Bath Beauty
"When housekeeper Gladys discovers her wealthy employer James watching her clean, she decides it's time he learned what happens when the help takes charge."
Gladys had worked for Mr. Whitmore for three years. Big house in Bath, more rooms than any one person needed, and a widower who barely knew how to make toast.
She'd noticed him watching. How could she not? Those blue eyes following her as she dusted, as she bent to vacuum, as she scrubbed his kitchen until it gleamed. He thought he was subtle. He wasn't.
One Tuesday, she decided she'd had enough subtlety.
"Mr. Whitmore." She turned, catching him in the doorway. "You've been watching me for three years. Don't you think it's time we discussed it?"
"Gladys, I don't know what you—"
"Don't insult us both." She set down her cleaning supplies. At fifty-four, she was thick and proud of it—wide hips, full breasts, a backside that her uniform couldn't hide. "You look at me like you're starving. And I think you've been alone too long."
His face reddened. "This is highly inappropriate."
"So is staring at your housekeeper's batty every time she bends over." She stepped closer. "But here's the thing, Mr. Whitmore. I've been alone too long as well. And I find I don't mind you looking."
"What are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting we're two adults with needs. Your wife's been gone five years. My husband, seven. Life is short, and I'm tired of pretending I don't see what I see."
She began unbuttoning her uniform. His eyes went wide.
"Gladys—"
"Hush." She let the dress fall. Underneath, she wore plain cotton undergarments, practical but clean. "You want this. I can see it. Question is, are you brave enough to take it?"
He was. God help them both, he was.
James crossed the room in three strides, pulling her thick body against his. The kiss was hungry, desperate, years of tension releasing at once.
"Bedroom," she commanded. "Your sheets need changing anyway."
She led him there, stripping him as they went. He was fit for his age—sixty-one, still played tennis—but soft in ways she found appealing.
"Lie down," she ordered. "Let me take care of you."
He obeyed. The master of the house, following his housekeeper's commands. The reversal thrilled them both.
She explored him thoroughly, learning what made him gasp and groan. Then she climbed on top, sinking down with a satisfied sigh.
"Oh God, Gladys—"
"That's it. Let yourself feel it."
She rode him slowly, savoring every moment. Three years of glances and tension, culminating in this. Her thick body moved above him, her breasts swaying.
"You've been dreaming of this, haven't you?" she asked. "Lying alone at night, thinking about your housekeeper?"
"Yes," he admitted. "God help me, yes."
"No shame in desire, Mr. Whitmore. Only shame in wasting time."
She came with his name on her lips, shaking around him. He followed moments later, gripping her hips.
Afterward, lying in his expensive sheets, he laughed softly.
"Three years. Why didn't you say something sooner?"
"Wasn't sure you'd be interested in a thick old Jamaican woman."
"You're magnificent." He kissed her shoulder. "Stay. Tonight. Every night, if you want."
"The neighbors will talk."
"Let them. I've spent too long caring what people think."
Gladys kept working at the house. But her duties expanded considerably.
"Housekeeper and companion," James introduced her at his club dinner. "The best thing that's happened to me in years."
His friends' eyebrows rose, but Gladys didn't care. She'd found something better than propriety—a man who looked at her with wonder, who held her like she was precious, who followed her to bed every night like a devoted pupil.
"Same time tomorrow?" he'd ask each morning.
"Same time tomorrow," she'd confirm.
Bath's Georgian houses had seen many scandals over the centuries. This was one of the happier ones.