CLEANED AT HOME

His doorbell rang, and he stooped to the peephole to 
confirm it was her.  It was.  The distorted fisheye 
view through the lens made her boobs seem even bigger.

He let her in, and she deigned to allow his lips to 
brush her cheek momentarily before she passed into the 
room.  He’d been cooking Italian, something he was 
quite good at, and she inhaled its aroma 
appreciatively.

She looked great.  A bun-hugging green mini-dress, 
high heels, and her hair with all its extensions piled 
up like a beehive.  Like the Supremes minus two.  And 
very top-heavy in front.

She dropped her carrybag on the carpet and stood 
before the big picture-window of his living room, 
admiring the view of downtown with the harbour beyond.  
In the early evening it was all lit up like a 
fairyland.

“Nice place” she commented.  “Nice view”.

“I guess.  After a while I kinda stopped noticing it.”

“At my auntie’s place we see a brick wall, and some 
fire escapes.  Who did the decorating in here?  You?”

“My ex-wife.  I don’t have much of an eye for such 
things.”

“I thought I detected a woman’s touch.”

“Her tastes are a lot more sophisticated than mine.  
All I really ask out of life is a place to keep the 
rain off my CD player.”

That’s not something to joke about, she thought 
inwardly.  Not in my neighbourhood.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Got any white wine?”

It so happened he did.  Some good stuff, too.  South 
African, all the way from the Groot Constantia estate.

When he returned with her glass, he found she’d sunk 
back into the big leather sofa.  He sat in the 
matching armchair opposite.

She didn’t bother about sitting modestly.  He could 
see right up between her thighs to her knickers.  She 
saw him looking, and adjusted her legs slightly to 
give him an even better view.

“Here’s to us” she toasted, and they both took a slug 
before putting their glasses back down.  

“Yes, about us” he queried.  “What are you planning?  
Are we going to have a regular relationship, like 
regular folks?”

“Shit, I hope not!”

“What, then?”

“We’re gonna get our freak on.  An’ we’re gonna just 
take it day by day.  If you ever piss me off too much, 
I’ll be outta here.”

“Does it bother you that there’s an inter-generational 
gap here?”

“Nope.”

“There’s an economic gap, too.”

“Now you’re pissing me off!”

“So you want me for my body, not my money?”

“Money’s nice, I can’t deny.  I won’t refuse any that 
you want to spend on me, but that’s up to you.”

He appreciated her honesty.  And he let that subject 
drop.  

She braced herself for mention of an inter-racial gap, 
but mercifully that hadn’t formed any kind of a blip 
on his radar as yet.  Luckily for him.  She was ready 
to let him have it, if ever he did bring it up.

There was a silence for a time.
  
“Take your dick out.”

“What?”

“Your dick.  Take it out.”

“Why?”

“It’s mine.  I want to see it.”

Hmmm … this was Sub-clause 2(a) of their arrangement, 
right?  He complied, unzipping and fishing around 
through his fly until his willy was hanging out 
through the gap.

“Leave it like that for the rest of the evening.  
Until I tell you to put it away again.”

“Okay, but it could make life interesting when I go 
fry the mushrooms!”

She giggled.

“I might just sprinkle some hot oil on it for you 
myself!”

He noticed her glass was empty, and got up to fetch 
the bottle.  As he refilled it, he was conscious of 
her gaze upon his dick.  It stirred slightly in 
response to this attention.

Sitting down again with his own glass replenished, he 
wondered what to say next.  Serious topics like 
intergenerational gaps suddenly seem neither here nor 
there when one’s willy is hanging out of one’s 
trousers.  He felt slightly ridiculous.  In one slick 
move, she’d shifted the dynamics of their interactions 
firmly in her own favour.

“I … I’ll just toss the salad, and then we can eat!”

He leapt up and went to the small kitchen.  He saw her 
stand and scrutinize the contents of his CD shelf.  
Exactly the kind of thing he’d do too, if in another’s 
home for the first time.  And he wasn’t at all sure 
what she’d make of his CD selections.  Mostly modern 
jazz, with some seventies hard rock and some classical 
thrown in.  The majority of it recorded before she was 
even born.

A couple of minutes later there issued forth the sound 
of a heavy hip-hop beat.  What the heck? Then a 
watery-sounding trumpet came in over the top.  Ah, 
yes.  The very last Miles Davis album.  She’d astutely 
chosen the only CD he had capable of bridging any 
inter-generational divide.

She joined him in the kitchen, to keep him company.  
He deftly completed the mixing of greens, and got some 
plates out.  All the while his half-erect penis 
wobbled about before him.  She enjoyed the sight 
immensely.

The mushrooms only needed a quick fry in butter, 
posing not nearly the hazard to his manhood that he’d 
made it out to be.  And then he had everything ready 
on the table.  Seafood pasta, with salad, mushrooms 
and garlic bread.  The wine had sharpened her 
appetite, and she tucked in with gusto.

“This is good!  You have hidden talents!”

“Well, talents, anyway.  Are you much of a cook 
yourself?”

She shook her head.  

“I give good blowjobs, though.”

“That I have yet to ascertain.”

“I save them for special occasions.”

Suddenly he laughed.

“What?”

“You just reminded me of something I once read.”

“Yeah?  Go on.”

“The lead singer of this grunge band … can’t remember 
which one, “Hole” or “Bucket” or something like that, 
was asked in an interview what she thought her life’s 
biggest accomplishments were.  She said, “I make nice 
sponge cakes, and give great head”!” 

She laughed at that one too, and commented with a hint 
of sarcasm “What dizzier heights could a girl aspire 
to?”

What, indeed.  Her pasta was fast disappearing, and 
her glass needed topping up again.  He found himself 
admiring her cleavage.  Her dark, soft boobs had a 
look of being about to spill out of that dress at any 
moment.

They chatted some more about this and that, joking and 
teasing each other.  He was captivated by her big 
round eyes, which still seemingly had the ability to 
scrutinize his very soul.  

As they talked and ate, he felt her touch his leg 
under the table.  She wormed her foot up between his 
thighs to his crotch, where it rested on his prick.  
Every so often she idly rolled it about or pressed 
harder against it, keeping him in a lovely state of 
suspense.

She finished up her plate, and he offered her more but 
she put up her hand in refusal.  Standing, she made 
her way back to the sofa.  The Miles CD had finished, 
but she didn’t go and change it.  He put on some 
coffee, then went and sat in the armchair again.

She still wasn’t sitting modestly, and his exposed 
prick stirred again at the sight of her smooth brown 
thighs.

She noticed his noticing, and pulled her skirt up a 
bit higher to show off even more leg, and a glimpse of 
black panties.

“Time to play.  Get my bag for me.”

He reached for the carrybag and passed it across.

“Get your trousers right off.”

He did as she asked, and his underwear too, while she 
got the familiar webbing straps out for deployment.

She looked at him again.

“And the shirt.”

Now he was completely naked.  He moved to draw the 
drapes, but she said “Leave them!”

She’d already sussed out the possibilities of the 
joint in terms of anchor points for webbing straps.  
The three-seater leather sofa almost literally weighed 
a ton, and it’s stubby wooden legs would do nicely to 
restrain his arms, thank you very much.  She indicated 
where she wanted him to lie, and he assumed the 
position.

Soon he was spreadeagled with arms out wide and unable 
to be moved more than a couple of inches either way.  
His ankles also got bound up, and tied to the leg of 
the armchair.  This he could probably move if he 
really wanted, though it’d take a lot of effort.

She stood over him, holding the carrybag.

“Comfy?”

“Yeah.”

She reached into the bag again and produced a short 
whip.  A cat-o-nine-tails, made of braided horsehair.

“I mean, no!” he blurted nervously, catching sight of 
it.  “What are you going to do with that?”

“Titillate you a ‘lil.”

“You can’t be serious!  I mean, this is so clichéd …”

His voice died in his throat as she drew the tails of 
the whip slowly across his chest.  Caressing him with 
it, stimulating his nipples.  It felt rather nice.  
His cock liked it too, when she used it to tickle him 
to a respectable erection.  Standing astride him as 
she moved the whip back and forth, she afforded him an 
excellent view up her dress of her black-nylon covered 
sit-sack, and lots of bare brown buttock.  Very 
arousing.

The sudden sting caught him by surprise.  She’d swiped 
him smartly across his left nipple with it.

“Ow!  Christ!  What the fuck do you think you’re 
doing?”

“We’ll see how much of this you can stand.”

“Not much, I can tell you!  I’m not into pain!”

“Think of it as an added stimulation.”

Now his other tit was smarting.  His pale skin was 
reddened and sore, showing clearly where the whip had 
landed.

She went back to stroking and caressing with the whip, 
particularly his cock.  

Then his thighs got it.  Two hard cracks, one on each 
leg.  Followed by more slow caressing.

The sting of it was not such a problem now that he 
knew roughly what level of pain to expect.  Her timing 
kept him off-balance though.  He couldn’t predict when 
the next one might strike.  Or where.

It developed into a game of cat and mouse.  He thought 
he could tolerate each surprise, but she out-smarted 
him each time.  Figuratively, and literally.  He was 
smarting alright.  Starting to glow warmly across his 
chest, stomach, and thighs.  She left his genitals 
alone, and his cock remained proudly erect throughout.

She finally judged this to be sufficient, and cast the 
whip aside.  He wasn’t sure that his arousal had been 
increased any by this kind of treatment, after all 
he’d been aroused already.  

It seemed to have worked wonders for her, though.  She 
had a lascivious gleam on her fine African features, 
and she started easing her panties slowly down her 
thighs.

He was captivated by this development.  He hadn’t seen 
her pussy totally naked before, and now he was looking 
right up between her legs as she stood astride him.  
She stepped first one leg, and then the other, out of 
the flimsy black undergarment.  She stood and let him 
look, as his eyes roamed over her sex.  She had 
prominent inner pussy lips that stuck out beyond the 
outer ones, like the crinkled petals of a delicate 
flower.

Slowly, like a rattlesnake getting within striking 
distance of a rat, she eased herself down until she 
was sitting astride his chest.  His eyes were 
transfixed by the sight of the fuzzy tufts of her 
pubic hair, coming closer as her pelvis got inched 
toward his face. 

Still closer, he suddenly saw the truth in the axiom 
that a woman’s race or colour is of no account, 
because all are pink on the inside.  

So close now his eyes could no longer focus, but by 
this time his sense of smell was registering a 10 on 
the Richter Scale.  And as for his sense of taste … 
oh, the taste!

He was eating her out.  There was no other way to 
describe it.  And no alternative but to move his jaw, 
if only to get oxygen.  He was being smothered.  In 
the past not a well-practised cunnilingist, he was 
enthusiastically making up for lost time.  The smell, 
the texture, the sheer intimacy of it, was all turning 
him on.  And the knowledge that she really liked this 
was added incentive to do well at it.  He wanted her 
to be pleased.  His tongueing, sucking, munching, all 
designed to, as she put it, get her freak on.

She couldn’t see him, because her dress covered his 
face.  But shit, could she ever feel him!  She had him 
right where she wanted him.  Trussed up like this, he 
was all hers.  No alternative but to receive her 
descending sex, and give it the right royal treatment.  
This was the ultimate – an oral slave to do her 
bidding.  Such a fucking turn-on!  For her, the 
ultimate turn-on.

She was pressing down rather hard now, and grinding 
her hips about to find the best spot, the best angle.  
As usual she wasn’t vocal about it, but she sure moved 
around a lot.  He just stuck out his tongue and she 
surfed on it, thrusting herself against it repeatedly 
until, with tiny whimpers emanating for the back of 
her throat, her moment of ecstasy arrived.

Her passion had been infectious, and his cock twitched 
with pent-up expectation.  She eased herself back off 
his face and reached around to grasp his cock, to find 
out how hard he was.  Sliding back to sit astride his 
thighs, she found the answer to be “Very”.

Bound, spreadeagled, unable to move and with a still-
glistening lower face, he could do nothing but wait 
and see what she might do with him next.

She seemed intent on rewarding his dick for its 
patience, using one hand to stroke it and play with 
it.  Grateful for any attention she might wish to give 
him in that department, he enjoyed her fondling very 
much indeed.

Scooting forward, she pulled his prick up to her 
entrance and starting teasing herself with it. And 
teasing him.  She used one hand to hold it to herself 
and rub its head like a vibrator up and down her clit.  
Squatting over him like that, her boobs welled up in 
that dress and were in danger of spilling out.  He 
thrilled to the sight of her wobbly cleavage, as she 
eased herself up and down against his cockhead.

Suddenly she impaled herself upon it.  Dear God in 
Heaven!  She was tight!  It took two or three shoves 
of her pelvis to get him completely buried, and he 
gasped with the surprise at the sheer pleasure of it.  
Tight, smooth, velvety, he was in paradise.

She humped him once, twice, a third time, and for him 
that was simply too much, he was over the edge.  
Shooting his stuff up into her, totally unable to 
contain himself, his hips bucked in an effort to 
intensify the sensations she was giving him.

She felt the sudden addition of heat to her insides, 
and realised he‘d messed her up.  

“Jeepers!  Where’s your control?” she taunted.  “A 
virgin schoolboy would’ve lasted longer!”

“Sorry, couldn’t help it.”

“You know the rules!  If you mess me up, you clean me 
up!”

Her hips hovered over his face again and, looking up 
into the heaven between her legs, he could see the 
traces of himself that needed to be cleaned. He licked 
and nibbled and dabbed and sucked, until she was 
coated with nothing more than his saliva.

She enjoyed this additional attention, though not 
enough to come a second time.  It got him used to the 
idea of servicing her pussy, though.  It was all good 
training for him.  She couldn’t understand why his ex-
wife hadn’t been more encouraging of this kind of 
thing.  He was definitely warming to the task!

She lay beside him and snuggled up to him, laying her 
head upon his shoulder and placing her hand over his 
nipple.  They remained like that for a while, not 
speaking, just enjoying the afterglow of their 
respective orgasms.

“How was that, slave?”

“Great!  Our first fuck together!”

“Didn’t qualify as a fuck, you didn’t last long 
enough. I granted you a rare privilege - you better 
learn to make the most of moments like that.”

“I was kinda … over-stimulated, I guess.”

“I guess.”

He suddenly remembered about the drapes still being 
open.  Oh well, the nearest building wasn’t so very 
close, they’d need binoculars to truly see what was 
happening.  It was alright for her, though.  She still 
had her dress on.  He was all trussed up and as naked 
as a jaybird.

“Are you ever going to let me go?”

“Oh, yeah.  Sorry, I was forgetting.”

She undid his restraints and he got up.  He knew 
better than to ask if he could put his clothes back 
on, deciding instead to head naked straight for the 
kitchen and fix their coffee ready.

They sipped, and regarded each other.  

“What was the point of that whipping?”

“Just the fact that I could.  I got a kick from 
knowing I could have whipped you as much or as little 
as I liked.”

“So what stopped you from doing it harder?”

“Simply knowing I could do it at all was enough. I’m 
not a sadist.  I just wanted to keep you on your toes 
for a bit.”

“You certainly succeeded!  You always seem to have me 
off-balance.”

“My specialty.”

“Can you stay the night, or do you have to go?”

“I can stay the night.”

And she did.  They showered, one after the other, and 
lay naked in his bed, holding hands and chatting about 
anything and everything, childhoods, friendships, 
former lovers.  She expected total honesty from him, 
and he found himself opening up to her.  Talking in a 
way that he hadn’t done with anyone for years, not 
even his ex-wife once they’d starting putting up 
shutters to each other.  

Finally they started kissing again.  

She slid into his embrace and clung to him, kissing 
passionately while he toyed with her full breasts, 
teased her crutch.  She tugged his prick to full 
hardness, then slithered up on top of him.

“D’ya want the ropes?” he asked her.

“Silence when I’m fucking you!” she joked, but pinned 
his arms back emphatically with her own as his prick 
found her aperture and seemingly got sucked inside.

She rode him hard, and he thrust back in time with her 
humping.  Her tits flailed about above his face, and 
occasionally he caught a nipple in his mouth.  
Couldn’t hold on to them for long though, especially 
once her pace picked up.  Low, gravelly moans from her 
throat heralded the onset of climax, and he felt her 
cunt muscles contracting as she hurled her hips down 
against him.  

She lay down flatter, squashing her boobs against his 
chest, to better improve the impact on her clit, and 
the change in angle brought him to the brink as well.  
They came together, in one of those magic moments that 
is often written about but in truth hardly ever 
happens.  Simultaneous orgasms.  Mind-blowing stuff.

There was not much to say after that and, in 
contradiction to usual stereotypes, it was she that 
rolled straight over and went to sleep.  

He drifted off some time after.

The last waking thought floating through his mind was 
“I think I’m in love.”