Speaker 1: The agency had been specific about the uniform black dress,
white apron hemline that flirted with the upper thigh. Missus
Hartwell's instructions. Apparently, I'd pulled the crisp fabric over my
head that first morning, smoothed it down my hips, and
caught my reflection in the hallway mirror, a stranger with
dark hair pinned tight and a secret tucked behind her teeth.
The Heartwell estate sprawled across three acres of manicured nothing,
marble floors that echoed Artie weren't supposed to look at
too long, and cameras always the cameras. I noticed them
my second day, small black domes tucked into ceiling corners,
Tiny red lights blinking like patient heartbeats. One in the
living room, angled toward the sofa, one in the hallway
that followed me upstairs. One in the master bedroom, positioned
directly across from the bed. That one made my breath
catch every time I dusted the night stands. Three weeks
in and I developed a routine. I'd linger where the
lenses could find me bending a little too long over
the dining table, stretching to reach a high shelf so
the apron lifted. I told myself it was nothing, a game.
The cameras probably weren't even monitored. Then I found the drawer.
Third day of deep cleaning, Missus Hartwell had left a
note master bedroom needs special attention today. And there it
was the bottom drawer of her nightstand, sliding open with
a whisper silk lace silicone. The vibrator was pastel pink,
curved at the tip, smooth as sea glass. I lifted
it with two fingers, still faintly warm from its charging cradle.
My thumb found the power button and it buzzed to life,
a low, insistent hum that traveled up my wrist and
settled somewhere deeper. I didn't think. I brought it to
my mouth. The taste was salt and something floral, her,
unmistakably her. I'd smelled Missus Hartwell before, expensive perfume, sweat
from her morning runs, the faint musk she left on
towels I gathered from the bathroom floor. But this was
concentrated intimate. My tongue flattened against the silicone and my
eyes closed. What the hell are you doing? The vibrator
clattered onto the douvet. Mister Hartwell stood in the doorway,
one hand still on the knob, his jaw slack forty something,
salt and pepper at the temples. The kind of man
who looked like he'd never raised his voice in his life.
But his eyes, his eyes were fixed on the toy,
then on my mouth, then on the toy again. I,
mister hartwell, I'm so sorry I wasn't. That's my wife's.
He stepped into the room. The door clicked shut behind him.
That's my wife's. My legs pressed together. Please, I'll leave,
I'll quit. Please don't. Catherine will lose her mind when
she finds out. He said it, almost conversationally, almost you
know how particular she is about her things, her private things. Please,
the word came out a whisper. Please don't tell her.
He studied me for a long moment, the uniform, the
flush crawling up my throat, the shine on my lower lip.
Must really like my wife, he said, and his voice
had changed lower, slower, to want to taste her cunt.
Like that. The word landed in the room like a slap.
My knees went liquid. He took another step. Do you,
I nodded, say it. I My tongue wet my lip,
the same lip that had just been pressed to pink silicone. Yes, yes,
what I wanted to taste her. A smile spread across
his face, slow, unhurried, nothing kind about it. How about
we make a little deal. The hamper was in the
corner of the bathroom. He dragged it out himself, up
ended it across the king size bed, A cascade of
silk and cotton and lace, pale pinks and deep burgundies,
all of them worn, all of them her. The air changed,
musky human. You're going to enjoy this, he said, and
it wasn't a question. I knelt on the bed, among
the scattered underwear, my uniform still on, my apron twisted sideways.
He stood at the edge, unbuckling his belt with the
casual precision of a man who'd done this a thousand times.
When his cock sprang free, thick and already gleaming at
the tip, he didn't stroke it. He reached down, plucked
a pair of cream colored panties from the pile, and
draped them over his shaft. The gusset faced outward, A faint,
cloudy stain smeared across the fabric. Suck. I leaned forward,
the cotton was cool against my tongue, then warm, then
soaked with my own saliva beneath it. The taste of
her sharp and brine sweet, a thing I'd only ever imagined.
I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper, the panty
bunching at the corners of my mouth, the fabric sliding
against his skin. He groaned above me, a hand fisting
in my hair. You love that, don't you? Her taste
on my cock. I couldn't answer, didn't need to. He
pulled me off with a wet pop and guided me backward,
my spine pressing into the mountain of silk and cotton.
A pair of black lace, her favorites I'd seen her
wear them, got stuffed into my mouth, and I bit
down on the fabric, breathing through my nose, inhaling her.
His fingers found another pair, something sheer and lavender, and
he rolled them into a tight ball. Open up. I
spread my legs, the fabric pressed against me, then, in
a strange and filthy fullness, my hips bucked. He laughed low,
and his mouth descended. His tongue traced circles around the fabric,
pushing it deeper, pulling it back, his stubble scraping my
inner thighs. My muffled scream vibrated through the panties in
my mouth, ready for more. He didn't wait. I was
flipped onto my stomach, face buried in a pair of
white cotton with a yellowed gusset, and something another pair
navy blue with a tiny bow was being worked into
my ass, slowly, patiently. My fingers clawed at the bedding.
Then his cock replaced his fingers. The thrust knocked the
air from my lungs. My face ground into the white panties,
my tongue lapping desperately at the fabric as he drove
into me from behind, one hand pressing my head down,
the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. There
you go, he grunted. Taste her, taste my mind, my
wife's cunt. While I fuck you. I licked and sucked
and gagged and moaned all of it, muffled, all of
it perfect. The panties in my mouth soaked through. The
ones in my cunt shifted with each stroke. The ones
in my ass made me feel impossibly obscenely full. He
pulled out, suddenly flipped me onto my back, and I
scrambled to straddle him, My uniform hiked around my waist,
my thighs slick from below. He fucked upward like a piston,
one hand shoving more fabric into my mouth, A different pair,
a filthier one. The gusset dark and fragrant, and her
lap it up, you bitch, suck out all that old
pussy juice, you slut. I did, God help me. I did.
The orgasm built from somewhere behind my ribs, a pressure
that spread outward, white hot and obliterating my vision. Ne'er
to the man beneath me. The panties in my mouth,
the taste of a woman I'd only ever admired from
across a room. I shattered with a sound that wasn't human.
He flipped me again, pulled out A pair of old
gray panties appeared in his hand, and he stroked himself twice,
three times, and then a groan, a spurt white ropes
across the gusset, clean it. I took the gray panties
in both hands and brought them to my mouth, tongue first,
the salt of him, the ghost of her. I sucked
the fabric until the juice dripped down my chin. A
sound at the door, not a knock, a gasp. Missus
Hartwell stood frozen, her handbag slipping from her shoulder and
hitting the floor with a soft thud. Her mouth opened, closed,
opened again. Her husband, still kneeling on the bed, still gleaming,
still half hard, turned to her with a smile that
belonged on a much crueler face. Honey, the maid would
like to do the ultimate cleaning job today, inside and out.
He gestured toward the bed, toward me, toward the wreckage
of silk and cotton and shame. Come over here and
bend over. The silence stretched. Then Missus Hartwell smiled. She
stepped out of her heels. The bedroom door clicked shut shut.
I hoped you enjoyed today's sexy story. If you love
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