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.”