Page 31 of Castaway Whirlwind
“Oh, thank god.” I stumble back, sinking onto the edge of the tall, dark oak, king-sized bed with its emerald greencomforter facing a pair of glass double doors through which we can see the pool and, beyond that, the woods bordering Russell’s property. He doesn’t have a TV in his bedroom, but who needs one with that kind of view? The mattress is so soft that I’m tempted to lie back and ask if I can take a nap. I bet he’d sayyes.
Russell leans his shoulder against the doorframe, his hands pushed into the front pockets of his jeans. “This maid service…it doesn’t come with any…happy endings, does it?”
“No! I’m not a prostitute. More like a…a stripper who cleans. No touching allowed.”
He blows out a long breath. “Ok. Good.”
“But I’m also not sure what I’m doing is one hundred percent legal, so I’d rather no one find out.”
“Understood.”
We eye each other in the almost too-large bedroom with its black and white walls and decorative millwork. The teddy bear his son gave him sits on a shelf in his built-in bookcase beside the door, which makes me want to smile. I don’t.
“So, um.” I pretend to check my watch-free wrist.Time is money, and I’m wasting it. “Should I get started? With the cleaning?”
Russell presses his lips together, narrowing his eyes. I know he wants to drag me back into our earlier conversation, but I’ll leave if he does. I think he knows it, too, since he eventually nods with a resigned sigh.
“You’re not going to pass out again, are you?”
A slow shake of his head.
I’m not sure if I believe him, so I give him plenty of time to say something before I lower my arms, watching him closely for any sign he’s going to keel over. Sure, I have the option toask him if I can borrow one of his T-shirts, but then I’d have to lower my rate, which I really don’t want to do since he’s already agreed to my prices.
And also….I like how Russell flexes more of his muscles when he lowers his eyes. There’s nothing special about my body. My breasts aren’t particularly big. Neither are my hips or butt. But the way he’s staring at me…I think he appreciates what he sees, at least on the surface, and that makes my belly flutter with feelings I shouldn’t have let grow out of control for someone so much older than me. I shouldn’t have put myself in a situation that would shame my dad, either, but here we are. There’s no going back.
Russell straightens and works his jaw. “So, how does this work?”
According to the woman whose video I found, and whose entire channel of videos I’ve consumed and learned so much from, I tell him, “You’re supposed to follow me around while I clean.” My face burns when I lie about the one thing the woman says sheneverallows—which I would never allow for anyone else, either. “And it’s ok if you, um, if you touch yourself while watching me.” That should earn me a higher tip…and also, I’m just plain curious as to what that would look like since this might be my only chance to see it.
Russell’s face darkens, and he stomps out of the bedroom, furious or disgusted or both. He might as well have stomped onme.
* **
Russell
It must have been a lie when I told Layla I wasn’t going to die anytime soon because here I am on the verge of doing so when my blood pressure skyrockets hearing her whisper “touch yourself”. I race for the kitchen to pour a glass of water, turning away from her when she follows me out of our bedroom. I watch from the corner of my eye as she sorts through the cleaning supplies, grabs what she needs, and then heads toward the staircase.
She stops as if waiting for something, staring up at the second floor’s balcony overlooking the living room, then continues on. I sit my old ass down on the couch and flip through channels on the TV mounted above the fireplace, stopping on a documentary about wildlife or Ancient Egypt or something. I don’t know. I’m not paying attention, my mind a whirl of mixed emotions.
I can’t stop thinking about the things she was raised to believe and how she was punished as a child.Abused. She was abused and doesn’t even know it. It’s no wonder she lives in a constant state of guilt and anxiety. Staying with Steven when he wasn’t good enough to kiss the bottom of her boots. Refusing to slow down and take care of herself.
Our dad might have done a number on Elliott and me with his own old-fashioned views on child-rearing, but Layla’s dad makes him look like a saint, devil rest his soul.
I want to take that white teddy bear of hers and throw it in the fireplace. Replace it with one of my own. Or better yet,beher teddy bear.She can cuddle me all night long. My dick thickens at the thought.
As much as I’d love to follow Layla around while strokingmyself, I won’t. She may have given me permission to do so, but that would put me solemnly in the “creep” column and not the “you’re a good man and I can’t wait to marry you” column as I’d like to be.
Just when I think I’ve calmed down, sinking deeper into the caramel-brown couch while I stare mindlessly at the TV, Layla treads downstairs into the main living area, her hair now pulled back with a clip, the gentle slopes of all that beautiful, naked skin on display. If the pollen wasn’t so bad, I’d sit out on the back patio and enjoy a different sort of view—one that wouldn’t have me clutching my chest with heart palpitations.
The whole time Layla is cleaning the kitchen and dining area, I’m able to stay somewhat respectful and keep my eyes averted, only glancing over when she accidentally slams one of the cabinets closed.
“Sorry,” she mutters.
I grunt.
She disappears into our bedroom for long enough that I eventually nod off, wondering if she’s being intentionally slow to earn a higher payout. I hope so, though I highly doubt it.
The noise of a spinning mop bucket wakes me, and I sit up straight, finding Layla’s ditched her boots and socks. I enjoy seeing her bare feet on the floor, her breasts swaying back and forth as she mops the kitchen and makes her way into the living room.
