Stuffing Her Face

Wiping my brow, I glanced at my watch; fifteen minutes before Mrs Blanche returned from work. Plenty of time to finish the bedroom, clean the kitchen and wash the downstairs toilet — then I’m done.

Mr Blanche is already home, but he’s a little more easygoing. He has been sat in front of the TV for the last hour taking advantage of his final moments of peace before she gets back. They’re not exactly the happiest of couples.

How do I know this? I’ve seen the way he looks at her — and the way he looks at me. He is a very attractive man but I could never do that to Mrs Blanche. As much as she is a control freak she has given me this employ and it pays my bills.

So I opened the bedroom window allowing it to breathe a little and finished folding the clean clothes. Once I had put away the shirts, dresses and underwear I crept downstairs. I didn’t want to draw any more of Mr Blanche's attention today, as flattering as it may be. He likes to have a chat whenever he can and he is very hungry for his eye candy.

I manage to make it down the stairs without stepping on any of the creaky boards. Sneaking past the lounge I made my way to the pantry to grab the mop and bucket. The bucket runs on well-oiled wheels so I could move stealthily to the kitchen for some hot water. Little did I know that it would be me that ended up in the hot water. Some would see it as a perk of the job, not me.

I pushed back the kitchen door and there it was, long and hard. Just lying on the kitchen table. I don’t think I had ever seen one that size before — and I have seen a lot, believe me. It’s an addiction I guess, trying to fill a hole — that’s what my shrink says.

I dropped the mop and against all better judgment took it in my hands. It was so thick and firm. I could barely wrap my fingers around it.

My heart was thumping by now. So much so that my breasts jigged along to the beat. I felt immense rushes of adrenaline like there was a hot gooey sauce pumping through my veins. Just when I thought my heart couldn’t take anymore the kitchen clock chimed giving me the fright of my life — ten minutes before the return of Mrs Blanche.

Without further ado, I spread my legs and wheeled the bucket between my ankles. I lowered myself onto it being careful not to go arse over tit. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but I do have big buttocks and more importantly, time was ticking — no time for pleasantries.

My conscience kicked in — what if she came back? But it was too tempting to refuse. I could smell it calling my name. Fuck it.

My eyes bulged at its size as I pulled it closer to my face. It was so heavy. It felt wrong but I couldn’t help myself. The thought of getting caught. I don’t think Mr Blanche would care much, but Mrs Blanche would feel betrayed. The fear of having a mouthful and Mrs Blanche walking through the door only made it more exciting.

I licked my lips and delicately pulled back the skin; watering at the mouth with anticipation. Wondering, hoping, praying that it tasted as good as it smelled.

Mr Blanche had left a pot of cream on the table, he had a sweet tooth as me I suppose. So I flicked off the lid and dipped my finger in. It tasted amazing. After sucking it clean I stuck it back in again, this time getting a good dose.

I wrapped the fingers of my other hand around the base and tightened my grip. My creamy fingers caressing the tip, covering the flesh of the forbidden fruit. I was positively salivating by now.

I took it in my mouth. Pushing it just far enough to wrap my lips around the cream. It was so fat I couldn’t fit much more in any way, not without cutting into it with my teeth. I Let my tongue twist and turn, making sure to hit all the taste buds. All the while being careful not to bite. Not yet, at least.

Time was ticking though. I’d have to speed things up if I wanted my fill without getting caught.

So, I poured what was left of the whipping cream from the bottom all the way to the top, sprinkled on some hundreds and thousands, and stuffed my face. I’ve always been a sucker for a banana split.

***

Lucy Barewood is obsessed with human relationships and the all too often crossing of wires. She likes to spin things around to look at them from a different angle, hopefully bringing a smile to more than one place in the process.