Fucking the Maid

Ass

As my wife opened my underwear drawer, I panicked.

She was lost in talk about a bathroom remodeling and hadn’t yet noticed women’s panties right on top of my things. They were so blatantly not hers because it was a red thong and she never wore anything that exciting. She was looking at me but blindly reaching for them. In that moment I had to do something so I casually pushed her out of the way.

“Hun, actually I just remembered, my running shorts are in the wash.”

Still preoccupied with talking about the kind of tiles she wanted, she didn’t consider my intervention as suspicious. She looked so very distracted. Somewhat excitable, come to think of it. Picking an alternate running set from my gym bag, we went out and somewhere between tile colors and talk of clawfoot tubs she didn’t notice me sweating before we even hit the trail. After the run I offered for her to take the first shower so I could examine my drawer. She declined but I firmly insisted, being the consummate gentleman I was.

How the hell did this thong get here, I thought as I held it and listened for the gentle shower splashing.

“Well, I don’t remember you,” I whispered.

It smelled faintly of unfamiliar perfume and skin, maybe sweat. Not unpleasant, just ladylike, like it had been recently worn. Combination of vanilla and sweat, somewhat confusing. Couldn’t remember it. My occasional fuck buddy didn’t know where I lived, we always hooked up at her house over wine. The older coworker I had an affair with – and got bored of – never came to my house either and it had been awhile anyway. Was that a year ago by now, I wondered?

Product of a habitually guilty mind or not, it was bizarre to feel like a cheater without cheating. Burying the thong under a pile of my skivvies I took my turn to shower and wondered if I was losing my mind. No one had access to our house. So how did that thong show up here? After the shower I thought I should dump them far away from home, but the clingy wife made that opportunity difficult so I moved them to a different armoire when I could.

Days went by and I still hadn’t dealt with the thong. Maybe I just didn’t want to throw the evidence away before solving the mystery, but it was far more stupid to leave it around. It was asking for trouble.

Was this a test administered by my wife? In that case, I already failed it. But nothing blew up so that meant that this thong belonged to a new woman, one I hadn’t conquered yet and that was exciting. The sexual excitement over the discovery was very latent, but it was there. The long period of time it took from discovery to that realization slowly translated into a commensurate horniness. A slow burn.

Reminding myself with her old texted nudes, I concluded that the older coworker didn’t know where I lived. She was a good fuck but she was also too willing for my taste so I got bored of her quickly. Even so, I took the opportunity to look at her yoga outfit pics. They were prefaced with “my tits are grossly huge,” way too obvious attempt at fishing for compliments. Of course, she really did have nice tits. I rubbed one out looking at them and remembered how delightfully squishy they felt. Maybe later I should try for one last fuck with her?

The thong had to belong to a stranger. Because of the potential for a nasty fuck, I didn’t even feel creeped out over someone going through my things.

Next day as I went through our weekly mail pile and read a buried note on the kitchen counter, it hit me. In retrospect, I felt really dumb for not thinking it earlier, but someone did in fact have a key to our house. The cleaning company! The note was an apology for accidentally breaking one of our colored decorative glasses my wife collected. It was signed with a heart, “Cleaning team four, Crystal and Donna.”

One of the maids? Really? Which one?

That was just so weird but it was also the only plausible thing I could think of. One of the maids must have slipped a thong into my drawer. But why? And … why? Crystal? Donna? Both had trashy names, which was kind of hot.

My wife was a horrible housewife. She was beautiful, she worked a meaningful job, she exercised and she dragged me into social functions I hated. But she was terrible at cooking and cleaning. When she brought up wanting a cleaning service again I grumbled and went along with it, even though I thought they sucked at their job for the money when we first tried it. We alternated paying for the service every other week, taking turns writing a check. After a time we reduced that to once a month.

Since she spent more time at home than I did, I could tell that their cleaning was perfunctory at best. She was just too used to the mediocrity to notice`. You could smell a clean floor, and we never got that from this company. Only private maids did a good job cleaning, I thought, because they were paid better and got to take all their earnings home with them. This company paid their employees low hourly wages and I honestly Ankara travesti sympathized with them dragging their feet.

The only time that they cleaned the house well was the day before I found the thong. My car broke down, dead battery after a long winter, so I worked from home that day. That time their work was remarkable. The two women were so obviously startled that I was unexpectedly home and I guess because I was watching they did a thorough job for once.

In fact, they brought in a third person to help them finish. She looked even more surprised than the other two, borderline alarmed, and ended up spending all her time on her phone talking quietly. But they split their tasks and they all took their time scrubbing. Even so, their work was amateur quality and I assumed the maids had checkered pasts and this was the only low-paying job they could land. Once they were done, yes, the floor smelled clean. Still sloppy, but noticeably cleaner than usual.

In retrospect, that was eye-opening. Bad maids, dragging their feet, leaving their worn underwear in my drawer? I didn’t make the connection because ordinarily the maids were invisible to me. They came and went, but it must have been one of them. Oh god. Why?

My hardon, well, hardened and my mind went into dark places. She was a horny slut. Right? Or an honest to god part time hooker sending out feelers? Young mommy with swollen dark nipples just trying to supplement her income? Just so she can buy a seasonal toy for her kid? How humiliating for her! I adjusted myself through my pants as I worked through the possibilities.

Which woman was it, I wondered? There was a black chubby one, a disturbingly skinny blonde, or the third one who showed up later? That last one looked like poor white trash, the kind you see working as a grocery store cashier. Decent body, pretty face but not excessively so. It was the kind of easy girl you fantasized about seducing by lazily flashing money and power. My hardon grew restless, mind of its own guiding my thoughts. The thong was small so maybe one of the white girls? Longer I thought about the new girl, I realized I couldn’t recall her face. She was pretty, but I couldn’t remember what she looked like.

Few days later I panicked again, watching my wife walk around the house with my laundry. Oh Jesus, this was a disaster. She never did my laundry so I didn’t expect this might be how I got busted. Luckily, she was putting it far away from where I stashed the thong. In case she felt charitable again, I again moved the troublesome thong.

Thinking and rethinking how slutty this whole thing was over the next week, I kept walking around the house with a hardon and my wife noticed. She felt flattered thinking that she caused it. Since it would have been cruel to disabuse her of that notion, I obligatorily bent her over the couch handrest a few times and tried to break it off inside her thinking about the maid and her thong. My wife’s leg dangled uselessly over one side, her yoga pants still attached to it. She screamed so loud. It definitely had to have been the third maid.

The next time the maids were scheduled for a visit, I made sure my car broke down again. That turned into a complete failure. Sick day, wasted for nothing. They’d rotated crews and I ended up with two additional unknowns.

Outside a mighty storm brewed. Soon it fell in sheets and washed our skylights.

Disappointed, I looked at the thong the next day and frustrated with not having seen any of the previous girls, I stroked my cock with it and took turns picturing the women. Which one did it belong to? The new one, it had to be, I thought as I was getting close. She was young and fit, hottest of the bunch. It had to be her.

Again I couldn’t picture her face, it was just a mental blur to me. My mind drifted all over the place. As I stroked I pictured her taking her undies off in our bedroom, such a naughty girl. Slowly, probably. Seductively. Did she wear a skirt, I wondered? Stroking faster I thought, what a nasty, nasty girl, what did she want? Distracted by the irrelevant details I slowed down and reconsidered. Was she wearing pants when I saw her? I couldn’t remember. If she did, she’d have to take them off, then put them back on. More deliberate. Nastier. Anyone could’ve walked in on her in that time. I was getting closer. Was she sweaty from all that hard work? Poor thing. She needed a break. I sniffed the thong again and went back to stroking my cock with it. Jesus, she technically worked for me, this was so inappropriate and that made it so much hotter. And oh god, I was now so horny that I had to relax my grip or I would give myself a burn. My mind kept racing, stray thoughts unstoppable. Why did she leave her thong here? Quite an effort to take it off, so intentional. God, this wasn’t an accident, no.

My stroking sped up, I was getting so worked up.

This, this, this, I thought, she wanted me to do this. She wanted me to jerk it hard for Konya travesti her. Nasty maid who wanted to fuck. She wanted me to cum on her panties so she could check on them later. She wanted to dress up dirty for me… like a nasty French maid. Fuckkkkk…

“AAAHHH YOU FILTHY SLUT” I yelled out, surprising myself with the unplanned outburst.

The mysterious red thong blurred in my hand and I spontaneously grunted while screaming and puffing, blowing a huge load all over it. Screaming it out made my orgasm more intense. My heart raced for awhile and my legs felt so shaky, I had to sit down and soon. When I came to my senses, I carelessly put the thong back in the same drawer I found it in the first time and slammed it shut. Few cum stains ended up on the floor and dried up but I couldn’t be bothered to clean them so I left them there.

Deciding to go out for a quick run, I stepped outside. Sense of post-orgasmic calm cleared my mind and I felt happy, happier than I’ve been in awhile. Excited about the future. That release was so needed.

Just then I saw a fast moving shadow in my peripheral vision diving toward me.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” I shouted just as I closed the front door, ducking out of the way.

Two dark birds were swooping for my fucking head, chattering and screeching at me. Protecting myself with my hands I stepped out of the way but they just wouldn’t fucking let up, chasing me for part of a minute. Hiding behind my car, they finally flew away toward the roof but kept staring daggers at me. What the fuck was that all about, I wondered. Then it came to me. The storm. It must have blown their nest away and now they were pissed.

They perched on the roof’s gutter and kept screeching at me angrily, shifting around in place. I looked at them and felt a pang of empathy. Nature could be cruel like that.

“Sorry,” I apologized, “It wasn’t me. It was the storm.”

But they didn’t believe me, I was the asshole. Fucking birds.

Somehow I just couldn’t wait a whole month before trying again so I took matters into my own hands. Not the jerking off kind, instead, I brought the mountain over to me.

That is, over the next few days I dragged a bunch of dirt into the house and splashed some tapwater over the floors so they’d dry into hard spots. When that didn’t work I upgraded to pool water hardener and got guaranteed white spots on our maple hardwood. In fact, shit, I overdid it some and had to clean up. Subtlety was an art.

“Do you think we should get the cleaning service over more often?” my wife asked me over dinner.

Pretending not to care, I bent all my mind to fighting her randomly cooked asperges au fromage. One would be burnt, and the next one would be so raw my knife kept cutting into the plate hard. Cold store-bought rotisserie chicken and cooked asparagus with a fake French name, what the fuck was she thinking? But I got a hardon since she bit.

“Hm?” I pretended to absently register her.

“I said, do you think we should get maids over more often?” she repeated herself.

That got my dick hard. Why yes, yes we should definitely get maids over more often, I thought. Most definitely we should. Part of a spear fell off my plate as I cut into it.

“Oh, whatever you think best,” I replied coolly and almost felt my dick hit the table in anticipation.

“Guess I’ll call them tomorrow,” she said picking at her plate and I swear to god I felt my throbbing dick make our water glasses vibrate, just like that freaky scene in Jurassic Park. Fuck yes you’re going to call them tomorrow, I thought. Then I drained the water glass. Pre-dinner run dehydrated me mightily.

As I got up to get me a refill, she noticed my hardon again and smiled coyly at it.

“Oh my, someone likes my cooking,” she thought out loud. Effort had to be made not to make a face. Was she that oblivious?

“Dinner was amazing, honey,” I said and kissed her forehead as I passed her. She reached out and touched me through my pants and next thing you know, I had her bent over the dining table, holding her head down against the reclaimed barnwood boards. She thought I was being kinky, but I just wanted her to see the disappointment she wrought up close.

“Dinner was fucking amazing,” I told her disdainfully as I again tried to break my cock off in her cunt. She meant well, but I had to eat this garbage.

She was half grunting, half screaming as I slammed into her and I just kept staring at my disappointing plate. My mind was elsewhere, of course, trying to picture the maid’s face. It’s funny how it kept eluding me. With freakish exactness I knew what her hair looked like, but for the life of me I couldn’t visualize what was in the middle. The face. She had to have had a face, right? Frustrated, I picked up the pace and started fucking my wife so hard that the table moved.

“You’re so hard!” she exclaimed in surprise between breaths and she was right.

This level of arousal İzmir travesti just wasn’t normal. Thinking my wife’s pussy alone wasn’t enough for me, I channeled all my pent-up sexual frustration as unleashed aggression. It felt amazing. She stayed bent over long after I came and caught her breath, my cum dripping out of her and pooling on the hardwood floors. Tired, I lovingly stroked the small of her back and kissed the back of her head. She groaned contently, a noise I hadn’t heard in awhile. She got her rocks off. Maybe it was a touch rude but I was expended so I walked off and sat on the couch. Minutes later, I started flipping through channels, brain empty of all thoughts.

My wife managed to get up finally. She put away the dishes and a few minutes later I cringed hearing her start the dishwasher. She could never load it right.

She brought back a coffee mug with ice cream in it and handed it to me. Dessert wasn’t my thing, but I discovered that, actually, I was in the mood for something sweet. She sat down close to me and put her hand on my leg. We watched TV for awhile and then her hand started moving.

“What are you doing?” I asked her when she started unzipping me.

“Well, I need dessert too,” she said huskily.

“Hun, I don’t think I can go again,” I tried to stop her.

“Shhh, I just want a taste,” she whispered and dug it out of my pants without looking. I didn’t think I could even get hard again and I wondered if eating ice cream while she tried was rude. She leaned over and licked the thinning precum off my cock like she meant it. I won’t lie, she looked hot doing it. She wrapped her mouth around it and started blowing me and I figured since she couldn’t see me I kept eating the ice cream and enjoying what she was doing. Within a minute I got hard again, surprised at her patient pace. Getting blown was an endurance race, not a sprint for me. She never gave me head and surprisingly, it was … very enjoyable. Damned ice cream was good too, I’d have to run it off later.

Soon she took my empty mug and put it away and then handed me the remote and kept blowing me. That was decadent to a point of being arousing on its own because she knew me well. She knew I was a channel flipper and there was comfort in that. She knew how to take care of me, and that coffee ice cream was perfect. While channels changed I heard her wet smacking sounds and she had me then with that steady rhythm.

God, I now knew she could do the endurance race and I didn’t have to supervise. It was so hot. She rotated her muscle groups to support herself and when I looked down I realized it was a hands-free blowjob. Mindblowing. Disciplined. I felt that deep rumbling that announced this was going to end very well for me and I mentally prepared to cum. Just not ready yet. Nowhere near it. Her stamina was amazing. Jesus.

“You are SO hard,” she again muttered between sucks and surprised me because it was true.

God, my wife was a good cocksucker, I realized. I reached under her shirt and felt her breasts up just because I wanted to, and it ended up encouraging her. She moaned and picked up the pace. She snorted a few times, her nose starting to run. I imagined the maid doing it instead and pretended she was her, so I spanked her. Hard. Naughty maid. Then harder. Ran my hands all over her shapely ass. Distracted, I marveled how tight my wife’s body was at her age, surprised how intellectually I knew it but didn’t appreciate it. Then I realized how hard I was hitting my wife’s ass and cringed. But I kept going. I needed this.

Focusing back to where I wanted to be, I fantasized about how the maid definitely deserved a spanking. What did she look like, I again wondered? Her face was still a blur to me, but I knew her exact proportions. She did have a face, right? God if I could just get my hands on her, I thought, and realized I was getting close to cumming. Did she feel bony? Soft? Firm? I thought about the maid, about offering for her to take a break, rubbing her tired feet for her, implications laid out. Me taking her away from her poor life and her being so grateful she’d naturally have to blow me and then I’d try sticking my finger in her ass and she’d be begging me to put it in deeper, like some kind of a depraved slut. The thought was so erotic so I just fucking went for it.

This was forbidden territory. Unthinking, I pulled my wife’s yoga pants down hard and vibrated my middle finger against her asshole. The wet jizz spot on her expensive Lululemons looked so obscene.

She squealed in surprise, sounding violated, but kept blowing me anyway. That earned her another hard smack on the ass and she squealed again, this time grabbing my cock with her hand. Her snorting picked up the pace, she was fighting her own body to breathe and control her snot. Her fist started pumping up and down. The tip of my finger barely slipped into her ass when I realized my wife was swallowing the last drops of my cum. Oh fuck, I came without noticing.

She groaned sounding exhausted and collapsed over my lap, snorting to stop her runny nose. Her ass was still up in the air and I caressed it. She used her sleeve to wipe her nose and collapsed entirely onto me, burying her head in the couch and pulling up her stained yoga pants.

As my wife opened my underwear drawer, I panicked. She was lost in talk about a bathroom remodeling and hadn’t yet noticed women’s panties right on top of my things. They were so blatantly not hers because it was a red thong and she never wore anything that exciting. She was looking at me but…

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