I guess it would be pretty cliché to fuck your house cleaner, but yeah, I did it.

Cinny had been cleaning my house for about three months, but I’d really only seen her two or three times. She usually came to clean while I was at work and when I returned home in the evening the house was clean. On the rare occasions that I had seen her, I had come home for lunch or she was just finishing up as I was coming home.

A real estate salesman friend of mine, Greg, recommended her to me, “Cinny is a woman that looks like she has been rode hard a put away wet, but she is was a sweetheart and is trying to put her life back together.” It was a pretty accurate description. She looked like she had been a lot of things in the past, pretty maybe, an athlete probably. Who knows what else?

Now she had scars on her face that were mostly healed, but I guessed would never completely go away. Her body had an appealing strength. At some point she must have gotten a boob job, maybe she used to have money or a sugar daddy? I tried not to stare at her boobs, which were large, but that were also somewhat askew. They were generously sized, but they were clearly not aligned properly. One was a good inch to two inches higher than the other. It was hard not to stare and puzzle about.

Greg was right about the sweetheart part. The few times we were together, she was engaging, laughed easily, seemed to want to know about me and my life, and was open and candid about her own. She had had money and property, condos on Maui, and a cleaning business that serviced vacation rentals and hotels. She was clearing six figures a year and now she was cleaning my house for $60 every two weeks. She owed the IRS over $300,000.

Drugs got her, and she lost everything. She returned to the mainland and was now living in a granny shack behind her mom’s home trying to get her life back together. The scars were indeed from drug usage. She wasn’t an alcoholic, in fact she didn’t drink at all and claimed she never had. But pills, crack, meth, cocaine, heroin, she used and abused it all, she called herself a “garbage can addict.”

One evening I returned home and Cinny’s vacuum cleaner was still in the living room. Her little black pickup truck was not in the driveway and she wasn’t in the house. The mystery solved itself quickly with a phone call from her. She had forgotten the vacuum cleaner, had an early morning move out cleaning job in Oxnard and could she come back and pick up the vacuum tonight. I told her sure, I planned to be in all evening. “Come by anytime,” I said.

A couple hours later there was a knock on the door and when I answered it in my usual evening attire, boxers and a t-shirt, it was Cinny, but not as I’d seen her before. Up until now I’d only seen her in her cleaning clothes, which looked like they consisted of oversized and disposable thrift store acquisitions. I had never seen her with make-up on and she usually had a general disheveled look. I guess cleaning other peoples’ homes all day will do that to you.

As she stood there on my doorstep, I couldn’t help but marvel how well she cleaned up. She obviously was wearing some sort of concealer, because the facial scars were barely visible. I wouldn’t say she was beautiful, but she had definitely taken her look up a couple of notches. She was wearing paint on blue jeans and a form hugging black sweater, maybe cashmere, and black converse AllStars.

She looked like a different person, and I said so, “Wow! Look at you Cinny. Do you have a date tonight or something?”

She looked embarrassed, laughed and replied, “No I don’t have a date, just here to pick up the vacuum.”

I asked her if she wanted to come in for a minute, maybe have a glass of water? She said, yes and stepped into the living room. I went into the kitchen to get her the glass of water and myself another beer. When I returned to the living room, she was sitting somewhat nervously on one side of the couch. I put down the drinks on the coffee table and took up a position on the opposite side of the couch facing her.

I listened to her monologue for maybe half an hour. She had 9 months sobriety. She was going back to school at Ventura College, and hoped to transfer to CSUN and get a degree in hotel and recreation management. She had found the local outrigger canoe club, something she had enjoyed in Hawaii, and was paddling two days a week. She had started putting a little money together and was going to join a gym soon. Did I know of a good one? All in all, for someone who had obviously had a pretty hard fall, she seemed resilient and resolute to get her life back—minus the drugs.

It was the big mismatched boobs that got me. Being somewhat of a boob man, they were fascinating to me. It was hard to listen to her story and not keep stealing glances at her chest. The tight sweater she was wearing really displayed their size--and ungainly position. I really wanted to see them. And, she was being so candid with me, I thought I could be equally candid with her.

So of course, the beer started talking and in a break in the conversation, I clumsily asked her about them, “Your sweater really shows off your form. If it’s not too awkward, can I ask you about your chest? There must be a story there?”

She looked down, looked up. I could tell she was a little shocked by the directness of the question, but thankfully not offended. She returned her gaze to me and asked, “Do you really want to know?”

“If you’re willing to share, I’m willing to listen.” I encouraged.

She explained that when she was rolling in dough, she bought herself new boobs. The problem was that she was also rolling in crack cocaine and didn’t follow the aftercare instructions for the surgery. One of the boob’s incisions became infected and she neglected to have it seen or treated. It “encapsulated” and became hard and high.

Her story was followed by a prolonged silence. She was once again looking down, looking up, looking at me. I was looking at her boobs, then her face, then boobs, then face again. Finally, I just blurted it out, “Can I see them?”

Which was followed by more silence and squirming on both sides of the couch. Eventually she said, “Are you sure, your really want to?”

To which I quickly and enthusiastically replied, “Yes, yes I do. I really do!”

She hesitated then leaned forward an took off her sweater to reveal a rather impressive utilitarian white sports bra. It looked like it could, and was, holding a lot. She paused at the bra, looked at me quizzically and asked again, “Are you sure?”

I didn’t speak, just nodded my head yes.

She unclasped the bra from the front and the boobs were free. She was sitting upright and maybe pushing them out a bit. The left one looked as normal as surgically enhanced boobs can, a provocative nice round shape. I could see it would have some elasticity and movement to it if she were in motion or it was touched.

The right one, the encapsulated one, was round too, but a roundness like a cantaloupe. It looked as hard as one too. It didn’t look to me that it had any give to it at all. I stared. I kept staring and my throat was getting dry. She must have been nervous too, but she was hiding it pretty well. Finally, I asked her, “Can I touch them?”

“Do you want to?” She replied.

“If you’ll let me?” I said.

She pushed her chest further forward and scooched closer toward my end of the couch. I scooched in her direction and reached out to touch the left one. Her skin had some of the same scars as her face, but not nearly as many. It felt both soft and tough, like soft suede leather. Her nipples were large with almost no areolas, they just protruded right out of the center of her breasts. They were firm like oversized pencil erasers. I tested and squeezed her boob, almost like an examination, which it was of sorts.

Then I switched my attention to the right one. It felt like it looked, hard. The skin was the same texture as the other one. The nipples were the same size and hardness, but when I squeezed the boob, there was no give at all. It was literally as hard as a cantaloupe. I squeezed harder, still no give.

Curious, I asked her, “Do they feel the same to you when I touch them? I mean is there any difference in feeling between the left and right?”

She told me there was less feeling in the encapsulated one, but the nipple was still fairly sensitive. I pinched her nipple and asked, “Can you feel that?” She said she could.

“Can I squeeze harder?” She said I could.

I pinched her damaged boob’s nipple just a little harder. “Okay?” I asked. She nodded.

I pinched harder and was now squeezing pretty damn hard. Her breath was shallow, and small sounds were coming from somewhere deep in her throat. She closed her eyes and began writhing a little bit to my fingers clamped down on her nipple, but she didn’t pull away. It was as if the pain was turning her on more. I know it was me. I was hard as a rock and had a large wet spot clearly visible on the front of my shorts. My cock was in danger of launching itself out the fly of my shorts, but at this point I was kind of hoping it would. I wanted to fuck that malformed boob and I told her so. “Do it!” she gasped.

I quickly stood up in front of her, dropped my shorts and pulled out a very hard and dripping cock. She held up the object of my perverse fascination with both hands leaned forward and offered it to me. I began rubbing my cock all over that hard orb, making it wet and slippery with each stroke. Rubbing the tip of my cock against her hardened nipple was all the stimulation I could stand. I convulsed and shot my load all over that cantaloupe.

When I was done ejaculating. She rubbed the cum into both boobs like lotion. I just stood there watching, mesmerized. There was one last dribble of cum at the tip of my cock hanging on. She leaned forward, licked it off and took my cock into her mouth. She held it there until it had softened up, more or less. Then she pulled away and was pretty much matter of fact about putting her bra and sweater back on.

I pulled up my wet shorts.

She stood, faced me, gave me a quick kiss on the lips and said, “Well I really do have an early move out tomorrow morning. I should put the vacuum in my truck and go.” I helped her with the vacuum, said goodbye, and she drove off down the lane.

I didn’t call her, and she didn’t call me for the next two weeks. I thought about her, the boob, and our relationship as client and cleaning lady. I wasn’t really sure what to do. I didn’t want her as a girlfriend. I had been warned by friends in recovery programs that it takes about five years for an addict’s head to pop out of their ass, so to speak. She was far from a safe bet.

So, though I thought about it, I did nothing.

On the next scheduled cleaning day, I put sixty dollars in an envelope, left it on the TV stand as usual and went to work. I did not come home for lunch, and stayed at the gym half an hour longer than I needed to, hoping to miss her.

When I came home, the house was dark, there was no black pick-up in the driveway and no left-over vacuum cleaner in the living room. I’ll admit to feeling some relief.

There was however a book on the TV stand, SM 101: A Realistic Introduction. Inside the cover it was inscribed to me.

Dear Nick, I thought you might find this book interesting. You already know I have a high tolerance for pain. What you don’t know about me is that I can suck cock for hours. I’m here for you if you want me. Yours in pain and pleasure, Cinny

Well then, that certainly changed things didn’t it? I might have to seriously reconsider giving this relationship a chance.