Coming Clean

Coming Clean 1

My new hot young maid gets wet and wild after revealing her dirty little secret…A story of a young woman and a much older man. Fiction, with some elements of real life interwoven, and as much emotional truth as I could muster.

I opened the door to my Edwardian townhouse, in a small Midlands town. I expected to see my usual cleaning lady, Mrs Anderson, a pleasant woman in her fifties.

Instead, a young woman stood there, carrying the usual array of equipment. Her dark hair shone and was pulled back into a ponytail, bangs in front, showing off a flawless honey colored complexion. Maybe five feet three tall. It was hard for me to guess her age. Her smudged white work overall failed to show her figure clearly, being somewhat baggy with jeans beneath, but they hinted at something curvy, at least around her rear.

“Mr Stewart?” She smiled sweetly, revealing a charmingly imperfect set of slightly overlarge front teeth within a wide mouth. Always my weakness as a young man.

“Yes?”

“Mrs Anderson has been reassigned, sir,” she explained very politely. “I’m Louisa. Louisa Brown. I’ll be your cleaner from now on. I hope that’s okay?” She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes.

“Please, come in. Where are my manners?” I led her through the hall to my study. It’s a small reception room in an otherwise spacious old house, lined with bookshelves, a desk against one wall and a hearth with an open fire opposite, a large thick rug over waxed boards. A bay window gives onto a somewhat unkempt back garden. “I’m working in here. If you’re not sure about anything, just come and ask. You’ll find extra cleaning materials in the kitchen and a vacuum cleaner in the hall cupboard. The house isn’t unusual and there aren’t any spaces you can’t go in, so I’m sure you’ll easily find your way around.”

She nodded, and glanced at my desk. “What do you do–if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh–didn’t they tell you? I’m a writer. Mostly technical stuff. I try my hand at fiction now and then.” I didn’t tell her what genre…

Her eyes shone. I noticed for the first time how dark brown they were. “Wow. Impressive. You must tell me about it sometime–if you have time.”

I grinned. “Not that impressive, really, but it would be a pleasure. Now, I guess we both better get on with our work.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Thanks.” She gave me a grin back and my stomach flipped. You foolish old man. You must be old enough to be her father, and then some.

I realized it must be a result of the loneliness I’d suffered now for a good two years. The first year after I lost my wife, Yvonne, I was completely at sea. At least I was writing again, though it wasn’t my best stuff. I knew I needed to get out more, but it still felt like a mountain to climb.

About a half hour later I got up to make a cup of coffee. I returned to my study to find Louisa cleaning there. When I entered she started, and looked as if she felt guilty about something. She blushed, which did nothing to reduce her attractiveness.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said.

“No, I’m sorry, I never asked if it was okay for me to clean in here.” She gave me a strange look for a couple of seconds that I found hard to decipher at first, then smiled again. I could get used to that smile.

“No problem. Do you mind if we talk while you work?”

“Not at all, Mr Stewart.”

“Look, if I’m allowed to call you Louisa, you can call me Jack. A long as you’re okay with that,” I added hastily.

“Of course, Mr…um, Jack. What did you want to talk about?”

“Is this your main occupation, Louisa?”

“Oh, no–I’m a student. I do this to help pay my way. Funds are tight.”

“I’m sure. What do you study?”

“Theatre and cinema arts. It’s mainly a vocational course with options for some technical and professional jobs.”

“That’s a tough one. Do you have any experience?”

“A little, though I’m only coming up twenty soon, so I haven’t had much opportunity yet.”

“I’m surprised. You look more, um, mature than that, to me. Though don’t get me wrong. Everyone under fifty looks young to me, and quite a few over fifty.”

She laughed, a husky, real woman’s laugh, like the aural equivalent of a good Irish whiskey. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She tilted her head a little and fluttered her eyelashes, a hint of a smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth.

What was that about? Then I remembered what I’d been writing on my computer…Did she see it? Shit… no wonder she gave me a strange look at first… but just then, that flirting? No, no way…surely she wouldn’t…would she? I swallowed and forced a smile.

It was her turn to look puzzled.

We chatted on, and I learned that she lived at home, took part in drama productions and had a predilection for cosplay. That did nothing to calm my overheated imagination.

“I imagine that would help with the idea of getting into role.”

“Oh, yeah. Cosplay and role play are one and the same to me, manavgat escort a vehicle for improv.”

She checked her watch and sighed. “I have to go, Mr–“

“Jack, remember?”

That smile again. And that slightly upturned button nose and those dark brown eyes. “Jack. Thanks for the chat. It’s good to have a client who shows an interest.”

I saw her out and checked her next visit day. “Have a good week, Louisa.”

“You too–Jack.”

After I watched her, mesmerized by her lovely ass, sway down my drive with her kit and get into her battered little hatchback, I returned to my study and found it almost impossible to concentrate. My thoughts became more lurid and my erection persistent to the point where the use of my fleshlight became a necessity. I put on a favorite porn clip of a very voluptuous mature woman, conscious of trying to stop imagining Louisa in one or another cosplay outfit.

It didn’t work. To my shame, Louisa won, and I came. Hard, and fast.

I’d bought the fleshlight a few weeks before and it reminded me just enough of the real pleasure of sex, that I began to form vague intentions of somehow finding a sexual partner. I didn’t want anything more; it was impossible to imagine replacing Yvonne. However, I didn’t like the look of mature dating sites, sugar daddy sites, and even less the use of escorts. I might not want a new wife, but it didn’t mean I had no need of a sense of connection. I realized with a jolt that was what I’d begun to feel with Louisa, just from our conversation.

I spent the next week arguing with myself daily about the nonsense running through my head. How could I possibly imagine, in my wildest dreams, a young woman like that could be remotely interested in me? Other than, possibly, as a source of amusement, at best a kind of avuncular friend–slightly kooky, (not to mention kinky, if she read my work). Of course, I’d read plenty of fantasies about relationships between nubile young women and dirty old men, but that’s all they were, as far as I was concerned.

The second week she turned up dressed in a way that did nothing to calm my racing thoughts. She had ditched the baggy overall for a tight blue one that was plainly too small. Her breasts, though not unusually large, strained at the fabric. Her nipples poked, pert and provocative. The top button was undone, no obvious sign of any bra beneath. Bare legs, skin gleaming, sandals with modest platform heels. Her hair had been pulled back on a French bun, leaving several strands falling in front of her ears. I wasn’t sure what makeup she might have worn the week before, but she looked… glowing?

Her eyes glimmered with amusement. “Mr. Stewart? Jack?”

“Louisa! Sorry. I’m, er…grappling with a writing issue and my mind was in two places there,” I half-lied. I felt a blush creep up from my neck. It had been in several places, all of them located on her body. My greatest challenge was to adopt a position least likely to reveal my predicament. I held the door wide, using it as cover, and managed a broad grin.

She hauled her gear into the hall and set it down. I left her to it and retreated to my study, blowing out a long breath as I sat behind my desk and grabbed my throbbing cock, giving it a good squeeze before adjusting my dress, as they used to say. I wasn’t about to risk her walking in on me masturbating.

Half an hour later, still struggling to concentrate, I decided to wander out and see if I might run into my bewitching young cleaner again. I turned toward the kitchen, and stopped dead.

Louisa knelt, polishing the large brass doorknob to the kitchen door, an original I took care to conserve. She seemed to be paying very careful attention to it, breathing on the shining surface with a slightly wet, pink open mouth and rubbing her cloth with slow circular movements.

Swallowing hard, I couldn’t decide if she knew I was there, until she suddenly looked my way. Blushing, I harrumphed and pretended to be inspecting a non-existent fault in the plaster wall next to my head. I looked at her again. “Oh! Louisa. I was just going to make a, um, cuppa… would you like one?”

A hint of a smirk twitched her lips. My mind fizzed with a firework display of filthy, sleazy thoughts.

Still kneeling, she fluttered her eyelids for a second. Sweet Jesus, La Belle Dame Sans Merci, or what? “Thanks, Mr… Jack.” She stood, finally bringing me a little partial relief from my torture.

We chatted about mundane matters for a pleasant half-hour over tea, then I returned to my hopeless task of trying to write up some technical notes for a washing machine manual.

After Louisa left, my erotica, on the other hand, flowed as freely as the heavy freight of sperm that shot from my straining cock along with it, needing no other stimulus than the memory of Louisa kneeling and the friction of my boxers. Like a waking wet dream. How did she do that to me? I couldn’t remember how long it alanya escort had been since anything like that had happened. Probably not since the end of my teens.

Louisa continued to clean at least as well as Mrs Anderson had for the next few weeks. Each week she turned up in the same tight-fitting overalls, but sometimes also wore what looked to be seamed stockings, sometimes bare legs. Sometimes her makeup was almost tarty, at others demure.

The next episode came when she spotted a mark on the wooden floor in my study, while I was working. She bent over, her curvy butt sticking up so far that her overall slid far enough up to reveal a tight black thong, almost disappearing into her fleshy labia, just a little hair visible. I stifled a groan and put my hand over my eyes, opening my fingers to see if I had imagined it. Before she got up, I managed a quick rearrangement that was enough to make my rock hard erection twitch dangerously.

None of this happened in ways that I could unequivocally say were full-on deliberate seduction, however, and so the tantalising fruit dangled so near…and yet so far.

I managed to persuade her to have a tea or coffee break with me each time, and included it in her hours. I made up a reason for needing more hours and to my delight she accepted very readily, grateful for the extra money. During her breaks, and when she cleaned the study, we would talk about literature, film, art, pop culture, travel…anything and everything, other than relationships or family.

We didn’t always see eye to eye.

“I don’t get what you see in a singer like Dua Lipa. For that matter, half the female singers just sound like little girls to me. When you think of the greats who created the road map for them, singers like Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holliday–they don’t even seem like they’re from the same planet.”

Her eyes flashed. “I suppose you think the last great singer was Annie Lennox.”

“Now you’re talking!” I loved yanking her chain like this. Her features became more animated, the bloom on her cheeks deepened, her nostrils flared and her eyes brightened. God, how was it that someone so attractive, like her, looked even sexier this way?

The fleshlight came into more and more regular use, and I gave up trying to use other sources of inspiration. I felt a little guilty, but told myself there was no real harm. It wasn’t as though I was about to risk ruining it by hitting on her for real.

Some of her insights surprised me, and reminded me to take care not to patronise her.

She’d seen my copy of Butter on the bookshelf. “Do you think Asako Yuzuki is really intent on showing the ingrained misogyny of Japanese men, or is she just writing food porn?”

I laughed. “You’ve read it?”

“Er, dur…” She rolled her eyes

I gave her a wry smile. “Of course. Sorry. For me, she does both really well. I think Japanese society seems to have some big issues around sex, and especially expectations of women. The foodie bits…they just leave you drooling, don’t they?”

That drew another of her husky, sexy laughs, guaranteed to fuel my fantasies

She still had to finish my study that day. While I returned to my computer, struggling to concentrate, she fetched her bucket and mop and began to mop the waxed floor. I surreptitiously kept taking little glances up from my screen. Her breasts wobbled as she energetically pushed the mop back and forth. I shifted uneasily in my chair.

Then she looked up and caught me watching. I blushed, but so did she, I thought, and smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

As she turned to walk away, I wondered, was it my imagination again? Her derriere swayed and the mop slapped against her overall, spilling water down her uniform and leaving a wide damp patch over one breast just when she stepped through the door. Was she giggling just then?

*

The next Friday Louisa turned up with a rather glum look on her face.

“Louisa, are you okay?” I stood in front of her to engage eye contact.

She looked at me briefly then dropped her gaze. “It’s okay, Mr. Stewart…Jack. Maybe we can talk at break time?”

“Of course. Take a break whenever you want.”

Twenty minutes later she swept into my study and flopped down onto the easy chair opposite my desk.

“I turned twenty yesterday.”

“Oh! I didn’t know. I hope it was a good one.” I had a feeling it hadn’t been.

“Mr. Stewart, I want to say something to you, but I’m afraid it’ll get me sacked.” She bit her lower lip. Did she realise how sexy that was?

I gathered from the formal ‘Mr. Stewart’ that she was seriously worried about something. “No it won’t, Louisa. I don’t judge. I don’t see any evidence that you’ve done anything wrong here. You haven’t stolen from me, done your work badly, or been aggressively rude. You’ve been nothing but a pleasure to have around.”

She looked up, a spasm of what looked like hope crossing her eyes. kaş escort “Really? Do you mean that?”

“Yes. Now, tell me. Confess, whatever it is. It can’t be so bad.”

She shivered, her eyes darting to mine then dropping down.. “Confession is the only word for it, Mr. Stewart… Jack. I…I…I want you to…fuck… me…to–to… use me… sir…I need to be your dirty little slut, your whore, to use however you want.” She blushed a furious red and looked into my eyes, real anxiety and–desire there?

I jolted forward in my chair. I couldn’t believe my ears. Was this my overheated imagination making up words she hadn’t uttered at all? “Louisa…did you just say, you want me to…use–?”

“Me. Yes. My body, all of it. Any of it. Sexually. Not any other way. God, shut up.”

I stared in bewilderment. “Why–what on earth would make you want me?”

Her face finally cracked into a crooked smile, then a smirk. “Hey, don’t diss yourself,” she murmured throatily. “You might be a lot older than me, but age is only a number, right? I reckon you’re fitter than a lot of guys half your age. You’re not at all bad looking, and you look after yourself. I…it’s hard to explain. Coming here, talking with you…I feel like you get me.”

“I thought I did, yes, though now I’m not so sure.”

She stood, a crestfallen look on her face. “I’m sorry. I guess I should ask for another cleaner for you.”

“What? No! Sit down, Louisa. Talk to me. I want to understand.” I wanted a hell of a lot more than that, but I still wasn’t ready to trust my senses.

She sat, mouth still downturned, eyes sad.

“Look,” I said, “I’m not mad with you, or upset or outraged, or anything like that. It’s just so…unexpected? Is there something that made you think I might accept your offer?”

She blushed again and I began to wish she wouldn’t. It made her so damn attractive. “I know I shouldn’t have, but the first week I came, when I cleaned in here, your computer was open. You were working on a story.”

I furrowed my brows. “Ahh…” It was my turn to blush. “Yeah…I do write some erotica from time to time…it’s a way of getting some, um, release…escape, anyway, from my loneliness.”

“What happened to your wife? I know she died, but…I hope you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not at all. It was an aneurism, one we obviously knew nothing about. Here one moment, gone the next. She was my everything, Louisa. We were never able to have kids, but she was more than enough for me. I was lost without her. Still am, if I’m honest.”

Her eyes creased at the corners. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes…anyway, you read my dirty little secret.” I gave her a half smile. “Did you like it?”

She leaned forward, a gleam of mischief and hope returning to her eyes. “It was…So. Fucking. Hot. When you have the young shop assistant backed up in the storeroom with nowhere to go, and she suddenly stops pretending to protest and drops to her knees… I went back to my room later and wrote another chapter with myself as your next conquest, taking the part of a stranded cyclist you stop to help. I rubbed one out while I wrote. It made me squirt, Jack, I’m telling you. You have one dirty mind. I have a weakness for that kind of perviness. Girls can be pervs too.” She giggled.

“Good to know,” I said on a grin, fingering my collar. “But I still don’t get it, why me? There must be plenty of good looking, fit boys in college.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you want to be a bimbo, don’t challenge their fragile little egos, perform to their fantasy image of what you should be like, then yeah. I mean… Some aren’t so bad, but even then it’s always about them, never me. Not just their getting off, but even mine. It’s no more than a proof of their wonderful masculinity. And when you’re like me…less than their ideal…you’re supposed to be so grateful for their attention. And if you want to be a slut? Then that’s exactly what, and all you are, and everyone is going to get to hear about it.” She garbled all this in a rush and glared, not so much directly at me, but at the male gender in general.

“Wow. I’ve heard about toxic masculinity, but I didn’t realize it was like that.”

“They either want to treat me like a harem girl or get me to mentor them. Yes, I want to be used, but on my terms, by someone who understands what I mean by that.”

I leaned forward. “I think I’m beginning to. You want to surrender control but still keep the ultimate power to determine what happens? Is that it?”

“Close enough.” She smirked and flushed again, sending another surge of excitement exploding through my guts. “I want to lose any sense of responsibility, be completely in the moment, conscious only of my body and my partner’s, of the connection, of the pleasure. I want that surrender to be something I know I can trust to the other person, that if I say stop, it would stop. I don’t want to have to think about that. I just need to know up front.”

I nodded. “And maybe you want someone who you hope will be able to show you things you didn’t know you could respond to, both in yourself, and in what we do together.” We. I’d said it. I swallowed, hard. And I was already responding to things I didn’t know I would be turned on by.

She jumped up. “So you will do it with me? Take charge? Use me? Take me places I’ve never been, with my explorations?”