tagExhibitionist & VoyeurSeven Houses In Seven Years

Seven Houses In Seven Years

byL O Reins©

Hey, my name is Ampara and my husband’s name is fudge. That’s right, the piece of fudge left me stranded in Connecticut with nothing because I was standing in the way of his affair with a bottle of cheap whiskey. Anyway, where was I?

My name is Ampara and my husband’s name is asshole. I clean houses and that is the name of that game.

Si, my job is housecleaner and I am pretty sought after these days because I am good, very good at what I do. I built my reputation house by house since I have been free of Jorge Cruz, my worthless drunken X-husband. Oh, he was useful for a little while but it wasn’t long before he began to change colors like a chameleon every time he came across the slightest distraction. Women, cards, whiskey, whatever, it didn’t matter; he was off like a hound dog when he catches the scent of a scrap of meat.

Now, I don’t hate men but I have to say in seven years doing domestic work I have seen it all. Men basically are fools. They are week and they don’t have any self-control—nada. Sometimes I think Jesus Cristo took something more important from them than a stinking rib when he made Eve. He must have taken some very crucial part of Adam’s brain because men are like zombies. Oh, they work and some of them make a lot of money and they know how to do things—with tools but when they smell that sweet meat, they turn into the walking dead.

In the last seven years I have gone through six homes—this is my seventh. The first three jobs went fast, a matter of months and I was running from one to the next and then to the next. I didn’t know what I was doing then. I let the stupid husbands put me in bad situations because they couldn’t control themselves.

They can’t seem to resist me. I am thirty-six years old and it is like they just want to eat me up. They love my coffee skin and, I don’t know, maybe I smell like sex but whatever it is, they can’t seem to keep their little minds off me when I am around. I know I have a good body and I’m pretty and…well, I am a flirt too—always have been. When I was a kid I couldn’t keep the boys away and when I was a teenager it was their fathers who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. So, at an early age I learned how to tease them and that is how I kept them at bay, how I controlled them and, later, how I got my revenge. But still, that does not give them permission to do the things they do to me--does it? Well, does it?

I won’t even tell you about the first family I worked for. I lasted two months before, “Adios, Ampara is out of here.” Lets just say I had it with her husband always creeping behind me, creeping in the bushes outside my bathroom trying to see my culo. I finally told him he could, “bessame culo” and what does the fool do? He kneels down and pleads with me to let him. What’s a girl to do? I liked the idea of this pitiful man on his knees pleading to kiss my beautiful ass so I bent over the kitchen counter, not so far like I was giving up too much to him, but kind of erect and in control and maybe a little aggravated too.

“Put your mouth where my money is, Mister Hooper,” I said patting my round ass.

It tickled a little at first when he pushed my sundress up and began to investigate with his fuzzy face. But it didn’t take long before he was licking, sucking and kissing me back there like it was his first day in heaven. I let him have his wish because I knew that this was going to be my last day in hell. He was going to be a very disappointed man when there was no Ampara’s culo for him to stick his tongue in anymore. “Goodbye, Mister and Missis Hooper.”

The next man was even worse. I wasn’t there a week before I notice the little hole in the bedroom wallpaper over the headboard. It wasn’t even that little but it was in the pattern in the wallpaper and right beside the Crucifix. I hadn’t noticed it before but I saw it when I was fucking my pussy with my feet up on the wall over the headboard. I saw it when I moved the cross but I didn’t care; I just pushed that big fat candle inside like I was hate fucking him to death. I knew he knew I knew he was there peeking at me because I could just feel it. He was always squeamish after that when he was around me. Now that I knew what he was up to I began to torment him whenever his wife wasn’t around. I’d give him peeks down my open blouse or down the back of my shorts at the little black rose tattoo at the top of the crack of my ass. I knew I was working him up for later when he’d peek at me in my bedroom.

Then I found another hole in my bathroom wall, right behind the toilet--my bathtub was directly in front of the toilet. He didn’t even try to hide that one. I knew by then there was nothing to do but give him a show every time I used the tub or the toilet. Oh, I knew when he was back there. My bathroom was back to back with the guestroom bathroom and I could here him straddling the toilet and yanking his cock. Let him look. I took very long baths and shaved my brown legs. I’d sit on the edge of the tub, facing the toilet and shave my pussy as bare as a little girl’s while he watched. I know he had a perfect view of my asshole and puzzy when I peed because his little peephole was just at the right height. I bet he actually thought I straddled the toilet and squatted over it like some peasant women. Sometimes I would even crouch and spread myself open so he could practically look inside me.

I figured out that he had another one of his peepholes, only this one much bigger, behind the full-length mirror in my dressing room—two-way mirror, what do you know? Well, that was all Ampara needed to know. I started taking my shower every night at the same time. I’d come out into the dressing room soaking wet and wrapped in a big soft towel. It wouldn’t take him long to switch from one peephole to the next. Then the show would pick up again, long involved shows—me drying myself very slowly and then baby powder or maybe oils or cream. When I did myself, fucked myself with one of my new vibrators, I would hear him back there jacking for all he was worth. The floor would even vibrate with his violence.

The holes kept appearing all over the house and I just kept on driving him crazy until one day in front of him I told his wife I had to leave.

“My sister had an accident at work and needs my help very much.” His wife had always been nice to me so I felt guilty leaving her.

“Maybe I can come back after she is on her feet again.” But I knew I’d never go back there.

“Oh, Ampara, we are so sorry to hear this about your sister. I hope she will be well soon. You know we will miss you dearly, won’t we, Henry?”

“uh…yes dearly,” the worm mumbles but he looks pale as the blood is draining from his face.

“Oh by the way, Mrs. Smith, you better call a paperhanger. There are so many holes in your walls, the house is beginning to look like a piece of Swiss cheese.”

Her little shit husband looked like he was going to have a conniption fit as he scurried off, probably to start spackling up his spy holes.

The next ones were all the same: house three, the panty thief who kept stealing my panties, not the clean ones but the dirtiest ones from my hamper; house four, the pervert who kept appearing naked in doorways, wagging his pathetic penis at me while his wife was just down the hall doing something else—he thought he had me by the cajones and that I couldn’t do anything about it. I called the police and pretended to be one of the lesbian couple next door. I knew he was doing the same thing to them at his bedroom window.

House five was single old Mr. Footsie. That wasn’t his name but that’s what I called him. He couldn’t keep his eyes, and then his hands, and eventually his tongue off of my pretty feet, no matter how smelly or dirty. It was nice having my feet licked clean and getting pedicures and polish from him but I got tired of it. Yes, they were all the same but I learned my lessons, had my fun and then Ampara moved on to bigger and better things.

Mr. Wilson was number six but at least he was good looking. He was tall and blond and very fit.

“Ampara, could you hand me a dry towel?”

“Yes Sir, Mr. Wilson, here you are; Ohhh my Gawd, Meester Wilson, You better put some clothes on before Missis Wilson sees you.”

“Ampara, I am like this because of you. You make me hard like this; you can’t leave me this way.”

“I am sorry Mr. Wilson, You will have to take care of that thing yourself.”

“Please, Ampara.”

“If you want I will watch you do it.” So now he swings the shower door wide open and begins to rub his cock in slow motion while I watch.

“Ampara, could you put down the mop?” So I put down the mop and try to look a little more impressed. He is all man now, no more begging. He thinks I am going to lose my mind over his big cock—it is a big cock though, maybe the biggest I have seen.

“Would Mr. Wilson like me to wash him?”

“Ahhhh yessss,” he groans, eye closed, body arched back, his voice echoing in the tile shower. So I take the hand showerhead and turn it to cold and aim it at his big balls.

“Jeeezuzzz Kay Ryist, Ampara.”

“Sorry, Mister Wilson. Let me fix that.” So I make the water warm, spray him, and then I take the soapy washcloth to his beautiful penis.

“You are very pretty down here, Mr. Wilson. This must feel very good, no?”

I slide my other hand around behind him into the crack of his tight ass, spread my fingers to open his cheeks and slide my longest finger into his soapy asshole. It is just a matter of seconds and he is hopping from toe to toe as he comes in big hot spurts in my wet hands. I mix his gooey cum into the soapy lather for a while and feel so powerful having him in my control.

“Ampara, you have to let me fuck you.”

Okay, enough of this, I think and I pick up the washcloth again. I know the rough washcloth is driving his penis tip crazy from over stimulation but I play the inexperienced housemaid all the way till he whimpers for me to stop.

“Arrrggg! Ampara, I can’t take much more.”

Now he thinks this is going to be his new shower routine from this day on. This time I am not going to just up a quit for no reason I can tell Mrs. Wilson about so I hatch a plan. I scrub his big dick a few more times and once, maybe twice I got on my knees and took his big cock all the way down my throat but I am waiting for a day when I know she will be home on an unexpected morning.

“Is Mr. Wilson going to have his special shower today,” I ask him when I am up in his room? “Because if he is, Amapara has something very special for him today.”

“What is that, Ampara?”

“You just come out of the shower ready for me when I come back and I’ll let you have it,” I say and I wiggle my ass at him as I leave his room. I run downstairs to the kitchen and pile up my arms with a big load of dirty linins and towels. I make a big deal of struggling through the kitchen with my arms full and Mrs. Wilson asks sweetly, if she can help.

“Oh Mrs. Wilson, you are so kind. I am going to take these to the laundry room could you just take the bucket and the mop up to your bathroom for me and I’ll be up in a minute.” I don’t want to miss the show so I drop the towels and head up the front stairway and wait in the laundry room next to their bathroom. Mrs. Wilson, not used to carrying the mop and bucket, makes a pretty noticeable entrance but it is nothing compared to Mr. Wilson’s grand entrance from the shower when he takes his cue perfectly.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Ampara.” And he swings the door open and steps out of the shower onto the tile floor, soaking wet and all lathered in soapsuds with his angry red dick harder than a cat pole in his hand. “…Now, Ampara, about that surprise.”

The best part of this one is that after Mrs. Wilson calmed down she asked me to leave and, to save embarrassment; she offered me a bonus and glowing recommendation for a vow of silencio.

I’ve been here at the Philbert’s for nine months now and this one, house number seven, is the easiest yet. This is not really a house. It’s more like a mansion. There are other servants here too, a cook, a maid and valet, a groundkeeper and a full time mechanic to keep the cars and equipment in order. Mr. Philbert is a doctor and a very controlling man. He interviewed me and hired me; I didn’t meet Mrs. Philbert till after I moved in. She is a very shy and beautiful woman. After I met her she hardly ever looked into my eyes but I would feel her watching me when I was around her. I don’t know what goes on between them but they have separate bedrooms and baths. One morning I found Mrs. Philbert still in her bedroom under the covers.

“Mrs. Philbert? Not feeling well today; are you going to going to stay in bed all day?” She nods, yes. I am used to very little talk from her.

“Do you want me to see if you have a temperature?”

“Would you, Ampara?” she whispers. Something is different; I just put my cool hand on her forehead and notice her breath change and her cheeks begin to blush.

“Yes, you feel warm, Mrs. Philbert, do you want me to take it properly?”

“The thermometer is in the bathroom cabinet, Ampara.”

When I return from the bathroom shaking down the thermometer I find she has turned over on her tummy and lowered the sheet to below her ass. At first I am angry.

Madre Mia! Who do you think you are dealing with? I think but as I look at her beautiful round ass and her narrow waist I feel hot and flushed.

“Turn on your side, away from me, Mrs. Philbert, and bring your knees up to your chest.” She slides up into that position and I pull the sheet completely away so I can see more of her. She is the first woman I have ever seen like this and my pussy is beginning to ache. I tremble as I touch her but I make like I know what I am doing. I get closer and lift her cheek to expose her little hole. Her flesh is hot and damp. I wet the thermometer and my middle finger with my saliva then, holding the thermometer like a pencil between thumb and first, I gently rub her anis with the wet tip of my middle finger. Mrs. Philbert moans very softly and I slide the shiny tip into her pretty little puckered asshole. Even though that next minute seemed like a delicious eternity it certainly wasn’t enough time to get a real temperature. I pull the thermometer out, wipe it with a tissue and check the results.

It’s normal but I tell her, “Yes, it’s up Mrs. Philbert, you definitely have the fever.”

Mrs. Philbert straightens her legs and turns back onto her tummy submissively parting her thighs. “Yes. I do. And what does the nurse suggest?”

“Well, in this situation, Mrs. Philbert, I would recommend something very nice. Have you ever had a warmed soapy enema?”

“When I was a child, but it sounds lovely right now.”

My heart is pounding. It is me who feels like the one who has the fever now.

“And, Ampara…?”

“Yes, Mrs. Philbert?”

Please call me, Olivia.”

Things have progressed far from that day. I have a big strap on cock now that I bought for Olivia, and some new outfits. We often play when the Doctor is away. I was very worried when I overheard Dr. Philbert threatening to fire me, “…because the house isn’t looking as good as when Ampara first started.” But a funny thing happened. Olivia, probably afraid I would leave, began doing a lot of straightening up. I began to do less—leaving things unfinished, little tests for her and she’d clean them up. We never discussed it but now she does more housework than I do. I guess you could say she is my servant now.

“Things are very good for Ampara in my seventh house, if only the fool husband doesn’t ruin everything again."

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