Cleaned 20

By timos111@hotmail.com


"Great news!"

"What?" Doug wanted to know.

A few days later, she'd come bursting in while he was 
seated at the computer in his study.

"Susan's swung a job for me!"

"Selling sexy boots?"

"Nah!  Not in HER store.  In another one, at the same 
mall.  There was an opening, and she put in a good 
word for me."

"What kind of store?"

"Ladies fashion.  We get a commission on sales, so the 
money's not too bad.  And best of all, I can tell that 
god-dammed office-cleaning company to go fuck 
themselves!  No more coming home all sweaty and 
stinky!"

"Just so long as you don't spend major chunks of your 
working day sneaking off to gossip and swap 
enslavement tips."

"I'm not blowing this opportunity.  At last I can make 
a lil' money, and look good doin' it!"

"What are you worried about money for?  I got money."

"This way, I get money AND my self-respect."

"I've said all along - I promise to still respect you 
in the morning," he quipped with a chuckle.

"Stop it!  I'm being sincere.  Besides, if I ever want 
YOUR respect, I can get it with forty strokes of the 
lash!"

"Of what - your eye-lash?"

Her steely glance told him he should drop the levity 
for the time being.  He leaned over and pecked her on 
the cheek.

"No really, I'm glad for you.  You should have quit 
that cleaning job a long time ago.  Don't know why you 
stuck it out for so long."

"I hadda do something, or by now I'd be sleeping under 
a bridge somewhere."

This gave him pause to think.

He'd got so used to having her around, to having her 
in his life on at least a semi-fulltime basis, that it 
was easy to forget what fate might have had in store 
for her otherwise.

The knife-edge her life had been balanced on, not so 
very long ago.  

The grit and determination she'd shown to get away 
from drugs, to swallow her pride and accept the help 
of family, rather than continue her slide into the 
abyss.

It was something he could never fully appreciate 
without going there himself, but he knew enough to get 
a fair idea.

Little victories.  

The title of a song by Stevie van Zandt from the E-
Street Band, it seemed to sum up the situation.

Getting a job in a shop in a mall did not seem like 
such a big deal to him, but he regretted his teasing 
her and making light of it now.

To her, this would definitely be another little 
victory.

***

From then on, her daily routine was different.  
Sometimes she'd do two half-day shifts rather than a 
single full day, which left a morning or afternoon 
free, and would then work into the evening.

It gave her chunks of time off during the day, and 
Doug soon observed that she seemed to be using this 
time productively.  One day he came home to find her 
sitting down at the dining room table with a pile of 
books out of the City Library.

He stood beside her and leafed through a couple of 
them.  Art history. Famous artists and their works.  
Techniques for drawing and sketching.  How to paint in 
oils.

"What's up?" he enquired.

Janelle looked up from the book of Monet she had 
opened out in front of her.

"It's all your fault."

"Huh?"

"Don't you remember?  Christine's exhibition?  You 
told me that I should try it if I think it's so easy."

"What have you got in mind?"

"Don't know yet.  I'll try some drawing and painting, 
to see how I get on.  Mind you, it's going to cost.  I 
had a look in an art-and-craft store and I gotta tell 
ya, that stuff ain't cheap!"

He thought for a moment.  And saw how engrossed she 
was in it all.

"If you're serious about it, I can help you there."

"Thanks, honey."

She squeezed his buttock in appreciation.

But she had to find out what sort of stuff she needed 
first.

Well, a pad and pencil might suffice, at least for a 
start.  And lets face it, back in the 'hood the main 
medium for expression of artistic talent was a subway 
wall and a shoplifted can of spray-paint.

She, on the other hand, wanted to do this properly.  
Though she didn't want to blow money needlessly.

But who to ask about it?

Who else but Christine.

Next day, Janelle dialled the cellphone number she 
still had scribbled-down in her purse.

"Hello."

"Christine, it's me."

"Janelle!" the older woman cooed in honeyed tones.

"Can I come and see you, to talk art and stuff?"

"Whatever.  Whenever.  Feel free!"

Janelle dressed down for this one.  Jeans.  A loose 
sweatshirt top, although her boobs were difficult to 
conceal at the best of times.  She wanted Christine to 
be talking some sense today, and not be getting unduly 
distracted.

The loft apartment door swung open and Christine, 
almost a head taller than petite Janelle, bent down to 
brush lips against her glossy dark cheek.

Christine had dressed up, not down.  Smart skirt and 
slightly-translucent silk blouse, through which her 
bra was faintly visible.  Jewelry, and a touch of 
make-up.  Mind you, she was a person who probably 
dressed up just to go to the bathroom.

"It's good to see you again!  Come in, get 
comfortable!"

They sat at opposite ends of a big leather sofa.

"How's the statue with the big tits coming along?"

"Oh, it's done.  I've sent it out to the kiln to be 
fired."

Janelle bit her tongue from asking how those clay 
breasts, the precise form for which Christine claimed 
to be lost for inspiration, had eventually turned out.  
Judging by the copious licking her own bust had 
received from Christine's very active tongue during 
her last visit here, she reckoned she had a pretty 
good idea what template had been used in the end.

She changed the subject.

"I want to get some art materials together, to get 
myself started.  What should I purchase?"

"What medium?"

"Sketching, and oils."

"Okay, I can make you a list that will cover the 
basics.  There's other stuff you can add later, but 
don't need right away."

They spent the next while going over brush types, 
colour tints, canvasses, easels, and so on.

"I mean, you can just paint straight onto blocks of 
wood if you really want to," Christine finished up.  
"That's what Beryl Cook did, and look how famous she 
got!"

Janelle nodded gravely, in a manner calculated to  
suggest she knew who Beryl Cook was.  She scanned down 
the notepad sheet of items Christine had written out 
for her.

"Coffee?  I got donuts, too."

Christine bustled off and brought everything across to 
a low table in front of them.  She sat again, much 
closer to Janelle this time, and poured.

Passing across a cup and saucer, her warm arm brushed 
slightly longer than necessary against Janelle's.  

"So, how's Julie?" Janelle asked pointedly.

"As if you care," Christine riposted.

Janelle shrugged at that, then asked "Are you the 
woman she left Doug for?"

"The "scarlet woman"?  No, that was someone else.  Who 
then couldn't handle her contrary ways.  It fell to me 
to make a decent lesbian out of her."

"And how did you do that, exactly?"

"There's a sub side to her that needed to be explored, 
before either she or I could feel fulfilled."

"I wonder if Doug ever had any inkling."

"I doubt it.  Typical man, would always rather look 
right past the obvious."

"Doug's doin' okay!" Janelle blurted defensively.

"Yes, you've done rather a good job on him.  How did 
you manage it?"

"I don't talk about my sex life.  Though I've no 
objection to talking about other peoples' sex lives."

This killed the conversation for a moment.

Christine filled the silence by turning and raising 
her feet up onto the sofa.  Her outstretched legs now 
reached across to Janelle, and she tucked her 
stockinged toes under the younger girl's denim-clad 
thigh. 

Janelle attempted to divert attention away from this 
body contact, by asking "Are those real stockings?"

By way of answer, Christine swept her black skirt up 
and put her stocking tops, suspenders and creamy 
dimpled thighs on display.

She left them like that, as if to say "There you are!"

"Christine ..."

"Yes, sweetie?"

"You can put your legs away now."

"I thought you might want to run your hands up them."

"I thought you might think that I thought that."

"Don't you think my thought is a thought worth 
thinking?"

"I think not."

Christine heaved a sigh.  Her massive chest rose and 
fell.

"Janelle, I have to say that I'm totally smitten by 
you."

"Yes. I know."

"We only had sex together the once, but it was pretty 
hot."

"Yes, it was."

"You don't feel the urge to repeat it?"

"Right now, no."

"Are you going to go all hetero on me again?"

"I'll always be both ways but, for me, girls are 
seldom.  I happen to like cocks.  Provided they do my 
bidding, of course."

"What motivates you to fuck with a girl, then?"

"Either I'm feeling a powerful need and have to do 
something to satisfy it, man or no man.  Or it's 
because the girl is so goddamn young, sweet and sexy 
that I get swept off my feet."

"Gee thanks.  I guess that puts me firmly in the first 
category, then?" 

"Yes", Janelle answered simply.

"So long as I know where I stand" the big woman 
answered with a barely-concealed hurt in her voice.

"Why are you so smitten by me, anyway?  What about you 
and Julie?"

"I do love her, and she loves me.  She's a muddled-up 
kid in many ways but she has some lovable qualities, 
and is definitely a true lesbian, no doubts about it."

"So why you want to run me as your secret passion on 
the side?"  

"I look at you, and I melt.  It takes every ounce of 
willpower to not just reach out and start fondling 
your breasts.  It's not love - I probably could never 
love you the way I love Julie.  This is pure lust.  
It's naughty, and it's wrong.  And that's what makes 
it such a powerful thing."

"How very ... masculine of you."

"You only have to walk into the same room as me, and I 
turn into a quivering mass of hormones."

Janelle gave a snort of amusement at this imagery, 
then quickly stifled it as she saw how serious and 
sincere Christine was being.

"And you feel this way now?  Like you've got to have 
me?"

"Desperately.  I want to bury my face between your 
legs and leave it there forever."

"Not an idea I'm so keen on right now.  Frankly, I'm 
not feeling any powerful urges for girl sex.  If it'll 
help though, I'll allow you to masturbate in front of 
me."

Janelle hadn't really intended to say this last part, 
but it made her feel suddenly wicked.  

It was true she had no drive right now to hurl 
Christine to the floor and domme her to within an inch 
of her homosexuality, like she did previously.  

But Janelle wasn't feeling entirely un-sexy at that 
moment.  Nor was she entirely un-intrigued by the 
domme-sub possibilities of such a situation.   

She had come to know that Christine had mainly domme 
tendencies, and didn't take naturally to being sub.  
Janelle found herself filled with a morbid curiosity 
as to how far down that road Christine would be 
willing to go.  How far her lust for Janelle's sweet 
tender body might drive her in that direction.

Purely as an academic exercise, of course.  Call it a 
behavioural study.

"Bullshit", her conscience pricked her.  It was the 
same old formula.  Sacrifice, suffering, discomfort, 
humiliation.  All for her sake.  

Queen, and knight.

A formula guaranteed to trip her trigger.

And she soon got her answer.

"That's like dining on the crumbs from your table", 
Christine responded rather dramatically, "but it's 
either that or I starve ..."   

"Then do it.  Masturbate."

"And you?"

"I'll watch from over here."

"You're not going to ... ?"

"No."  

"But can I ...?"

"No.  You're not going to see or touch me naked."

Christine looked pleadingly at Janelle, whose face 
remained impassive.

Then her mind conceded, and her next action was to 
hike her skirt up under her bum and spread her thighs 
apart.  Janelle turned slightly toward her, the better 
for which to look, and rested an outstretched arm 
along the back of the plush leather sofa.

Whoo-eee!   

Christine's dressing-up had even extended to a nifty 
little black g-string.

What you could see of it, that is.  Christine had an 
incredibly large muff of fluffy brown hair at the 
juncture of her pale and dimpled thighs.  Her wearing 
of a g-string was like laying a cotton thread across a 
grizzly bear.

As Janelle's eyes feasted on this sight, Christine 
slipped her top four blouse-buttons undone.  The 
creamy silk parted like the Red Sea before Moses, 
slipping sideways down the slopes of her massive 
white-brassiered tits.

Christine placed her hand in position, and began by 
delicately tracing that hairy cleft with her middle 
finger.  Her eyes bored into Janelle's face, who in 
turn had her gaze fixed in fascination on the hirsute 
genitals being fondled before her.  

Christine wriggled the toes of a foot even further 
under Janelle's thigh, to try and gain some extra 
measure of body contact.

The silence was such that you could hear a pin drop.  
Janelle scarcely dared to breathe, so as not to break 
Christine's concentration.  

Pulling her floss-like undergarment to one side, 
Christine began to dig deeper.  Her eyes travelled 
from Janelle's face, to her chest, and back to her 
face again.  Her toes wriggled and twitched slightly 
under Janelle's firm thigh, as if it were the closest 
they could come to a mutual caress.  Janelle laid a 
hand on her other foot, and massaged it slightly 
through its dernier covering.

Christine's hand was moving faster now.  Her body was 
tensed, every sinew beginning to quiver.  Her free 
hand tugged her bra down, until both boobs popped out.  
She seized the blind little pink nipple at one of 
these trembling summits and began twisting, tugging.

In a low voice she pleaded "Janelle, fuck me!"

"No."

"Just stroke my thighs!"

"No."

"God, I'm wet!  I want your hand up me!"

Janelle didn't deign to answer.  She could tell the 
big woman was getting close.

Sure enough, the breathing was heavy, ragged.  
Occasional whimpers came from the back of her throat.

Then her back arched, she dug her feet deeper beneath 
Janelle's thighs, and she shuddered. Eyes screwed 
tight and head turned away, breasts quaking, 
Christine's body language indicated an orgasm less 
than massive but nevertheless still good.  About a six 
on a scale of ten, Janelle judged.

Janelle jumped to her feet and scooped up her hand-
written notepaper list from the coffee table.

"Thanks for your help, Christine.  Catch you later!"

Anyone coming down the hall at that moment would have 
caught 
an unusual sight.  

Christine, standing in her own doorway with skirt 
still bunched at her waist, broad pale thighs 
gleaming, copious amounts of pubic hair on display, 
blouse undone with tits flopped out over her bra, 
calling plaintively "Janelle!  Wait!"

But Janelle darted into the elevator, and its doors 
hissed shut.

It was only six floors down to the lobby, so time was 
of the essence.  She unsnapped her jeans in an instant 
and thrust her fingers down into her own sex.  
She was pent-up fit to explode, so this quickie of 
hers was going to be extremely quick.

But not quick enough.

Her body was still being wracked by her orgasm when 
the elevator reached the lobby and its doors slid 
open.

People were standing there, waiting to go up.  

A middle-aged gentleman, his wife (presumably), and a 
repairman of some description.

They goggled at her while she fingered herself to 
completion, body slumped against the back wall for 
support as she frigged, staring with unseeing eyes.

A very long half-minute elapsed, during which time the 
quick-witted repairman kept the elevator in place with 
its doors open by holding down the "Up" button. 
Finally 
Janelle came sufficiently to her senses to remove her 
hand from inside her jeans and zip them back up again.

She strode past the gathered audience and headed for 
the street, with nary a backward glance.

She had her list, and now she had some shopping to do.