Sandy the Maid’s Seduction
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
*This is an attempt at a seduction story. Takes a while to build. I hope you enjoy my take on it.*
It had been a long five years of school and Sandy found herself staring at her classmates and realizing that she had made a horrible mistake. Sandy was almost finished with her master’s degree in education, but with dawning horror she realized that she hated teaching. During her student teaching experiences in Brooklyn, she had run into many kids — most of her students, in fact — who were not only ignorant, but proud of it. Sandy’s classmates seemed to all be rich kids who planned on “helping out” and “having a meaningful job” — until they got their parent’s money or married into even more wealth and left these poor kids behind. She was told that it was wrong to be annoyed with her students for not wanting to learn. She was told that she should not fault the parents (or usually, single parent) who was not engaged or interested in their child’s learning. Her fellow M-Eds were safely ensconced in their privilege all while lamenting that of others. It pissed her off to watch them condescend to the poor white students and lecture them about their privilege. Gah, she hated it all! Lip service liberalism without really thinking about things, and her annoyance with their shallowness forced a realization perhaps earlier than it would have otherwise come.
Sandy’s idealism of serving in the inner city schools now crashed into the indifferent wall of reality, and she had a clear vision of her future: decades spent pounding against the cultural and individual biases that made teaching so hard, that praised everything except academic achievement. Acting white, some of the kids had called it. Knowing that the students wouldn’t learn from her. Knowing that she would hate her life, hate her students’ rejection of learning as the path to something different. Knowing that she would inevitable turn into a clock puncher who hated her job. No way! There’s always the suburbs Sandy had thought to herself, but the idea just didn’t appeal. It was so disheartening that Sandy dropped out of Columbia entirely to try her hand at writing instead. She thought she could do a good job with proper inspiration and enough time.
What better place to be than New York City and be a writer? She kept her small off-campus apartment in Washington Heights and went to work, writing on a blog to attract attention and working on her version of The Great American Novel(tm) — well, at least the first 50 pages of it. She wandered around and sat in coffee shops and people watched for inspiration, and took walks in Central Park. She had borrowed for her college living expenses so she had enough money for several months’ food and rent, and enjoyed her freedom from classes and opportunities to truly explore herself.
During that dreamlike spring, Sandy found herself in front of a mirror and was actually pleased with what she saw. Her 5’5 slender build carried her fashionable brown skirt and turquoise blouse with vest well, the curve of her hips feminine but not too wide, and her C-cup bust generous but not stripper fake chic. The turquoise blouse and tan vest helped her blue eyes to sparkle, and she had draped a nice thin-link golden necklace and golden hoop earrings to complete the picture. She adjusted her long blond hair to spill down over her right shoulder to emphasize its color. Her mane of glory stopped just at the top of her bust, which the vest emphasized without being crude. Her mid-calf black boots, a fashion necessity in New York City, completed the look. Yes, I’m hot without being slutty. Perfect!
Sandy often headed out to a bar in the evenings to do some people watching, and maybe see if there were any cute guys about. She would get hit on regularly, but was reluctant to go out much because she didn’t want a relationship to distract from her writing. But it was nice to be pursued, and on occasion to be caught. Plus, you know, free drinks. She knew if she went back to their apartment, she’d go all the way, and didn’t want that level of commitment.
So the few times a guy was cute and persistent enough to win her over, they snuck into a stall of the men’s room and she would suck them off. She loved sucking on cock, the feeling of them getting hard in her mouth and its smoothness as it slid in and out of her mouth. She liked looking up along their torso and make eye contact as she sucked hard on their cock, and watch the pleasure echo in their eyes. And when they gripped her hair and started humping her mouth, yeah, she was driving him wild. Her favorite part was when the guy threw his head back in pleasure after watching her suck him, like he couldn’t take it anymore and was trying to last longer. And when his hips started to buck involuntarily and he made that scrunched face that signaled an immanent cum shot, mmm, she loved that had driven him wild and he had lost control. She always swallowed for fear of getting something on her clothes. And because she liked the taste of cum! She would have the escort ataşehir guy finger her or eat her out afterwards and it always took very little to get off at that point. She tried not to do that too much, but she had a strong sex drive and damn, it was fun!
Sandy left a trail on conquests all across the Upper West Side, guys who left the evening happy but begging for more and wanting her phone number and to go out again. She always said no, and went back happy to her apartment, having cum but still kept her focus on writing and not guys. And if she ever absolutely needed cock between her legs, she stayed in and used her 8″ dildo while calling herself slut and telling her to take it deep and hard. It turned her on to talk dirty, even if only to herself. Whenever she got around to finding a man (presumably after she finished her novel), she wanted one that understood her need for that in bed. She didn’t want a saint who only did missionary. She wanted a man who would grab her hair and take her hard while reminding her what a slut she was because he was fucking her six ways from Sunday. And be handsome, rich, and a perfect gentlemen outside of the bedroom, of course. Sandy snorted at her daydreams sometimes, what a princess fantasy she had!
It was six months after leaving Columbia that Sandy realized she hadn’t carefully thought through the whole dropping out thing. When she opened a letter and read that her student loans were now due she realized she had been foolish with what little money she had. Staying in Manhattan and wandering through life like she had all this money! I tried to live the life only those stupid trust fund babies can. The reality of her dwindling savings, a high rent and a $850/month student loan payment required a significant rethinking of her plans. Sandy decided she not only had to find a job and do the writing thing in the evenings or whatever, but cut her expenses.
She wrote to the loan company and asked for an extended payment plan, all the while cursing the federal law that made student loans non-dischargeable in bankruptcy. She would have been better off buying a huge house and defaulting than going to college, for this student loan debt would follow her in full for the rest of her life even if she got other debts wiped out. Not something the career counselors tell you! Maybe they shouldn’t try to make everyone go to college! She looked for something in the outer boroughs but found Brooklyn was almost as bad as Manhattan, and everyone seemed to have rent-controlled apartments, which drove up the rent for the non-lottery winners who didn’t live in those neighborhoods a few decades ago. Bastards!
Eventually she bowed to the reality that the City was hideously expensive and not really set up for someone who isn’t either rich, wanting to make it big, or have already been there for a while. She broadened her search for both a place to stay and a job, looking out in Jersey and on Long Island for something. She saw an ad for a roommate out in West Islip and hopped on the train out there to try and get it.
Sandy knocked on the door at the appointed time, and met Amanda. Amanda was a few inches taller than Sandy, a dark brunette whose outfit emphasized her large 34DD bust — and deemphasize her rather plain face, airhead eyes and not-so-intelligent conversation. Amanda had a charming, almost childlike way about her, even though she was as close to Sandy’s opposite as you could get and still be a woman.
The studio apartment was small but clean. There were matching single beds next to each other, like a dorm room. In the northern corner near the entryway was a small bathroom that promised the only privacy in the apartment, and contained a stand-alone bathtub and leaky metal shower rod and clear plastic curtains dangling from wires attached to rings on the ceiling. The toilet and sink were so close together you could pee and brush your teeth at the same time. The “kitchen” on the eastern wall consisted of a small faded tan refrigerator with ice box on top, a natural gas stove that left a sticky residue on everything around it, and small blue Formica counters and stiff wooden drawers covered in too many layers of paint. Next to it was a small table — almost a desk, really — where one could eat meals. Two beds and dual cheap armoires took up the remainder of the western wall where the bathroom was. A couch and swivel chair in front of a TV on a cheap stand rounded out the western wall, covering the narrow space between.
It was heartlessly plain, only designed for one person instead of two, in the middle of nowhere, and all that Sandy could afford. “Looks great!” she said with false vigor, but Amanda seemed not to notice. The deal was struck, and Sandy made arrangements to move in the next weekend. The apartment was admittedly narrow and risked depression from its design, but the two windows on the southern wall gave enough natural light during the day and streetlight at night that it was never so dark as to overemphasize its kadıköy escort bayan smallness. Sandy made it work because, well, she had too — she couldn’t afford anything other than the shared expense of $300 a month for rent.
Sandy took a job being a waitress at a loud blues bar in Northampton called the “A Sharp.” She got good tips because she got the orders right and she flirted playfully with the guys. She made it a rule not to let herself get picked up there, although a few tempted her. Don’t pee where you sleep her mom had always told her. It paid enough for the rent and some food, but not quite enough for the student loans. Her slow collapse into financial ruin was a horrible burden on her mind, like a permanent weight pressing down on her.
Amanda was as outgoing as her outfits suggested, and would invite people over. Sandy thought their place too small to host themselves, let alone company, but didn’t want a fight and so went along with it all. Overall, the parties were not too disruptive, and Sandy tried to engage with the guests. But Amanda’s taste in men was similar to her clothes — cheap and all about the exterior. At the end of one party when Sandy had to go down to the Denny’s four blocks away so Amanda could have privacy with what she could only call a Guido, she decided that it was time to straighten some things out with Amanda.
The next day, with the smell of Italian guy still in the air, Sandy asked Amanda to not bring men home or keep them there. “Our apartment is too small for that, and I don’t have enough money to sit in Denny’s. Plus I need to sleep, and I want to write on occasion, so can we not host things anymore?”
Amanda acted surprised that Sandy had not been enjoying the parties. “But lots of guys have been hitting on you! What’s the problem?”
“I don’t want to be hit on in my own room. I mean, I’m fine with dating guys, but not here, ya know?” Her memory flashed to one particularly memorable session in a bar bathroom when the guy had dumped such a huge load in her mouth that she had nearly spilled, and he had snapped a picture of her with cum on her lips while calling her slut and it had nearly made her cum right there, and blushed while trying to push those images out of her mind.
“Um, ok I guess. I mean, I understand, and plus they are always inviting me back to their place anyway, so not a big deal” Amanda replied with a slightly hurt look.
“Look, Amanda, have you ever thought about what you are going to do next? I mean, why not just get a solid boyfriend instead of all these hookups?”
“I’ve tried, and it usually doesn’t last. I don’t want to be dumped, so this is easier. And um, I know that guys just like me for my boobs and body and whatever. I know I’m not some honor girl scout or whatever, so I’m not going to pretend I’m a smarto. When a guy chooses me, it ain’t ’cause I’m a rocket scientist or whatever, and I’m cool with that. I’m not choosin’ him for bein’ smart either — he just has to look good and be good in bed!”
Sandy gave Amanda her I’m-a-friend-who-understands sympathetic look, and let the conversation die. Oh brother. She may be three years older than me, but in many ways she’s still an impulsive teenager. Well, I can’t run her life. Heck, I’m not doing a good job running mine, Sandy thought.
So the new routine became Amanda usually staying over with some guy on Friday and Saturday nights, usually with different guys. She would return home on Sunday with a hangover and new stories to tell. Sandy never knew when that was going to happen, since Amanda frequently picked the guys up (or was picked up) at work, and their Saturday shift lasted until 2am. Sandy always patiently listened about the great new guy Amanda had met, and the fun they had had — sometimes in too-intimate detail. They never last, but I guess she prefers it that way. Sandy asked during one particularly hung-over Sunday morning session if Amanda planned to keep doing this until she was old and wrinkled. But Amanda just blithely assumed that all would continue as it had until she decided to stop, and then would snap her fingers for a good husband that would provide for her. That girl lacks foresight and ambition, and that’s going to cause her a lot of problems.
Sandy, on the other hand, had ambition to spare. She worked every evening shift (better tips) until closing time. She slept late given her hours, and spent a few hours writing, hoping to sell something to help with her student loans. It wasn’t much, but Sandy enjoyed the freedom it afforded her. And it wasn’t that she couldn’t get a date or guys — certainly, with her long flowing blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, engaging smile, ample bust, pale skin and shapely legs, she had been propositioned many many times before. Indeed, it was usually the opposite problem — getting guys to leave her alone. But they were always the guys who frequented the bar, and Sandy found them lacking in either brains or ambition — usually both. Nope, not for me she would escort bostancı think, and politely decline. It usually didn’t cause a problem, because Amanda was ready and willing to swoop in and seemingly date anyone at any time.
But the interest rates on her student loans fluctuated upwards, and the waitressing job plus the few short articles she had sold to women’s magazines now wasn’t even close to enough to pay the rent, the loans, and keep food on the table. Her family offered to help her with some sort of monthly stipend, but Sandy certainly wasn’t going to ‘run back home to Momma’ after surprising everyone by jumping off the Ivy League track she had been on.
There were many nice houses at her end of the Island, full of high-income workers who spent nearly all their time in the City and only saw daylight on the Island during the weekend. Sandy decided to start a cleaning service for extra money and went house-to-house offering to come by and clean at least once a week (if not more) to ready the home for its City-dwelling inhabitants. As part of her effort, Sandy adopted a “work” wardrobe of either black slacks or skirt and a crisp white top. The visual suggested both professionalism (she wasn’t just a kid looking for work) and cleanliness, and it worked. The fact that her hair was set off nicely by the white shirt, which hugged her rather sensuous figure, didn’t hurt either.
She quickly picked up several houses with young professionals from the city who didn’t have the time or inclination to clean their houses. Oddly, Sandy had more women customers than men, although the men were usually messier when they did hire her. Perhaps the women just couldn’t stand as much mess as the men. Sandy had a solid routine as to what she would do: she started in the bathrooms (best to get the unpleasant part out of the way first), scrubbing out the toilets, sink, tubs and showers; moved to the kitchen and hit the counters and floor (sometimes doing some dishes as a freebee — it frequently led to nice tips and even referrals), then to the bedrooms (limited vacuuming and making the beds — people didn’t like strangers in their bedrooms much, she found) and finally to the other general areas of the house, such as living room, dining room or entertainment room.
Some of the houses were rather large, but Sandy became an expert at efficient cleaning methods, and once she got a house in a routine — usually after 4 visits or so — the house didn’t get dirty enough to be a problem. Her average cleaning time was 2 hours per house, 3 for the big ones. She typically hit 4 houses a day, starting at 8am, and wrapped up around 5pm before the City dwellers made it home. She then took a 2-hour dinner break before heading off to work at the A Sharp until midnight on the Sunday – Thursday and 2am on Fridays and Saturdays, and then repeat.
It was a hard slog, but Sandy felt a true sense of satisfaction at handling her own debts and pulling herself out of the hole she had unknowingly dug at Columbia. Her business grew over the next four months, to the point where Sandy was able to pick and choose her customers, and was dropping out the nitpicky group (again, usually women) who asked for the equivalent of a spring cleaning every time through. It was after firing one such woman that Sandy ran across the new client that caused everything to change.
He met her at the door and invited her inside when she rang the doorbell. “Hi, my name is Alan Reed. Are you Sandy Hancock?”
At her nod, he continued. “I’m looking for someone to take care of my house when I’m in the city. I’m a banker there and I tend to work long hours, so your help would be greatly appreciated” he said. Then he added with a lopsided grin, “plus, I’m not very good at it.”
Sandy felt a flutter in her heart when she met Alan for the first time. It was odd, because she had other single men as clients and several of them were good looking. But for some reason, he was the one who caught her attention. His dark brown hair and strong features, including a prominent nose and heavy eyebrows, emphasized his masculinity, but his eyes (they seemed blue, but would change color depending on the clothing he wore) sparkled with hidden amusement or a shared joke, and his mouth curved in a sensual ridge in the middle. He sometimes met her coming home on the weekends when she was wrapping up at his house — a 3 hour job, for it had a library and entertainment center to go with 3 bedrooms, even though he lived alone. He was unfailingly polite to her, and paid a focused attention to her that made her suspect that he was attracted to her. She had caught a few lingering glances from him at her cleavage or rear as she moved and he thought she wasn’t looking. It’s too bad that I met him like this Sandy thought with regret on her way home that evening.
Amanda reacted with surprise and joy when Sandy confided in her the details of her new customer and her reaction to him. “OhmyGod, that is so awesome! You have been dateless for, like, FOREVER now DESPITE me bringing round lots and lots of perfectly cute guys at the bar or around or whatever, and you finally meet a guy at his house of all places! So when are you going to go out with him? Do you need me to cover a shift for you at the A Sharp?”
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32