Of course I was convinced it was a joke. Until he gave over my address,
phone number, and nicked my wallet to also give my credit card
information. It was at that point I realized I was getting fucked
over. Hugh and Pat wrestled me to the ground while Les darted
upstairs and completed the call. After all the fight had been drained
from me, Les came downstairs and put the receiver back in its dock.
"Her name is Cynthia. She'll be by tomorrow at one o'clock.""Fuck."
"You're welcome."
So it was 12:30 the next afternoon when I finished cleaning the house. I've never understood that --cleaning your house when someone was coming to clean it for you--but now that I actually had a woman on her way to see my home, I panicked. It wasn't often I had women under my roof. Let alone naked women. So I panicked again and re-vacuumed my bedroom, which I'm fairly certain has never been done in the three years I've lived here.
When the doorbell rang, I furiously readjusted my erection again so it was safely tucked into the waistband of my jeans. I hurried downstairs, thinking I didn't want to keep a naked lady outside long, then slowed. Would she be naked before she got into the house? Couldn't be, could she? I mean, that's just asking for indecent exposure lawsuits galore. But it seemed awfully imprudent to advertise that you're a nude cleaning service when you show up in scrubs or whatever.
The doorbell rang again, so I all but flew downstairs to the front door.
On my front step stood a voluptuous woman in a brown and green track suit. She had the sleek blonde hair of a goddess, which flowed down her back, straighter than I was, and blue feline eyes. Wait, no, women didn't have cat eyes. They were just accentuated around the tips. Did she do that with liquid eyeliner? Holy shit, what would women learn to do with face paint next?
"Hello?" she said, peering into my face like I looked ready to puke on her.
"I'm sorry?"
"You contacted DMS last night?"
"Dennis?"
"No. Dirty Maid Service."
"I... think so."
"I'm Cynthia. I'm looking for Steve Werther."
"Oh, right."
She stared. "Is this the right place, then?"
"Yes. Sorry. Come in." I held my breath as she walked by me. I watched her while she surveyed my house from the landing. When she looked at me, I looked away.
"So, you're aware of the charges?"
"Mm. Yes. Yup. Uh, actually, no, not at all. What am I paying you?"
"A two-hundred dollar deposit was charged to your card. That covers my first two hours of cleaning. It's an additional hundred per hour after that."
"Oh. Right. Good. So, uh, you just... you just go 'round cleaning stuff, while, uh... birthday suit."
She smiled and giggled, but it wasn't mean. "Yes. I'll just grab the appropriate equipment."
"Let me help you," I said, so eagerly that it was obvious she was doing me the favour rather than me for her.
So we went into her van and hauled out computerized vacuum cleaners, motorized fiberglass mops and brooms, solutions coming in bottles that made them look like elixirs out of a fantasy story, and finally the most sexual duster I ever have and ever will see. It had pink and purple microfiber feathers and a shiny, black, phallic handle on the end, which I quickly learned twisted, turned, and vibrated at the touch of impeccably placed buttons on the grip.
"Business must be good," I said, playing around with the settings.
"Why do you say that?"
"Some of your equipment puts my engineering firm to shame. We manufacture air conditioners, and while they're expensive enough, we still have an embarrassing recall rate on oh sweet Jesus."
I don't know how she did it, but one second she had her hands in her track suit pockets, and the next second every shred of clothing was pooled around her ankles. That's when I noticed she was wearing dangerously red high heels. I don't know how I managed to speak, but I pointed to her feet and said to her breasts, "Are you sure you're going to be able to clean in those?"
"Well, as you said, business is good." She stepped out of her clothes and pressed her boobs together. "This is the most expensive equipment I use, and it brings in the most cash flow. Paid for itself five times over by now, and it's only been two years in circulation."
"I. Uh. That's good market strategy, right there."
"I'll just get to work. Are there any areas of the house you don't want me to go into? Any particular instructions?"
I shook my head. Or at least I'm pretty sure I looked like I did.
"Good. Don't mind me, Mr. Werther."
"Actually, would you, uh... would you mind if I, er... minded you?"
She ran her hands over her body. “You can come watch.”
“Oh. Thank you.” I winced. What made it worse is she smiled, and I knew she only didn't look at me like an idiot because I was paying her not to.
But after I grabbed a beer and followed her to the living room to watch her vacuum (that would have been the third time in twelve hours it received such a treatment), she somehow charmed me into forgetting that I'd paid her to be here. The looks she shot me as she bent at the waist to slide the vacuum under the coffee table... whew. She had a triangle gap between her thighs, and I found myself transfixed in that gateway to heaven for the entirety of the first hour.
Once I'd watched her wash the bathroom (letting her tits get wet and soapy in the process) and scrub my kitchen floor (commenting on her dirty knees afterwards), she was nearly done. She must have seen my thoughts shining like neon signs on my face, for she stepped so close she was nearly touching me and said, "I don't do this for everyone...."
"Add pine finish to the floor?"
She blinked and waved her hand like chasing away an irksome insect. "No, let me finish." Then her voice went sultrier than sultry. "I don't do this for everyone, but there's this offer the maids are allowed to make if they... appreciate their clients."
My dick must have jumped ten feet in the air. "Mm."
"It's a bit pricy, but... a strapping engineer like yourself... wouldn't mind getting a little dirty with me. Would he?"
I scratched the back of my neck. "Do you take card?"
Turns out she did.
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