Betsy in a New Position

Betsy realised she was out of a job and was trying her very best not to cry. She had worked for Mr. Smyth for five years, washing, ironing and making trips to the dry cleaners so that when he had to set off on yet another of his numerous trips he could pack a suit case at an instant's notice. In addition she undertook his cleaning, tidying and shopping so he always returned to a neat, well stocked, dust free home. She had even done a little cooking for him when he had guests, Betsy liked that, she was far better paid for her trouble then. He inevitably paid cash and she gratefully pocketed, well pursed, the money without having to mention this to anyone. Now her world was about to collapse, Mr. Smyth had just announced his imminent retirement to her.

"Don't worry Betsy, I still want you to cook and clean for me and do all those odd jobs, just as you've always done."

"Yes but... Well it will be different," she replied biting her lip. Betsy had two small boys and previously she had fitted her work around them, undertaking the bulk of her chores whenever she pleased during Mr. Smyth's numerous absences. In fact she had hardly ever seen him, he left her wages and expenses in brown envelopes on his desk in the study along with polite little notes, hand written in mauve ink. Once he retired she would have to come and go at more usual times she supposed.

"How so, Betsy?"

"Well Mr. Smyth. Well, I haven't... I haven't exactly kept regular hours in the past and now..."

"Betsy?"

"Well, before it didn't matter if I cleaned the bathroom at ten in the morning, ten at night, two in the afternoon or even two in the morning, just as long as it was left sparkling. But now, well I'll have to be regular, well more regular."

"Betsy what hours do you work? Uhm... that is, what hours normally?"

"Usually? Usually I arrive between about nine and ten and bring any shopping with me. Then I carry on till about two and go home."

"I don't see a problem with ten till two?"

"Ten at night Mr. Smyth. Ten o'clock at night. I put the boys to bed, sees 'em tucked in all snug, bless 'em, then I comes over and they can phone if they need me and I can be home again in under fifteen minutes."

"Oh! I see? So you work from ten at night till two in the morning?"

"If there's lots to do Mr. Smyth; generally I'm done by about midnight though. If you were home all the time there'd be a lot more to do so I'd have to put more hours in too."

"I see," said Mr. Smyth, pondering. "Well no. True, I don't want you vacuuming at that ungodly hour." Mr Smyth paused for thought, eyeing Betsy up and down as if considering her under a different light, "but there are other jobs you might do for me." Mr. Smyth's eyes glazed over, his thoughts had clearly slipped away somewhere else. "You could wash down the skirting boards with hot soapy water and sweep under the furniture with a dust pan and brush for a start, you might even dust the picture rails with a fluffy pink feather duster,."

"I could... Mr. Smyth?" Cloth and bucket, dustpan and brush, feather duster, and not any old feather duster but a fluffy pink feather duster at that. Slipped away? The man gone clean off his rocker. She looked at her employer quizzically. He was silver haired with cold grey eyes, lean, always dressed smartly if somewhat conservatively and normally he was affable and genial enough, though sometimes he could be abrupt and little gruff. Not often with her, but some of his dinner guests had clearly been judged wanting. "I could clean by hand but it would take longer and..."

"And I'd have to pay you more. Yes of course Betsy. For what I was imagining you doing for me I'd pay you a lot more and I could get a regular cleaner to do the general work during the day."

Betsy was even more confused. Why ever would she dust and clean if he already had a cleaner? Still if he wanted to throw his money about: well plainly he was not short of the stuff.

"Of course Betsy you would not have to be embarrassed if I watched you. In fact you'd be expected to ignore me. Also you'd have to wear a... A 'uniform' too," Betsy could hear the quotes in his speech and wondered what this 'uniform' might, or more likely might not, comprise of. "But you'll be well paid; say quadruple."

"Quadruple Mr. Smyth? Four times as much!" All worries about any uniform were driven from her head, all concerns about what she was to do were gone. Four times as much. She could take the boys out on trips; no they would all go out on adventures together. She could take them to... well they could even go for random treats, pop into McDonald's, just like their friends did. Lordy, if she saved she could take them on a holiday, a proper holiday, one with passports, flights, sunshine and a big sandy beach for her to bask on. 'Christ,' she thought, 'for that money I'd do it stark bollock naked if I had to.' That was a good thought to have because it was closer to the truth than she realised. "So what exactly would I have to do?"

"Oh just stretch up high and bend down low to wash, dust or sweep. I'll supply your uniform, I'll lay it out for you in the spare room and you can change once you have got here."

Betsy considered, obviously it was going to be; what was it going to be? Well she realised she would be dressed provocatively and with all that bending and stretching she would have to expose herself to his gaze. But the old boy seemed mild mannered and harmless; if he wanted to molest or rape her he could do it right now and, despite his relative age, Betsy knew that she was not strong enough to fight off such an athletic man. Betsy gave a little shiver, her thighs had just twitched in that annoying way that they did when she was beginning to moisten. She did not fancy the old man, well not like that, but the though of him lusting after her younger and still nubile form was making things happen between her legs, nice things. Fuelled by her desires she threw caution to the wind and replied, "yes Mr. Smyth, I'll clean for you in the evenings, I'll wipe up your little spills, mop up your dribbles and shake the dust and cobwebs away from any of your little places that have been neglected."

Mr. Smyth almost choked when he heard this. "Don't forget Betsy, you have to ignore me, pretend I'm not there at all and let me get on with things."

"Of course, Mr. Smyth."

"So Betsy. When would you like to start? Would Friday of this week at half past nine suit you?"

"Between half past nine and ten, if that is alright Mr. Smyth, I need some flexibility with the boys."

"Yes of course, Betsy, phone me if there is a problem. Oh, and Betsy, there is just one other little thing please: that is if you don't mind."

He actually seemed embarrassed so she smiled coyly to encourage him, "if I can Mr. Smyth,".

"For our evening cleaning sessions, and only during our evening cleaning sessions, would you mind calling me Sir."

"Yes Sir," Betsy giggled back, "well, Sir, at any rate, I'll do my very best to remember; Sir."

"Thank you Betsy. So I will see you again on Friday evening."

When Betsy next let herself into Mr. Smyth's home she was nervous. What would he want? What would he do? Obviously something kinky but just how kinky? On the whole he behaved like an elderly gentleman but then, well they said that still waters often ran the deepest. She skipped upstairs to the spare room to discover what she might find; well the uniform ought to give her a clue. It did and it didn't. There were heels, suspenders and stockings. Those Betsy had expected. The heels were black, shiny and fit her well but ridiculously high. She would totter rather than walk, so she decided she would don them once she had descended the stairs; no sense in breaking her neck. The stockings were old fashioned, tan coloured with an exaggerated back seam. The garter belt likewise, tan or beige coloured with a total of eight straps; 'very supportive' she chuckled as she turned it over in her hands. The panties; panties? The knickers were also a flesh colour but voluminous, made in soft cotton with a simple elasticated waist and around the legs was an elasticated frill decorated with lace. Apart from those the only other items laid out for her were a grey cotton skirt, a cream blouse made of dense silk and, artfully arranged at an angle as if a careless afterthought, a fluffy pink feather duster.

Betsy slipped off her work clothes and first admired herself in the long, wide mirror that pretty much constituted one wall of the spare room. She did a twirl. Not bad for a plump woman in her early thirties: big bouncy breasts, dark areolae with prominent pink nipples, ample but not excessive hips, a well rounded, well padded, bum that was not too fat, ample was the right word. Her red bush attested to the genuineness of her shoulder length red hair and the slope of her bosom, her back, the top of her buttocks and the backs of her muscular calves were all dusted liberally with dark brown freckles. Betsy was attractive but in a modest kind of way, she had never been stunning but always pretty and her few extra pounds did nothing to detract from the basic wholesomeness of her rounded and perpetually smiling face.

First that curious garter belt. Until she saw this particular one she did not even know that the things might have more than the customary four straps, well this one had eight! It was going to take her a while to clip everything on. Once the grater belt was in position she sat on the bed and rolled the sheer stockings on carefully taking pains to ensure that the seams ran straight and as she had predicted it took her a while to do up all eight clips. Over theses she pulled up the knickers so the straps ran underneath; well one of the joys of stockings and suspenders was that peeing was made so much quicker and simpler. The skirt was ridiculously short, when she washed the skirting boards down Mr. Smyth would have a very clear view of her panty clad bum. But of course, she giggled, that was the point of the outfit, Mr. Smyth could enjoy an almost unobscured view of her knicker encased, bottom.

Betsy held the blouse up at arms length. The quality was exceptional but it was missing three buttons, the top three buttons. With no bra, as was plainly intended, if she leant forwards she would almost spill out of it. So she was to perform for Mr. Smyth by displaying her full bosom, her plump white thighs, firm befreckled calves and well rounded bottom; at least, she reflected, I get to keep my bush and my nipples hidden. As she slipped into the blouse she realised that the reality was that her nipples were not really hidden just covered, they were hard as diamonds and the silk clung to them emphasising their swollen state. Worse, as the smooth material shimmied over her sensitive teats the sensation made them stand out all the more stiffly and this induced a maddening urge to press her thighs together, causing her loins to moisten all the more. To her shame Betsy realised that she was becoming distinctly aroused at the prospect of performing for Mr. Smyth in this revealing uniform.

Before setting off downstairs Betsy dropped her pants, mopped her oozing sex as best as she was able with a tissue and then tugged those voluminous elasticated knickers back up again. At the bottom she paused to slip on those excessively high heels and then she stood up straight, jutted her chin up high and proudly swept into Mr. Smyth's study, bold as brass. Mr. Smyth was sat behind his desk, writing, clad in a dressing gown and he did not appear to notice her immediately.

"Ah, young Betsy," he said at last, "there's dust on the tops of those book spines," Mr. Smyth pointed to a bookcase next to the door. "Well see to it! Come along there girl, jump to it. With some alacrity girl!"

"Yes sir," Betsy blurted out, only managing to half suppress a giggle. Even with the heels on she had to bring a kick-stool to stand on and even then it proved a stretch for her. She knew that Mr. Smyth would cop an eyeful of her knickers but he was paying her well so she took her sweet time with her pink feather duster. She could hear the pace of his breathing slow and its tenor deepen so she wiggled her bum provocatively as she dusted back and forth. Once she was done she teetered over to his desk stood before it, pointed dramatically and said, "sir there is a spot here that needs a rub," and as she polished vigorously she leant forwards so Mr. Smyth had a clear line of sight down her blouse and between her dangling orbs. Mr. Smyth's eyes, she noticed, were almost on stalks and he was practically drooling.

"Betsy there's another spot on the floor over there," he pointed vaguely. "No Betsy, there! Now Betsy, how could you have missed that? And next Betsy, look there, the skirting under the window needs a wipe... Betsy the coving in that corner, there's a cobweb in it." Up and down, up and down she bobbed and stretched, showing off her splendid and ample curves to Mr. Smyth whose breathing was becoming increasingly laboured and ragged. Finally it became obvious to Betsy that he had slipped a hand under his dressing gown and was stroking his cock.

"Sir," she simpered as she tottered over to him, "is there another spot you need me to rub for you?"

Mr. Smyth spluttered, "well if you don't mind Betsy." He paused hesitant and uncertain, momentarily non-plussed, then he stiffened his resolve to match his erect cock and barked, "yes girl there is a spot right here that you have missed and it needs a jolly good rubbing." And as he did so he indicated the marquee that was projecting from his dressing gown.

Flame haired, busty Betsy - who had never been shy, had never been short of suitors, was more than a little turned on by the old man who was, after all, still a splendid specimen - did not have any scruples about earning herself a little bonus if she could. After all she was not going to shag the man, just give him a hand job. Truth to tell, had he ordered her out of her knickers and commanded her to straddle him and impale herself upon the thick, rigid prick she had just uncovered she probably would have done so. Especially now she had seen, no, she had admired, its length and girth. As it was Betsy felt wetter between the legs than she had done for a long while: it was, she recalled, at least six months since she had dragged a man to bed with her one evening and he had not been allowed to escape until the following lunch time by which time she had wrung him dry and utterly exhausted him.

Mr. Smyth swivelled round in his big black leather chair and Betsy teetered around in those ridiculous heels and knelt before him. She parted his silk robe further to discover that he was quite naked underneath and she now very much desired to straddle his very considerable erection; his cock, bulbous and blue veined, was throbbing visibly. She pulled his foreskin back to the root to expose the dark red helmet below, its eye already sticky with a little clear fluid. Before she continued she paused artfully to look him straight in the eye. He stared directly back and a wolfish grin spread across his face that quite unsettled poor Betsy; it was the look of the cheetah making his final leap onto the back his prey, the look of the crocodile as he clamped his jaw on the limb of some poor creature just before flicked his tail and dived to the bottom of the river, a look which blatantly anticipated the satisfying of appetite. She had never seen a man look quite so predatory as Mr. Smyth did at that precise moment.

Betsy stroked Mr. Smyth's long fat cock over and over, speeding up if he started to become quiet and still, slowing down as his breathing became noisy and irregular or when he began to fidget and rock on his bottom. Only when he finally emitted a vast and prolonged groan, a sound that implied both much fulfilment and indicated considerable frustration, did Betsy take up and maintain a regular and relatively rapid pace. Mr. Smyth emitted a loud moan, closed his eyes and then grunted gutturally as he spurted gobbet after gobbet of thick white seed high into the air. The glistening blobs, after reaching their zenith, descended to splatter in Betsy's hair, on to her face and some even dribbled down her cleavage. The smell was rank and cut the air. There was no mistaking this was a room in which a man had just come, come long and hard at that.

"Will that be all sir?" Betsy enquired as he sagged visibly having just expended his load utterly. She hated semen, she loathed the smell and detested its sticky clinginess but men seemed to love it when she bathed in or drank the stuff: poor dears needed to be reassured by a feeling of power she had concluded. But, nevertheless, it was still foul, stinky, salty stuff to have to deal with.

"For tonight girl, almost. But can you return two nights hence at about the same time?"

'Not really, that's Sunday' was in her head but her mouth said, "yes of course Sir." First her holiday, just her and her boys and, of course, a dark, hansom, romantic and completely inexhaustible holiday lover, would come a little closer with every session. Secondly and, to Betsy, an increasingly important consideration; she had begun to realise just how good that monstrous tool would feel if it were used to ream out her long neglected plumbing: orgasmically delightful was her sloppy thighed conclusion.

Betsy made to stand but Mr. Smyth motioned her to remain upon her knees facing him. He raised her chin with one hand and used the other to smear the semen he had splattered upon her all over her face. Once that was done he signalled that she was to turn and then used her long red hair to wipe clean his dribbling, dripping cock. For the first time Betsy felt very uncomfortable with Mr. Smyth's dark desires and as he used her hair as his towel she flushed crimson; not only did her face go beet red but that rosy glow extended down her chest and spread across the tops of her breasts. "Excellent," chuckled Mr. Smyth. "I can see that you and I are going to get on famously together. You may go and change now."

Betsy stood, turned to face Mr. Smyth and curtsied as best she could in such a short skirt, lifting it high to give him one last peek at her huge knickers. "Thank you Sir. If that is all for the present I will pay you another visit on Sunday."

When she returned downstairs in her ordinary clothes Betsy could find no sign of Mr. Smyth but on the desk lay a plain brown envelope and in it were not only her wages but also a nice fat bonus. As she walked home Betsy pondered, if she earned that for a hand job what would she be given if she sucked that fat cock or even straddled his lap and rode him to orgasm whilst she pushed her ample breasts into his face? This could be a job she really grew to enjoy.