3 comments/ 21734 views/ 10 favorites The Employer Pt. 01 By: rikkitampa2014 "I'm not a prostitute," I said, as my new "employer" inserted a pair of Hamiltons into the lace top of my thigh-high. His laugh, or half-laugh, came out as a kind of grumble. But to his credit he got my drift. "And I'm not a cop," he replied, reaching up and giving my balls a rough fondle to prove his point. "There. I've violated you. OK?" "Just trying to be careful." "Your ad said housecleaning. In the nude. No law against that." He was still fondling, and pinching, my little balls in their nest of microfiber. My panties were black like the thigh-highs, French-cut and lace-trimmed. "Nice nuts," he said. "Kinda small..." "Are they low-hangers? I love low-hanging balls." "I used to stretch them," I replied. "Do what?" "Stretch them. Hang weights from them." "You mean those metal collar things I've seen pictures of? That must hurt." "Not really. There's this stereotype that testicles are these fragile, delicate little things. But they're really unbelievably sturdy. And pliable. You can do all sorts of things to them. I never wore a collar," I continued. "I had this homemade thing. A thick braided cord with a plastic nut. I would put the loop end, the "noose," around my balls, pull it tight as I could, then tie it off. Then I'd hang weights from the two cord ends." "You're making me hard. What kind of weights?" I shrugged. "I don't know. Fishing weights. One of those big tape measures they sell at Home Depot. A hammer once..." "Jesus." "You name it. I found it was better, more effectual, to hang a lot of weight for a short period of time, an hour say, or a half-hour, than a small amount of weight for a long period of time. Say, overnight. Problem is, if you stop doing it, like I did, your sack kinda shrinks back up to the original length. Not all the way, but some of it. Most of it." "You got any pics of it?" "My balls?" "Stretching 'em." I hesitated for a second. His bear's paw had withdrawn from my silky crotch. "No. Like I say I stopped. But I guess I could-" "Lose the panties," he said abruptly, backing away. "And the bra." "Should I remove the thigh-highs as well?" In my ad I'd offered to clean house either in the nude or "dressed," and I'd come prepared, under my "street" clothes, for either preference. "No. Keep those. I love a pair of long sexy legs in stockings. You don't see much of it anymore." His tone had turned business-like-though I could see the big bulge in the front of his colorful shorts. I responded in kind: "So. You have some jobs for me?" "I do," he replied. "I even made a little list...," patting pants and shirt pocket and glancing over a shoulder. "But before we start that...You're nice and tall. I was wondering if you could do me a small favor." I shrugged. "Sure." "Follow me," he said, with a wave, and I trailed him from livingroom down a long hallway and through an open doorway to a spacious bedroom at hall's end. In fact, I'd never seen such a large master bedroom. He steered me left, toward the open doorway of a walk-in closet. Also the largest I'd ever seen. Strangely, one whole wall, the one to my left, was devoid of hanging clothes. My "employer" remained outside as I walked in. "You see that lightbulb?" he asked, pointing at the ceiling. "That sucker's been out for weeks now, and I can't reach it. And I don't have a stepladder, not even one of those mini ones. Think you can reach it, and replace it for me?" Rising up on my stockinged toes, I found that I could just, barely, reach the bottom of the bulb with my straining fingers. I dropped to my heels then tried again, straining even harder. I was able to get a momentary grip on the bulb, but it wouldn't budge. I dropped to my heels again and looked around. I should've realized at that moment what was in store for me: my barrel-chested "employer" had dropped his clothes and was now sporting perhaps the biggest, stiffest, "twelve o'clock" boner I'd ever seen. In person, anyway. In fact, it quivered in middair with each beat of his middle-aged heart. "You...you, um, sure you don't have something I could stand on?" "Nothing. Try again." As he spoke he was squeezing K-Y jelly into his right hand. "I like looking at your cute little white ass when you're standing on your toes like that." I took a deep breath, for several reasons, and rose up on my toes again. I strained even harder this time, feeling the effort in my calves, and managed to get a pretty good grip on the bulb. But again it wouldn't budge. "I-" The first of him to find me was his right hand, fingers wet and cold with lubricant. His blubbery left arm wrapped me in a body lock, and for a moment there, the moment of impact, I'd been lifted off the ground. His breath was hot against my nape. He was was smoker. One finger, his middle one, found my hole and pushed in. Then a second and a third. Collectively, they pushed in deeper. "Oh, this is gonna be good," he crooned. "You're nice and roomy. Some guys can't take me. Too tight. But you...you're no virgin are you my little slut?" I was having a hard time breathing, let alone answering rhetorical questions... "Are you?" he asked again, clenching me tighter. "No...no, sir." His fingers were working in so deep I wondered if his intention was to fist me. But his enormous cock, beating like a second heart against my left butt-cheek, was a reminder of his true intentions. Something liquid, drool I guess, his, ran down my left shoulder-blade. His hand withdrew. The better to shove me face-forward into the closet wall. I won't say that I lost consciousness. But I was dizzy for a second, and disoriented. And I came to realize I was once again standing, for some reason, on my tip-toes. Now it was his guided cock sliding up and down my crack, looking for entry. He found it and pushed in. Then deeper. I moaned. Or maybe it was a whimper. He gathered himself for a moment, sucking some stale closet air, then shoved in the remaining way. I cried out. My head arched back. "Ouch! That...hurts!" To his credit, he remained still in me. Not long-but enough for the pain to pass and for me to relax my muscles the best I could under the forceful circumstances. His second thrust was painless, nearly, and his third tolerable. Throughout I never experienced what I would call pleasure. For that I guess sex has to be at least partially consensual. Which got me to thinking, as my "employer" pressed my slender body to the wall and his cock moved in relentless thrusts deep inside me... I'd advertised my rate at $50 an hour with a two-hour minimum. He'd bargained me down to $40, and I'd quickly conceded, calling it a "first-time discount." I wanted to put him on notice however that next time, if there was a next time, he'd owe me the full rate. For that basic rate I agreed to clean house in the nude (or "dressed") and without saying so much in my ad, for obvious legal reasons, I expected my duties to include getting on my knees and giving a blowjob. Or two. I not only expected that, I looked forward to it, loving oral sex the way I do. But fucking? Or should I say, getting fucked? I won't say it didn't cross my mind. The possibility of it. You know, a guy taking me into his bedroom, having me lay down...and the next thing I know my legs are up in the air. It wasn't for nothing that I'd included a box of condoms in my backpack. You try to cover all your bases. Like wearing bra and panties and hose under your clothes in case he's into crossdressers. But this, now, was something different. This was borderline assault. Rape. I guess you could argue that if you're going to come to some horny stranger's house and run around naked you had to expect whatever happens. Or at least plan for it. But this? THIS? For forty bucks an hour?... At one point he'd slipped out of me. But he'd quickly found socket and thrust right back in. Now, his breathing labored, he slipped out of me again. The pressure on my body was relieved. He'd backed away. I dropped down on my heels. My calves were sore. Something wet struck my right butt-cheek. I looked around, afraid to move. My "employer" was doubled over, hands on his knees. Meanwhile his somewhat wilted cock was still oozing and spurting semen. Little whitish pools of it, dozens of them, littered the closet floor. Some of it had struck my calves and ankles as he'd backed way. He'd slipped out of me, lost control and this was the result. "Oh, shit," he finally said, still doubled over. "What a mess." Without a further word he straightened and left the closet. I was paralyzed, afraid to move. For one thing I didn't want to make a stockinged misstep and land in his cum. Ugh. He returned as far as his pile of gaudy clothes outside the closet door, wiping his now-flaccid cock off with a towel. Then he tossed it, the cum-stained towel, on the closet floor just short of the semen puddles. He pointed: "OK. First job, clean up the mess on that floor. And I mean clean! There's all sorts of cleaning shit in the bathroom cabinets. "Second job," he said, shorts on, buttoning his shirt, "replace that motherfucking lightbulb!" My "employer" strutted out of the bedroom and I was left, in the closet, with the ejaculated "rest of him." I couldn't help wondering if he had kids. I took a long-legged, stockinged step over the puddles and headed for the bathroom. My lubed-up, violated ass needed wiping, for one thing. Despite it all, the forced, rough sex, the compromised pay rate, the barked commands at the end...I still felt somewhat gratified: I officially had my first nude housecleaning gig!