Chapter 1

Caution: This Erotic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Ma/ft, Teenagers, Consensual, NonConsensual, Reluctant, Heterosexual, Fiction, Revenge, Incest, Brother, Sister, BDSM, Rough, Humiliation, White Male, White Female, Hispanic Female, First, Masturbation, Voyeurism, Big Breasts, .

Desc: Erotic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Homeless man gets to live with wealthy family in Beverly Hills.

It all began when I went after the orange.

Well, not exactly. First, Mrs. Waxenberry came rushing out of the Fresh Market with her three kids trailing along behind her like baby ducks following their momma. What I didn't know at the time was that Mrs. Waxenberry' period was upon her and she was paranoid about leaving a red trail in her wake. It had happened to her back in high school while she was dancing on stage with Jack Singletary, thinking they were Fred and Ginger, which they were decidedly not. Anyway, she was not about to let it happen again, and so, ignoring her children who had piled up on one another when she reached her BMW and abruptly stopped to fumble in her purse seeking the elusive car keys which had (as usual) hidden themselves from her grasping fingers.

It would be kind to say that Mrs. Waxenberry merely panicked, however, due to her state of pending menstruation, to reduce her to an emotional condition relating to, or induced by the god, Pan would be putting it mildly. In short, she was a heavy bleeder.

Dread, fright, alarm, horror and outright terror come to mind as better descriptors of her state of mind at that precise moment. Irrational, awkward, bad-tempered, and difficult to deal with would also be considered factors within that same state of mind.

And I chose that moment to make my unkempt presence felt. Bad timing? It couldn't have been worse. All I wanted to do was what I had been doing for several weeks – helping out with the grocery bags while she opened the car, set the kids in and hand the goodies to her so she could place them into the back of her SUV.

"Hi," I said. Thinking it as good an opening line as a homeless person might use to reduce the obvious prejudices' people seem to have against us when they actually see us.

Her subsequent scream, and those that followed, could have been used as new models for alarms in Kansas, Texas and Missouri to warn the good folks in those places of approaching tornados.

Needless to say, Mrs. Waxenberry dropped the groceries, along with her purse on my foot. Wonder of wonders, the car keys plopped out and landed by my toes.

Still screaming, she snatched the keys and jammed them into the car's lock, promptly snapping the key off without having opened the door.

People took note of her actions and began approaching. To their credit, none of them saw me as Jack-the-Ripper, or any of his descendants. But Mrs. Waxenberry never stopped wailing. I took her hand in mine and pressed the button on the remote she held clenched in her fist. The door lock sprang up and I opened the door for her. Once she was safely seated in her car she shut up.

The first of the by-standers arrived as I ushered the children into the back seat; leaving it to Mrs. Waxenberry to set them straight as to which car seat which child sat in. Of course I hadn't reckoned on her state of mind, she had stopped screaming, but was still in full panic mode.

I did take some consolation in the fact that I hadn't done anything wrong, other than utter the singular word, "Hi," and set about gathering her spilled groceries. I still think that the first arrivals thought I was her husband and we had had some marital confrontation. And as I think about it now, the kids − all three of them − seemed decidedly unperturbed about matters. That would indicate, or seem to at any rate, that they had witnessed similar exhibitions on their mother's part in the not too distant past.

But I digress.

After placing her groceries into bags as best I could and placing the bags in her BMW, I spied an orange just under the wheel of the car next to hers. I knelt down and reached for the orange − and at that exact moment − the driver of the car took off, running over my hand and making orange juice out of the orange.

It was my turn to scream. For some reason my outburst caused the driver to put his vehicle in reverse, and he ran over the hand a second time. I passed out at that point and am still grateful for having done so.

The driver, one Warren Klugman, was if possible, more horrified than me, and rushed to my side, spouting words of encouragement.

"Call a fucking ambulance!" I murmured.

"Yes, yes, of course," he replied, and a moment later he was shouting for someone to "Call a fucking ambulance."

I blacked out, and on awakening, found a paramedic at my side, asking if I had medical insurance.

I refused to answer him. I, of course, had no such thing. I had been unemployed for seven months at this time and any funds that I might have had were long gone. I had been working at the local newspaper in the advertising department, but when the ads began to dwindle, people were let go; and I was one of the first to go.

Suddenly in my right ear I heard a voice saying: "I'll pay. Don't worry, I'll pay for everything!"

It was an angelic voice with what I thought a certain heavenly quality to it.

I passed out again when the paramedic did something to my hand, and woke up in the hospital only to see Klugman standing at my bedside.

"Who are you?" I said.

"I'm the crazy nut who ran over your hand."

"Twice," I said.

"Warren Klugman's my name ... did you say 'twice?'"

"You ran over my hand twice. Forward and back. If I hadn't screamed louder than that nut job in the BMW, you might have run over it again. What's wrong with you people?"

"Oh," he said, and then seemed to brighten somewhat. "That woman..." he said, and reached into his pocket and handed me two-one dollar bills. "She wanted you to have this," Klugman said. "For helping her with the car and all," he finished lamely.

"I ... um, want you to know that I'm taking care of your medical bills," he added quickly. "So, don't worry about a thing."

I saw several beads of sweat on his upper lip, and decided to test him. "You think I won't sue? You look like you've got money, why wouldn't I sue?"

"Sue? I ... I hadn't thought of that. Should I call my lawyer?"

"Why ask me if you should call him?"

"I ... I ... I..." Klugman appeared incapable of responding and so I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep. Whatever they'd given me for the pain in my broken hand was wonderful stuff, and I hoped I could find out what it was and where I might get more of it. But the clouds of sleep came and off I went.

When I woke up I was still in the Emergency Room, with the usual accelerated activity going on around me. I lay on a gurney, surrounded by a closed curtain. My hand hurt like hell. The first sounds that were recognizable came from the crazy klutz, Klugman.

"What should I do? I mean, what could I do? I ran over the guys hand ... Of course someone called an ambulance ... I panicked and told him I'd pay his medical costs ... I don't know ... No, it was the right thing, I mean; it is the right thing ... No I haven't ... Is he a good lawyer?"

And so it went. I guessed it was Mrs. Klugman on the other end, bombarding her husband with questions he had no answer for. A few short minutes later the curtain parted and an Indian doctor stepped up to the gurney and told me I had a badly broken hand, needed lots of bed rest and would be fine in about four or five weeks.

Klugman overheard him and chirped, "Great, that's great, wow, it's not all that bad."

"What do you mean, it's not that bad?" I said. "I'm a homeless guy. I need both hands to eke out any kind of subsistence in this fuckin' city."

I think it was my use of the word subsistence that threw him off balance, I never asked so I don't know that for a fact, but what followed certainly convinced me it was.

First of all, he apologized over and over, he hadn't seen me. He had no idea I was picking up an orange. He hadn't known he'd driven over the hand twice until I told him, and he couldn't understand how he'd managed to do it.

"Mr. Klugman," I said mustering up as much sincerity as I could. "I appreciate your picking up my medical bills. But might I suggest something to substantially lower your costs?"

"Sure ... certainly ... what?"

"Every day I stay here in the hospital will cost you a small fortune. All I need is bed rest. Why not let me stay at your place?"

"That ... that's a great idea! We have plenty of room and my wife shouldn't mind too much."

"But she would mind my coming home with you?"

"She minds anything I do, except the paycheck I bring home."

"Oh, well..."

"But I like it! Your idea, that is. I could use someone to talk too. Someone to bounce ideas off of, you know?"

I nodded; words might only have served to defeat my purpose.

And so it came to pass that an hour or so later, I left the wheelchair at the entrance to the hospital and stepped into Klugman's Mercedes.

Off we went, with him chattering all the way, telling me about the members of his family who would no doubt, welcome me with open arms.


MRS. KLUGMAN

It didn't quite work out that way. Sheila, the wife, a slightly overweight brunette I guessed to be in her mid-forties, greeted me as if I was bringing the bubonic plague into her home. Klugman ignored all the signals she was sending and ushered me into the nearest chair which was in his living room.

We, Mrs. Klugman and I, studied one another. I don't know what she thought of me ... well I can guess, but can't see myself writing about it. On the other hand, Sheila, as I came to call her, when I wasn't addressing her as the Goddess of Bitching; had distinctively Jewish features. That is to say, her nose had been straightened and was now long and delicate. She had a heart-shaped face, long black hair that bobbed over her forehead. Her eyes were set wide apart and slightly tilted and her gaze was direct, frank, unabashed, one might say, filled with daggers that failed to pierce my heart but had ripped Klugman's to pieces many times over.

She also had dazzling white teeth, no doubt caped, whitened and paid for by my new buddy, Warren Klugman. And did I already mention she was about fifteen pounds overweight?

After tempering several scathing remarks about bringing home riff-raff, she left Warren and me to, "sort things out." By that I assume she meant for him to find me a flop house to reside in while I recovered from my hand injury.

Warren, who I was finding to be a genuinely nice guy, bade me sit down in his favorite easy chair, gave me what he professed to be a bona fide Cuban cigar, took one for himself, and carefully lit both of them.

I mimicked his actions as he smoked the cigar. I smoked cigarettes when I could, but being among the vast group of unemployed, it wasn't all that often that I had enough money to buy them. Thus far, I had been able to resist picking butts off the street and relighting them like some of my acquaintances were fond of doing.

All in all, I thoroughly enjoyed the Cuban cigar, although I can't say that I was able to distinguish the superior qualities Klugman kept referring to. But I nodded and grunted when appropriate and he seemed satisfied that I was enjoying it as much as he was.

"So..." I said, after a minute or so had gone by without Sheila's reappearing. "The wife lets you smoke cigars in the living room, eh?"

"Oh, no!" he said quickly, as he looked around to make sure Sheila wasn't about to return. Then pointing to a strange looking device implanted in the ceiling just over our heads, he said, "I had that odor remover put in a year ago. Cost me $5000, but it's worth every penny. Sheila has no idea that I smoke the occasional Cuban in the room." He paused, and then added, "She'd take my head off if she knew."

"Aren't you taking a chance right now?"

"I don't think so. She's pissed at me bringing you here. She's off sulking, or going on a shopping spree.

I nodded understandingly and took in my opulent surroundings. I could see a rather large swimming pool through one of the many over-sized windows in the room and wondered if I would get to make use of it. (I loved to swim, and was fairly good at it, having been a lifeguard in high school and early college years.)

"Pretty big place you have here, Warren."

"Um, about 5500 square feet," he offered.

Since we were in Beverly Hills, I knew my best buddy had to be loaded with dough, and so I put it to him: "You must be loaded, Warren. Just what do you do for a living?"

He smiled happily, and replied, "I'm a logistical middleman."

Well that took me back. "I don't understand, what exactly is a logistical middleman?"

Warming to the subject, Warren put down his cigar and began a lengthy explanation, which I will try to summarize for you, the reader.

"I spent my early years after college working in the Purchasing and Transportation organization of a major 500 corporation. While there I came to become involved in international shipping. It's a complicated process, requiring either extensive logistical knowledge, or being able to rely on capable personal in organizations specifically trained in international shipping regulations.

"I should explain by adding that each country has its own rules and regulations as regards allowing materials in and out of their respective countries. This, of course, complicates things for anyone wanting to ship, or receive goods from a variety of countries around the world. Obviously, years before, groups were formed that could deal with such matters. Where I saw a niche, was in all the Fortune 500 companies that were rapidly downsizing their organizations and all but shutting down their own logistics departments. I had experience in dealing with the presidents and vice-presidents of many 500 companies. I approached them, needing only one or two to listen to my idea. It was a simple one. Inasmuch as they had no logistical personnel, I would fill that void on their behalf ... for a fee. They had no reason to run out and hire replacements for those they'd let go. I acted as intermediary for them with the major international shipping organizations, alerting them as to when and where shipments needed to be picked up, and in some instances, directing the 500 companies to deliver the material to them. I handled the billing, directing the 500 companies to pay the international shipping organizations, who would then pay me a percentage of each and every shipment, usually 10%, sometimes even 15%.

"It worked so well that soon the other 500 companies lined up wanting me to handle that aspect of their business. And as international trading mushroomed, so did my little enterprise.

"When you realize that there are hundreds of ships going out and in on a daily basis, you can begin to understand the volumes of freight and amount of money involved."

"You became a multi-millionaire in a hurry," I said, looking him in the eye.

"Eighteen months in I made my first million, after expenses. After all, I had to hire some people to handle the paperwork involved and accountants to track the money from 14 Fortune 500 companies now using my service."

Warren was on his way to becoming a billionaire, but as I was soon to learn, he was unhappy. His family life was in tatters. His wife ruled the roost and he saw no way of wresting control away from her, nor did he want to. His children, of which there were two: Noreen, his 19 year old the daughter, and Johnny, his 18 year old son.

I sensed that Warren was enjoying himself as he told me all about his family and dysfunctional attributes; although he himself didn't quite see it that way.

His daughter was into the Goth scene. He was concerned about her recent interest in the drug culture, having successfully protected her through her high school years, he was now worried about her falling in with the wrong crowd and becoming addicted to heroin or something similar.

Johnny was another matter. Warren thought his son withdrawn, an introvert, as he put it, but what he didn't say, but revealed in other ways, was that he thought his only son and heir to the family fortune might just be a little gay.

I didn't contradict him and say there is no such thing as a little gay, but merely nodded in understanding.

Warren rang a bell and suddenly an attractive ... no, a stunningly attractive Hispanic maid appeared, and he requested she bring us some Glenfidich, with a pitcher of ice water and some glasses.

I saw her glance at me with interest and puzzlement. Evidently the Klugman's didn't have all that much company. And I was certainly not dressed properly in any event.

But she (I would soon learn her name was Consuela, and that she was a 26 year old Guatemalan immigrant.) quickly complied with Warren's request and placed a bottle of expensive scotch on a small side table, along with the requisite glasses and ice water.

I took note of her generous chest as she leaned over to place the scotch and other items on the table, and was rewarded with a brief smile before she turned away and left us alone.

"She's quite good-looking, Warren," I said just to confirm my suspicions.

"Indeed she is," he replied, leaving it there. But it was apparent that he wanted to say more on the subject, but probably felt he didn't know me well enough to trust me with that particular information.

We finished off the scotch and I declined a second Cuban cigar. My hand began to throb painfully and I asked him where I would be sleeping.

I have to say I liked his response. "We have a second master bedroom on the second floor. I want you to use it. There's an adjoining bathroom with just about anything you might need. Of course, if there is anything, anything at all, just pick up the phone and hit the intercom. Consuela ... you just met her ... will answer. Tell her what you need and she'll get it to you ASAP."

I went upstairs, found the bedroom he'd mentioned and laid down. Moments later I fell fast asleep.


The Daughter

I woke up feeling better than I had for some time. My hand didn't hurt so much thanks to the Percodan and aspirin I had taken before falling asleep. I took a shower, being careful to keep my damaged hand out of the water. It wasn't all that easy, but I was in no hurry and managed it, although my mother would have complained that I was only wasting water and not doing a thorough job of cleaning myself. But I was cleaner than I'd been in a few weeks and therefore a much happier guy as I slipped into an expensive robe and chucked all my clothing, including my shoes, into the trash, and headed downstairs, only to pause outside a slightly open bedroom.

Dare I peek inside? Of course I would, and did. And was rewarded with the sight of a lithe beauty who had to be the Klugman's daughter, standing before the bedroom mirror, darkened eyes aglow, glinting and reflecting her Gothic makeup preference for black fingernails, hair so black it had to be dyed, silver rings on each and every finger, and as the robe she was wearing slipped down until it hung loosely from her waist, two Gothic type tattoos on her back and shoulder.

I stood riveted to the spot as she began to examine her firm young breasts in the mirror. After ensuring that I was at an angle from which I couldn't be seen by her without her moving to her left, I took stock of what was being reflected back to me from her mirror image. There were no apparent piercings on her body. But I noted vivid red scratches on her back, several of which were still seeping blood, and I wondered if she had inflicted them herself. Then I saw light pink scratches and darkening bruises on her shoulders, neck, and inner arms and knew someone else had caused them. Taking a longer look at her face, I became aware that her lower lip was a little puffed, and looked as if it hurt.

She waved a hand in front of her face and stared at her large, softly up thrust breasts in the mirror, cupping one and lifting it, then letting it drop free quivering sensually before becoming still.

I moaned inwardly as she pinched a nipple. It had been months since I'd had a woman, and then it had been a hurried experience, furtive and unrewarding, as the two of us wondered if her husband, sleeping off a drunk in the next room, might discover us.

In my tumescent state my member popped out from the loosely wrapped robe and peeked into the bedroom with me. I know the damned thing can't see out of its one eye, but it certainly seemed pleased by what it was pointed at and rose to unexpected heights, causing me to tuck it back under the robe with an alarming haste.

I turned my attention back to the daughter. Had she allowed herself to be brutalized? Had she liked it? The fact that she was playing with her breasts didn't answer the questions, but then with a slightly open mouth, she watched in the mirror as she put both hands on her nipples and pinched. Her eyes were half-closed; a look of indulgent lewdness came over her face as she dug her nails into her tender, pink, pale flesh. Her nipples swelled from the pressure applied to them. She closed her eyes and shuddered. A moment later she inflicted a greater pressure on her nipples and winced from the pain. Then letting the robe fall to the floor, she ran into the bathroom and closed the door.

I had no alternative. I returned to my bedroom, went into the bathroom, sat down on the commode and jerked off, relishing the prompt relief my orgasm bought. After cleaning up after myself, I returned to the slightly opened door of the Klugman girl and looked in again.

She was back in front of the mirror, eyes half-closed, and hands visibly shaking as she studied the rest of her body. In sync with her, I saw the bruised thighs and welts on her buttocks. A deep shudder was evident the moment she spied the later marks on her ass and flanks.

Who had done this to her? I swore that moment to take revenge on whomever it was that had damaged her porcelain body like that.

I knew that many women fantasize about being a whore. Although few will admit it, every woman is secretly excited by the idea. I could only guess that this young girl had also imagined herself a prostitute, only to meet the wrong guy who had actually treated her like one.

She straightened up, and still watching herself in the mirror, leaned in until her nipples pressed against the cool glass of the mirror. Her breath was coming rapidly, leaving a little spot fogged on the mirror. With the flat of her hands, she felt her rib cage, let her hands wander down over her tautly flat stomach over several dark bruises to feel the four wavering, parallel fingernail scratch marks that started at her pubic hair and went up to her navel.

Despite having jerked off minutes earlier, I was hard again and took myself in hand and slowly stroked my erection.

Her hands were in her pubic hair now, one palm cupped her prominent mound and an outstretched finger barely touched the clitoris, a little pink bud that was oiled with her excitement and maddeningly like a ball bearing each time her finger rubbed over it. I had to restrain myself from entering the room and falling upon her.

The young girl stopped touching herself, I saw a pensive expression cross her dark eyed face, and then she crossed the room, grabbed a stool over to the mirror and stood in front of it again, taking in her long, lithe body before putting a foot up on the stool. With her knee bent, she inadvertently exposed her glistening pink pussy to my eyes.

I sucked in my breath as her eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings and she slowly and oh so fucking lewdly spread her fluted cuntal lips to the mirror's eyes.

I thought it was me willing her to go on. I doubt I had anything to do with what followed, but who knows? Without volition, her fingers began working at the sensitive little nerve bud, sending spasms of lewd pleasure rippling through her body.

Her eyes were almost closed and her nostrils were widely flared as she watched herself in the mirror. She crouched a little and slowly sank her middle finger into her wetly clasping cunt, feeling the slipperiness of the lubrication and the hot velvet walls milking her own finger. She began sawing in and out, her ripe young hips slowly and rhythmically beginning to pump in time to her strokes. She watched herself in the mirror, seemingly fascinated with the lewdness of her pumping motion.

I felt hot and feverish from the wild molten feeling stirring in my own loins.

Her orgasm was building as she increased the tempo of her fingering, pulling it out to the tip of the nail then plunging the wetly glistening finger back in again up to the palm. Her hips were pumping easily, smoothly, with a lewd fucking motion that I had once seen from a topless dancer in San Francisco.

The brazenness of her actions prodded the girl to increase the pace of her finger fucking into her own heatedly excited pussy. She crouched a little and spread her legs even more. Suddenly, her free hand was cupping her breast and squeezing the nipple, pinching it tight and sending bolts of pained sensuality through her that mingled like an explosive smoky substance in her groin, boiling, building and churning as it drove her harder and harder.

It was obviously she was about to cum.

Her nakedly voluptuous body was tense now and her heavy breasts were jiggling as she sawed her finger in and out faster and faster. Suddenly she needed even more. Her free hand left her breasts and flew down, nails savagely clawing at one cheek of her ass as she leaned forward and reached for her anus. She jumped when her outstretched fingers touched it, but her unrelenting need and the promise of untold lewd delights made her go on.

Her finger pressed against the rubbery tight ring and parted it, and her sphincter muscle closed tightly around the fingertip. A low, coarse moan escaped her throat as she watched herself in the mirror and felt the inward swelling that she knew would culminate in an orgasm.

Her finger fucked in and out of her anus, and her face contorted as she hissed in her breath and it seemed like another person who whispered, "Ooooh, so freakin' good!"

She began panting and crouching lower, splaying out her legs even more, allowing herself greater freedom to stick her other finger up her rectum. She shoved her outstretched finger all the way up her anus and moaned and wiggled with delight from the feeling it gave her. She took her finger out of her cunt only to shove three fingers into the warmly milking flesh.

My own hand was a blur as it pistoned up and down hurrying me along to my second orgasm of the afternoon. I came, this time spewing my load on the door to her bedroom while riveted on the savage jiggling and quivering of her tits as she continued with fingering of both cunt and asshole.

I saw her back arch, and knew a wave of sweet electricity was flowing through her. I saw her pelvis convulse against the mirror; saw her legs shake as she sank to her knees on the carpeted floor, panting. I saw the whites of her eyes reflected back at me in the mirror as I closed the bedroom door and wiped my semen up with the hem of my robe.


I approached Warren as soon as he returned from work later that day to ask if he had anything I might wear around the house.

It hadn't occurred to him that I might be in need of something to wear. He wrote down my shirt, pant and shoe sizes, and left the house to find something appropriate.

Two hours later I was wearing the most expensive pair of Kaki's I'd ever seen, along with a chambray shirt that must have cost as much as my last suit. There was three pair of shoes; brown loafer's, which I wore the remainder of the day, boat shoes, and a pair of black dress shoes, all of which fit perfectly, and two polo shirts, more than likely, Ralph Lauren's. Warren told me I would be fitted for several suits and sport jackets the following day at a place he knew on Rodeo Drive.


THE SON

I made my way downstairs and met Johnny Klugman, Warren's son, who greeted me affably enough and I liked him right off. He was a shy eighteen year old, with a slight case of acne and a little stutter. He was a good-looking kid and I tried talking with him at length, but he wasn't all that receptive to conversation with me and after what seemed a reasonable period, he excused himself and went upstairs to his room.


THE MAID

I had just slipped into the expensive pair of chinos and was about to pull a Ralph Lauren polo shirt over my head when the door to my room suddenly opened and the maid walked in. She appeared to be as surprised as me on finding me there.

"Oh, I'm so sorry ... I thought you were in the other room."

Since she was an attractive woman I immediately apologized and helped her save face by asking if I were in the wrong room.

"I ... I don't know, sir. Not for sure. I ... I thought I heard Mrs. Klugman mention you were in the Gray room..."

I glanced at the walls and saw that they were light lavender.

"Look I just ... what's your name? I feel awkward talking to you and not knowing your name."

"My name is Consuela Gonzales, sir."

I told her my name and saw her commit it to memory.

"Consuela, would it be easier for you if I moved my things into the gray room?"

"Oh, sir, I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

"But if Mrs. Klugman wants me in the Gray room I should be in the Gray room. Hospitality shouldn't be abused."

"I can help you move your things, sir. I see that you've injured your hand."

"Thank you, I'd appreciate it. Mr. Klugman happened to run over my hand with his car this afternoon."

"Mio Dios!" Consuela gasped and clutched my other arm.

"Oh, it hurt for a while, but it feels pretty good at the moment." I was looking directly into her deep brown eyes and realized I could very easily lose myself in them. Consuela was a Latin looker, and I liked Latin lookers. Well, I liked women in general, and after watching Klugman's daughter masturbate, I was more than a little randy.

Consuela was already picking up the articles of clothing Klugman had bought me and arranging them so they could be moved to the Gray room with ease.

She knelt down in front of me – not right in front of me- to pick up my new shoes and from that angle I could see straight down the front of her dress to her impressive breasts. Her naturally brown skin tantalized and stunned me for a brief second. I, of course, had noticed that Consuela was an attractive young woman, but given my horny condition, my dick picked that moment to pitch a tent in my new chinos.

Her large firm mounds swayed under my gaze as she picked up the shoes and placed them back in their respective boxes. As she started to rise up I caught a quick glimpse of a dark brown areola, but not any nipple; all the same I almost came in my new chinos.

Then she was standing before me, looking me in the eye. "Can you manage the shirts, sir?"

"Yes, certainly," I responded, embarrassed at having been caught peeking down her top and even more so when she noted the erection, which a moment before had been scant inches from her face.

Consuela clutched the shoe boxes to her bosom and headed for the door. I followed, holding the shirt over my tent.

On entering the gray room, I carefully closed the door behind me and tossed the shirt onto the closest chair. Consuela was bending over, placing the shoes on the floor.

I moved behind her, placed my hands on her hips as she stood up.

"What?"

I was already pulling her ass back against my hardon.

"Oh ... Mister ... there are many peoples in the house!"

That was a very promising protest. I suspected that this beauty was being poked on a regular basis by Mr. Klugman himself. I gave a small credence to her and Mrs. Klugman having a thing going on, and even less to her and either the son or daughter. Somebody was banging her. As good as she looked it was inconceivable that she was working in this household without doing someone and that had to be Klugman.

That reasoning told me that he didn't have the opportunity to bang her regularly. Mrs. Klugman was nobody's fool, and would be watching them closely. In addition they would have to contend with the kids, who might roam about and barge in unexpectedly at any time.

My own ego kicked in about then. How did I stack up against Klugman as a potential lover? Well, I had no idea about his dick size. I was more than comfortable with my own though. Point to me. What would happen if I were caught in the sack with Consuela? Worst case, I'd be out on my ass. But since Klugman was culpable in that he'd injured my hand and that he was also banging the maid, he wouldn't toss me out. Mrs. Klugman wouldn't either, although she might read me the riot act, she had no basis for going nutso over me and Consuela. In fact, it would probably relieve her of any concerns she had about her husband and the maid.

All these thoughts ran through my mind while I formulated an answer to Consuela's protest that there were other's about in the house.

"No problem," I whispered to her ear, "but please don't scream. I bet you don't have a green card, do you, Consuela?"

"How you know that?" she hissed fearfully.

"I know, and I know you fuck Mr. Klugman too."

"Consuela's eyes widened, "He tell you that?"

"One look at you and I knew, Consuela. That's all it took, was the one look." I was lying through my teeth, but he had to be the one. I doubted she'd ask Klugman if he'd told me. In her world, most men were viewed as pigs. So it figured that he'd brag about banging her to the next guy that came along.

Consuela was in no position to protest. She could scream and possibly bring Mrs. Klugman running. But what if it were one of the children that came? She didn't want that. Struggling was useless, so she pleaded, "Please, Mister, don't do this!"

I placed my good hand over her huge melons, gave them a light squeeze and nuzzled her neck.

"Why you do this to me? I'm not that kind..."

She had to turn her face to utter the words and I seized that opportunity to kiss her open mouth. I jammed my tongue into it so deeply that she couldn't force it back out.

It wasn't so much a kiss as it was my demonstrating that I had an oversized tongue and what it could do inside a body cavity. My dick was still lodged against her ass, and I dropped my hand from her breasts to her crotch and cupped her mons for a moment before returning to her pillow soft tits.

"Madre Mia, protect me!" she wailed, but didn't try to wrest herself away from me as my unerring hand found its way inside her blouse and wriggled into her bra.

"Mother of God, I ask you..." Consuela cried.

"She can't hear you, Consuela. Relax; I'm going to fuck you. I won't hurt you, and I won't tell Mr. Klugman. It will be our little secret."

"You ... you don't tell him?"

"I promise." As I uttered the words I was rolling her nipple around with thumb and forefinger.

She began to shake in fear, but managed to stammer, "O ... okay; I do it. You don't tell nobody, right?"

Taking my hand out of her bra, I grabbed her blouse and when the buttons didn't open fast enough, ripped it open, sending buttons flying. I used both hands to push her bra up under her chin, exposing those magnificent mammary globes.

About this time it finally sank in that she was about to be fucked and Consuela caved in.

"Okay ... okay ... You can have me," she sobbed. "Don hurt me! Don tell no one ... please!"

Consuela remained compliant while I pulled her bloomers off and started at her hairy pussy, although she was sobbing and muttering Spanish words I didn't recognize. My guess was that she was praying for help that wasn't coming.

I dropped my pants exposing my eager cock, and then resumed my leisurely exploration of her hairy pussy, preparing her for the inevitable. I let my fingers glide lightly over her inner thighs until I heard her moan.

"Like this, Consuela?"

"OH!" she moaned again.

I grinned at her as my fingertips barely touched the folds of her steamy sex.

Consuela sucked in her breath. She closed her eyes and spread her legs all at once.

I sank two fingers into her hairy beaver. Her arms came up and embraced me.

"You're manhood..." she started to say, but paused as she sought the right word.

"It is very big. Will you go slowly, por favor?"

"I will go slowly, yes," I said, wanting her to enjoy the fuck. After all, tomorrow is another day. Who knew when I'd get an opportunity to get laid again? If Klugman found out what I was doing, he just might be pissed off enough to do something about it.

I rubbed the head of my prick over the entrance of her well lubricated slit. Consuela raised her legs, making it even easier for me to slip it into her, and I did, going slowly as she had asked me too.

It took me three slow thrusts before I was deep inside her fiery furnace. Consuela was into it too, humping back in time with my thrusts. And since I had already watched the daughter masturbating not long before encountering Consuela, it didn't take me to long before I felt myself getting ready to unload.

One thing I didn't want was for Consuela to confront me several week from now with a lament that she was carrying my baby, so I pulled out before I came and left a gooey trail of cum all over her ta-ta's.

"You finish?" Consuela inquired lazily as I wiped my dick off on the sheet.

"Yeah, I finish," I replied.

"I didn't cum," she said accusingly. "I thought..."

"You thought what?" I asked.

"I thought with that big tool ... I would have really good one."

I felt a pang of compassion at her honesty and said, "If you want, I'll will go down on you and try to bring you to a decent climax."

"You would put your mouth down there?" she asked incredulously.

"Sure I would. Or we can do it later, say in an hour or so. I haven't had a woman in a long time, Consuela. I couldn't last very long, and I'm sorry you didn't enjoy it. But next time I'll make sure you have a special good time."

Her fingers delved into the cum on her breasts, smearing it in, as one might a skin-care product.

"Okay, I'll come to your room after dinner. Mr. Klugman has a meeting tonight.

"I'll be waiting," I said with a big grin.

I took note of my cock trying its best to rise, and showed Consuela. "He'll be a big boy then too, wait and see."

"Um," she giggled. "I think I'm gonna like you Mr. Homeless."

"Mr. Homeless?"

"Yes, that's your name, no?"

"No, it isn't my name."

"But I hear the Mrs. Say it when she talk to Mr. Klugman about you. "Mr. Homeless, she say."

"Okay, Mr. Homeless it is," I said and kept the smile on my face as she fixed the torn blouse as best she could and left me sitting on the bed with a now throbbing hand. I'd done something stupid while banging Consuela. Not that I regretted any of it.

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