Housekeeper

I've been coming to work without a bra for days.

He watches me attentively, constantly looking for the opportunity to see my breasts dancing as I move.

How they try to emerge through the neckline of my tank top when I bend over, how the fabric sticks to my skin from the sweat, and my areolas and nipples are perfectly visible in it.

The poor guy is sweating, excited.

I see his bulge under his pants.

From time to time, I wipe the sweat off my face with the bottom of my shirt, so he can see my abdomen and half of my breasts without even seeing my nipples.

Sooner or later, it ends up disappearing for a while.

I don't check it, but I'm sure he's venting in some corner.

Later it comes back again to flutter around me.

At least three times in the five hours I'm there, it eases.

How many times at the end of the day? That's what it takes to be fifteen years old.

All this is becoming more morbid to me every day.

Today, I decided to wear a short skirt and the smallest thong I have.

His little face has been a poem when he saw me with the skirt and being able to see my thighs.

I spent more time than necessary cleaning the stairs, so he could see me from below.

I bent over, squatted, looked for positions so that he could see my intimacies.

I became moist seeing how he was spying on me and that he was ogling me, my thighs, my buttocks, the crack of my ass where the string of my thong was hidden, and also my pussy, which was practically not covered by the thong.

In any case, it was buried in it.

Jesus, I'm so hot.

I'm hot, not so much because of the work itself, but because of the morbid nature of the situation.

Cold drops of sweat go down my temples, snake down my neck, divide to descend between my breasts and down my back.

Some even go between my buttocks.

I look at myself in the reflection of a glass, and my cheeks are red.

My nipples are hard.

I need them to be touched.