pair of whitey-tighties straining against a huge bulge. From the outline, it looked like a thick, circumcised cock resting on top of a set of plump testicles. More red hair swirled out of the top band of the BVDs.

I scanned through the rest of his bio: User name, "Road Hard," 52 years old, 6 foot 2 and 240 pounds. Solid guy. I was much younger, at 28, and hadn't been much of a bear chaser in my limited bisexual experiences. I'm also quite a bit smaller, relatively, at a slender 5 foot 9 and 155 pounds, and have very little hair on my torso.

Weighing against all that was the fact that I did appreciate nice, thick cocks. He sure looked to have that covered. Nor was I looking to date the guy -- just some good old-fashioned NSA fun.

It was in that spirit that I wrote a direct message to Road Hard:

**Hey there, bud -- nice photos and bio, and interesting "want ad." I'm on this site to "clean some things" but it's never seemed like a chore! If you're interested in revealing what's in those briefs, I'll make sure it's all spic-n-span -- several days a week if need be. Bi vers here for NSA. Will travel. Discretion expected and assured.**

I hit the "send" button and toggled through more profiles. I saw younger, I saw all manner of bare cocks and winking assholes. I saw more traditional come-ons for sex, from the romantics hoping for long-term relationships to the hungry bottoms craving a one-time pounding. But when I was done scrolling, I went back to the start and tracked through the profiles again until I saw those jam-packed underwear. I took a screenshot and made a mental note to use it later, at bedtime.

I woke to the first light of Saturday with a throbbing hard-on that seemed to beg for attention when I brushed my hand over it for a reflexive repositioning. The morning boner wasn't unusual, but the rush of warm tingles up my spine when I grazed against the glans and frenulum surprised me, since I'd pounded out a completely satisfying orgasm just before sleep.

The inspiration was the pictures of Road Hard beaming from my phone in the dark from my left hand; the closer I got to climax the more those underwear bulges seem to thicken; I was imagining musky odor from his crotch invading my senses and the girth expanding in my mouth when I finally hit a crescendo and my cum splattered all over my chest and stomach. I wiped off with a T-shirt I'd removed at bedtime, and my cock twitched and oozed until I lost consciousness.

The memory of those images cut through my sleep fog and by impulse my hand left my rejuvenated cock and reached for the smartphone on my nightstand. I opened the dating app and felt a jolt when I saw a red "2" atop the messages icon.

One tap and I saw both were from my potential new buddy.

** First things first: Send me some pics -- just face and body. Don't need cock or ass pics, not interested in the first and the second all looks the same. If I'm interested I'll share a face pic back. We'll see where it goes from there. **

I was slightly puzzled, because this wasn't a typical hookup kind of vibe. Especially since I put myself out there as versatile, and apparently he wasn't any part of that. But I had to admit that his blunt tone and directness sent a surge through my cock.

I backed out of the first message and opened the second:

** Oh... a couple more things. Shave any facial hair before the pics, and strip down to white underwear for the body pic. Thx. **

Now I felt excited AND self-conscious. My hand idly went to the stubble I kept full-time on my cheeks and jawline. I liked the look, kept it constant with a trimmer and everyone I knew had seen me like that for the last two years.

I pushed the covers off my body, slid out of bed and headed to the toilet, turning the spigot to HOT as I walked by the glass walk-in shower. I felt my cock start to thicken to its 6-inch limits as I pissed, stoked by the excitement of Road Hard's wake-up messages and the anticipation of what it could mean.

It didn't take long for things to reach a climax in the shower -- thoughts of that bulge, his blunt directions for me to prep and a bit of lather on my cock had me spurting several streams of spunk against the shower wall. I gathered my wits and got the balance back in wobbly legs, then reached for my razor and flicked on my lighted fogless mirror. My mind raced as I pulled the razor through the lather on my cheeks and neck.

After toweling off I went to my drawer and pulled out a pair of white briefs. For the first time in my life, the most mundane act of dressing seemed oddly exotic, imbued with something naughty and heightened by the knowledge that this was what this terse stranger demanded. I slipped them on, tugging my balls forward and positioning my cock strategically over them so there would be more of a pronounced bulge. I propped my phone against a watch box on my dresser and set the timer, then stepped back and felt awkward as I fidgeted with poses until the flash went off.

Taking the phone in my hand, my eyes panned the photo, going reflexively to the bulge. I had to say, it made a nice impression against the white cotton. I scanned the rest of the pic, admiring my lean body and laughing at my expression, which definitely appeared to be trying a bit too hard to look sexy. And then something made me pause, and flick back into the hookup app to reread Road Hard's messages.

"Not interested in the first... shave any facial hair... white underwear for the body pic."

I sat on the edge of my bed parsing the messages over and over, my mind turning over the words until his intent became obvious. I walked to my bathroom mirror and picked up a brush, working my unruly hair until it there was something resembling bangs down to my eyebrows and what I could manage of it over the tops of my ears.

I reset the phone on the dresser and set the photo timer for 10 seconds. Stepping back, I reached into my briefs, spread my legs and push my balls and cock back between my thighs. Bringing my thighs together until my package was firmly tucked, I reached behind my back and pulled the waistband up until the white cotton was snug over the small mound left in my groin.

The phone clicked and I felt a sense of excitement as I looked at myself in a way I'd never seen, or imagined. But clearly Road Hard had. My hand was shaking as I sat on the bed and began typing a message back to him.

** Is this acceptable? Would you like to inspect in person? Just say when. **

I uploaded the photo with my cock and balls tucked; the white cotton made a smooth V as it disappeared between my thighs. My cock was throbbing against that underwear as I hit "send."

The minutes felt like hours the rest of the morning; I finally had to tell myself to stop picking up my phone and just get to the chores around my apartment. After laundry, bathroom cleaning and cleaning up the lunch dishes I rewarded myself by plopping on the couch and opening up the hookup app. I got a rush when I saw the glowing red "1" over the mail icon. I took a deep breath and tapped for the message:

** Nicely done. If you're ready for the interview, come to 3801 Beacon Road at 6 p.m. today. Reply to confirm. Also if you haven't already, shave your armpits. **

I exhaled, feeling lightheaded, and slipped my left hand under the neck of my T-shirt to feel the hair in my right armpit. It wasn't thick... but it was about to be gone.

The butterflies that had been in my stomach all afternoon kicked up a notch when I pulled into the driveway of an older but well-kept ranch home about 10 miles out of town. I passed through some wooded and hilly areas on winding roads, which then gave way to farm fields and the familiar pattern of crossroads checker-boarded exactly one mile apart. I stopped my car in the drive next to an older dark red Ford pickup truck, some spots of rust on the bottom of the tailgate and edges of the wheel wells.

It was summer but a cool breeze made the fine hair on my legs tingle as I headed up the walkway to the porch. I opened the screen door and was about to knock when the front door opened; before me stood a truck driver right out of central casting. Road Hard wore a green plaid flannel shirt, half opened to reveal a V-neck white T-shirt with red hair curling from the hem to his collarbones; his ample torso poked over a thick leather belt threaded through Levis, and a pair of Caterpillar work boots rounded out the ensemble. A circular crease ran through his short red hair, marking where a ball cap had been; reddish stubble ran from his neck up to his cheekbones.

"C'mon in," he said, taking a step back and opening the door further. I stepped in and my eyes began adjusting to the darker interior as he shut the door behind me.

"I'm here for the interview. Is there an application to fill out?" I said lightly. A slight smile creased his face. "I'm Steve, by the way," I added, and started to lift my arm for a handshake but he had already begun moving toward the kitchen, which was on the opposite side of the house from the front door. To my right was a standard living room, TV on the far wall, couch and ottoman, two easy chairs framing the front window. To my left was a hallway, presumably leading to bedrooms and baths.

"Name's Tom," he said over his shoulder. "Let me show you were the cleaning supplies are." That was a bit jarring but it removed any question about his personal ad on the hookup site. "Housekeeper" was not some clever metaphor for something else -- he really wanted his house cleaned. But surely there was something more?

I slipped off my sandals and left them on the rug next to his front door, then walked into the kitchen. Next to the refrigerator, at the end of a sink counter that ran along the right wall, was a door that Tom was opening. It led into a laundry room. -- washer and dryer on the left, a wall of cabinets on the right. He swung open two doors and waved at the interior.

"Everything you need is in here. Squeeze mop and bucket, window cleaner, dust mops, wipes, laundry detergent." He wasn't so much gruff as he was no-nonsense. He pointed at a hamper next to the washer. "Might as well start by tossing in a load."

Tom unfastened the remaining buttons on his shirt and tossed it on top of the dirty clothes, then tugged off his boots and pulled off his belt. I felt my neck and face get hot as he unfastened his fly and pushed the jeans off his hips. As he stepped one leg and then the other out of the pants, my eyes were riveted on his package swaying between his beefy thighs beneath the same kind of whitey-tighties that were in his personal ad.

After he'd added his socks to the pile he turned to face me and I was certain my face was flushed. A welling of creases around his eyes hinted at a smile.

"I'm going to take a shower -- why don't you see how much you can get done in the kitchen and living room," he said. "That's the interview."

I nodded and, as he walked through the door and disappeared from view, I felt a lightheadedness wash over me. There was nothing polished about him, but a raw male potency lingered the room from his presence. I breathed deeply of it, then reached into the supply closet for the mop and bucket.

Forty-five minutes later, he reappeared at the head of the hallway in a thick blue robe and a pair of black slippers. He had a cloth bag in his right hand, and he sat it down on a credenza to his right that ran along the wall leading to the door.

I'd dusted that piece of furniture, along with everything else in the living room -- blinds and all. I'd loaded the dishwasher and cleaned the entire kitchen counter and sink, mopped the hardwood floor there and around the dining table and moved the laundry to the dryer. I was collecting the cleaning supplies when he walked into the kitchen.

"Hmmm," he said, running a hand along the counter and peering into the sink. "Nice job here." He bent down and looked at the baseboards and into the corners, then nodded approvingly. Straightening, he tugged his robe belt to tighten it under his belly and walked into the living room.

I stood at the corner where the kitchen met that room and watched as he slowly circled the perimeter, bending here and touching there. I felt a tension rise as he continued his deliberate inspection -- part like that feeling from a strip tease, but also because I was very aware of not wanting to disappoint him.

He eventually passed the two chairs and then around the coffee table on the right of the couch. Now near the front door, he turned to face me.

"You did pretty good -- no complaints. I'll offer you the job if you're still interested."

I was flattered with what sounded like a compliment, but so many questions flooded my mind that I was left stammering.

"Not interested?" he said.

"Uh, no -- it's not that. But... what exactly is the job? I mean, I get the cleaning part. But why me, why through a hookup site? What is the compensation you mentioned? I... I think I get it, but..."

Tom cut me off. "Go to the couch and I'll explain." As I began to walk to the couch he swept the bag off the credenza and walked behind me. I began to sit down by the left arm of the couch but his meaty hand clutched my upper arm and stopped me.

"Nope, that's my spot. Other end." I took another couple steps and sat down; he sighed and sunk into his spot with his slippered feet wide apart. The robe parted below the belt and I could just make out a mop of red pubic hair and a bit of flesh. He wasn't in whitey-tighties now.

He turned a bit toward me. "OK, listen now. You answered that ad for a reason, and I'm thinking that reason wasn't that you enjoy cleaning house. Am I right?"

I nodded; my heart sped and my mouth felt dry. His right hand slowly pulled the robe back on that side and widened his legs even more. His flaccid cock, thick and dark, rolled slightly to the right atop a huge ball sack that was spread like a water balloon across the couch cushions. He was circumcised but there still were several rings of skin bunched behind the well-defined glans of a gumdrop-shaped head.

"I'm not on a defined route; my schedule changes week to week. Sometimes I'm gone for a couple days at a time, but I'm always home on weekends. I'd like my entire house cleaned once per week, on the weekend, and then once during the week -- just the stuff you did today. I'll be here when you are until I get comfortable enough, then maybe sometimes you can come while I'm away."

He turned a bit more to face me; his left hand had fallen to his lap and started to slowly plump his cock. "No matter what, I'll make sure you get 'paid.'" I must have been in some kind of trance because I didn't even notice I'd been nodding until we made eye contact. He did that slight smile thing again.

"Want to talk pay for today?" he said.

"Yes, please," I said, my voice cracking a bit. He stood up and nodded for me to do the same. He motioned me toward him after I stood; I took two steps until I was next to him, awash in his body heat. He took the hem of my T-shirt and pulled it over my head.

"Take your shorts off, but leave the underwear on," he said. I did as ordered, and then laid them in the far corner of the couch, where he'd tossed my T-shirt. When I faced him again he had the cloth bag in his hand. He moved a little closer and looked down at me. We weren't touching but my body tingled and I felt blood filling my constrained cock.

"That name you said when you entered my house?" he said. "That's the last time I ever want to hear it."

He lifted something black and flowing out of the bag; it took me a second to recognize what it was and by the time I did he was putting the wig on my head. He tugged at it until he approved -- it came just short of my shoulders and I could feel the bob in the back brush against my neck.

"Your name is Carol," he said. There was a glint in his eye as he gently pushed me back a step until I was against the ottoman. "Turn for me, Carol, slowly." Goose bumps rose on my arms and chest as I did what I was told, make one full circuit in nothing but my white underwear.

"Mmmm. Mmmm hmmm," I heard, and it sounded like it came from his very core. "Thank you, Carol, for taking such good care of our home. Daddy's home now. Did you miss me?"

I slowly nodded, and he put both hands on my shoulders, then leaned down to kiss my neck and up to my jawline, on side and then the next. As the kissing became more passionate, his hands slipped first into my hairless armpits, then down my back until they were kneading my ass cheeks.

His cock swelled up insistently against the skin around my navel. I didn't realize how weak my knees were until he released my ass and sat back onto the couch. I looked down and his cock was swollen with excitement; a pearl of pre-cum bubbled out when his balls squished into the couch cushion.

"It's time to thank you, dear," he said, and reached into the cloth bag once again. This time he pulled out a white bath towel, folded into a rectangle maybe a foot by a foot and a half. He spread his legs on the floor and laid the towel between his feet. As I looked down, feeling stunned by what was unfolding, he grabbed the thick base of his cock with his left hand and gestured at the towel with his right.

My knees sunk into the towel like I was a marionette being lowered by a puppeteer, my hands landing on each of his beefy thighs and my face hovering over his twitching cock. His right hand lightly wrapped around the back of my wigged head and pulled me down that last inch.

"Make me happy, Carol," I heard as the warm, spongy firmness of his glans plowed into my drooling mouth. He moaned as I form-fit my tongue to the underside of his cock, formed a tight O around his shaft and began short up-and-down strokes.

"Oh yeah, baby, take care of your daddy," he moaned, adding short hip thrusts to heighten his pleasure. His cock and balls would be a best-seller in any sex shop -- a shaft thick enough that my fingers barely touched my thumb at the base, and then tapering to the partially shrouded head. In all, it was about 7 inches of veined stud pole sitting on top of a ball-lover's dream -- a big wrinkled sack with two heavy eggs tugging them nicely free of his groin. A mat of soft red pubic hair topped the package and the hair continued down, all natural, over his balls and into his ass crack.

I moved my right hand under the balls to cup and massage them as I lengthened my oral strokes on his cock. I was rewarded with more groaning and writhing, and more pressure on the back of my head. With each downstroke I tasted more pre-cum and I was starting to lose any sensation of where I was or even who I was; I was drunk on his essence.

After at least 5 minutes of my mouth pussy fucking his cock, I tugging the base of it toward his stomach. I was able to pop it out of my mouth and plunge my face into his balls, slurping with the saliva that my gag reflex had produced, until his entire sack was on the bridge of my nose and over my eyes. My hand stroked the wet head of his cock as I buried my tongue into his perineum and down toward his asshole. It was shower clean but still potently musky.