Naked Houseboy & his BBW Boss Ch. 13

Part 13 of an ongoing story...

Although perhaps not what the reader of this story would hope for, I would like to step away from the main narrative for this post. Rather, I feel I would like to simply paint a picture of my daily life with Carrie. If it is not the most exciting post in this series, I hope it will at least be worth the reading...

I had been living as Carrie's naked houseboy for some months by now. In that time, we had grown closer, developing a bond of real friendship. And like any two people living together, we had our routines.

Carrie normally set her alarm for 7:30am during the week. And as she Carrie set her alarm, so did I, although she assured me this was hardly necessary. She insisted that I could sleep as late as I like, as long as I got all my work done. And in truth, I am not a morning person. I would have liked nothing better than to sleep in. Nevertheless, I never failed to set my alarm for 7:30.

There were two reasons for this. We can say one was 'professional,' and the other 'personal.' Professionally, I have always felt driven to give my best, to go the extra mile. And this struck me as an example of just that. To do something I wouldn't normally do, something that was neither required nor asked, simply as a way to give the best possible job performance. To put it another way, I could walk with my head held high, knowing I was being the best naked houseboy I could be.

So as Carrie woke up, showered and dressed for the day, I would head downstairs to make her coffee and breakfast. I myself would shower later in the day. And as for getting dressed, well, that never entered into it.

As for the 'personal' reasons, we can further subdivide that into two categories. One we might call 'erotic' and the other 'emotional.' First the 'erotic.' There was not a single day that I didn't wake up excited to see how Carrie would dress for work. And really, I didn't get to see her in her work clothes very much.

She would always change into her 'pajamas' almost immediately after getting home. Which suited me just fine, by the way. I've written often about her pajamas. Nothing more than an oversized white T-shirt, not even a bra. That, apparently, was how she was most comfortable. No pants, no bra, nothing to constrain her considerable mass. Massive tits hanging low, belly protruding, no fucks given.

Now, I'd be lying if I said I didn't love seeing her like that. Nothing entranced me more than watching the shape of her enormous breasts pushing against the T-shirt as she moved, seeing them hang to either side of her large belly as she reclined, or piling into her lap as she leaned forward. It was the stuff of wet dreams.

I loved seeing her like that. But it wasn't exactly new, after so many months. Whereas her work outfits, she seemed to find some new arrangement with each passing day. And that was new. That was exciting.

I say exciting. But exciting, it seemed, was the last thing on her mind. You see, Carrie was quite a conservative dresser. Though to be honest, I don't know if that owed more to an office dress code or her own personal tastes. In any case, conservative was the word. She never showed any cleavage. Skirts were always well below the knee. Sleeves were always long.

And yet, there was no hiding a body like hers. Even with two tops, it was clear that she was extraordinarily well endowed. And she often wore two tops. Sometimes it was a sweater over a blouse. Sometimes a cardigan over a dress. Sometimes a blouse and a sport jacket.

She never buttoned the jackets though, I often wondered if this was out of self-consciousness or modesty. Self-consciousness because if she had buttoned the jacket, it would have really accented her belly, showing her to be - and I say this as someone who marvels at every inch of her body - fat. Modesty because if she had buttoned the jacket, it would have accented her breasts in a most distracting manner.

Whatever she wore, though, it was always close fitting. As I said, she made consistent efforts to dress conservatively. So when I say 'close fitting,' I don't mean 'tight' in a sultry way. I mean simply that her garments adhered to her curves, tastefully. I suspect that to dress otherwise would have seemed to her frumpy or slovenly.

I also suspect that is why she was always so quick to change out of her work clothes when she got home. To be free not just of their constraints, but of the way they described her rubenesque figure. Her pajamas allowed her to be as shapeless as possible (still an impossibility). It pained me to think that she should feel that way about herself. And to that point, we had not discussed the matter. But that was my impression.

In any case, I loved seeing her in work clothes. To me, she was a classic beauty. All curves, yes. But also taste, style, elegance. You had better believe that if she could afford a live-in naked houseboy, she could also afford fine clothes.

I called all this 'erotic.' And it was, in its way. Just not in a "oh my god, one look at you and I have to go jerk off" way. Rather, in a way that reminds one that there is more to sex than just mere animal instinct. The point is, seeing her dressed for work, even if only for a few minutes, was well worth getting up at 7:30.

But I said there was an emotional side to this as well. And that really came down to one thing. Namely, the moment when she would into the kitchen and I would hand her her cup of coffee.

It was always a silent exchange. It turns out, you see, that neither of us are morning people. So our interactions at that hour were always a bit sleepy-eyed and mumbly. The less said, verbally, the better.

But so much was said though half-shuttered eyes. It would always start with the moment she walked into the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed to the nines. She had this way of pausing in the doorway, for just moment. A moment where we would just look at each other and smile.

For me, it was a moment of excitement. Truly, my heart would be beating just a touch faster than normal at seeing her new outfit for the day. And I would just marvel at her.

And she would see me. Naked, but for the mug of coffee I was holding for her. The way she would look at me, taking in my whole body, the way she smiled, still half-asleep. She never said, "You know, Jack, sometimes I really just enjoy looking at you." She didn't need to. It was in her eyes.

Then she would shuffle over to me. She would stand near to me, and yet not close. I would hand her the mug, and for a few seconds, it would be in both our hands. It was a moment for us to share eye-contact, however half-asleep we might still be.

And there would be gratitude in her eyes. It was her way of saying that she didn't take this for granted. That we both knew I didn't have to do this, this getting up early to make her coffee. And that she appreciated that I did it anyway. Her eyes told me that she felt lucky to have me. And - I hope - my eyes told her, that for her, I would do anything.

After taking the mug from me, she would lean back against the kitchen counter, inhaling the aroma, taking that first sip, slowly waking up. And I would lean back against the counter, beside her, saying nothing.

And those few minutes might have been my favorite of all. Just standing beside her in silence as she sipped her coffee, me completely naked and her dressed for work. I think that was the key. That she was dressed for work.

See, so much of our time was spent with her in her pajamas. That is to say, each of us in our comfort zone. Just two people living together, living our lives, being ourselves. When she was in that big white T-shirt, it was as if she were saying, "See, I'm just like you."

But dressed for work, the difference between us was clear. She had the big job, she earned the money. This house, this life, all of it was possible because of her. And while I would almost certainly be naked in my own home if I were living alone, the fact that I was naked here, that was because she had chosen to hire me. I couldn't get dressed if I wanted to. Because that is how she wanted things. She was the boss. I worked for her.

And I loved the way that made me feel. I don't know. Maybe it would make another man feel small, powerless, weak. For me, it was empowering, clarifying. I knew exactly who I was with her, exactly what was expected of me.

But within that, there was freedom. I was not expected to get up early and make her coffee. Yet here I was. I could make this job my own. I could make my service to her something unique, something special. And it wouldn't go unnoticed. She appreciated everything I did. She appreciated me.

Without her, I was just a loner who jerked off too much. With her, I was a valued and trusted employee, a pleasure for the eyes and even a friend. And what might have been a vice, she viewed as a passion to be encouraged.

So as she sipped her coffee, I would look down upon my own naked body. I'd look over at her, clothed in power. And I would feel thankful. Because now I'd found a purpose. Before, I thought my purpose was just to jerk. Now I knew my purpose was to serve Carrie, to make her feel special. For sure she made me feel special.

And then it would be over. She would finish her coffee, handing the empty mug back to me with a smile. And then it was off to work for her. For me it, was back to bed for a few hours. But not before a quick wank. I wouldn't have my mornings any other way...