My Housekeeper - Sex Stories

My Housekeeper

... way. Those of us who feel that way yearn for, crave, even lust for a situation in which we can demonstrate that reverence to a woman. And what a treasure if/when we find a woman who "gets it." One who loves servitude. One who expects it. One who demands it.

That was my frame of mind every time I thought of Rita. Not just her spectacular tits. But her inherent superiority and authority. I dreamed (hoped?) that she was an enlightened woman, who recognized her superiority, who would exercise her authority and then bestow on me the privilege of some kind of worship. Someday. That's how I'd come to think of Rita, even though those dreams were almost certainly la-la land. Ironic, how I fantasized a reversal of roles between overseer and hired help. In my reveries, she was the supervisor, I the underling. She the taskmaster, I the servant.

After her next workday she shared with me some legal troubles she was having. She'd been the cause of a fender-bender and was having troubles with her insurance company and potential liability. I could tell she was upset about it. Meanwhile, her grandchild was acting out and having trouble at school. She shared these things with me as a friend and confidante. What I also noticed was that the top she was wearing was as revealing as it had ever been and that as she spoke she was pinching her top between her thumb and index finger and fluffing it, as if to circulate some air and cool down, then letting go, leaving it loosely open. If one ...

... looked, one could see ample cleavage, way more than one would ever display in less familiar company. I was convinced, as I'd been in her last visit, that she was quite deliberately teasing me with her tits. I commiserated with her troubles while I stole glances down her blouse.

On Rita's next visit, she wore yet another provocative blouse. I recalled that even in her interview, she wasn't modest about a little cleavage. But this was over the top, so to speak. As we began our end-of-workday conversation, she asked if we could sit. She had something serious to ask me. Turns out she and her boyfriend we a bit short of cash. She said she was embarrassed to ask but wondered if I'd lend her $500, to help make ends meet. Unexpected expenses. She insisted that I dock her future paychecks by whatever amount I thought fair, until she'd paid every cent of it back. I was quite convinced of her sincerity. She was no gold digger. I readily agreed and wrote her a check for $600. She was so appreciative. Her eyes welled up in tears and she told me again how embarrassed she was to ask. She didn't tug on her top. But it was still most revealing. I couldn't help but notice and sneak a few peeks. Strangely, I felt entitled. As though I'd paid for the privilege. She gave me a warm hug before departing, breasts squeezed against my chest.

On her next visit she noticed that I did not subtract anything from her paycheck for the loan. I told her to forget about it. That I considered it a gift. Her pay ...