The Chalet, Part II – Domestic slavery in a mature woman’s world

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[Find part I here –> ]

I had responded to a post in the local newspaper in search of assistance in general house maintenance and was already on my fourth weekend at the chalet. Nothing remarkable about the chalet or the owner could be taken from those initial weeks. She was notably distant, and often bellowed commands through corridors and was always trailed by a stream of smoke. Never too present, but at times I’d feel as if she’d be watching me.

It was that fourth weekend that Marina began to reveal her true intentions. I entered through the hallway, the texture of dust in the air.

“The veranda needs a wax, see to it” came the distant voice. “You’ll find what you need in the storage cupboard.”

Wishing to not displease my employer, I immediately sought out what I needed, but was distracted en route by a door that had never been open before. It struck me as bizarre as no visible light seemed to come from it. If anything, its darkness sucked the surrounding air into it. Edging closer, I dared to steal a glance.

The door snapped shut in front of me, the heat of her feminine presence leaned over me and onto a hand pressing the door shut. The softness of her chest almost imperceptibly touching my shoulder blades. Turning with a sudden sense of conscience at the clear violation of confidence, she stood, inches from my face, holding the wax in one hand and a buff in her other.

“I think this is what you are looking for.” stated as plain as her satin dress.

Wishing not to aggravate her any further, I took the bucket and cloth from her, head down and headed to the veranda.

She wasn’t lying, the veranda had been subjected to an intensive bleaching from the sun and was a withering grey. I cracked open the can with a screwdriver I found on the floor and set to work.

With a framework as slim as mine was, I was yet to be accustomed to the hard repetitive labour. My weak adolescent like arms would seize and shoulders quiver. But this was no place for signs of weakness from a woman who paid him a rather handsome allowance.

“Are you struggling?” The harshness of her voice suggesting a displeasure.

“No, no, no I…”

“Perhaps I should find someone else? Or have I asked too much…”

She had something about her today. She was much more present, much more oppressive in her tone. I wondered if it had been the room incident.

I further began to mumble, pardoning the undeveloped musculature of my post pubescent body. Offering her reason for my ineptitude. Then I felt something I hadn’t quite expected.

A foot, pressing into my back. Pushing me down onto the freshly waxed patch of wood I had been so diligently working on.

“Because…” at this point I was flat against the floor, daring not to move. “I am in need of a great many things here, and I am in need of someone who can do it all”

Her foot began shuffling its way, up my back and towards my face. My cheeks flushed with what I expected to be shame, but was stirred upon realizing that this was no shame. It was a new brand of feeling, one I wasn’t yet quite able to put my finger on.

“Are we going to be able to uphold our agreement?” By this point, the sticky wax tacked my face to the floor and her foot was flat against my cheek. I craned my view upwards to her towering heights which silhouetted against the sun. Her underskirt fully exposed but hazed by the shadow. Only a stir of her feminine vapor could be sensed.

She pulled her foot away, leaving a gritty and smarting outline on my face.

“Finish up then go home. Come back tomorrow. You are going to do something for me.”

With that she walked away. Lying, paralysed in a wash of hormones, I found that I had one further sticky patch, this time from between my legs. It was a penile premonition of things to come. Something inside me had arrived. It began as a simmer, but would soon be brought to boil.

Marina and I.

[Find the next part here … ]

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