Cleaner and dirtier

Petunia did not enjoy housework, and having inherited both a rather nice house and a rather large lump sum, she had decided not to trouble herself with it again. The answer she felt, (and Petunia always tried to feel things if she could. She was a very tactile person) was to employ a cleaner. She had been worrying about how to go about this when a card dropped through her letterbox advertising the services of Whistle-Clean, – “reliable, discreet, and fully insured” it said. Petunia was unsure why “discreet” was emphasised, but decided to contact them anyway. A stringy-voiced woman made an appointment for the company representative to call and discuss her requirements. Petunia poured herself a large G&T and almost rubbed her hands with glee at the thought of the agonies of vacuuming and dusting, polishing and hahh-ing on mirrors being almost at an end.

She was so excited at this prospect that she prepared a tray of tea and coffee (all bases covered there) plus chocolate biscuits (she was desperate), in readiness for the meeting. She had a sudden lurching fear that SHE and her house might not meet up with THEIR requirements!

Absolutely on time her doorbell rang. But to Petunia’s surprise on the outer side of it stood, not the young woman in a nylon tabard which she had somehow expected, but a man in smart jeans, sporting a badge which declared him to be from Whistle-Clean. He also proffered an ID card, just to be on the safe side. He introduced himself as Mark, adding with the sort of wry but cheeky smile which always seems to accompany such young men “But you can relax. I don’t leave any marks!”

He had a certain dashing charm: his hair was curly, as hair should be on these occasions. His jaw was manly, his nose was manly – they did after all belong to a man.

Petunia would have liked to relax, but as we have established, she was already excited at the prospect of having a cleaner. Now she was also excited at the thought of having the cleaner.
“Come in! Come in!” She exclaimed, after a tiny pause of readjustment which she hoped he hadn’t noticed. (He had)
He came in, through the large and impressive hall (noting as he went the level of dusting which would be required) and Petunia showed him into the sitting room (“Lounges are for airports dahling” her mother had said)
a sweep of her arm encompassing the room, the tray of refreshments and the chocolate biscuits. He sat on the elderly sofa, finding it more comfy than it looked. With an eye on Petunia’s lightly flushed cheek he helped himself to a biscuit without being asked.

“Do…Errr…have a biscuit.” She responded, a slight glow of indignation causing her ample bosomage to lift with its own buttress of indignity.
Mark smiled his wry, cheeky smile again and Petunia’s bosom deflated to its normal position. This was still, in Mark’s view (and it was at that moment, very much in his view) quite uplifting as well as uplifted.

“I’d better show you around” said Petunia, taking the initiative again, and willing to put the whole biscuit scenario behind them. She walked to the door, looking back over her shoulder for Mark to follow. He did, as if on a doglead, still smiling and finishing the biscuit.
Petunia led him back into the hall, and gestured up and down it.
“This will need dusting and vacuuming every week, and perhaps twice a year, the floor [which was wooden] will need oiling and buffing.” Mark nodded. So far he had predicted her requirements. They continued through the downstairs rooms, with Petunia stating her wishes briskly and avoiding Mark’s eye. This of course allowed him plenty of time for noting the pink flush of her cheek, the curl of her luscious curls, the flutter of shylashes, and the snugness of the skirt around her buttoculars. As she walked he fancied he could even discern the faint rustle of a petticoat beneath. That was a rare treat these days. In Petunia’s view it was a practical way to reduce static. In Mark’s view it was actually increasing the spark.

“Now, upstairs” she said, turning from the third step to look back at Mark. He felt quite overshadowed by the cantilevered norks above him, and in the shade was able to contemplate at his leisure the row of buttons which held her blouse together. They were tiny but feisty, straining at the silk like a tea strainer. No, not like a tea strainer at all, he corrected.
They went upstairs. Petunia gave her instructions about the landing, and then stopped at a door, her hand on the knob. The simple thought of this action had an effect on Mark, especially as he watched her fingers close round the knob, and slowly but firmly give it a little turn.

“How are you on rugs?” she asked “Only we have some rather nice ones which need particular attention”
Mark assured her of his experience on rugs. Especially the really thick ones. “I’m very good” he said “I know what I’m doing”
Petunia smiled.
“Do you want me to use your vacuum cleaner?” he asked
She was surprised at that. “I just assumed you would” she said
Mark said that he could, but if she preferred he had his own, with larger capacity. That won Petunia over “And does it have a more powerful suck?”
Mark nodded, his mouth dry. “Would you like to try it?”
She would.
He hurried down the stairs (two at a time) and fetched the industrial vacuum cleaner from his van. Petunia was impressed, and ran her hands over it
“It’s very big” she murmured, “and look at the size of that bag!” she hefted it gently in one cupped hand, her eyes telling Mark she was bewitched by it.

“I’ve got a special duster for hard to reach places too” he went on, pulling from his kit a long handled purple feather duster. Petunia giggled, and, encouraged, he wiggled it playfully. She moved closer, the feathers tenderly titillating her tits, and smiled at him. One feather caught on a tiny button. Mark stilled the lively duster and moved in closer to help.

“Hold still” he said, exploring the fine fabric and the heroic button with deft fingers. Inexplicably, as the feather was freed, the button seemed to spring undone of its own volition.
Petunia was unfazed: its neighbours could hold the fort if required.

“There are three bedrooms up here, all with Turkish rugs” she said, businesslike for the moment.
“So…how long do you think it would take to do me?”
Mark paused. “Would you want me every week?” he asked
“Yes. Come every week. That’s what I’d like. How long would you allow? I wouldn’t want you to rush things”

Mark assured her he was not about to rush things; after all, so far his only progress was one button. “I’m very thorough” he said “You won’t be disappointed”
This was exactly what Petunia wanted to hear. She squeezed the knob and turned it, opening the door to the main bedroom. They stepped through, Mark almost unaware of the lush furnishings. He could see only Petunia, standing on a thick Turkish rug, her calipygousness almost bursting out of the skirt, and her volumptious norkage gloriously uplifted. She turned away from him for a moment and when she turned back, oddly, some more buttons seemed to have become loosened.

“Tell me about the suction power” she whispered, breathily. Mark tried to, he really did. But then he confessed that the only way was a demonstration.”Show me the power of your suction on this rug” she said. Mark agreed, and though his bag was already quite full, she was impressed by what he could do.

He tried to help with the button situation, but more just seemed to undo, as if the release of the first had started an avalanche of female flesh…little by little Petunia’s skin seemed to come forth, and a most beguiling wriggle of her hipsiness freed her of both clinging skirt and rustling petticoat.
He was able to show how he found his way into every little nook (nooky being his speciality) and cranny. How he could reach into crevices with spectacular results. Very soon everything he touched was glowing

She gave Mark free rein with his feather duster, and found that, just as he had said, it could get right into those hard to reach places and give them a long-overdue experience.
As for oiling and buffing of the ground floor, Mark was on the case. He advised her it was best done far more often than she had previously thought, and it wasn’t long before she was really feeling the benefits!
He left his Mark after all