by Jessica Dondershein
Being a door-to-door cosmetic saleswoman isn’t easy. More women work out of the home these days, so fewer are around when I stop by. Cosmetics are one of life’s pleasures, and these same working women often buy their favorites at the mall, choosing name brands, chic, expensive brands. But I have my own route, my own loyal customers, and I’m happy with them.
Sometimes customers recommend their friends, and I decided to do a few cold calls one afternoon to some of the suggested future customers.
My first stop was in the rich neighborhood of Atherton. I knew I wouldn’t make a sale as I walked up the cobblestone drive. This lady could afford to bathe in champagne. She wasn’t going to want my champagne scented bath for $2.99. But I’m not a quitter. I walked up the path and rang the bell.
The door was opened for me by an impertinent maid in one of those outfits I thought people only wore on Halloween. It had a tiny skirt, puffed out around her by crinolines. She wore a lace apron over the whole thing. All in all, she had on about an ounce of fabric.
“Can I help you?” she asked, looking me over with dark brown eyes that made me momentarily forget where I was, what my name was, what I was trying to sell.
“I’m here to see Ms. Jackson,” I finally managed to tell her.
“She isn’t available,” the maid said. I thanked her and started to leave. “Would you like to wait?” the woman called out to me. This brought a smile to my lips. I turned back and entered the mansion, following the maid down the long marble hall to a woman’s bedroom.
“Shouldn’t I wait in the living room?” I asked, looking around at the huge bed, the white rugs, the velvet couches.
The maid shook her head and led me to one of the sofas, then sat across from me on the bed. Smiling, she parted her legs, wider and wider, revealing the fact that she didn’t have on panties and she did have a beautiful, freshly shaved pussy.
She motioned to me. I took a breath, smelling her fragrance from where I sat, and then (making a quick decision), walked over to the bed, got down on my knees, and began to eat her cunt. She was divine. She had a rich, dark flavor that I lapped at, and as I worked her, she made the sweetest noises, moaning, pulling open the front of her uniform to paw at her own breasts. I got one hand up there, too, helping her out, pinching her nipples slowly, first one and then the other, brushing them with the ball of my thumb until they stood out hard, like tiny jewels.
I used my tongue and my other thumb on her clit, fanning out my fingers to place two in her pussy and tickling her ass with the other two. She was making a huge wet spot on the bed, but it wasn’t my bed. I didn’t care. When she asked me to undress, to get on top of her, I hesitated. “When’s Ms. Jackson due back?” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” she said again. I took another deep breath, looked at her waiting for me, and stripped, climbing on top of her in a perfect sixty nine. She had the mouth of an angel, using it just right on my sopping cunt, nipping at my lips, nibbling at my clit until I was rocking my hips hard enough to shake the bed. I returned the treatment in kind, fucking her with my mouth and fingers, biting her thighs, spreading her ass cheeks and impaling her with two fingers at once, getting deep in there were she was all warm and wet and sticky. I liked that feeling, fucking her asshole, because as she started to come, she squeezed her asscheeks tight around my fingers, as if trying to milk me.
We came at the same time, came again, and I got off her and lay next to her, panting.
“Wow,” she said.
I echoed her, then stood and began to dress.
“Don’t do that yet…”
“I don’t want to be caught in Ms. Jackson’s bed…” I started, very aware of my just-been-fucked appearance, my sinful, sex smell.
The smile on her face turned to a laugh. She was roaring in a moment.
“I don’t mind losing the sale,” I said. “But I don’t want to get arrested.”
She laughed harder, then caught herself and grinned at me. “You won’t, silly,” she said, peeling off her uniform and tossing it aside. She stood, naked, letting me see the whole of her beautiful body as she walked to the closet doors and opened them. Inside, neatly hung, were dozens of different uniforms: maid, nurse, doctor, police officer, naval officer….
She walked back over to me, tossing her hair out of her face and extending her hand.
“I’m Veronica Jackson,” she said, “pleased to meet you.”