How I Got My First Car

How I Got My First Car

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Roxandra uses more than her housekeeping skills to get the job done.


Roxandra uses more than her housekeeping skills to get the job done.


Submitted: October 28, 2012

A A A | A A A


Submitted: October 28, 2012



I am a product of my culture and my genes. My genes dictated that I would be sexually desirable long before I was old enough to drive, while my culture decided that I would grow up hyper-sexualized, my virginity taken during a summer afternoon orgy in a neighbor’s rec room; the parents at work, one of their adult DVDs playing on the big screen. Given how I’ve turned out, my attitude toward my genes and culture is: good fucking job, dudes, because I am having one hell of a good time.

Now I’m going to tell you the story of how I got my first car and you’ll understand what I mean.

It started when my step-dad, a CPA, told me one of his clients was looking for someone to do light housekeeping twice a week and asked if I’d be interested. I was eighteen, living at home, occasionally attending classes in my freshman year at university. I was always pestering dad for money and he was always telling me, “Get off your perfect ass and get a job.” I knew if I didn’t say yes there’d be a fight, but no way did I want to be some man’s cleaning lady. Then dad said, “Four hours, twice a week, $200, with benefits. That’s good money.” I had to agree. But things too good to be true usually are.

“Why is your client going to pay a cleaning lady that kind of cash?” I asked.

He said, “Listen and learn. This year Mr. Rasmussen’s income will be in a range where every deduction he can claim earns him a 40% return, and if he can get enough deductions he can conceivably lower his entire tax rate by 5%. On $200 the government is going to take $80, whether he spends it or not. So really, you’re only actually costing him $15 an hour, not $25.”

Dad was always doing that: talking half in numbers and doing the math in his head without missing a beat. Anyway, what he said made sense, so I had no choice but to agree to at least give the job a try. The client turned out to be a big, nerdy guy less than ten years older than me. According to dad, he was making a small fortune with some computer thing, the way nerdy white boys sometimes do. His two-story condo was on the 17th floor of a downtown tower. When I arrived at our agreed upon time, he opened the door to my knock, took one look at me and just stood there, stunned. What he couldn’t see, yet, was that I wasn’t wearing a bra, and under my blouse I was wearing a tank top with a deep scoop neckline. Quick as his jaw dropped, I thought there might be opportunities here worth exploring. If wealthy young Mr. Rasmussen thought I was something to see standing in his doorway, wait till he saw me scrubbing his floors.

I scrunched my shoulders, like I was embarrassed by his intense focus, bit my lip and looked down, all bashful, and said, “Mr. Rasmussen, I’m Roxandra. We spoke on the phone?”

He opened the door wide and extended his arm, as if I was a welcome guest and he was a gracious host. I stood, knock kneed, until he added an encouraging, “Come in, come in.”

He fell all over himself; bumping into furniture on our tour of the place, kicking over a mop while showing me where the cleaning supplies were kept, apologetic when he handed me the list of work he wanted done. I batted my eyes, stayed just on the edge of his personal space and said “yes, sir” this and “no, sir” that in a soft, submissive voice. When he ran out of ways to keep me close he offered me, “A coffee before you get to it?”

I said I could use a hit of caffeine and he said, “In that case, I’ll make us an espresso.”

I followed him into the kitchen, turned my back to a counter, rested on my elbows, chest out, and watched him make espresso. He wasn’t bad looking, but he was soft, needed a shave and had no confidence. When the coffee was ready, he served us where I stood: the espresso in small white cups made of thick porcelain. He also poured us shots of a clear liquorish liqueur. I had two.

When I was done I turned away from him, casually unbuttoned my blouse and took it off, leaving me in my tank top. When I turned back, his face was red and his breathing slowed. I draped the blouse over a kitchen chair, said, “Time to get to work,” and walked out of the room, all but leaving him with his cock in his hands.

Lucky for me Mr. Rasmussen – Call me Kevin. Yes sir, Mr. Rasmussen – was a neat freak. Cleaning clean is a lot easier than cleaning dirty. I did the two upstairs bathrooms as the liqueur hit me, changed his linen and was putting in a load of laundry when he came in the small second floor laundry room and handed me a cold Heineken. I said I shouldn’t and he said he wouldn’t tell and I giggled and guzzled and handed the bottle back to him. When I turned round to the washer, my butt casually brushed his crotch.

The beer kicked in as I was passing the vacuum upstairs. It’s a good buzz, caffeine and booze before noon.  When I finished downstairs and was putting the vacuum away, Kevin came over with another Heineken. Drinking the beer, I noticed he’d moved on to something brown. I asked what it was. He said, “A very fine single malt scotch. You can have some when the kitchen’s done.”

I could see he was getting surer of himself as the booze kicked in. That was fine by me. I was good at handling men while they thought they were taking advantage of me.

My last chore in the kitchen was washing the floor. When I was done sweeping I prepared a bucket of sudsy water and gave the floor a wipe it didn’t need, just so I’d be in the right position when he came.

“Mr. Rasmussen?” I called.

He was at the doorway in seconds. I was on my hands and knees; butt in the air, jeans stretched tight, giving close inspection to cleaning an imaginary scuff mark off the stone tiles. When I was satisfied he’d had a good look at my behind I turned to face him, still on my knees. I sat back on my heels, leaning forward a bit.

“How’s it look?” I said, gesturing toward the kitchen.

“Looks really nice,” he said, looking down my top.

I watched his eyes until he couldn’t pretend I wasn’t watching him and he made eye contact. I pinched the neckline of my top, pulled it away from my chest and had a look myself, my head blocking his view. Then I let the top snap back to a more demure presentation and said, “I think I’m a little drunk.”

I was acting more innocent than I could ever remember actually being. We went in the living room and started necking on his big, white, L-shaped sectional. While we fooled around, we drank scotch and water – he had the scotch, I had the water. I played him, giving him all the bare tit he wanted but pushing his hand away when he tried to go further south than my waist. He grew more insistent, as I knew he would, and finally I unsnapped the snap of his trousers and unzipped the zipper.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he mumbled drunkenly.

“Not that. I’m a virgin," I lied. "This.”

I reached inside his underwear, pulled out his fat, uncircumcised cock and took him in my mouth. He lay back and I went to work. I sucked him and sucked him and beat him off and then I tried sucking him while beating him off, but nothing worked. He was too drunk to cum. I was determined but he just kept getting softer. Finally, he started snoring. I looked up from my labours and said his name. No reaction. Fuck this, I thought. I was aroused enough that I got naked from the waist down and masturbated to a quick climax while young Mr. Rasmussen slept beside me. Then I took my white panties into the kitchen. After some searching I found a set of very sharp knives and used one to make a little slice in the heel of my palm. I let the cut bleed into the panties and for good measure I went into the living room and bled on his cock. Then I left, leaving the door unlocked and my panties on the floor by the couch.

He called the next day, Sunday. I was in my room, doing my nails. The call display on my cell read, Private Number. I picked up and waited. Finally he said, “Hello?”

“You son of bitch,” I hissed as I placed cotton balls between my toes to keep them separate while they dried. “I am so ashamed. I need to tell my father what happened but I’m too ashamed.”

“No,” Kevin pleaded. “You can’t do that.”

I hung up. He called back seconds later and started speaking as soon as I answered.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “We were drunk. I thought you wanted to.”

“Did you?” I demanded. “Did you? All the time I was saying no?” Then I screamed as quietly as I could. “I was a virgin and you raped me.”

“No,” he protested. “No.”

“You know what you did.”

“I don’t. I don’t,” he said. “We were having a great time and I passed out. I was drunk.”

“Passed out?” I said. “You weren’t passed out when you stuck your cock inside me. You think sex usually makes a woman bleed? Do you? I was a virgin!”

“Oh, God,” he moaned. “What can I do? What can I do?”

What I wanted him to do was keep me on his payroll and buy me a car, but I couldn’t say that. So I said, “I need this job. If I lose it, dad will kill me. I’ll tell him what you did if you fire me, you puke. Do you swear this job is mine for as long as want it?”

“I swear,” he whined. “I’ll double your salary.”

“That would be nice,” I admitted, surprised he’d offered so quickly. But there was no way I could accept. How would I explain it to my step-father? As Kevin’s accountant, he’d know about it in no time. “But I don’t want your money,” I told him. “That is not the issue. What matters is that you keep your hands to yourself and you don’t drink when I’m there.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “You’re absolutely right.”

I let him dangle for a bit. Then I softened my tone and told him, “I’ll clean your house, but that’s all, Kevin. It could have been so nice. I could have been your French maid, but you had to ruin it.”

Having put an image into his mind that I knew would haunt him, I hung up.

For a month I cleaned his house-size apartment twice a week, always wearing the same basic outfit: tight pants, a loose top and no bra. There were no more incidents, other than maybe leaving my employer with an occasional case of blue balls – he could watch me work, but he couldn’t touch. As fall turned toward winter, I started complaining to him about the long bus ride in from Kanata and my growing work-load at school. As December approached, I decided the time was right to get myself some wheels.

I thought about buying the French maid outfit online, but decided I needed to be very particular about the fit and wound up spending a day busing around town, checking out adult sex shops. After I found what I wanted I picked up a black lingerie set to go with it. When I got home I put the outfit together without benefit of a mirror: I wanted to get the full effect of how I would look when Kevin saw me. When I was ready, I kept my eyes on the toes of my cross-strap three inch black stilettos and stepped in front of the full length mirror on my closet door. I closed my eyes, raised my chin and looked.

I loved it, especially the garter belt and stockings – the kind with a seam running up the back. My reflection turned me on so much I wound up doing a slow striptease that ended with me pleasuring myself.

I got up early on Saturday to dress and do my make-up. When it was time to go I put a sweat suit on over my scantily clad self, slipped the little maid’s hat, high heels and a tube of glossy red lipstick into a small knapsack that I often carried and set out for the bus. Upon arriving at Kevin’s, he helped me off with my calf-length winter coat. His disappointment at finding me wearing a sweat suit was obvious. I acted as if I didn’t notice and told him the bad news while taking off my boots.

I told him, “This is probably going to be the last time I can come by for a while, I’m afraid. I’ve found some full time work over the holidays. I was hoping I could do both, work full time and come here as well, but it’s just not possible using public transit.”

When he started to object, I told him we could talk about it but I had to use the powder room first. He said, “Of course.”

The powder room was right there, just off the foyer. I picked up my little knapsack and slipped inside while he waited. Off came the sweat suit; on went the heels and hat. I put on the lipstick, fluffed my hair, studied my reflection, told myself, “Here goes,” and stepped back into the hall.

Kevin’s eyes went so wide at the sight of me that he looked a little crazy. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a string of disconnected syllables: “Wha…u…oh…I.”

I cut off his babbling by walking into the living room, my ass swinging the tiny petticoat skirt back and forth as I walked. He was so caught up in looking at me that he didn’t think to follow and I had to turn around and crook my finger.

“Since this will be the last time we see each other,” I told him, “I thought I should give you a memory that will make me hard to forget.”

I gestured to the sectional and he sat down. Leaving him to watch, I vacuumed. The outfit was strapless and as I vacuumed, my breasts seemed in constant danger of falling out of their cups but they never quite did. When I was done I repositioned the girls as he watched and then asked him to carry the vacuum upstairs so I could do the bedrooms. He was willing. I led the way. About halfway up he reached under my skirt and gave my bottom a soft squeeze. I stopped and turned around.

Wagging my finger and shaking my head, I said, “Naughty, naughty.” 

At the top of the stairs I told him to leave the vacuum cleaner in the hall and went into his bedroom. He followed me in a moment later. I was standing by the bed, my back to him. I looked over my bare shoulder and said, “Undo me.”

He came closer. I turned my head, reached behind my neck and lifted my long hair out of his way. He unfastened the three tiny eye hooks that were all that held the one piece outfit on. I held the bodice to my breasts and turned around to face him. He slid his hands under my petticoat and held me by my hips. I pulled the bodice down, exposing my breasts. He grunted, his eyes locked on my flesh.

“You do want me to come back, don’t you?” I asked.

“God, yes,” he whispered.

He ran his hands up my sides, his forearms lifting the skirtt. I took the petticoat in my hands, pulled the costume over my head, tossed it on the bed, gave my hair your basic shampoo commercial toss and let him look. All I had on were black panties, a black garter belt and black nylons. I cupped my breasts and pushed them up, offering him my nipples.

“You’re coming back,” he moaned. “I’m going to buy you a car.”

I hadn’t even had to ask.

I turned sideways and he released me. I raised my right leg, the one closest to him, and put my foot on the bed, the heel raised to shape my calf. I slowly unfastened the garter and rolled the nylon down. I rolled the stocking off my toes, tossed it on top of the outfit, placed my fingers lightly on the arch of my foot and slowly brought my hands up my leg. When I got to the knee I laid my hands flat, embracing my naked thigh. The further up I slid my hands, the further apart my hands became. My left hand slid up the inside of my thigh; the right slid up the outside. As my left hand reached the crotch of my panties, my right hand reached my hip. I slipped my fingers under the leg hole of the panties and slid my hand inside. Kevin, eyes glassy, watched my hand moving under the black silk as I kneaded my ass. With my other hand, hidden from him by my thigh, I caressed my pussy, getting her wet.

I removed the nylon from my other leg with the same care, slipped the garter belt over my hips and let it fall to the floor. Now there were only the panties.

“Your turn,” I told Kevin.

He was wearing a pullover and slacks and was barefoot, and he got himself naked in seconds. I took his stiff cock in my hand and encouraged him closer. We embraced, his cock upright against my womanhood, his arms wrapped around me, my arms over his shoulders. His hands made their way down to my ass. He went under the panties and grabbed me, both hands, hard.

Kevin wasn’t my Prince Charming and I wasn’t his princess, but the both of us were aroused enough that that didn’t matter. I brought my arms down, shucked my panties, put my arms back over his shoulders, hopped up and wrapped my legs around his waist. He put his hands on my buttocks and took my weight. I reached between us, found his cock and slipped the head between my labia. He was inside me in one thrust. With surprising strength on his part, and a surprising empathy between our bodies, he laid me on the bed and himself between my legs, inside me all the while. He slipped his arms from around my waist and placed his hands on the mattress, beside my shoulders. Once he had his weight on them, I opened my legs wider. He did the same, until his knees pushed against my thighs, and we started. As he increased his tempo I grabbed his ass and started thrusting back. I wasn’t just getting fucked by Kevin, I was fucking him right back, giving as good as I got.

It was the first time in my life being the dominant partner. It was the first time that my true self was present while someone was inside me.

I was just playing him; an overgrown kid who had the world at his feet and was too much of a nerd to know where to step. But being in control had turned me on so much, it was like I was grateful to him and I wanted him to feel what I was feeling and know that, for that moment, our passion was mutual. And, by good luck more than design, or orgasm was, too.

© Copyright 2021 Janet G. All rights reserved.

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