“You won’t be single long,” all my friends joked after my first wife died.
I think they were just trying to cheer me up, so I would toss back playful answers like, “Well, the kids are too old to need a hot young nanny…”
They would play along, with answers like, “so audition maids willing to look good in the traditional short skirt…”
By which time, my balls would be heavy as I pictured a tight young lass with pert breasts overflowing a cantilevered bodice, bending from the waist to dust a table, her perfect heart shaped ass displayed above stay up black stockings, framed by a frilly mini-slip, but wearing no panties. Mostly that image would be followed by a greater heaviness in my heart as I missed my wife, who had enjoyed playing dress up for me, but never more.
“My luck, I’d get some old Polish Grandma in a babushka,” I’d reply, to end the discussion.
Mostly, someone would add one last joke, like “hey, dentures are sexy… toothless blow jobs.” and we’d all laugh and order another round.
After about a month of widowhood, the joys of drowning my sorrows at the local pub were outweighed by the need to catch up on the work I had neglected. I stopped hanging out and started just staying home – which gave me more opportunity to notice how shabby my house was becoming.
Determined not to fall into the maid fantasies my friends and I had senselessly spun, I sought the anonymity of an agency service. If I did not even know precisely who was cleaning my home, I could hardly fantasize about them, let alone be tempted to do something more extreme. Besides, I rationalized, an agency would do the bonding, reference checks and payroll chores. I could just write a cheque.
Acme Maids seemed no better or worse than Best Maids, or Klean Kastles, or Zenith Janitorial. Simply first in the listings, and someone answered the phone on the second ring. A great start, then they told me an estimator had to visit to “measure me”. A simple two word phrase, and suddenly, prurient images of maids with rulers extracting my erection from my pants exploding in my brain. I must have mumbled something though, because when I hung up, in addition to a throbbing cock, I had a note of an appointment the next day at 11:00.
Acme’s phone had been answered by a young female voice, with a bit of an Island lilt. I was distressed the next morning to wake up to find my cock hard in my hand, my brain undeniably generated uninvited imaginary pictures of the woman – I imagined beaded dreds, lively sparkling eyes, a generous set of lips, a slim young body with perky conical tits, but a big bodacious booty. My brain started flitting between thoughts of those lips sucking my hard cock, my hands filled with those tits, and that ass pressed back against my loins as I fucked her. Shame flooded my mind as quickly as semen filled my palm.
A long hot shower did not cleanse my soul, and I had to reassure myself that the woman likely stayed in the office, and the estimator would no doubt be her wrinkled stooped grandfather, or hulking boyfriend. These thoughts were not particularly effective in taking my mind off forbidden sex, as I found my brain generating images of that imaginary boyfriend and the woman arriving to clean my house, not knowing I was still there. As she cleaned, her body moved gracefully, her booty twitching as she danced to the reggae playing on their battered portable radio. As she reached to dust upper cupboards, her nipples showed hard against the thin, worn fabric of her T-shirt. At her age, she did not need a bra while working. Boyfriend worked vacuuming carpets and wiping counter-tops, but the quality of his work had to be questionable – his eyes never left her dancing beauty. I could hardly complain though, as in my imagination, I suffered the same affliction.
I imagined sneaking close to the doorway into that kitchen, my cock throbbing so hard I had to release it from my pants as her boyfriend equally found her irresistible. His lust, however, he slaked more aggressively, grabbing her hips as they swayed in front of the sink. He kissed the nape of her neck as I hefted my knob in my palm. He nibbled her neck, making her sigh in that sweet sing song voice as I cupped my balls. His strong fingers ran up her sides, cupping those swaying tits, teasing her nipples through the fabric. She clearly liked that, because it was her nimble hands that slid her pants to her knees, freed up his massive cock, and guided it into her waiting ready womb. He came massively inside her after a half dozen thrusts, his fingers now tugging her nipples had enough to make her gasp, her climax matching his explosion.
I opened my eyes and realized that I was the one whose cock was being stroked. My second load of seed of the morning had been sprayed on the wall of my shower. The shame of my thoughts of these multiple taboos – young women, inter racial, voyeurism – flushed my cheeks as I carefully dressed in my baggiest casual clothes.
“Hi, I’m Amy from Acme,” the middle aged woman outside my door said cheerfully. Her hair was a natural grey, cut chin length, no bangs, parted just off center. Her smile was brilliant, her eyes a pale green. She wore no makeup. She did not need it, I decided.
I stood aside as I opened the door and let her step inside, not quite brushing against me.
‘Safe,’ I thought as I took in her baggy sweatshirt and formless sweatpants. My dirty mind did supply a quick impression of a trim waist, and noted that the hips were no wider than the shoulders even though the pants prevented me from checking out the curve of her ass.
The repeated masturbation did not deter my balls from swelling with appreciation of the mental images. My cock though did not throb, until she spun on her heel, looking me in the eye, and pulled out a metal tape measure.
“Time to measure you up,” she said, just as perky as when she had first spoken.