CLEANED 

He'd seen her several times now around these offices.  
One of the cleaning ladies.  There was a team of them 
employed by the building, responsible for keeping 
everything ship-shape.

Mostly they spent their time sprucing up the common 
areas like corridors and bathrooms, sweeping and 
mopping floors and stairways.  But every few days 
they came around to clean people's individual 
offices.  Dust their bookshelves, hoover the carpet, 
empty the waste paper basket.  It was like a regular 
ritual.

They came and went with great frequency - staff 
turnover, that is.  Obviously a sign that the pay was 
lousy.  And mostly they were older women.  Serious 
women, with kids now all at school and needing some 
extra pin money.

None of them could be considered glamorous.  They 
were care-worn, stretched by serial childbirth, 
buttoned up in some corporate-image cleaning-uniform 
that made them look as straight as pipe-cleaners.

Except this one.  She alone stood out.  

She was young, early twenties at the most.  Black.  
Short and petite, with a high rounded bum.  And she 
had knockers.  Out of proportion to the rest of her 
slight build.

She did indeed manage to look glamorous.  Though in a 
very low-budget sort of a way.  Her uniform appeared 
to have been handed down from someone much bigger 
than her.  It hung loosely on her, flowed around her 
curves, and seemed to accentuate rather than conceal.

Her face was cute, like a young Billie Holiday.  Her 
hair was often arranged in many tiny pulled-back 
braids, and sometimes she'd wear a small flower over 
one ear.

Sometimes she didn't even bother wearing the 
corporate uniform, and that used to make her really 
stand out.  She'd wear something like a long stretchy 
split-skirt, down to her ankles and tight across her 
bum.  A skirt better suited for night-clubbing, 
though it was now grubby in places and sometimes had 
cobwebs stuck to the hem.  

This might be matched with a fashion t-shirt top, a 
bit too big and low in the neckline.  One that easily 
fell away from her chest as she bent forward on her 
broom.  Anyone in the right place could really cop a 
good look.

And, standing up straight, it was apparent that on 
occasion her bra would be a couple of sizes too small.  
Deliberate?  Or just another ill-fitting hand-me-down 
from somebody?  Her big boobs would try to spill over 
the undersized cups, giving an appearance through the 
loose but clingy material of her top that she had 
four medium breasts rather than two good-sized ones. 

She seemed well aware of the effect she had on men.  
She always had a very knowing look in her eye.  She 
was almost smug in her prettiness.  In ten years time 
she might end up as frayed as the others, but right 
now she still had that flush of youth.

If ever he caught her eye while passing in the 
corridor, she'd meet his gaze unashamedly.  Look 
straight into his soul, with an inscrutable Giaconda 
smile and eyes that seemed to say "Yes, I know I'm 
gorgeous.  And I know what you'd like to do with me."

He was meant to act proper.  He was a professional in 
this place.  Responsible, organized, meticulous.  A 
workaholic, as his ex-wife'd be the first to tell you.  

And he did act proper.  Exceedingly proper.  He'd 
always been shy around women anyway.  Especially one 
as stunning as this.  He started avoiding her gaze if 
ever it fell on him.  Deliberately and self-
consciously, he would refuse to catch her eye.  

And she knew it.  Knew he was dodging her knowing 
look, the one that said her mind could read every 
single lustful thought he'd ever had about her.  Knew 
she made him uncomfortable with just a glance.  Knew 
exactly how hot the blood would get behind his ears 
as she passed.

There was a polite knocking on his office door.  He 
recognised it as the cleaners' usual knock, and 
reached across to release the doorknob.  Three of 
them filed in, dusting implements at the ready.  Two 
as plain as pikestaffs.  And one sex bomb, looking 
ready to explode.

Or so his fevered imagination was telling him.  The 
other ladies paid neither him nor her the slightest 
attention.  This was just another office in a long 
string of offices.  Dust, vacuum, empty the bin, 
and get the hell outta there.

But were they really as guiltless as their twin 
poker-faces made out?  

If so, why did they let her do most of the work?  Why 
did they dawdle in the corridor as soon as they'd 
dusted, leaning on their brooms while she did the 
sweeping?  Why did they say "We'll start on next-
door, sugar", leaving her all alone with him?

It was as if a conspiracy was at work here.  She 
could have faced any other point of the compass as 
she bent to vacuum.  But no matter which part of 
the room she hoovered, she kept her body turned so 
that her dangling neckline was pointed right at him.

He was trying to carry on typing, trying to keep his 
eyes on the glowing computer screen in front of him.  
Weakening, he glanced across at her.

Fuck!  What a cleavage!  

She was bent forward about forty-five degrees, her 
top hanging well down.  Through that gaping neckline, 
he could see both bra-clad breasts in their entirety 
as they bobbed and wobbled and bulged out of their 
cups.

It must indeed be a conspiracy.  She would surely 
know that her goods were on display.  And be conscious 
of his gaze upon her.  Yet she kept her own eyes 
demurely downcast, giving her full attention to 
ensuring the carpet became spotless.  She thus 
afforded him the freedom to look as much as he wanted.

With a superhuman effort he dragged his gaze back to 
the financial data on his computer screen.  He 
pressed semi-colons, apostrophes, random consonants, 
anything to make the keyboard clatter busily.  A 
stream of nonsense inched across the screen.  He 
wouldn't look at her.  He mustn't look at her!  It was 
embarrassing, humiliating, that without a word she now 
controlled all his faculties, drew upon every fibre in 
his being. 

She knew what was going on.  Gave him every chance to 
see her gorgeous chest without being "caught".  She 
felt his look boring into her.  And inwardly she 
exulted.  Once you can get them to look, you're 
halfway home.  It's the litmus test of possibility, 
but has to be carefully judged.  If they take a good 
look, then something might be made of the situation.  
If they glance briefly then ignore, you know to 
back away.

She switched off the vacuum cleaner and started 
dusting.  Along the bookshelf.  Down the side of the 
filing cabinet.  Along the front of his desk.  Down 
the front of his desk.

Down the front of his desk ... oh shit!  She had to 
bend low for that one.  Right in front of him, 
slightly to one side of his computer monitor.  He 
only had to move his eyes a fraction and extend their 
focal length, and suddenly his view was into heaven 
itself.  He felt like a rabbit, literally transfixed 
by two headlights.

She dusted her way around from the front of the desk 
to the side.  Now standing to his left, she flicked 
away imaginary specks while he kept his eyes riveted 
on the screen.  She was so close now that she could 
read the gibberish he'd been busily typing these past 
three minutes.  Seeing it, she gloated.

She was standing next to him now, only inches away 
from him.  Feeling his tongue getting thick in his 
throat, he forced himself to speak.

"Shall I move out of your way?"

"Don't worry, I'll just lean across."

She did, reaching out over his keyboard with her 
duster to flick its feathers over the computer mouse.  
Despite him leaning well back in his chair, her side-
on leaning posture brought her dangling chest level 
with his face.

Time seemed to stand still.  He didn't know where to 
look, or how he should react to her being so up 
close.

"Would you like to touch one?"

What!??!  

Her voice was so low as to be almost inaudible, but 
he'd heard correctly alright.

In case he hadn't, she repeated "Go on, feel them."

"No. I ... I ... it's okay, thanks."

She'd really put him on the spot now.  Stripped away 
the handy camouflage of proper manners, the mask of 
good behaviour that was concealment for his shyness.  
She'd cut right to the chase.  Knew what he wanted, 
despite his efforts to pretend otherwise.  On the one 
hand, he wanted to go for it.  On the other hand he 
was too embarrassed - to do so would admit the truth 
in her crystal-clear reading of his base desires.

She turned to him and leaned with her hand on the top 
of his thigh.  

"Do it.  I know you want to ..."

That deep, dark canyon was up so close, and 
looked so inviting.  He caught a whiff of cheap 
perfume, and sweaty armpit.  Her free hand pulled the 
neck of her tee further back, to expose still more 
black lace on brown skin.  Her taunting eyes danced at 
his discomfort, and she smiled sweetly.

"... and I want you to." she added.

At this, his fortitude was reduced to jelly.  
Dreamlike, he raised his hand and it glided like a 
ferret down the neckband of her t-shirt.  It was 
instantly enveloped in luxuriant warmth and soft 
sexiness. So stimulating, yet so maddeningly 
frustrating because of the obstacle of her undersized 
bra cups. 

"Wait a second."

She straightened, turned behind her and snicked the 
door shut. 
 
Then she hiked up her skirt just enough to be able to 
step one leg over.  She sat upon him, straddling his 
thighs, though well back from his burgeoning cock.  
Slowly, like the theatre curtain at the start of a 
performance, she raised her slightly grubby fashion 
top up over her head.  It dropped to the desktop 
behind her.  Reaching around behind her, that too-
tight bra suddenly slackened and fell away, ending 
the cruel distortion of her round, pendulous breasts.

He gazed in awe, seemingly struck dumb and paralyzed 
all at once.  She waggled her shoulders to show them 
off, and they bobbled and swayed inches before his 
nose.  

She solved the paralysis problem by pulling his hands 
up onto them.  Galvanized into action by this tactile 
trigger, he fell upon their fullness and warmth, 
lashing his tongue across their coffee-coloured 
slopes and underhangs, engaging each stiff nipple in 
turn.  

"That's it!" she cooed softly, "Suck 'em, baby!"

She luxuriated in the attention he was devoting to 
her chest. He put his arms around to the bare skin of 
her back, the better to firmly pull her close and get 
as much boob into his mouth as possible.  A sure sign 
of a confirmed titty-lover.

But she felt it was time to take things to the next 
level.

She reached down his front to his crutch, and easily 
located the upright ridge in his trousers.  Unzipping 
him with difficulty in his hunched-down posture, she 
got the tip of it out, and played with it lightly.

"You want to come, baby?" she whispered.  

His reply seemed affirmative, but was very muffled.  
Undoing his belt and waistband to open further access 
for her roving hand, she repeated the question.

"Shall I make you come?"

"Mmmm-mmmm!"

Definitely affirmative.  Time to get down to hard 
tacks, in a manner of speaking.

"You just suck my titties, and I'll wank you till you 
come."

She started rolling his foreskin back and forth in a 
way that experience had taught her was very effective 
for reaching this goal.  Then suddenly, she stopped.

"But it's gonna cost ya, honey!"

"MMM!!!  What???"

"Got a hundred bucks on ya, baby?"

Oh fuck.  Realisation began to dawn on him.

"Why?"

"Cos nuthin' comes for free.  I got what you need.  A 
hundred bucks and it's yours."

Her hand resumed a gentle tugging on his cock.  Nice, 
but not enough to progress him anywhere.

But his realisation was being followed by anger.  
Anger at being duped in this way.  She was a 
prostitute?  He'd never paid for sex in his life.  And 
didn't intend to start now. 

With his arms still firmly locked around her, he 
thought he might have the upper hand.  She was only 
little, after all.  And he felt that she deserved 
anything she got, now.

He dragged her hips forward toward him, and thrust 
his crotch upward, in an effort to get his cock up 
against her cleft.  His hands thrust deep into her 
waist elastic at the back, trying to drag skirt and 
panties down off her butt, trying to expose her pussy 
to his upright prick.

But she was ahead of him.  Her hand had already 
encircled his testicles, and now she squeezed hard.  
He tensed up at the sudden agony of it, then went 
limp again as she eased off the pressure.  
Surprisingly, his cock stayed straight like a ramrod.

"You don't get to fuck ME!" she hissed, "Just do 
as you're fuckin' told, and if you're a good boy I'll 
give you some relief.  But you don't get to fuck me."

She still had her hand right inside his trousers, at 
the place where he was most vulnerable.

"And you gotta pay for the privilege."

A flash of shiny stainless caught the corner of his 
eye.  Where'd she gotten that little flick-knife from?  
It was tucked up in the palm of her other hand, and 
its blade was open.  It's appearance had been so 
slick as to be almost magical - she was topless, and 
he hadn't noticed her skirt having any pockets.  From 
down the side of her shoe seemed the only 
possibility.

This little minx was serious, and capable.  In his 
genteel professional world he was unaccustomed to 
weapons, to violence.  He knew he had a big size 
advantage if it came to a tussle, but his uppermost 
thought was that she might cut him.  How'd he explain 
that to his colleagues?  His boss?  

This ought not be romantic.  His cock should be 
shrinking away and cringing like the rest of him.  
Why, then, was it still so rock hard?

"A hunnerd bucks, please."

He weighed options, analysed them for optimal 
solutions.

"Can I touch your pussy?"

"No.  You get to play with my tits while I wank you."

It shocked him how easily he'd adopted the speech of a 
"john".  All for the love of her ripe brown breasts. 
Their loveliness had not diminished even a jot upon 
the rude discovery of their possessor's street-smarts.

He fished about in his side pocket and came up with 
some crisp notes.  These disappeared down into her 
shoe.  The knife, however, didn't.

"Suck!  And no more funny business!"

He sucked.  She wanked.  He licked.  She increased 
her motion, but kept it delicate.  It's not so easy 
wanking a guy to orgasm, there being a fine line 
between stimulating them enough to come, and pumping 
so hard it hurts.  Faster and more reliable to suck 
him off, but that could come later, once she'd broken 
him in.  

"Can I come on your tits?"

"That'll be an extra twenty."

Magically another note appeared, and she hunkered 
down on the floor between his out-splayed legs, 
pulling his cock out straight toward her tawny 
melons.  Looked like he needed a little bit of an 
extra push, so she tweaked a nipple through his 
shirtfront while concentrating on getting his 
foreskin moving just right.

He loved this extra stimulation, and the sight of her 
big round boobs waiting to receive him.  The 
smuttiness, the sheer filth of his entrapment by this 
jezebel, was more than his straight-laced mind could 
yet absorb.  And her control of him, the firm limits 
she'd placed on him, made a mere handjob so much the 
sweeter.  So sweet his spine was tingling.  

And his cock was spurting.

She loved this part.

Loved the looks on their faces as they gazed in awe 
upon her dangling breasts.  Loved the power of being 
able to make them shoot, and immediately see the 
results of her handiwork.  Loved to tease them 
sometimes, by pretending to dodge out of the way and 
see how frantically they scrabbled to have their 
stuff land on her.  Loved seeing the white rivulets 
standing in stark contrast to her own brown skin.  
Loved using gobs of it to annoint her near-black 
nipples.

"Lick it off!"

He hesitated, but then thought, why not?  It added to 
his feeling of depravity.  Not a feeling he ever 
thought he'd enjoy, but then he'd never found himself 
in this situation before.  With outstretched tongue 
he delicately drew up all his silvery beads and 
threads off her warm smooth skin, and swallowed them 
down.  He paid extra attention to her nipples, which 
had drips swinging from the teats.

Satisfied he'd attained a sufficient standard of 
cleanliness, she reached for her hand-me-down bra and 
snapped it back into place.  The t-shirt came over her 
head, and all was as it was before.

Well, not quite.

"Don't forget to put your dick away" she reminded 
him.

He stood up.  He towered over her - how the hell had 
she been able to intimidate him so?

She collected her hoover and backed away to the door, 
resting a hand on its knob.  Her smug, knowing look 
was back in place.

"I'll be back in a coupla days."  She wasn't asking 
him, she was informing him.  "I might make it a 
regular thing, if I can get you trained up right."

She stooped, pulled his proffered wad of notes from 
her shoe, and tossed them back onto the desktop.

"You don't want ... but I thought ... ?"

"Thought I was a hooker?  The money thing was a test.  
You passed, by the way." 

She slipped the door open, and was gone.

He sank into his chair in a daze.  He still didn't 
know quite what had hit him.  He felt shamed by his 
conduct, yet eager.  Eager for more.  

Fuck, she's got nice tits.




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