CD Maid

The man I clean house for prefers me in thigh-highs. I have worn a full-blown pink-and-black maid's outfit for him but he prefers more flesh. And more...accessibility.

So I typically dress for him in black lace-top thigh-highs, a matching black b-cup bra, pink lace panties and medium-heel (since I'm rather tall) pink slings. As well as, of course, my shoulder-length brunette wig, red lipstick and green or blue eye shadow. This has become my standard cleaning attire. My uniform, so to speak.

As I go around his house performing my chores--everything from dusting and vacuuming to cleaning toilets--he--I'll call him J.--typically follows close behind, giving my ass or slender thigh a squeeze, or my little balls a fondle in their nest of pink microfiber.

Invariably, at some point when I'm down on my knees, J. will come around and stand in front of me and lower his pants. Signaling it's time for my REAL job to begin.

J. has the thickest cock I have ever seen in person. It's a Wonder Cock. I have never actually measured it--it's not my place--but I'm guessing it's nearly the diameter of a Coke can. It appears stubby at first glance but this is only in relation to its girth. It's a good six inches, with a smallish head. It's a mouthful.

But I LOVE it.

J.'s usually already hard, or half-hard, when he pulls it out. So it's not like I have to start from scratch, even though I would be glad to remain on my knees and suck his beautiful cock for an hour if he so desired.

After a few minutes, however, J. usually pulls back and says, somewhat breathlessly, "Let's get on the bed."

J. has fucked me on his couch as well, and even standing up. But he prefers the comfort, and maneuverability, his queen-sized bed offers.

Not long after I began cleaning house for him, J. went out and bought an expensive set of pink sheets. He calls them "our fucking sheets," and usually the first task on my "honey-do" list is to change the sheets on his bed to the pink ones. While the discarded sheets get tossed in the washer with the rest of his whites.

I pull down my panties and get on the bed on my hands and knees. This is not his favorite position but this is how we start out. I pull a pink-cased pillow or two toward me and lie down on top of them, leaving my ass up in the air for him.

J. lubes his bare cock up quickly and pushes into me. He's always very considerate--mindful I guess of his incredible thickness.

"You OK?"

"Yes. Fine."

He used to wear a condom, a Magnum of course, but shortly after I became his regular maid, and we exchanged blood-work, he dispensed with it.

"You'll bareback for me now?"

"Yes."

"And I can shoot my load?"

"Yessir. I would love that."

"And you're not cleaning house for anybody else?"

"No sir."

"Nobody else fucking you?"

"You're the only one."

"I don't care about blowjobs," J. said at the time. "You can blow as many guys as you want in your spare time. Though with the money I'm paying you I don't know why you'd need to suck another guy's cock..."

Occasionally J. makes noise about my fee. Though I don't consider one hundred dollars--fifty dollars an hour--a lot when you consider my "maid's duties" include touching, fondling, spanking--he loves to spank--blowjobs and, ultimately, full-blown sex. In fact, if I had it to do over again on Craigslist I would list my rate at $75 and hour. Or maybe even $90.

I've thought more than once about raising the issue with J., but I can hear him now.

"$90 an hour?! Shut up and get down on your knees you whore!"

To be honest, in my more sober moments I've thought about this, well, distinction. Am I a house maid whose cleaning tasks, for my one and only client, invariably lead to sex? Or am I a sex-worker--a whore--whose house-cleaning is a mere pretext?

At $50 an hour I make for an expensive maid. But at $50 an hour I'm a bargain sex-worker. Maybe, as a compromise, my rate is just about right. All I know is that I would not want to lose out on that additional tax-free $400 a month I earn, for my varied services.

But I digress. J. pushes in. Another inch. Then another.

Because of his size I always make a point of "doing" myself before leaving for his house. I lube up my pink dildo in the shower and "fuck myself" a few times to ensure that I'll be nice and "open" for him when the time inevitably comes.

This is after "douching" myself with a bottled enema to ensure I'm nice and clean inside for him.

I keep my slender body completely shaved--including my armpits and pubes. And after my enema, and after "opening myself up" in the shower, I touch myself up with a razor, as needed. I would never Nair myself--my buttocks and lower back, the backs of my thighs--on the same day I go over to clean house. The burning odor of the depilatory lingers, after all.

So by the time J. eases his monster cock inside me, I am ready. Ready, that is, until he thrusts--slams--that last inch inside me, and holds it there, and I feel, head arching back, not exactly pain, but a dull-tipped almost-ache deep, deep in my rectum.

"You OK?"

"Oh! Oh! Yes..."

Let the fucking begin.

After mounting me like this J. is quick to want to change positions.

"I want you on your back."

"Yes, dear."

"You fucking faggot."

"Yes, dear." I am not offended. I enjoy being called names. Just as I enjoy the occasional blast of his hand against my white buttock. As well as the temporary marks it will leave.

He's right. Doing me on my back is the superior position. As a crossdresser, I feel much more like a woman this way. For one thing I can wrap my legs around his back (my stockings, alas, are now down around my knees, if not my ankles). For another he can now lean forward and squeeze my tits in my black bra. I paid a lot of money--not to mention the embarrassment--for breast-enhancement surgery six months ago. And now my lover--my Dom--my employer...can take advantage of it as he fucks me.

As good as this is it is still not J.'s favorite position. He likes to unwrap my legs and unfold them straight up in the air. Holding me by the calves or the ankles.

Now he can fuck me six inches deep with each thrust. That shadow of pain followed by relief--fleeting--followed by that deep shadow in my body again.

"OH!"

And it is in this position J. usually cums, twenty minutes or so since we first mounted the pink sheets.

He withdraws, his glistening cock now at four o'clock.

"You cum?"

"Yes." He sounds impatient, slightly irritable. I have to remember, despite my warm and fuzzy feelings at the moment, that he is not so much my lover as my boss, my employer.

I raise myself up slightly and look at the wet spot forming between my thighs. He's a big cummer. His sperm is leaking out onto my flattened little balls.

"I'm going to shower," he says rather dismissively. "Get back to work."

I'm his whore I decide, at that moment. His sex-object. His employee. His submissive maid.

"Yessir."

I look at the clock. Incredibly, I still have an hour and ten minutes to go. While J. showers I wipe myself with a warm washcloth. If I had panty-liners I'd stick one in. But tissues will suffice. I pull my panties and stockings back up and pick up where I left off. For starters I yank the soiled pink sheets off the bed. I load the washing machine and start a load. Then I resume vacuuming, or whatever.

If he's taken his Cialis J. may have one more load for me. He may come out some time after his shower, approach me, put his hand in my pink-pantied crack. If he's hard again I will bend over right there, pull my panties down, bend over and grasp my ankles and take it right there.

Since he's already cum in me, once, this may take awhile. We may end up on the couch or even on the sheetless bed again. No need for lube this time. I may even sense, lying on my back, that we're both bored a little this time. Going through the motions.

I wonder what time it is. Is my two hours nearly up?

Finally he cums. This time J. is not so quick and I'm able to roll forward and suck the cum--residual--from his thick cock. He doesn't protest. He's out of breath. Out of cum.

I come back from the bathroom, warm washcloth in hand, and wipe him clean.

I wipe my ass.

"You'll be back next Saturday?" J. asks.

"Of course. Yessir."

"Pull your panties up."

Like magic, a $100 bill has appeared. He tucks it, folded, into the elastic waist of my pink panties.

I look down as if it is the first time. I feel like a total whore now. "Thank you, Sir."

"Faggot. Sissy."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Pussy."

We're at his front door. I try to kiss him, on the cheek, but he pulls back.

"Cunt," he says.

"Yessir."

Through my outer clothing, before he opens the front door, he whacks me on the ass one last time.

"Shithead. I'll fuck you till you cry."

"Yessir. Thank you, Sir."

I get in my car, start the engine. I can feel the ghost of his big cock in me. It will last for days. Can't wait to come back next Saturday...