Lye

byNils Huim©

Eric was down on his knees attempting to scrub away the ring around the "claw" tub—one of those old-fashioned stand-alone tubs elevated by stubby legs with lions's claws as "feet." Hence the term. A naked Eric had started out inside the tub but soon found it easier to work on the ring from the outside. He was working on the near ring at the moment meaning his bare ass was nearly resting on his narrow heels. To scrub the far ring he would have to rise up higher.

It was while he was in this latter position, a little earlier, that today's client—his employer—entered the bathroom, reached down and gave Eric's vulnerable ass a squeeze, one cheek then the other, while asking, "How's it going?"

"Slowly but surely."

"It's a bitch isn't it?"

Not for the first time today the man was fingering Eric's hole. There was still residual lube in Eric's crack from the other times. His client wasn't fingering him deeply. Just the tip of his middle finger or so. With all the reports about sexual harassment in the news these days Eric had to laugh to himself when he thought that his little sideline business was one of the few professions where touching, groping, kissing, nudity, sexual innuendo and far more were not only expected but implicitly allowed. These things came with the territory. Eric guessed it was theoretically impossible to harass a sex worker. And now he, technically, officially, qualified to be called a sex worker.

He received money not just for taking off his clothes in front of his clients, like a stripper, but for performing various sex acts in person. Like a whore.

Eric was now regularly—though not regularly enough in his opinion—prostituting himself. What would his poor mother think?

He was also cleaning house for his clients let it be said. In the nude, of course. It wasn't just sex. And Eric worked as hard and as diligently at vacuuming a man's rug or mopping his floor as he did at sucking the guy's cock to completion. Or however else that day's client wished to cum.

And, in truth, we weren't talking big money here. It was hardly a call girl's rate at the Hilton. Eric's fee was $10 an hour with a minimum of three hours; plus an additional $10 ($5 each way) in travel expenses if his client's home was 25 miles away or more. Today's client, the man with the tub, fit that bill. So at the end of the day he would owe Eric at least $40. We say "at least" because Eric's last client, from the previous week, had ended up slipping him three twenty dollar bills for a mere two-and-a-half hours' work—cleaning and kissing and sucking and stroking and whatnot. The man told Eric he had worked hard, done a good job and deserved every penny of it.

Eric was thrilled. Despite his age, he felt like a kid whose dad had just paid him twice as much as promised for mowing the lawn. Time to go buy some candy! (While stealing a pack of cigarettes.) Psychologists take note...

Today's client pulled his finger out of Eric's skinny ass. For one thing he was elderly, "mature" as the euphemism goes on the sex personals, where Eric advertised his services, and the man was probably getting tired of bending over. Feeling it in his hammies. It was an awkward position.

"I'm wondering if there might be something better for this," his kneeling, ass-in-the-air, nude housecleaner said.

"A better solvent?"

"Or something. It's a hard-water stain, right? Isn't there a cleaner with lye in it?"

"Lye? You think they still make cleaners with lye in them?"

Eric shrugged. "I don't know..." He wasn't even sure where the idea had come from.

Eric knew the man standing behind him was staring down at his backside. Back, butt, thighs, horizontal calves...the high-arched soles of his girly feet, his toes tucked under. Eric's strong suit, at his age, was his youthful body. Men had always responded eagerly to it when he posted his ubiquitous ads on Deanslist. For a while, a few months prior, he'd signed on as a performer at the online livestream sex site MasterChat. Eric, true, had shaved a couple of years off his actual age on his profile. But still, even so, viewers and followers who had watched him dance, masturbate, dildo himself and perform other sex acts while dressed en femme, under wig, constantly expressed disbelief that he was, with his shaved, effeminate, relatively youthful body, the slightly false age he'd posted.

While performing on MasterChat Eric had received multiple marriage proposals as well as other invitations to visit. One man had invited Eric to come stay with him in London. He'd show him the sights! Eric found this offer amusing. He considered the UK his second home and traveled there almost yearly. Another man, in SoCal, had offered to get Eric a boob job. He would set Eric up with the "best plastic surgeon in L.A." and pay all the future she-male's expenses.

One very young, and naïve, viewer had enthusiastically suggested that Eric was in his twenties! Absurd but, well, flattering. Very flattering...

"You're so sweet," Eric—Erica—had typed in response.

If Eric from the neck down was his strong suit; Eric from the neck up was his weakness. Sans platinum-blonde wig and makeup and the bright cherry-red lipstick his viewers on Masterchat had so cherished, Eric looked his age. In fact, his curse was that with his balding head he probably looked older than his already advanced age. He was a kind of Frankenstein: a body of multiple parts. The head of a "mature" man (that word again) attached to the body of someone perhaps decades' younger. Enhanced further by the fact that Eric kept that body, his pale skin, toned and in fairly good shape and completely shaved (or Naired).

With his new business venture (Eric had never actually bothered to cash in his "tokens" at Masterchat, which would have qualified as his first official payment for performing sex acts, albeit virtually, transmitted to computer screens around the globe) Eric always offered to do his housecleaning in women's underwear, as an alternative to full-on nude. This would have given him the opportunity, his wig and makeup would have, that is, to bring his upper body's deceptive age in line with his lower's. He soon discovered, however, that the men who responded to his nude housecleaning offers wanted him... "masculine."

They were his customers, potentially, and who was he to argue? "Age doesn't matter," his elderly constituents constantly claimed.

And so for this latest gig Eric had dug out of his closet a thin, black microfiber skull-cap. Which he pulled down to his eyebrows, and to the tops of his ears. Sort of in the style of U2's The Edge. He'd be "masculine" for his client (if however shaved head to toe); but he'd be damned if he ever again showed off his bald head.

"I'll look into the lye cleaner," today's client said. He was still standing behind Eric, just forward of the bathroom doorway, naked from the waist down, limp cock and big balls dangling. "If I can find some in the store I'll buy it and you try again with it on your next visit."

Eric's heart leapt. This was his fourth nude housecleaning gig and so far none of his clients had asked him back for an encore visit. Not yet. It sounded like this gentleman was all but guaranteeing another gig in the very near future.

"I wouldn't waste a whole lot more time on the tub," he said. "You've done the best you can with what you have. I'd move on to cleaning the toilet and then mopping the floor. That'll just about wrap things up, cleaning-wise. Besides...," and here a frustrated Eric, still staring at the tub's stubborn ring, thought he could sense a smile crossing the man's face, "I want to leave time for my Happy Ending."

The man had met him at the door this morning dressed—undressed—just as he was now: wearing a faded college sweatshirt to offset the chill in the air but nothing below. Except white half-socks. Eric had interpreted his client's exposed genitals as an offering and, shortly after he himself removed his clothes, all of them, had dropped to his knees to suck the man's cock and fondle his balls.

Eric had eagerly sucked him for about a minute when the man had squirmed away saying, "Let's save the Happy Ending for last. I'm a quick-cummer. Do you swallow?"

Eric had looked up. Wiped his mouth. He nodded.

"Good. Cause I've been saving a big load up for you. I want to shoot it down your throat."

"I'll swallow every drop," Eric promised. His last client, after he jacked off into Eric's waiting mouth, and after Eric had briefly wrapped his lips around the man's glans, the tip, had squeezed—pinched—his own softening cock. Squeezed out the last drop—literally—for Eric to suck—to kiss—away, and swallow. All in all it had been a small load, but Eric considered a blowjob, a Happy Ending (or Beginning for that matter), to be the unstated, "complimentary" portion of his three-hour nude housecleaning services. It went without saying, right?

"I've got some things to take care of in another room. So I'll be in there while you're finishing your chores. All the toilet supplies are in the cabinet there, under the sink. Let me know if you need anything else..."

Eric, still on his beleaguered knees, sensed his client had turned back, in the doorway, and was smiling. The man added, perhaps superfluously: "I belong to a vintage gun club and tomorrow I'm going shooting at a range down south of here with the guys. A bunch of old farts," he laughed. "I have this old bolt-action German Mauser, World War II vintage I bought a few years back at a gun show. I've really neglected the thing. I need to clean it up good. Not even sure I have ammo for it, I'll have to check. Any rate, I'll be in my bedroom if you need me..."

Eric's shoulders had risen, in cringe.

One minute he was feeling elation over the prospect of being invited back; the next he was looking forward to submissively swallowing his client's cum; and now the man was talking about cleaning a gun! He seemed like a nice enough bloke. But was he some kind of secretly demented gun nut? Should Eric haul ass? His car was parked outside, a vivid blue. There was an easily traceable email chain between the two of them on Eric's laptop at home. Including the man's address and phone. They'd spoken by cell phone—also traceable.

Only a suicidal fuck with a death-wish would try something nefarious. Cleaning his rifle? So what? It was normal enough. In today's society. In all probability it meant...nothing. A normal act. The guy wasn't even sure he had ammo.

Right?

Eric's shoulders lowered. He was alone. He rose to his feet, creakily. Briefly. He'd been kneeling on hard tiles, or inside the tub, for what seemed like an hour (more like fifteen minutes). He turned on the faucet and washed his powdery white scrapings down the tub's drain. Then he turned his somewhat divided attention to the toilet. He knelt again.

The cleaning supplies, one of those squeeze bottles of blue toilet cleaner (sort of the color of his little car), along with a spray bottle of disinfecting cleaner heavy on the bleach, were indeed behind the cupboard doors. The toilet brush, in its white plastic holder, sat behind the commode, against the baseboard, the tips of its bristle stained orange. Eric pulled it free. He was getting a hard on—his first of the day.

Eric wondered what his former shrink would say about all this. What was his name, Oscar? No...No matter. Whatever. Eric understood about his desire to clean house in the nude for other men—pure exhibitionism. Yet sometimes his clients, as now, weren't even in the same room with him. What then? The thrill of submission? It didn't necessarily require a dominant man in the room, only his nearby, implicit presence. But what about this? Getting hard at the mere sight of a man's dirty toilet? Kneeling down before it as if, literally, it was a King's throne? Scrubbing away the shit, the pee stains? What was that all about? It might...

...it might take a team of overpaid, lazy, bullshit, verbal ping-pong psychotherapists to solve the mystery.

As a naked, kneeling Eric worked the toilet brush around the bowl, over the rim, wiped and rewiped the sides, "mopped" the adjacent tiles with paper towels, ditto the hard-to-get part under the raised seat, and behind it...

As he attempted perfect, spotless perfection—and an invitation back for a repeat gig, something wracked his brain.

Where had the idea for lye come from? A lye-based cleaner to remove the ring from his Client's "claw" tub?

He wiped the toilet clean with disinfectant. Getting even lower, up on his knees but head down, hand at its lowest, wiping around the very base of the now-sparkling white toilet attached to the floor. Sealed to it. He would get an invitation back—more money for sex—and this time he would scrub, eradicate the ring from his Master's—

Eric nearly broke down in laughter.

Of course.

Of course he knew where the idea had come from: the lye.

What the fuck? What was the matter with him?

Schindler's List. The movie. (Well, the book as well.) The evolving scenes where the young Jewish boy, Amon Goeth's fated slave, tried but failed to scrub the ring from the Camp Commandant's bathroom. With lye.

Lye.

How could Eric have been so stupid?

Distantly, still kneeling, he heard a bolt action close, open, close.

It was time to mop his Master's bathroom floor...

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by Anonymous06/05/18

Excellent writing. Genuinely interesting and well written.

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