A Hot Mess
My summer job that year. Nannying. I wasn't thrilled about it, but it was good money coming from a big house in a nice neighbourhood. I couldn't complain. It was a real white picket fence middle class neighbourhood, the men had white collar jobs and the women would work too, maybe, not because they needed to but as an escape from the monotony of housewifedom. The family I was working for, the Ashburn's, were something like this. The husband: successful, busy, providing for his family and rarely to be seen. The kids: two of them, blond, wholesome boys aged two and four, quiet enough and easy to manage. The wife, June: tall, elegant, aloof, a secret smoker, and a journalist. She mostly worked at the office, sometimes at home, but needed a nanny for before and after school, and strange ours on the weekends. I wasn't technically just a nanny. I was a housekeeper, she'd ask me to come and clean three times a week, always while she was working from home, as if she wanted to watch over me and check I was up to the job. Sometimes she'd give me a comment, put that over there, fold that squarely, do this first.
It got on my nerves, but then again, I was 17, everything got on my nerves. My temper that year was part of what got me into such a sticky mess. What started as a few remarks and tips turned into something harsher, more degrading. I sensed she was unhappy. Her husband was never around, and the few times I saw them together, it seemed she was in a worse mood when he was. He was a people pleaser, a real boy next door all grown up. She wasn't in love with her job. It was a creative journal. She'd write promising pieces criticising a new show or discussing a seminar that happened that week in the city. I had seen her writing, and sometimes she had such a look of concentration and intensity on her face, she seemed oblivious to the world. Other times, however, she looked vacant and uninspired, as though it took great strength to tap on the keyboard just a few words. I can't comment on her mothering. She loved her kids, but from a distance. This distance she seemed to feel from her life was what I believe made her do those things to me.
What really kicked things off was a baking hot day in July. I came in for work that day, a cleaning day, in a short summer dress. I didn't think cleaning in a summer dress was strange, her house was never truly dirty anyway. Just that dress and a pair of white Converse, a woven shoulder bag. That kind of weather can make any girl feel cute. I had my hair tied up in a loose ponytail, my skin was tanned from all the recent sunshine. I felt good. I unlocked the door and greeted her, "Good afternoon Mrs Ashburn!" I called as I made my way through the hall into the kitchen. She was in her office, the door locked, and didn't reply. I poured myself a glass of water and got to work on the kitchen. Countertops, table, organising cupboards etc. I had moved on to the skirting boards when she came in. I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing, my headphones in, oblivious. She yanked them out. I jolted in surprise and knocked over my bucket of soapy liquid. I rocked back on my heals to stand up but slipped and fell in it, ass in the soapy water.
"You might as well wear nothing if you're going to dress like such a slut."
She said it coolly, quietly. I could only stare in disbelief.
"And just like a slut you've gone and gotten your panties all soaked."
"Mrs Ashburn..."
"Shut it. Take off your dirty clothes and clean up this mess. Now."
I must have goggled at her for a good ten seconds before I had the wits to get a mop and clean up the fluid all over the floor.
"No. I said take off your clothes and then clean it. You'll drip mess everywhere."
She couldn't be serious. She wasn't holding a change of clothes for me, she just stood, watching. But I did as she said, and she watched me the whole time. The awkwardness of the situation gave me goosebumps, though it wasn't cold outside. I wasn't wearing a bra, and my nipples had grown hard and erect. I began to unbutton my dress as she stared me down. I knew not to turn away. I pulled it over my head and placed it on the ground beside me. She studied me. My full breasts, pink and erect, my milky white stomach, my tanned thighs, so plump and young, like all of me.
"And the rest."
I should have known this was coming. I tucked my fingers into my panties and pulled them down, slowly, placing them atop the dress. I had shaved everything, as I always do in summer. I stood up with my legs together, trying to conceal my plump vulva as much as possible. My ass and pussy were sticky and soaked from where I fell in the water. I felt it trickling down the inside of my leg.
"Part your legs, we'll get you all cleaned up, slut."
Again, she said this so quietly, I barely even resisted. I stood with my legs apart. I felt my lips separating, exposing my pink flesh between them. She kept her eyes on it for a few seconds before they began to roam the rest of my body once again.
"Now, bend over on the table, I'll wipe this mess off you."
I did as she told me.
I stretched out over the table. Pressing my hips against the hard wood. I looked down, I couldn't look in her direction. I heard her behind, fetching a cloth and some water. I could feel her movements in the hair around me, I dared not move. She parted my legs again, very gently, with soft hands and long fingers. I heard the cloth in the water and gasped as she gently ran it over my backside. The water was ice cold. She must have made it so on purpose. She let the water trickle down my thighs, making my skin erupt with sensation. She held my other buttock in her hand as she wiped the first one, and then changed hands, so gently stroking me. I anticipated what was next. I closed my eyes tightly as I heard the swish of water again. This time, with just her fingers, she caressed the lips of my pussy. Her fingers were cold from the water, it sent shivers through me. But despite the cold between my legs, something warm was spreading in my belly. She continued to stroke me, silently, sometimes letting out a little hmm as she explored me. I fought to keep myself quiet. The house was silent, only the gentle swish of the tress outside or a car passing out the front. I thought about all the housewives probably driving to get groceries, passing us by, oblivious to what she was doing to me inside the house. I was aware too of the glass doors that looked from the kitchen out into the garden. If anyone were to look a little too closely over the garden fence, surely they would see us. My mind was dragged away from the subject however when she slid a finger inside of me. At last, I let out a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan. I hadn't realised how wet I was, it slid in so easily.
"You're soaking, slut." She said this like one of her remarks on my cleaning.
"What do you have to say for yourself? You should apologise for being such a dirty little tease in my house."
"I'm sorry." I squeaked. I could barely talk. Her finger was hitting my g-spot over and over, so gently.
"Sorry for what?"
"I'm sorry I'm a dirty little slut and a tease!" I gasped out. It should be noted that at this time, I was a virgin. I had never had anything in me besides a tampon. I was tight, my pussy gripping on to her finger. That didn't stop her though. She slid in a second one, and this time I cried out.
"My, you're tight. Surprising for such a skank. You won't be when I'm finished with you though."
She pushed and pushed inside me, her movement growing faster and faster, my pussy dripping with every thrust. I began to rock my hips against her hand, my moans growing louder with each pump inside me.
"Do I need to gag you? Be quiet, slut."
"Yes, Mrs Ashburn."
I was amazed with how easily I complied to her commands. I silenced myself, only letting out an occasional whimper. She slid in a third finger. I bit down on my hand. She was going to split me in half! But my pussy learned and continued to pump up against her hand. How did I get here? I felt her slip in a fourth finger. I cried out again, and she spanked me hard on my cold ass. She told me to be a good girl and behave myself. Then she slid in her whole fist. I felt it go deep inside me, and I cried out again, in agony and pleasure. With her other hand she spanked me three times. My legs shook and buckled, but she persisted, her fist entering me again and again. I heard the sound, the wet squelch of my own slut pussy begging for her. I had masturbated before, I knew what it felt like to climax, but not like this. I whimpered and moaned and let her push deeper and deeper inside me, faster and faster. It ached and it drove me into a frenzy, I felt my whole body tense, and she must have felt it too, she went faster and deeper, and at last I cried out again and she spanked me again and again as I came. My legs and hands tingled. She gently slid her hand out of me, and as she did so I heard trickling on the floor. Oh my god, I peed myself, I thought. I looked down and saw a puddle of water between my legs. I must have peed myself as I came!
"Of course, a slut like you would be a squirter. Clean up that mess."
A squirter? That's the first time I'd ever heard the word. And as it would turn out, I always was to be a squirter when it came to her.
"I said clean it up, now!" she commanded, and I did as she said, I always did as she said. Naked but for my shoes, I knelt down and started scrubbing my own juices of the floor while she watched.