Chapter 1

With Harriett away, the not-so-mousy Mr. Marcus will play. On this occasion, with himself, until an unexpected visitor arrives, mirroring the on-screen erotica he was planning on enjoying. It's not a picture of Dorian Gray in the attic. Mr. Marcus continues to age, while the ladies seem to be younger.

Harriett was on her first solo business trip, leaving me alone with a list of chores she expected to be completed before she returned. Instead of fixing the faulty master bathroom shower as she'd requested, I was perched on the edge of my couch, drooling over an old porno flick I'd stored in the attic.

I always thought it was odd that the previous owner had built an finished room in the attic, bigger than a large closet, but only accessible through a trap door in the ceiling of the upstairs hallway. The pitched roof made standing up straight impossible for any adult, so it could have been a child's playroom, but completely inconvenient. We didn't use it for that precise reason. So when I was looking for a place to stash my porn tapes, foreign adult magazines and predictable erotic paperback books, the main attic beyond the finished room was an easy choice. The only problem was getting the ladder, climbing up, walking stooped or crawling through the dusty unused space, through a three-foot access panel in the wall leading to the main attic, to retrieve the item desired.

I could hardly bring any of my erotic treasures out when Harriett was around, and if Annie was in the vicinity, she'd jump on my lap and fuck the daylights out of me, preventing me from reading a magazine or book or seeing a movie from start to finish. Not a bad alternative, but back braincells told me not all that healthy either.

The heroine in the video I'd chosen, or more properly the fuck object, was a school girl, alone with some school administrator, unbuttoning her starched white blouse for no good reason except to titillate the viewer. Her hands were working the buttons when the doorbell rang. Damn! Why does this happen every time? Can't people just leave me alone to my self-pleasuring?

I pressed STOP, pulled up my pants and hastily zipped.

Standing on the other side of our front door was an angel - blonde hair cascading around a pure face with wide blue eyes, a pert nose and sparkling white teeth. "Mr. Marcus?"

I would have answered to any name, just to speak with this young lady. She wore a blazer, white blouse and a plaid skirt that rode high on her thighs. Oh yes, and white stockings that ended just below her knees. A Catholic schoolgirl outfit if I'd ever seen one, and I had, moments ago on my television set. "I'm here for my ministry."

Damn! Someone of the cloth would have the pleasure of this young lady's company. "You must have the wrong house. I'm no preacher. I'm not even Catholic. Or Protestant. Or any of those varieties."

She giggled, a chirp from heaven, and put her fingertips to her mouth. "You're so silly. Your wife is Harriett, right?"

I nodded.

Her knees touched as she wavered ever so slightly, side to side. "Your wife arranged for me to do my ministry with you, at your house. Ministry is service."

Harriett arranged for this young lady to service me? No, can't be. What in the world -

"Can I come in? Since I only have an hour, I'd like to get started." Without waiting, she wiggled past me. I stood speechless at her pendulum hips. I pushed the door shut and followed her towards the living room. I'd stopped the movie, so the TV screen was black.

"Harriett never mentioned you." I scratched my head. "So, how does this service thing work?"

"As part of my senior curriculum, I have to perform a ministry. Your wife was on the list of candidates that were assigned to me. I'll come by, once a week, and help out. You know, cleaning or cooking, whatever you need."

"Really?" What I needed was for her to fall on her knees in front of me and suck my dick. Was my erection visible? This was either going to turn out really good or really bad. Cook, hmm? I had been planning to defrost something Harriett had prepared in advance, or give up and order a pizza.

"In your wife's reply, she said something about cleaning her upstairs office. Maybe I should do that today, since she was specific. Can you show me where the cleaning supplies are, and I'll get started?" She walked past me towards the kitchen, as if she owned the place.

"Harriett doesn't have an office." One of my ongoing complaints was about our house being too small. Despite two stories, the designers had put only three bedrooms on the second floor. One was Annie's, another was ours, and the third was our mandatory guest room, with my computer wedged into the corner.

She bent over to pull up a sagging stocking. Her skirt rode up, revealing panties with a picture of a cat's rear end. Character undies for a girl this age? What age was she, exactly? She said 'senior.'

"You know, I didn't get your name," I said.

She straightened, smoothed the skirt over her ass and turned, so I could see her chest in profile. A bit more than a handful, I estimated. "Inga."

"The cleaning supplies are in the tall cabinet," I pointed, "but you must have misunderstood. Harriett doesn't have an office."

Inga rummaged through the supply cabinet, extracting a broom, a dustpan, a mop, a bottle of general purpose cleaner, a bucket and a few rags. "She said it was on the third floor." She walked past, heading for the staircase.

"Our house is only two stories -" And then it hit me. Harriett was going to turn the useless space into her office. I couldn't picture leaving the ladder in place in the hallway, effectively blocking normal movement to and from bedrooms and bathrooms. Did she have plans for some jury-rigged stairway? Sitting at a desk would work, but she couldn't stand erect and walk around. On the other hand, Harriett was shorter than me.

The ladder was still in the hall, leaning against the wall so I could get past, but I'd closed the trapdoor, to keep the dust contained. Under normal circumstances, if Harriett saw less than the average accumulation when she returned, there would be questions. "Why did you go into the attic?" Which would lead to a search, which would uncover my stash of porn. At least with this cleaning, that problem would disappear. Damn, had I closed the access panel? I was positive.

Inga stood directly below the trapdoor. She pointed straight up. "Up there?"

I nodded.

She struggled with the ladder, not asking for help, and me not offering. "How do you -" The top of the ladder bumped the trapdoor, and it swung open. The one improvement I'd made over the old latch was a weight-balanced mechanism that took no effort.

Inga climbed the ladder. I walked up and held the side rails, to steady it. Actually, to get an up-skirt glimpse of her legs.

"Oooh, it's filthy up here," she said.

So were my thoughts, as I examined every inch of her shapely legs, extending all the way up to her firm ass cheeks, and that damn cat's rear end.

I didn't move until the last minute as she came down. Off the ladder, she shrugged off her blazer and folded it neatly. "I don't want to get too dirty. I have classes later today, and I'll get in trouble if my clothes are soiled."

My dick was so hard, I was sure early fluids had already soiled my jockeys.

Her hands went for the buttons of her blouse. I stood there, staring, waiting for a glimpse of young cleavage, or nipples poking at the material.

"This is a ministry, you know," Her voice was bright but scolding. "You don't have to chaperone me."

The young lady thought I was watching to be sure she didn't steal? Little did she know. "I just thought I could hand things up, so you could climb safely."

"Gee, that's nice of you." She finished unbuttoning her blouse, folded it, and piled it on top of her blazer. Her skirt slipped down at the touch of her side zipper. There she stood, in bra, panties and white stockings. The front of her panties had, what else, the picture of a cat's face, smiling. As if it had just eaten a canary. "These too," she said, rolling down the stockings. She leaned against the wall and raised one foot, spreading her thighs for the first time. I smiled, thinking about eating the treasure within. She slipped off her shoes and plucked the stockings from her ankles. Then it was back up the ladder. This time, with no skirt to impede my gawking, I focused on her ass, swaying back and forth as she ascended. "I'll dry mop first, then dust, and then wash down the floor. How does that sound?"