Housekeeping
The house was quiet when Mark stepped through the door. A gentle hum from the air purifier, the soft ticking of the clock, and the quiet rustle of the pages from Anne's book were the only sounds. The man of the house peeled off his coat, a frown creasing his brow.
"This place is a pigsty!" he announced.
Anne, a woman of motherly beauty with a curvy figure and dark brown hair, looked up from her book, a gentle smile playing on her lips.
"Mark, honey, I just finished tidying up."
He scoffed, his gaze sweeping the room. "Finished? Hardly. Look at this!"
Mark gestured dramatically towards the coffee table, where a few magazines were scattered, collecting tiny motes of dust. "And don't even get me started on the kitchen..." he said, turning towards the offending counters. A single pot had been left on the stove which Anne had used to make herself a small bowl of popcorn.
"The kitchen is clean, Mark. I washed the dishes and put them away."
His irritation grew. "And the floors? They haven't been vacuumed in a week."
"I vacuumed yesterday," Anne replied calmly.
A vein throbbed in his temple. "You can never be tidy enough!"
To say that her husband was a cleanliness freak would be an understatement. No matter how many hours a day Anne spent cleaning the house, it was never good enough. She took a deep breath and tried not to sigh.
Mark didn't like it when she sighed.
"I'm sorry," she said meekly, "I'll do better next time."
Her impossible-to-satisfy husband muttered something about needing a drink.
*
The morning sun painted the house in a warm glow as Anne woke up the following morning. A new resolve hardened within her. She would keep the house immaculate and Mark would have nothing to complain about. She started by taking a long shower, to clean herself.
Anne knew she still had a great figure, and that Mark was lucky to have her. Stepping out of the shower, she admired her plump breasts in the bathroom mirror. They jiggled provocatively as she towel dried her hair, trying to remember the last time they had made love.
For the reminder of the morning Anne devoted herself to cleaning, moving throughout the house with a methodical efficiency, dusting, vacuuming, and polishing. The kitchen gleamed, the living room was a picture of order, and the master bedroom was restored to a pristine condition.
Then came the ordeal of her son, Bobby's room. The door creaked open, revealing a scene that reminded her of a film she had seen about tornados. Dirty clothes were strewn across the floor, crumpled tissues caked with hardened semen littered the carpet, and a pungent odour of male sweat hung in the air.
A wave of disbelief washed over her.
How could one boy's bedroom be reduced to such chaos in such a short time?
The sight of Bobby's bedroom made her angry at first and she silently berated her son in her mind. But then, a pang of guilt struck. This was her son, not her husband, and she shouldn't project her frustrations onto him. Taking a deep breath, she calmed down and began cleaning Bobby's room.
As Anne worked, she found more and more things that concerned her: yellow crusty semen stains on the sheets, crumpled food wrappers stuffed in the back of the cupboards, library books that had never been returned, and a large pile of old pornographic magazines hidden under the bed - the only items in the room that were
not
covered in a thick layer of dust.
Anne was diligent in her work, but she was distracted by her discovery of the smutty magazines. They seemed to consist entirely of photographs of older woman, many of whom looked a lot like she did. She wondered if her son had a mommy fetish. She was even more concerned, however, with the mess he made, and her thoughts soon turned to the subject of how she might approach him about his hygiene.
When she was finally finished, the room looked as if it had been professionally cleaned. Bobby emerged from the bathroom, looking startled. "Wow, Mom, you're a magician," he said, his eyes wide. Although his smile faltered when he realised his mom had discovered his secret stash of old porn magazines. They were long out of print but there was something nostalgic about them. He adored the busty models and the perfumed scent of the magazine's glossy pages.
Anne smiled, trying to keep her voice calm. "I just want this house to be a peaceful haven for all of us, including you. You know how your father abhors a mess!" Bobby didn't say anything. She hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. "Bobby, darling, I know you're eighteen now and your room is your space, but it would be helpful if you could give me a heads up before things get too out of control. It's so much easier to prevent a mess than tidy one up."
Bobby chuckled nervously, relieved his mother hadn't mentioned the magazines.
"Sure, Mom. I'll do that."
*
When Mark sat down for dinner that evening he seemed satisfied with the job his wife had done cleaning that day. Although Anne decided it was better to say nothing and keep the peace, she was still annoyed at her husband's expectations. She was supposed to take care of everything while he was at work and then he would come home, eat dinner, watch the news and fall asleep. He never considered any of her emotional, or physical, needs.
Anne was still an attractive woman with an ample bosom and a plump ass. For a mother, she was in great shape, mostly from bending and swooping to change linen, mop the floors, scrub the bathroom tiles, and keep the house clean. Her arms were toned from scouring dishes and her butt was shapely from squatting to dust beneath furniture. If Mark did not appreciate her, maybe Bobby with his mommy fetish would. She wondered...
*
The next morning when Mark left for work, Anne presumed her housekeeping troubles were behind her. She took the chance to relax, returning to her steamy paperback with a steaming cup of tea. However, it wasn't long before Bobby came rushing into the kitchen in a panic.
"Mom, remember yesterday when you said I should call you before making a mess?"
"Yes dear..."
"Well, I'm about to make a mess!"
Anne looked down at her son's trousers where an enormous erection was straining to break free from the constraints of his trousers. She frowned, not quite sure what to do. She didn't want to have to clean up afterwards. But should a mother really assist her son with that sort of thing?
She soon decided that it just wasn't worth the hassle of dealing with her husband's complaints anymore. If he wanted her to keep the house spotless then that is precisely what she would do.
