Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Honey, I'm Home!

A Good Maid Never Uses A Mop
by KM

When it comes to husbands and children, I believe in a little spoiling. Just enough to get what you want.

Like cinnamon toast, tea and a nice massage before bed. Storytime for the kids. Rub-a-dub for hubby.

Like a wifely turn behind the mower while he lounges with a beer and the “swimsuit edition.” I start in the middle and cross-hatch my way closer and closer to his lawn chair in my Daisy Duke cutoffs.

Like waking him up at midnight with sloppy wet kisses, gently bringing him to consciousness by pressing my face between his legs, sucking his softness between my lips and flicking my tongue, a flint against steel, sparking fire along the "Y" of his cock. That place where the river of life meets the sea of happiness that is always tight and slick and begging for more, even when the man within begs for sleep.

“With this new arrangement of yours,” I told my husband, while massaging his toes with sweet almond oil one-by-one, “you’ll need office help. You’ll never survive without a secretary, without janitorial service.”

“I’ve never had a secretary,” he said. “Oh God, that feels good. Could you rub my arches and press down harder there with your thumb? And I certainly don't need a janitor. Hot damn baby, where did you learn to do that?”

“I read about pressure points in a book I found at the library. The thing is sweetums, you deserve decent help and a tidy work environment. Now that you’re going to telecommute and you’ll be here every single day all day -- well, I’m just going to have to make sure everything is perfect for you.”

“Oh baby, my sciatic is killing me. Do you think you could….”

“Of course I can. Yes, yes of course. Anything you want sweetheart. Anything you need. Now and forever.”

I wasn’t about to let telecommuting ruin our marriage. At first, the thought of it scared me silly. I laughed for days.

“It’s great that you can work from home now and then, honey, but every day?”


Typical guy. That’s all he said. “So.”

“So I work from home too and, uh, well, oh never mind.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“No big deal babe. It’s just that…..well, I have a hard time focusing sometimes when you’re here 24/7.”

“Well, sweetness, I guess you’ll adjust.”




“Dammit, what’s the big deal?”

“I don’t know! It’s just strange. Maybe I like the husband swinging through the door at a certain time every day bellowing, ‘honey, I’m home!’

“Well, it’s one less car on the road hon, so just get over it.”

“You’re right. Of course you are. It will be fine. I’ll just get used to seeing you around every corner and listening to your breathing and your tapping and your farting and your everything for 24 hours a day for the rest of my life.”

What was my problem? Seriously! It’s not like the house would become a cube farm or anything, but we both work on computers and I can hear him tapping while I’m tapping. His rhythm is different than my rhythm, know what I mean? It’s just a bit disturbed. When I go downstairs, he knows….or if I leave the house….or if I tackle writing first and laundry last….he would know that too.

“You were gone for two whole hours. Where did you go?”

“Just don’t ask me where I’ve been if I’m gone for two whole hours. I need some space of my own too.”

I'm doubtful, but hopeful that perhaps a little creativity will do the trick. Bring in a professional.


I ignore him while I work, stretching side to side to reach the corners of the wide window. I can smell hot coffee steaming from his mug. I know it’s hot because I poured it.

Something about washing windows from the third step of the stainless steel stepladder. Gets him every time.

Maybe it’s the view he has from his desk. The view of my above sea level ass peeking out from under the flouncy black satin mini dress, my soft pink cheeks framed by white lace trimmed black French maid style panties to match the uniform.

Once the windows are spotless, I move on to cleaning his computer – with a special wipe just for plasma screens, of course.

I catch a glimpse of him looking at me in his monitor as I’m wiping smudges from the plasma, pressing my body into his back as I clean, reaching around him and gently nibbling on his earlobe.

I turn quickly on shiny patent leather heels. “More coffee sir? The cherry scones are baking. I’ll fetch you one in a moment.”

But this time, even the window washing isn’t getting me anywhere. Damn telephone.

I’m whispering because he’s on a conference call. The thingy in his ear with the computer in front of him makes him look like an air traffic controller. I want to push the button on the cord next to his hand, unlock the mute and moan into the microphone. “Buzz the tower baby! Give it to me again big boy!”

I trot off to swiff the kitchen, fuck, what a pain in these high rise shoes. Swaying my hips, I finally get into a rhythm. I’m working the linoleum like a pro, swiffing like mad while filling the sink with scrub water. A good maid never uses a mop. Hands and knees or nothing. I read that somewhere and I believe it.

By the time the conference call has ended I’m down and dirty, rubbing and scrubbing like mad, my head under the heavy oak table with lion paw feet, pink rubber gloves protecting my delicate skin.

I was once the world’s worst housekeeper, but now I’m in it for the duration. My fate is sealed. Somehow sharing work-life space with my mate motivates me to scrub the fuck out of the floor. I’m finding dirty little crevices and long-ignored dirt spots everywhere. The textured linoleum is pressing painfully on my knee bones, but it’s a good hurt.

The air kicks on and blows a cool dry wind across my ass. It feels so good. I’m warm beyond hot and I’ve worked up a nice lather. My breasts are slamming into my elbows as I attack a stubborn sticky spot with my dripping wet magic sponge.

“Fuck yeah!” I yell out. “Out damn spot! Magic sponge rocks!”

Just then the oven timer bleeps and hubby walks in with his empty coffee mug.

“I’m ready for that scone,” he says, grinning with all the satisfaction of an overpaid executive, toggling his mug at me and tugging open the oven door. “And I could really use a warm-up.”

I can tell from the smell rising in the kitchen, even from my scrubbing place under the table on the other side of the room, that the cherry scones are cooked to perfection. I can smell their doneness, just shy of crumbly. Soft in the center with a sweet, tender crust. Just the way he likes them.

Before I can leap to my feet, he's snatched the magic sponge from my hand and tossed it across the room.

"I took the liberty of removing the scones from the oven."

"You're a dear."

"You're sweating."

"I've been scrubbing."

"The floor looks incredible."

"Thank you."

I'm gripping the lion's paws as he joins me prone beneath the table. He spreads my legs and sucks at my clit as if I'm a hot cherry scone. Oh, find my soft center. Please find my soft center.

He flips me over, lifts my skirt onto my back and swats my ass so hard I can feel the heat rising immediately.

"You missed a smudge on the bay window," he says, pulling me up by wrapping one arm around my waist. "Back to the ladder you go."

Perhaps I've taken this too far. That window was spotless!

Hubby is back in his chair, coffee refilled, munching on a scone while I'm perched unsteadily on the ladder.

"Over to the right. Just above your right hand -- maybe it's a water spot. Rub harder."

He's behind me now, his hands tugging at the front of my dress, pulling it down so far that my breasts pop loose and smack into the window. Sweaty nipple smears. I just cleaned that spot!

I'm a small girl and I have to say, the second rung on the ladder is the perfect height for window washing, the best place for getting all those hard-to-reach high and low places, whether you're scrubbing with a lint-free microfiber towel or making the glass shine with your dick. Hubby didn't waste any time cleaning my panes. Jeans around his ankles, he slid into me slowly, careful not to send me flying off the step. He pumped faster as I leaned forward, the cool glass a chilly pleasure against my bare chest.

The office window is diagonal to the front door, but the lower half is shielded by a thick perennial border. Seemed safe enough.

I turned my cheek into the glass while he fucked me from behind, his hands on my hips, his legs spread wide, his face buried in the thickness of my hair coiled against the nape of my neck. For just a moment I opened one eye and when I did, I nearly jumped clean out of my apron. There on the walk, hand outstretched towards the doorbell, was a delivery man. Business supplies for the virtual office. Fuck. My eyelashes fluttered against the glass. My nipples and breasts pumped against the window to the rhythm of the cock in my ass.

I didn't know what to do, except my duty. So I gave the smirking"man in brown" delivery guy the thumbs-up sign, grinned naughtily, and went on fucking.
......more later perhaps....it's late and soon I'll turn into a pumpkin. Maybe delivery man should be hired on for virtual mailroom duty.


Neve Black said...

I think you could easily write a weekly column designed specifically around this subject.

I loved this.

Kirsten Monroe said...

Thanks Neve! When you can't beat 'em...the magic sponge really does rock, by the way.

Emerald said...

Great and fun read, KM! Thanks!


Kirsten Monroe said...

Thanks Emerald! Well, back to swiffing I go :)

Jeremy Edwards said...

So many delicious details! The above-sea-level attribute ... the soft center of something ... Mmm, my own work-from-home office afternoon has suddenly livened up very nicely!