Something about big, luxurious houses has always got me going. All those rich, opulent textures: the silk curtains, the satin bedsheets, the velvet upholstery … sheer delight. I can’t help it, all that opulence, all that wealth just makes me feel damp and excited. One of my favourite fantasies is being fucked by an old man who is just filthy, filthy rich – his stubby fingers loaded with gold rings squeezing my red nipples as he blindfolds me and gags me with ropes made of crisp ten-pound notes. Sometimes I imagine him getting me off with a coin – rubbing its smooth, rounded edge against my clit until I come, hard, coating the Queen’s face with my excitement.
Call me shallow, call me whatever you like – who can deny that money is an aphrodisiac? Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of it myself. And that’s why working for the Farringtons in their palatial home, a sprawling estate near London, proved to be the perfect job. I cleaned their house, and while I was doing it I routinely got myself off on the lavishness of my surroundings. While they commended me for my excellent laundering abilities, and paid me an hourly wage, I brought myself off on the edge of their gold brocade curtains – in their bubble-jet Jacuzzi – anywhere, my eager fingers stimulating my throbbing clit as I thought about Mr Farrington’s yearly income. The opportunity for giving myself the occasional treat was just too good to miss out on. And doesn’t a cleaning lady deserve a little treat now and again?
The Farringtons were frightfully posh. They could have passed for Camilla and Charles, with their far back accents and identical braying laughs. Mrs Farrington was an uptight fusspot who wore her make-up like army paint, and always had coral lipstick smeared on her protruding front teeth. Her husband was fat, middle aged, and was just about clinging on to what was left of his hair. I’m no oil painting and I’m fairly certain that they didn’t hire me for my looks – ‘sturdy,’ Mrs F. liked to describe me as – but more than once I caught him eyeing up my plump breasts and rear, constrained in the ridiculous starched uniform they insisted I wear. He’d let his gaze linger on me, sometimes in full view of his oblivious wife, and I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that he was imagining what I’d look like naked.
On this particular day, Mrs Farrington stood there, giving me the day’s orders. ‘Clean the mirrors with vinegar, dear, nothing less will do. We want them to sparkle, don’t we?’
I nodded in agreement as she continued, hiding my irritation with her fussy, elaborate instructions, and resisting the urge to tell her that I’d do a hell of a lot better job if she just left me to it. But I held my tongue, and eventually she finished and made off for her ladies luncheon. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had the house to myself now, just the way I wanted it.
A morning of dusting, vacuuming and laundry had me sweating and tired. I was looking forward to my ‘treat’ at the end of the day more than usual. I knew exactly where I was going to have it – in the master bedroom. I hadn’t dared before, but I was annoyed after Mrs Farrington’s pernickety orders that morning, and my treats had been a little stale of late. The whole procedure needed livening up.
Late afternoon, when most of the chores had been completed, but early enough so that there was no chance of discovery, I slipped into the master bedroom. My nipples stiffened just walking through the door, as I contemplated what I was about to do.
I sat on the bed, and started out as I always did – smoothing the sheets with the flat of my hand, breathing in deeply, running my hands over the restricting uniform that held my curves. The bed was opposite a huge mirror that stretched the whole expanse of one wall. I could feel myself getting damp already as I thought about how much more fun the treat would be if I could watch myself administering it.
My nipples chafed against the rigid uniform as I leaned down to pulled my tights off and step out of my panties. It was just as well, discarding them; my growing excitement had spread in a dark stain through the lace, and had settled in shining traces on my hefty thighs. I heaved myself back onto the bed and spread my legs slowly in front of the mirror, the moist pink purse of my sex revealed in all its glory. The long slit of my labia was wet and curved in a smile as it waited expectantly to be loved by my hand.
I may not be a looker, as such, but I do pride myself on having a very pretty pussy. I splayed it with my fingers now, holding each slick lip apart so that the gleaming swell of my clitoris was reflected in the mirror. I looked at it for a few moments, smiling with satisfaction at the image of myself, legs akimbo, cunt splayed over the lacy eiderdowns that Mrs Farrington favoured. I imagined the juice from my cunt dripping onto the lace, leaving tell-tale little stains, and how Mrs Farrington might set me to work the next day scrubbing the smears of my own arousal from her linen. The thought made my clit pulse and, all of a sudden, I couldn’t help but touch the little bud with my fingertips.
It swelled at my touch, immediately. I lay back, arching my back and tilting my hips to heighten the sensation, and my eye was caught by the feather duster I’d discarded earlier, sitting beside me. In a moment of inspiration, I grabbed it. I ran the smooth feathers through my fingers for a few moments, the nerves in my fingertips thrilling at the lightness of the touch. Then, I moved the duster lower, sweeping the feathers over my stomach towards the hot, wet, expectant cavern of my pussy.
My clit convulsed as the feathers brushed it – the whisper-soft touch tantalized me so much that my cunt threatened to give itself up to orgasm then and there – but I was determined to hold it off until the last possible moment.
I started to fuck myself with the end of the duster. It wasn’t thick enough, not really, but my hungry pussy welcomed the insertion of something hard and unyielding, the slippery walls clenching around it with each sharp thrust. Just as I was reaching down to rub the white-hot nub of my clit in time to the self-made thrusting motions, a small half-cough from the doorway stopped me dead in my tracks. My heart leaped into my throat as I froze in panic.
Mr Farrington. He had entered the room behind me, but I could see him in the mirror. He was clutching a briefcase, and had stopped midway through the action of unknotting his tie. He, too, had frozen in shock.
What a strange tableau we made. The businessman, about to change out of his suit after coming home early from work. The slutty cleaner, eyes glazed with excitement, busy hands now stilled between her legs. A duster rammed deep into her cunt and her excitement leaking out of her into sticky pools on the bedspread.
Jesus.
A slow, searing burn of humiliation spread slowly over my neck and face. Tears of embarrassment sprang to my eyes. I would be sacked, I would lose my job and reputation.
And yet, my treacherous pussy twitched. The shock of discovery was horrifying, but somehow my humiliation didn’t stretch to my nether regions and they spasmed excitedly under the gaze of Mr Farrington.
I pulled the duster from between my legs with an agonizing slurp, and opened my mouth to begin grovelling and apologising.
‘Don’t stop,’ he said, in a strangled voice.
The filthy old man. I should have known that he would love this. My panic and mortification began to recede as my nether regions convulsed once again.
He came into the room and shut the door behind him, but didn’t come any closer to me. He dropped his briefcase on the floor. His eyes were bulging, a vein popped in his forehead, and his flabby cheeks were slowly turning purple. The jowls beneath his chin started to quiver slightly. I lowered my eyes to his crotch, and saw that, beneath the expensive material of the suit, his cock was straining, sticking out like a flagpole.
Unbidden, an image of his naked cock popped into my head. Short, squat, and tree-trunk thick it would be, with sparse grey hairs sprouting about the base and the foreskin thick and fleshy. I thought about being fucked by Mr Farrington’s meaty weapon, the dull pink shaft threaded with broken veins sliding in and out of me while I bounced in his lap, my pendulous breasts swinging in his face and my beefy thighs gripping him tight. I thought about Mrs Farrington watching, her coral-lipsticked mouth open in an O as she watched our diabolical screwing.
Suddenly his instruction, ‘don’t stop,’ became impossible not to follow.
I turned my gaze back to the flushed, aroused version of myself in the mirror. Aware of Mr Farrington’s reflected eyes on me, tentatively I touched my finger to my clit again. The second it made contact my clit throbbed and my nipples stiffened against the starched uniform. God, that felt good. Wanting to explore the sensation further, I used my left hand to work my nipple through the thick material, the muffled intake of breath from the corner behind me spurring me on.
With one hand, I squeezed the hardened peak of my nipple, manipulating it as much as the uniform would allow. With the other, I massaged my clit, my engorged pussy walls clamouring to be penetrated as swells of excitement pulsated through my sopping cunt. I felt as though my nipples and clit were connected by ropes of fire – the sensation of my merciless fingers on both was sending feverish flashes through my nervous system.
I slid my eyes sideways to watch Mr Farrington watching me. His pupils were dilated, his face puce, and he was wheezing like an asthmatic running up a hill. The shock of finding me in flagrante had faded for us both now, and his eyes were fixated on my dripping, distended hole, watching my slippery fingers flicking away at the bleeding cherry of my clit.
To my delight, he began to unbutton his fly, his fingers trembling and fumbling so much that each button came undone slowly. As he started to ease his cock out I masturbated myself more quickly, anticipation of seeing it flooding through me. He drew it from the folds of his trousers at last and I sighed. It looked much as I had expected – a little longer, the blood beating through it angrily, the swollen flushed head crowned with a sticky gleam of moisture.
A smell of sex began to permeate the room as our exposed organs, separated by several feet of distance, pulsed their heady scent into the air. It mingled with the pot-pourri Mrs F. favoured, and I smiled at the thought of her breathing in the fuck-smell hanging in the air as she laid her head down to sleep that evening.
I spread my pussy as wide as it would go, the milk flowing from it smearing my thighs and making it difficult to keep my fingers in place. The tremors in my groin were coming thick and fast now, and as Mr Farrington started to roughly wank his cock in time with my own motions I determined to put on the best display he’d ever seen while getting myself off all over Mrs F.’s bed.
Our eyes still locked on each other through the mirror, I gave myself up to the sensation my hands were causing, and rubbed at my clit so hard that the first waves of orgasm began to pulse through me. Mr Farrington gave a strangled moan. The image of being fucked by a rich man came back to me and I closed my eyes, imagining myself impaled on his cock.
Writhing with pleasure, but needing something to heighten it even further, I grasped the feather duster once again and wet it using my cunt before reaching round to slip it into my anus. Being so thin, it hardly met any resistance as I pushed it into the tight flesh, the lube from my pussy helping it slide in easily.
Nevertheless, the contact it made with the nerves in my arse was explosive as the feeling merged with the orgasm building on the end of my fingers, finally causing a cascade of hot ecstasy to flow through me. As I came, thrashing on the lace eiderdown, my arse clenching like mad over the end of the duster, Mr Farrington let out an inarticulate cry and milked himself to orgasm. His hand on his thick cock was a blur, and blood vessels threatened to explode in his face. The spunk arced gracefully out of the straining split at the head of his organ, and splattered across the plush carpet.
When my pulse had slowed and my heavy breathing had subsided, I sat up and arranged my clothes, my raw cunt twitching as I pulled my cold, wet panties back on.
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Farrington,’ I said with my customary politeness. ‘I’ll get all this mess taken care of immediately.’
He could barely look me in the eye, but grunted acknowledgement and tucked his penis, now flaccid, back into his trousers. As he made his way into the double-ensuite, I picked up the sticky duster and began to lightly flick it over the furniture, my nipples still tight and my clit tingling with the excitement of what had taken place.
I cleaned the end of the duster, put the vacuum away, and set about finishing the day’s work. The thrill of touching myself in that gorgeous, spacious room with Mrs F’s husband masturbating in front of me, went through me again and again. The treat hadn’t turned out as it usually did. But then I always liked a little variation in my routine.