If you have read any of my other stories, you will have guessed that I am a very messy person. This is my natural state--my default is dirty laundry left on the floor and old coffee cups by my bed. My room is messy, but I feel comfortable in it. That saying about your bedroom being a reflection of your head is probably very true, at least for me; both in the sense that I can be very chaotic and erratic, and also that I have quite a few dirty thoughts running about very often.
I find overly clean homes very uncomfortable. I don't want to feel as if I'm living in a hotel or hospital. Humans aren't very clean, and wiping down your table with disinfectant spray won't change that. If there aren't any germs in your bed then you are a dishonest person or not a real person at all.
Both my parents and a few ex-boyfriends have attempted to change my cleaning and hygiene habits, but I won't relent. I have honestly tried to be tidy, but it doesn't work. In fact, I'm more inclined to make my future boyfriends dirtier. I have lots of things and stuff--various items I've collected over the years--that litter my room. One time, I cried my eyes out in [censored] park, funnily enough, for a reason I can't remember (it was probably a silly reason anyway), but whatever it was, I obviously felt strongly enough to pick up a rock to mark the occasion, which I still have today. I have quite a few such rocks: one pebble from the garden of Sylvia Plath's grave, an igneous rock from the Taurus Mountain range and a dumb rock from a random Russian village. I have too many to remember where they were all from. Maybe this is too unsexy to speak of, and maybe better for my silly blog, but you get the picture that I like to keep things. Now imagine my room with so many silly objects scattered about, punctuated with dirty dishes, discarded panties and maybe a pizza box here or there--that's where I write to you from.
Having read that, you will find it funny to know that once I was hired as an au pair for a French family one summer. It wasn't strictly a cleaning job, but my duties involved a lot of tidying. I wasn't an enthusiastic maid, but I wasn't going to turn down a Free holiday.
I dislike my home so much that, in the summer heat, I endured a long journey to Toulouse, which involved a plane ride and two buses; the latter, believe it or not, was the more traumatic leg.
The house was very old, built however many hundreds of years ago in the countryside. I love country homes outside of the city. I really, really, really dislike cities. It was managed, and I use the word 'managed' very intentionally, by a mother all too strict and tyrannical to be caring. She made it clear, even when I was exhausted and sticky from my travels, that I was very much still a child to her, despite being an adult.
At our first meeting, she tested my poor French by speaking sternly and quickly, giving me my first orders to unpack in my new bedroom. She towered over me at six feet and waved her commands with her long arms, which only made me think she had a horrible slap in her long fingers.
I was given the guest room, which appeared to have been used as a walk-in wardrobe when unoccupied. The walls were railed with long dresses and coats, and all the cupboards were layered with blouses and shirts. I was told not to mind the clothes and to find whatever space I could. Of course, this was all ok with me, and she quickly left me to settle in.
I rumaged through the various drawers to find an empty one, and incidentally, I promise I wasn't looking for it, found her drawer of underwear and lingerie. It was beautiful, lacy and sexy. They were all so soft and perfumed with wonderful floral scents. I wanted badly to try all of it on myself, but my new mother had much larger assets than I. By comparison, I was petite, with a smaller bum and smaller breasts. I had to force the thought out of my head.
Before this, I had fooled around with a friend. You can hardly call it sex-- we fingered one another a few times, and once she let me drunkenly lick her pussy. We were the same age, and it was always with the spirit of fun, but romance was never involved. It stopped when she got a boyfriend, and I think she's a bit embarrassed about what we did now. I don't regret it myself, but I never felt fully satisfied. Although I had always enjoyed sex with men, I still fantasised a lot about women.
And in particular, older women. I remember my English teacher in secondary school was so incredibly kind to me. I was always a quiet girl, with every report card pushed through the letterbox reading, "Great student, but needs to talk more in class." Every card except the one this English teacher gave me. I remember her coming up to me one lesson, and she knew I always did the work with good grades, telling me not to worry about putting my hand up, because she was confident I understood what was being taught. I still went to her after class as often as I could and formed a sort of crush on her. She was very kind to me, but she could be very shouty when she needed to, and I loved that. I think it's funny to think of her reading this now. The French lady, called Charlotte, reminded me a lot of my old teacher.
At dinner, I was chastised, along with the children, for not eating all my vegetables. On my first night, she made quiche with no thought for presentation, yet I found myself obeying her orders as if she were my own mother. I felt her looking down at me, watching every fork pass into my mouth. And again, the watchful eye followed me as I excused myself to the bathroom.
That night, I returned to my room and felt my thoughts wander a little. I found myself returning to the messy drawers. I was so curious about this woman. I wanted to unpeel every part of her and know her so intensely, even though we had only met earlier that day.
I feel a bit of shame about this now, but I held the panties in my hand and felt the thin gusset with my fingers. I held it up to my nose, hoping to smell her sex, but only got the flowery laundry detergent. Still the thought that this little piece of fabric had touched her vagina-- her chatte-- was so arousing to me. Her secretions had once been soaked into this material, which was enough to make me soil my own.
I took my own panties off and put hers on. The same material that had hugged her private parts was touching my own. With my fingers, I pressed the fabric deeper, soaking myself and my scent into her underwear. My vagina leaked where hers did, and feeling between my butt, I pushed the material that would have rubbed her asshole into my own. I wanted to feel as close to her as I could.
Quickly, my shame overtook my arousal, and I took the panties off and returned them, stained, to where I found them. That night I went to sleep horny and sticky, and the panties laid there smelling of my crime.
What turned my curiosity into obsession was what happened the next morning: seeing as I was sleeping in her wardrobe, I was woken up by Charlotte, dressed in a gown, picking her outfit for the day. She selected a long black dress, stockings and the black lacy panties I had found the night before.
I was disappointed that she didn't change in front of me, but I was also exhilarated and anxious that she would wear the underwear I had put on. All I could think about that day was the fact that our juices and scents would mix in that fabric.
Weeks passed like this without incident, but my obsession only grew. I'd finish my work and retire to my bedroom to masturbate. I thought about her every time: fantasising about the way her pussy would smell, how it would taste and whether she had hair. She pushed me to thoughts that, as a generally sexually healthy girl, I felt guilty about. I caught myself staring at her feet as she sunbathed, and as she stood up to adjust her bikini, I wondered about the other hole between her cheeks. I wanted to see every inch of her.
She did start to open up to me a little more. I have my female friends, but I've always felt more comfortable with older women. I think because I don't see them as a part of my clique, or any clique, I need to be worried about. We began talking about boys, and I'd told her about my messy breakup, and she confided in me about a lacklustre husband who was away for work. It didn't seem to go much further than that, but I did notice her spend a little more time loitering around my room, picking her clothes.
She began opening up physically as well, giving me short hugs and small kisses on my cheek to greet me. Her gown loosened, and in between her steps, she showed me that she didn't shave. Contrary to the greying black on her head, her pubic hair was dark, black and thick. More colour was added to my fantasy as I pictured myself pushing my nose into her wild curls and inhaling. At that point, I began growing out my own bush.
She began using the bathroom with the door open, unshamed if I saw. A few times while I was cleaning myself in the shower, she'd walk in, only separated by a thin shower curtain, and begin using the toilet. I heard her urine splash, and I listened to the toilet paper wipe the residue off her coarse hair. I was ashamed that I wanted her to forget toilet paper and use my mouth to clean herself.
