The Man

The man's place certainly needed a woman's touch. He was slovenly and quite the hoarder, and I dare say I've never cleaned for anyone who had so many things. Books were everywhere, piled in crooked stacks that threatened to topple at the slightest breeze. An odd assortment of magnifying glasses covered a tabletop while a collection of various scientific instruments covered another. So many bloody things, keeping them all dust free was a never-ending task.

After twirling my feather duster over the heaps of bric a-brac that covered the mantle, I moved on to the towering bookshelf that flanked the right side of the fireplace. I was about to give it a good once over, when the man's violin distracted me. Using a delicate hand, I picked up the instrument and held the chin rest under my nose. The scent of his shaving soap lingered there, causing a familiar pull of longing between my legs.

“You're a silly girl, Mary,” I thought. “Letting the man's things excite you so.”

Every week before I entered his home, I promised myself that I would behave and act like a lady. Yet there I was again, sitting in his chair with my skirts hiked up to my waist. I took his pipe from the side table and clutched the stem between my teeth. My body quivered knowing I had something that graced the man's mouth between my lips. I could almost taste him.

My fingers slid up, down and in between...