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THE TUB
by Tonya
The directions you gave me, from the maid service (wink, wink) to your
place are perfect. Over the doorbell, you've taped a note telling me to let
myself in, and you'd drawn a map to the bathroom.
I head through your living room taking tiny steps. My heels are high and I
don't want to fall on your shiny, wooden floors. Also, I'm balancing a platter
on my right hand. On the platter is special bubble bath, a wine glass full of
rose petals, a large bottle of baby oil and a glass of fine champagne that I
poured in the car.
With the other hand, I check the front of my silky, black maid's outfit.
Yes, I have the two small chunks of imported dark chocolates -- each wrapped
in classy silver foil.
I examine one of my legs, then the other. The off-black pantyhose hug my
curves, which are womanly even though I never wear padding. I think to mself,
``I look so hot ... And he doesn't even know.'' My job is to pamper and dress
you; little do you know I've dressed myself. ``Tonya,'' the name I gave over
the phone in my best Marilyn Monroe, is the illusion you want to be.
I'm not wearing panties. As I walk, I take special note of how the nylon
pulls against my hardness and causes a tingle between my legs.
I look in the mirror. The suit and tight hose do a good job of hiding ``my
little secret.''
In the bathroom I kneel and begin to fill the sunken, purple tub, pouring a
small amount of bubble bath to produce a hint of strawberry scent. Laxily, I
sweep my hand through the water. Suddenly, I feel your presence. I look over
my shoulder in tiem to see a large but shapely naked foot, toenails painted
flawlessly black. You step into the tub and I look up at you. Your round,
strong, sexy buttocks pass right in front of my nose and you daintily sit
shoulders deep into the bubbly water. I notice beautiful black hair, piled
atop your head -- except for a thick, stylish curl that dangles above your
left eye.
I take my time washing your trim upper body. I can tell your hands are
occupied beneath the water, but I ignore that. I unwrap and feed you each
chocolate, kissing your burgundy lips with my shiny, pink lips behind each
chocolate bite. Next, you sip the champagne.
Before you're done with the glass, I shave your arms and chest. The drink
has you so relaxed that you don't flinch. I measure half of the rose petals,
spread them across your arms and chest, then rub lightly. You lift eac leg,
and I shave one at a time, closely and flawlessly.
As the razor comes close to your crotch, I pll your manhood -- it throbs
and seems about nine inches to me -- just to get it out of the way. Well, my
hand slids from the base to where the head begins, several times. Hey, it
distracts you.
I use the rest of the petals to soothe and caress your legs.
Finally, I gather all the petals in my hands and pack them around your
manhood. My fingers and the smooth petals slide up and down. Soon, the
combination of my soft hands, the slippery petals and the bubbly water get to
be too much. I see pre-come escape. I stop immediately and help you out of the
tub, and into red, furry slippers. Then I wrap you in a towel and lead you to
the bathroom.
You want to dry off quickly, but I have a better idea. I've brought baby
oil into the bedroom. I pour it on your skin, starting with your arms and
chest. then I dab those areas. Finally, I help you into your tight, sheer top
and velvet gloves. Your skin shines through the sheer, black nylon.
I lay you on face-down on the bed spread your legs and apply the baby oil
to the backs of your legs, then dab there. I have you turn over and pay
special attention to your toes, move to your shins, then make sure I use extra
oil on your muscular, yet inviting, thighs. I chuckle as your hardness
twitches.
That's next. I put more oil on your hard-on than on the two legs combined.
I have to use both hands torub it in. You give a high-pitched, feminine moan,
as if I've found your clit. I continue, then stop when pre-come escapes.
Instead of dabbing it dry, I open my mouth wide and breathe on it slowly. My
hot breath makes you moan louder. Your nine inches continue to twitch.
Your large head passes my lips, but I keep my mouth open wide enough that
all you feel is my hot breath. I want to clamp my lips and roll my tongue, but
I resist -- for exactly one minute. Finally, I clamp down for one, wet, active
suck. My mouth is large enough to take every inch of you. I take a full 30
seconds sliding my lips and tongue from the base back to the head. You feel
the saliva and the oil, yet you treat me like a lady. Your fingers play in my
short, auburn hair, but you don't shove my head downward.
My lips release you, but a long strand of pre-come conects. I savor the
steely, salty taste, lick my lips and smile. This lipstick really stays!
I pick up your sheer, black pantyhose and slide them up one leg, rubbing
your manly but aluring muscles as I go. Seeing muscles like that on a leg as
smooth as a supermodel's really turns me on. I do the same to the other leg
and stop the hose at the top of the thigh. Then I kneel and slip your leather,
T-strap high heels on each foot. Still with the hose bunched around the tops
of your thigh and your nine inches waving loose, I ask you to stand. My nose
accidentally rubs against your shiny head and you leave a wet, sticky spot.
I stand in front of you and give your penis one more shot of baby oil, then
rub it (and your freely leaking pre-come) all over the head.
Then I pull the pantyhose the rest of the way up and give you a peck on the
lips. We feel one another breathe and admire one another's faces.
Somehow, I can tell in your eyes that you've figured out that I'm an
illusion, although you seem afraid of it. You tentatively reach under my
uniform and feel. You're right.
Knowing you paid for a ``woman'' to pamper you, I fear you'll turn violent.
My heart bangs and my lips tremble.
Then you kiss me passionately. I suck your tongue, as if it could orgasm.
We collapse onto the bed, you on top of me, and we grind our nylon-covered
manhoods. I grab my heels and raise them above my head as you hump on top of
me. I feel the tip of your manhood against the base of mine, where it meets my
testicles. Then you expertly slide up to the head of mine, then back down. We
breathe havier.
Suddenly, you contract. The biggest load imaginable comes blasting out of
you. You're still wearing your hose, but the semen is jetting out as if the
nylon isn't there. The pressure, the slickness of the nylon and the heat and
wetness of your semen has me burning and tingling inside. I let go. Each of
your spurts hit me and make me spurt harder.
I feel I have three, distinct orgasms. It makes me feel womanly. It feels
so good it's frightening. I see fear in you too. We both thought we were
masquerading.
When it subsides, I quickly straighten my uniform, grab the platter and
head to the dor, not wanting to ruin a hot time with analysis.
But you follow me. You're taller, stronger and move better in heels. As I
open the door, you spin me so I'm facing you. We stare. I feel frightened
again.
Then we kiss, our hands grabbing between one another's legs again. Finally
we part.
As I shut the door, I hear a muffled, orgasmic scream from you. Is it
possible.
Well, I take only three steps before the nylon pulling against me and the
thought of what happened makes me shoot again. I want to scream, but I see
someone fumbling for the keys of the apartment beside yours. He sees me and
smiles.
``Why does he get the sexy women?'' Your neighbor says.
I put the platter in front of my crotch. I wink and purse my lips at him,
then scurry.