F

One of my many (an alphabet of 26?) semi true-life experiences as a nude male housecleaner

F was showing me how to replace pads on a Swiffer. I’d never used one before. I watched as F removed the old, dirty pad and replaced it with a new, clean one. Somewhat gratuitously he said, “I shouldn’t have to show you again.”

“I got it,” I agreed. I felt a tingle down below. I liked it when clients verbally abused me. This was far from that but it seemed, as I say, unnecessarily harsh. We were standing in F’s kitchen and my next task was to mop the linoleum floor. I was naked, of course. F was naked from the waist down, a dark, patterned wool sweater covering his top half. I’d already sucked him, made him hard (as hard as he would get anyway) and swallowed his cum. It was a small load. He made a comment, not long after, that maybe he could get hard again and fuck me later. He wondered aloud if he should take a Viagra. I couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t taken it before I arrived. F said, medically speaking, he shouldn’t take one because it was bad for his heart. But…

If he popped a little blue pill during my visit I didn’t see it. But then again I was busy, and most of the time my bare back was turned to him as I bustled around his small condo, polishing, vacuuming, dusting, etc. His wife was arriving on Saturday (this was Thursday) and he wanted the place looking spic and span for her. He also wanted to get in some last-ditch sex with another man.

As I mopped his kitchen floor with the Swiffer F stood just outside the kitchen, his back to the white slatted doors hiding the condo’s washing machine and dryer, watching. I wasn’t entirely certain if F liked to watch because I was naked and had a slender, (if I do say so myself) youthful-looking body or if, wool-covered arms folded, he was inspecting my work, looking to see if I missed anything or needed correcting. Probably it was a little of both, I decided. Since F and his wife spent half the year, the summer half, in New Jersey and the winter half on the west coast of Florida, I figured he must have, earlier on in life, been a successful businessman. At any rate F seemed to be something of a control freak; someone used to giving out orders and instructions and bossing people around. He was a small man, though, wiry, probably in his early 70’s.

This was nothing unusual for me. Most of my clients were older men, if not downright elderly, and somewhat affluent. Some lived alone but most, like F, were married. Meaning they were bisexual. And those who weren’t married invariably had been, once upon a time. More than a few, like F, were snowbirds. My little business picked up considerably in the winter months, meaning from late October through April. Make hay while the sun shines, as the saying goes.

After Swiffing the kitchen floor my next task was to clean F’s toilet. The condo only had one bathroom and since F himself had been back less than a week, it was pretty much still pristine. F told me not to worry about the tub and shower; just the toilet and sink and tile floor, which I would mop with almanbahis a replenished Swiffer, I guessed.

Most people would probably claim that there is nothing more disgusting or degrading than having to clean someone else’s toilet, but I rather enjoy it. No, I definitely enjoy it. Being submissive (goes without saying) and something of a masochist, I look at cleaning a man’s toilet and bathroom as the ultimate in submission and self-abasement. After all, most people do this kind of work reluctantly, out of necessity. I do it voluntarily, eagerly. I even mention it in my ads, in the sex personals, along with the other (non-sexual) services I provide: “I clean toilets!”

Truthfully, the job is not usually as undesirable as it sounds. In all but a few cases my clients have presented me with a virtually spotless toilet and sink. Maybe some dried piss spots on the surrounding tile, or wall, but…It’s as if the men I serve are reluctant to admit they’re ever careless, lazy or unsanitary. Most of the time, in fact, I feel like I’m going through the motions, down on my bare knees, having squirted the blue cleaner into the pristine white bowl, running a long-handled brush around the perimeter. Doing what it seems like my client already did before my arrival. Still, the mere act of kneeling beside his “throne,” and wielding the brush, doing what promised to be the dirtiest of the dirty work that day, is invariably enough to give me a hard-on. Or the makings of one. Go figure…

It even embarrasses me. My sudden erection, that is. Here I am, over two hours into the gig, having bounced around a man’s home in the nude all that time, balls dangling, probably having already had (oral) sex with him, and it’s only when I kneel down at his toilet that I show my passion. Or hide it, as it were. With my back to the open bathroom door, and my client lurking somewhere behind it, sometimes I’ll remain on my knees, dragging the distasteful chore out, padding the minutes, in the hope my erection will wilt, or at least begin to. Otherwise, and I know this from experience, I’ll have some explaining to do.

“Now you get hard? Cleaning my toilet?” This spoken in a tone of both disbelief and distaste. As if to say, You didn’t get hard when you saw me naked? And when you sucked my cock? But NOW you do? What kind of weirdo are you?

This last invariably goes unspoken, but the promise, the certainty of it is still enough to keep me kneeling on the floor, back to the revealing door, waiting.

Exactly as I was doing this at F’s, on that Thursday before his wife arrived, out of the proverbial blue he came up behind me, as far as doorway’s white frame, and announced, “I want to fuck you. Let’s go.”

I was, well, flabbergasted. Wary of him peering over my shoulder and seeing my hard-on, I looked around, while simultaneously leaning forward. F had one too. An erection far thicker and stiffer, and more upright, than the one I’d sucked two hours before. Bad heart or no, I realized, F must’ve popped that blue pill some time ago.

“Leave that,” he said of the brush, the cleaners, almanbahis yeni giriş his toilet, the bathroom. “Let’s go in the bedroom.”

I rose, awkwardly, painfully. All that time on the hard tile. I was relieved. Now when F saw my hard-on he’d blame it on his abrupt sexual proposition. Indeed:

“You stay hard when you’re getting fucked?”

“No. I…”

Up to this moment F’s bedroom had been the one part of his condo that was off limits. It was small. Or not so much small as cramped by both a dominating recliner and a king-sized bed, not to mention all the rest of the furnishings. The room was dark, the curtains drawn. There was lots of clutter.

F pointed, as he headed for a night table, a drawer. “Pull the comforter back. I don’t want to get anything on it. My wife’ll kill me.”

Once the top sheet and pillows were exposed I asked my host, a thick slug of something in my throat, “How do you want me?”

F had taken a tube of lubricant out of the drawer. He gestured with it, broadly. “Stack a couple of pillows…lie on top of them on your belly. Spread your legs. You bring condoms?”

“I did,” I replied rather proudly, thinking of my backpack, the zippered front pouch, my preparedness. Condoms AND lube. Just in case…

“I don’t wear ’em,” F informed me, as he smeared on the lube. Leaving me to wonder, as I climbed on a bed that rose surprisingly high off the floor, Then why’d you ask?

“That’s OK,” I said. For one thing F didn’t seem the type, married and elderly, to have STD’s. For another…I was technically his employee; his vassal even. It was not my place to ask, let alone demand. Besides, I looked forward to him shooting in me whatever small amount of sperm was left in his sizable old man’s balls. I would drive home with a big smile on my face, knowing that.

“You get fucked a lot?” F asked, before mounting the bed. And betraying, it seemed to me, a touch of his own concern.

“No,” I replied, truthfully. “I’m healthy.”

“So am I,” F shot back, as if I’d questioned his integrity. Or honesty. Or something.

There were no preliminaries. F put the circumcised head of his glossy cock to my hole and pushed in. He paused once, probably just to catch his breath and not out of concern for me, before shoving the rest of the way in. And without further ado, F’s scrawny knees between my legs, my belly atop the double stack of pillows, he began fucking me. No words were spoken (just moans), and I found myself, head twisted to the right, looking at the bedside clock, trying to calculate when my three hours would be up. Or not that, but how much time would be left, if any, after F finished with me in bed, to do other chores on his list. I hadn’t, after all, finished cleaning his bathroom.

F was a good fit for me, I had to admit. Not too thick, not too thin in his present artificially enhanced state. Not overly long. Another inch or so would’ve been nice. Deeper. I’d “douched” myself, as I nearly always did, before heading out to a gig. And, afterwards in the shower, “opened myself up” with my jelly almanbahis giriş dildo. Because in my line of work, my sideline, my avocation, you never know. You might be just about done with the gig, the three hours, kneeling beside a man’s toilet, and he might come up behind you with a hard-on and say…

F was shrinking. I could feel it. The elderly man was huffing and puffing and shrinking inside me. He pulled out as abruptly as he’d propositioned me to fuck. He was done. I looked around, smiling.

“Did you cum?” I asked hopefully.

It took a winded F a few moments before he replied, distastefully and definitively, as if he resented the question, “No.”

Then, with a weak, sweeping gesture, “We’ll have to pull these sheets off the bed.” Breath. “Throw ’em in the washer.”

“Sure,” I agreed, rolling off my perch.

“Try not to get your ass on ’em,” he advised. “The lube.”

“Right,” I said, changing my course of exit to an awkward sliding one, on my right side.

“You take that end,” the no-nonsense F directed, meaning the headboard, having already stripped the comforter off the foot. Not surprisingly F had a particular way he wanted his precious sheet washed. A particular amount of detergent; particular settings on the high-end washer. He did the work. Taller by nearly a head, I watched over his shoulder. And having just been fucked by my client, and feeling a sudden tenderness for him, despite his gruff nature, I wrapped my arms around his chest and began kissing the exposed portion of his neck. F having yet to remove his sweater, even while fucking me.

“You can get dressed now,” F advised, his body stiffening in my embrace. Obvious evidence he wasn’t too keen on my sudden show of affection.

“Sure,” I said, feeling hurt slightly by the rejection; but simultaneously elated knowing the gig was over. Time to get paid and go home!

As the Maytag began rumbling F disappeared briefly into the dark confines of his bedroom. I, meanwhile, located my clothes and began dressing. I’d only pulled on my panties, navy-blue ones that could’ve passed for a Calvin Klein men’s bikini, long as you didn’t feel the effeminate microfiber, when F returned, holding out four splayed leaves of green.

They were twenties, it turned out. Eighty dollars. F said, “You worked hard, did a good job. Plus the fuck,” he added.

My basic rate was an inglorious, undervalued fifteen dollars an hour. Pulse five dollars gas money. F was paying me thirty dollars above that. I’d never worked out an upcharge for fucking. Getting fucked. But thirty seemed OK, about right. What the market would bear. I thanked him as he reached out to give me a quick, parting fondle, in my panties.

“Any chance you can have me back?” I asked.

F thought about it. “Not likely. What with my wife here and all.”

“Right.”

“Maybe when she goes back in October. You could come back,” F speculated, “and help me get the place ready to board up.”

F made it sound like a hurricane would be coming. And maybe it would. At any rate that was six months from now.

I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

I left F’s that day feeling a little down. Another one-timer. On the other hand I’d just been fucked, which brightened my mood considerably as I navigated toward the interstate, the bridge, and home.