The Maid
"She comes every Thursday to clean his apartment. He works from home and watches her work—thick, meticulous, wearing dresses that ride up when she bends. When he asks her to stay for coffee, she shows him what else she can do."
Lucia arrived every Thursday at 10 AM.
She'd been cleaning my apartment for three months. The building manager had recommended her—reliable, thorough, reasonable rates. He hadn't mentioned she was beautiful.
She was maybe fifty. Salvadoran, with dark hair streaked gray and eyes that seemed to notice everything. She wore simple dresses—practical for cleaning—but they did nothing to hide her figure.
Wide hips that swayed when she mopped. Heavy breasts that moved when she scrubbed. Thick thighs that flashed when she bent to get under furniture.
I worked from home. Which meant I watched her work.
I told myself it was innocent. Just appreciation. Just... observation.
It wasn't.
Week twelve, she caught me.
"You're staring again, Mr. Cole."
I looked up from my laptop—which I'd been pretending to use. "I'm not—"
"You are." She straightened from dusting the bookshelf. Her dress was slightly askew, showing the curve of her hip. "You do it every week."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"I don't mind." She walked toward my desk. "I've been watching you too."
"You have?"
"Working so hard. Alone all day. No wife, no girlfriend." She stopped in front of me. "A young, handsome man like you. It seems like a waste."
"I could say the same about you."
"Could you?"
"You're beautiful, Lucia. Every Thursday, I look forward to you coming. Not because the apartment needs cleaning."
She smiled. Something shifted in her expression.
"Would you like me to stay? After I finish?"
"For what?"
"Coffee." She leaned closer. "To start."
The coffee went cold on the counter.
We didn't make it past the couch. She straddled me, her dress riding up, her weight pinning me down.
"I've thought about this," she admitted, grinding against me. "Every week. Wondering if you'd ever say something."
"I was afraid you'd quit."
"I might still quit." She kissed me. "After."
Her dress came off. She wasn't wearing a bra—her heavy breasts fell free, nipples already hard. Her underwear was simple cotton, soaked through.
"I'm supposed to be cleaning," she said as I pulled them down.
"Consider this a different kind of service."
She was tight. Wet. She rode me like she'd been waiting months—because she had.
Her thick body bounced in my lap. Her breasts swayed in my face. She moaned and gasped and begged for more while I held her hips and thrust up into her.
"Yes—yes—" She threw her head back. "This is what I needed—"
I flipped her onto her back. Drove into her. The couch groaned beneath us.
"Harder—"
I gave her harder. She came screaming, her nails raking my back. I followed, filling her, collapsing on top of her.
We lay there, tangled.
"I'm not cleaning the rest of the apartment," she said.
"I don't care."
"Good." She pulled me closer. "Because we're not done."
She still comes every Thursday.
The cleaning takes about an hour. What comes after takes longer.
I've offered to pay her more. She refuses.
"This isn't work," she says. "This is... bonus."
The apartment has never been cleaner. Neither have I.
Best hire I ever made.