Hey, my name is Ampara and my husband’s name is fudge. That’s right, the piece of fudge left me stranded in Connecticut with nothing because I was standing in the way of his affair with a bottle of cheap whiskey. Anyway, where was I?
My name is Ampara and my husband’s name is asshole. I clean houses and that is the name of that game.
Si, my job is housecleaner and I am pretty sought after these days because I am good, very good at what I do. I built my reputation house by house since I have been free of Jorge Cruz, my worthless drunken X-husband. Oh, he was useful for a little while but it wasn’t long before he began to change colors like a chameleon every time he came across the slightest distraction. Women, cards, whiskey, whatever, it didn’t matter; he was off like a hound dog when he catches the scent of a scrap of meat.
Now, I don’t hate men but I have to say in seven years doing domestic work I have seen it all. Men basically are fools. They are week and they don’t have any self-control—nada. Sometimes I think Jesus Cristo took something more important from them than a stinking rib when he made Eve. He must have taken some very crucial part of Adam’s brain because men are like zombies. Oh, they work and some of them make a lot of money and they know how to do things—with tools but when they smell that sweet meat, they turn into the walking dead.
In the last seven years I have gone through six homes—this is my seventh. The first three jobs went fast, a matter of months and I was running from one to the next and then to the next. I didn’t know what I was doing then. I let the stupid husbands put me in bad situations because they couldn’t control themselves.
They can’t seem to resist me. I am thirty-six years old and it is like they just want to eat me up. They love my coffee skin and, I don’t know, maybe I smell like sex but whatever it is, they can’t seem to keep their little minds off me when I am around. I know I have a good body and I’m pretty and…well, I am a flirt too—always have been. When I was a kid I couldn’t keep the boys away and when I was a teenager it was their fathers who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. So, at an early age I learned how to tease them and that is how I kept them at bay, how I controlled them and, later, how I got my revenge. But still, that does not give them permission to do the things they do to me--does it? Well, does it?
I won’t even tell you about the first family I worked for. I lasted two months before, “Adios, Ampara is out of here.” Lets just say I had it with her husband always creeping behind me, creeping in the bushes outside my bathroom trying to see my culo. I finally told him he could, “bessame culo” and what does the fool do? He kneels down and pleads with me to let him. What’s a girl to do? I liked the idea of this pitiful man on his knees pleading to kiss my beautiful ass so I bent over the kitchen counter, not so far like I was giving up too much to him, but kind of erect and in control and maybe a little aggravated too.
“Put your mouth where my money is, Mister Hooper,” I said patting my round ass.
It tickled a little at first when he pushed my sundress up and began to investigate with his fuzzy face. But it didn’t take long before he was licking, sucking and kissing me back there like it was his first day in heaven. I let him have his wish because I knew that this was going to be my last day in hell. He was going to be a very disappointed man when there was no Ampara’s culo for him to stick his tongue in anymore. “Goodbye, Mister and Missis Hooper.”
The next man was even worse. I wasn’t there a week before I notice the little hole in the bedroom wallpaper over the headboard. It wasn’t even that little but it was in the pattern in the wallpaper and right beside the Crucifix. I hadn’t noticed it before but I saw it when I was fucking my pussy with my feet up on the wall over the headboard. I saw it when I moved the cross but I didn’t care; I just pushed that big fat candle inside like I was hate fucking him to death. I knew he knew I knew he was there peeking at me because I could just feel it. He was always squeamish after that when he was around me. Now that I knew what he was up to I began to torment him whenever his wife wasn’t around. I’d give him peeks down my open blouse or down the back of my shorts at the little black rose tattoo at the top of the crack of my ass. I knew I was working him up for later when he’d peek at me in my bedroom.
Then I found another hole in my bathroom wall, right behind the toilet--my bathtub was directly in front of the toilet. He didn’t even try to hide that one. I knew by then there was nothing to do but give him a show every time I used the tub or the toilet. Oh, I knew when he was back there. My bathroom was back to back with the guestroom bathroom and I could here him straddling the toilet and yanking his cock. Let him look. I took very long baths and shaved my brown legs. I’d sit on the edge of the tub, facing the toilet and shave my pussy as bare as a little girl’s while he watched. I know he had a perfect view of my asshole and puzzy when I peed because his little peephole was just at the right height. I bet he actually thought I straddled the toilet and squatted over it like some peasant women. Sometimes I would even crouch and spread myself open so he could practically look inside me.
I figured out that he had another one of his peepholes, only this one much bigger, behind the full-length mirror in my dressing room—two-way mirror, what do you know? Well, that was all Ampara needed to know. I started taking my shower every night at the same time. I’d come out into the dressing room soaking wet and wrapped in a big soft towel. It wouldn’t take him long to switch from one peephole to the next. Then the show would pick up again, long involved shows—me drying myself very slowly and then baby powder or maybe oils or cream. When I did myself, fucked myself with one of my new vibrators, I would hear him back there jacking for all he was worth. The floor would even vibrate with his violence.
The holes kept appearing all over the house and I just kept on driving him crazy until one day in front of him I told his wife I had to leave.
“My sister had an accident at work and needs my help very much.” His wife had always been nice to me so I felt guilty leaving her.
“Maybe I can come back after she is on her feet again.” But I knew I’d never go back there.
“Oh, Ampara, we are so sorry to hear this about your sister. I hope she will be well soon. You know we will miss you dearly, won’t we, Henry?”
“uh…yes dearly,” the worm mumbles but he looks pale as the blood is draining from his face.
“Oh by the way, Mrs. Smith, you better call a paperhanger. There are so many holes in your walls, the house is beginning to look like a piece of Swiss cheese.”
Her little shit husband looked like he was going to have a conniption fit as he scurried off, probably to start spackling up his spy holes.
The next ones were all the same: house three, the panty thief who kept stealing my panties, not the clean ones but the dirtiest ones from my hamper; house four, the pervert who kept appearing naked in doorways, wagging his pathetic penis at me while his wife was just down the hall doing something else—he thought he had me by the cajones and that I couldn’t do anything about it. I called the police and pretended to be one of the lesbian couple next door. I knew he was doing the same thing to them at his bedroom window.
House five was single old Mr. Footsie. That wasn’t his name but that’s what I called him. He couldn’t keep his eyes, and then his hands, and eventually his tongue off of my pretty feet, no matter how smelly or dirty. It was nice having my feet licked clean and getting pedicures and polish from him but I got tired of it. Yes, they were all the same but I learned my lessons, had my fun and then Ampara moved on to bigger and better things.
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