Okay so full confession, the agency did not send me. The agency sent nobody, because there is no agency. There is a rich man across town who keeps firing his cleaning service for gossiping, and there is me, his neighbor's cute little secret, who heard through a cracked door, because my doors are famously cracked, that he needed someone discreet. I own a maid dress. Do not ask me why a boy owns a maid dress in three sizes of confidence. Just know that when opportunity knocks, I answer it in uniform.
I showed up Tuesday at noon with a caddy of supplies I mostly knew how to use and stockings I definitely knew how to use. He opened the door, looked down at me, all five foot six of frills and fishnets and lip gloss, and he forgot how doors work for about four seconds.
"You are the maid," he said, like he was checking.
"I am your maid, sir," I said, and I curtsied. A curtsy, baby. In the doorway. I have no shame and it is my greatest professional asset.
Cleaning his house in that little dress was a performance and we both knew the choreography. Dusting the high shelves on my toes so the skirt rode up over my ass. Scrubbing his bathtub down on my knees. And the laundry basket, my signature stage, where I bent all the way over in front of him and gave my hips a slow little shake, stockings rustling, skirt up around my waist, my whole ass bouncing for him like I was getting paid per wiggle. He stopped pretending to supervise right about then. His voice came out rough. "Dicky. Turn around. Keep shaking it." So I did, hands on my knees, shaking my ass for my client like a good little maid, until I felt his hands land on my hips and pull me back against the hardest thing I have ever felt through a pair of slacks.
He walked me to the couch I had just vacuumed and I went down on my knees on his clean carpet first, because a maid services everything. I opened his slacks slow, took his cock out with both hands, and looked up at him through my lashes while I licked him from base to tip, wet and teasing, before I swallowed him down as deep as I could take him. He is thick, baby. My eyes watered. My lip gloss ended up places lip gloss has no business being, and I moaned around him because sucking a man off while he grips your hair and calls you his pretty little maid does something to a boy that goes straight between his legs. I was hard in my panties under that skirt, leaking against the lace, and he saw it, and he laughed that dark laugh and said, "Look at you. Clean my cock with that mouth, then I am going to fuck the maid."
He bent me over the arm of the couch exactly like that, skirt flipped up, stockings still on because he told me to keep them on. He worked two fingers into my ass first, slow, with the lotion from his own bathroom, stretching me while I whimpered into the cushion and pushed back for more. Then the head of his cock, and I will be honest with you, I cried out. He is not a small man and I am not a big boy, and that first slow push filled me so completely I forgot my own name for a second. He held still inside me, letting me shake around him, one hand splayed between my shoulder blades. "Breathe, pretty. Take it like my good little maid." Then he started to move, and the whole clean, quiet, expensive house filled up with the sound of him fucking me over that couch arm, my stockings slipping, my little cock bouncing useless and dripping under my skirt, his hand reaching around to stroke me in time with every thrust until I was begging in a voice I do not even recognize as mine.
He flipped me over because he wanted my face, lifted my legs in their stockings right up onto his shoulders, and slid back into me while he watched me take it. That angle, baby. That angle had me clawing the couch and coming untouched, spurting all over my own stomach and the maid dress, just from his cock hitting the spot inside me over and over while he growled that I was the best service he had ever hired. He finished inside me, deep, filling me up until it leaked out of me onto his clean couch, and then he held me there, still inside me, both of us wrecked, and said, "Same time next Tuesday. Wear the dress."
The dress is pressed and hanging in my closet right now. So here is my question for you, sweetheart. Have you ever wanted your own pretty little femboy, one who shakes his ass in a skirt for you, sucks you off on his knees, and bends over your furniture begging to be fucked? I am on PhoneBuckFuck for a dollar a minute. Call me, and I will tell you every filthy detail of what this maid does for his favorite client, and then we can decide what he does for you. If you want the prequel, read how my roommate finally walked through my cracked door, or browse the femboy phone sex page and imagine me in the skirt. Tuesdays are taken. You could be my Thursday.