The Attraction’s Mutual

Ever since I can remember, Helena has been a vital part of our family—I sometimes think the most indispensable part. My mother bridles anytime anyone refers to her as “the maid,” even though she does cook and clean up after us, which we certainly wouldn’t be able to do for ourselves. “Housekeeper” is more like it, but still makes her sound like a mere hired hand. “Mother hen” probably captures it best. No one could ever say a bad word about her. She is the kindest, sincerest woman, always greeting us with a cheerful grin. She says our family is her pride and joy aside from her daughter, Izabella.

I often wondered if we could survive without Helena. Fortunately, for the ­longest time we never had to find out! In all the years she had worked for our family, she’d only missed one day of work, and that had been when she gave birth to Izabella 21 years before. Those were some of the thoughts running through my head when I took the phone call from her that morning, wondering how on earth I was going to break the news to my mother.

I tried to underplay it, just telling Mom that Helena wouldn’t be able to make it to our house today, but she turned white as a sheet. “Jeffrey,” she said, near hys­terical, “what’s happened to her?”

“Nothing serious,” I said. “Told me she threw her back out.”

“How could this happen?” Mom shrieked. I could tell she was thinking the worst, like that Helena was lying in a hospital bed with a rack of broken bones and damaged vital organs. “How long did she say she’s going to need to recuperate?”

“Her doctor said a few weeks.”

“Are you kidding?” Mom screeched, her voice cracking. “We’re going to be a mess without her.” She clutched her chest like she was experiencing sharp pains. The way she was carrying on made it seem like we were doomed. Sadly, this was probably true.

I had visions of dirty dishes piling up in the sink (well, make that take-out cartons—no one in our house knew the first thing about cooking), of a thick layer of dust and grime covering every surface of the house, of—well, who even knew what all Helena did? That was the point. Because she was always there, we didn’t have to know.

“I guess I’ll have to start looking for a replacement for the time being,” Mom said, sighing. She sat down as though her body couldn’t support her weight anymore.

“No need,” I said. “Helena told me Izabella’s available to fill in.”

Hope crept into Mom’s eyes. “Real­ly?” she said. “Is she a housekeeper?” True, she’s suspicious of any newcomer, but the fact was that although we’d been hearing Izabella’s name for 21 years, none of us had met her, or really knew that much about her.

“No,” I said, “but Helena said she’s a neat freak and keeps her own house spotless, and you know what that means coming from Helena.” I could see Mom wasn’t convinced, but she seemed resolved to hope for the best in the face of this catastrophe.

A day later, and not a minute too soon, I heard my mother welcoming Izabella to our home. I jetted downstairs, curious to finally meet her. I honestly didn’t know what to expect, but I certainly wasn’t expecting much in the looks department, at least if her mother was anything to go by. I had to allow that I hadn’t known Helena in her prime, but from her appearance over the time I’d known her, I had to wonder if she’d ever had a prime, although every now and then I did catch a glimmer in her eyes that seemed to hint at some long-hidden beauty that had survived the burdens of a life of toil.

Still and all, as a horny 18-year-old male faced with the prospect of a new female entering the household, I could only hope for the best. Making my way down the stairs, I heard Izabella before I saw her, and realized that for no good reason I was expecting her to have at least some of her mother’s thick Polish accent. What I heard, though, was a lilt with no hint of an accent.

And then I got my first glimpse. I saw immediately that Izabella was a good five inches taller than her mother, and probably half the weight. Coming closer, I saw smooth, youthful skin, mesmer­izing caramel eyes and, concealed in her blouse, a firm and generous set of tits. It was blasphemous to think it, but maybe I wouldn’t miss Helena quite as much as I expected.

“Oh, this is my son, Jeffrey,” Mom said when she noticed me gawking.

“Very nice to meet you,” Izabella said politely, and I noticed her giving me a quick but thorough once-over. I was hoping she liked what she saw. Over the last year I’d gotten pretty serious about my workout regimen, especially trying to add some muscle bulk to my lean frame. My gymnastics coach was not thrilled (“show muscle,” he calls it), but I’d learned only too well over my years as a gymnast that despite our chiseled bodies and athletic prowess, we don’t exactly rake in the babes the way that, say, lumbering linebackers do. Sure enough, the ladies in my life have seemed to respond to my somewhat-bulked-up physique.

The first thing I said was, “How’s your mother doing?” It was easy to sound sincerely concerned. I was.

“Better, thanks,” she said, and I ­noticed her eyes lingering on me! “I stopped to see her on the way, and she sends her love to everyone.”

Then she and my mother were talking about household stuff that went totally over my head, so I waited for an opportunity to insert a quick “Well, see ya.” The smile she gave me lodged in my mind as I turned and headed back upstairs. By the time I got to my room, my cock was fully engorged.

The following day I witnessed Izabella in a modest skirt that showed off her long legs and a tank top that really accented her rack. I sat on the top step of the staircase enjoying the view. It had certainly never occurred to me to watch Helena clean, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off her daughter. God, she made housework look sexy! The way she was absorbed in cleaning, and hummed while she did it, and the way her smoldering body swayed—it all made me unbelievably horny.

Then when she bent down to adjust the setting on the vacuum cleaner and one of her tits popped out of her tank top, my cock shot up so fast, I thought it would explode. I had an overpowering ­impulse to rush down there and cop a feel. But I controlled myself, remaining where I was while she shoved that breath­taking tit back in her shirt.

I had such a boner that it ached. I needed quick release, and rushed to my bedroom, peeled off my briefs and got a tight grip on it. I began stroking it urgently—the entire shaft, up and down, flogging it with such abandon, I thought I might set it on fire. I couldn’t help myself. The recent image of Izabella had me in a frenzy. If that’s how hot one tit of hers is, I thought while I jerked myself, imagine what seeing the rest of her would do to me.

I was so focused at the task in hand that I didn’t notice the intrusion into my room until I realized that standing over me with a vacuum cleaner at her side was the muse to my heavy-duty masturbation session.

“I’m so sorry,” Izabella said sweetly and innocently.

My, er, activity was shot to hell. “Holy shit, why didn’t you knock?” I bellowed as I quickly pulled my briefs on, struggling to stuff my boner in them and then to keep it from sticking through the slot.

“I did knock,” she said, plugging the vacuum cleaner into the outlet adjacent to my dresser. “But I guess you didn’t hear me.”

“So you just barged in?” I snapped. My manly self-esteem wasn’t boosted by having the woman of my dreams walk in on me spanking my monkey.

“Well, I cracked the door open,” she said, “and I thought you were nodding, that you were signaling me to enter. But now I know you were doing something else.” Her cheeks reddened, but her eyes were bolder, narrowing in concentration on my badly concealed boner. Did she know that she was the cause of it? Did I hope she did?

My cock wasn’t going down, and Izabella wasn’t moving. Finally I said, “Please leave,” pulling the plug out of its socket and tossing the cord toward her. She gathered the cord and pushed the vacuum cleaner out of my bedroom, and I slammed the door. Then I finished jerking off.
Later that day Mom confronted me about “mistreating” Izabella. Apparently she had ratted me out! I’d have been really pissed at her if I wasn’t so horny for her. She was getting under my skin. Why did she have to be so hot?

“Jeffrey, why were you so harsh to Izabella?” my mother asked me when she found me sprawled out in the den. I didn’t know how to reply, in good part because I had no way of knowing how much gory detail Izabella had included in her crime report.

“Me? Harsh?” I stammered. “I don’t think that’s right. Why, what did she tell you?” As soon as the question was out of my mouth I was sorry I had asked it. It opened the possibility that I might have a conversation with my mother about me beating my meat. We never talked about anything relating to sex in our house!

“She just said that you mouthed off to her when she wanted to clean your room,” Mom said. I resumed breathing. “I know she’s not Helena, but there’s no reason to torment her. These people are practically family, and Izabella is doing us a tremendous favor by filling in for her mother. So you better treat her right.”

Mom was really getting worked up!

“It’s just that she—” I tried to explain the situation, but there was no way in hell that I was going to explain the precise circumstances of the, uh, misunderstanding that morning.

“I don’t want to hear any lip, Jeffrey,” she scolded with her arms crossed. “You have got to apologize to Izabella. We are not going to lose Helena on account of your rude behavior toward her daughter.”
“But Mom—”

But she was already on her way out of the room, pissed at the crisis I had apparently created with Izabella, on top of the crisis with Helena. It was up to me to smooth things over.

I found Izabella in the kitchen making dinner. She was tossing some garlic she had minced in a pan with some sausage and homemade sauce. It was a special dish of her mother’s, and judging by the smell, she had mastered it. My brain switched momentarily to food-type hunger. But then, as I took in the sight of Izabella again, it quickly switched back to the other kind of hunger. In her skimpy apron she looked good enough to eat.

When she looked up from her cooking, our eyes met. Her caramel eyes bore into me. I wasn’t sure if the stove was the only thing causing the heat, but it seemed to be enveloping us both. I wanted to pull her against me and shove my tongue down her throat.
“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” she said in an icy tone. No hint of heat there!

“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry for the way that I kicked you out of my room. I just freaked out that I was—uh, that you saw me—uh—” I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed,” she said in a much less chilly tone, one I would describe as almost soothing. “Everyone pleases themselves.”
“Yeah, I doubt that you ever have to,” I said under my breath.

“But I do,” she said, sounding kind of shaky. “I’ve been, well, lonely since my boyfriend and I broke up last year.” She was avoiding eye contact now by direct­ing her eyes toward the saucepan. It was her turn to feel self-conscious.

“See, you’re embarrassed just talking about it,” I said. “And it’s not like I caught you in the act or anything. Now do you understand why I snapped at you before?”

“I understand,” she said, with a hint of a smirk.

“Let’s just forget it,” I said, hoping to get my mother out of my hair, ideally without her finding out what had actually happened.
“But I can’t forget about what I saw,” she said, just looking at me.

“Why not?” I said.

“Because I can’t stop thinking of your—” She grew shy again.

“Of my what?” I said.

“Your stiff penis,” she said, stirring the sausages awfully energetically.

“And?” I said.

“And?” she said. “And what?”

I wanted to know if she had any particular thoughts about—well, about my—oh, for Christ’s sake, about my raging hard-on. I didn’t say that, though. What I said was: “You know, about what you saw. Did you have any, you know, thoughts?”

“Ah!” she said, then blushed. Then she whispered, “It turned me on so much that I’ve been wet all day.”

Just then my father walked in! It couldn’t have been my imagination that Izabella and I were together in a horny cloud. Unless my ears were failing me, this stunner had said she was attracted to me. There was no way I was going to ignore an opening like that, except possibly at this exact moment. If there was anyone I thought of as farther outside the realm of sex than my mother, it was my father.

“Smells like one of my favorites,” Dad said, taking dramatic repeated whiffs.

“Oh yes, sir,” Izabella said. “It’s my mother’s recipe. She told me how much you like it.”

“My mouth is watering,” he said, lean­ing in closer to the pan to inhale more of the delectable aromas. “It smells like it’s ready.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, “but it’s got to cool off for a few minutes.” She took the pan off the burner.

“Smells heavenly,” he said. “Just like your mother’s.” Then he left the kitchen, leaving Izabella face-to-face with me. There didn’t seem to me any mistaking the desire in her eyes.

“Meet me in my room after dinner?” I said. She nodded.

I sped through dinner, barely chewing my food. My mother warned me I would choke if I didn’t slow down. But then, she’s been telling me that since I was a toddler. And tonight I had a reason for wolfing my dinner down. There was no way I was going to be responsible for delaying Izabella from finishing her housekeeperly duties.

Later in my room I was waiting impatiently. I knew she still had to clean up after dinner—wash the kitchen table down, load the dishwasher, whatever the hell that involved. I daydreamed about what I wanted to do to her. My cock had been hard since I got back to my room, and showed no signs of relaxing. I thought maybe it would be wise to take care of it myself, knowing I wasn’t likely to have difficulty getting another erection. Then I had a mental image of Izabella catching me red-handed, as it were, a second time!

At last, thank goodness, I heard a soft knock on the door. “Enter,” I warbled as enticingly as I could, hoping to make Izabella feel welcome as she reentered my domain. I propped myself against the pillows, slid my briefs off and sprawled out on the bed, leaving her room beside me to join me.

When she came in the room, my ­already-hard cock started to throb. She closed the door behind her and seemingly levitated her way toward me, ­removing an article of clothing with each step she took. My eyes studied her increasingly naked body. I couldn’t decide what part of it I liked best, but didn’t fret over this for long. I concluded that her entire body was the part I liked best. My wildly pulsing cock seemed to provide confirmation.

She tossed her long tresses over my taut torso—she did seem to appreciate my toned gymnast’s body—and her tongue came to rest against my flesh, sending sensual chills rushing through me. She arched over me, jabbing her erect nipples at my mouth. I sucked on the cherrylike buds and nibbled gently on them. She moaned. And then she was grabbing for my cock! Soon her delicate fingers were wrapped tightly around it, and she was pumping it in a steady rhythm.

I knew if I didn’t touch her soon I was going to explode all over myself, and that wasn’t the experience I wanted to give her. So I stuck a few of my fingers inside her perfect hole—not too tight or overstretched. She panted as I finger-fucked her. The moistness of her pussy made it easy for my fingers to explore and titillate her insides. The deeper my fingers probed, the louder her moans became. I had to caution her. My parents’ bedroom was far away from mine, but you never knew when the old folks might be wandering.

I knew she was satisfied when I felt her cream all over my fingers. In a nanosecond I inserted my cock in her juicy pussy. That initial penetration of just my cockhead made my heart race and my blood boil. I caught her watching my dick entering her and said, “You like watching me fuck you?”

“Oh yes,” she said while gnawing on my shoulder blade. “I can’t wait to see your cock work my pussy.”

I did my best to give her a show she would remember, driving in and out of her drenched hole. Her eyes widened at the sight of my cock disappearing partway and then reappearing, going in deeper each time until finally it was buried completely in her. We thrust and thrashed around my bed, our sweaty bodies melding wonderfully.

Izabella grew overpoweringly hot and bothered, signaling that the inevitable was near. Her pussy slammed forcefully against my cock, and her legs bucked around my waist, with her feet tapping my ass. “Fuck!” she moaned into my ear, careful now to keep the noise level down. “Fuck, yeah!”

After a wild orgasm, she slithered her tongue down my body until she reached the mother lode, or should I say mother “load”? Then bingo, her tongue thrashed over my sac. She just ­about swallowed my nuts. I was on the brink of boiling over. She released my balls and captured my shaft in her mouth. She clasped her lips together around my shaft, and her tongue clobbered my cock while she massaged my balls, tantalizing my whole body.

“Oh yeah, Izabella, suck my cock,” I groaned.

Boy, did she ever! As she intensified the delightful BJ, I decided I wanted to fuck her again. But as I tried to pull out, I noticed her suction was like a vacuum. She was determined to clean me dry! Well, I thought, why not let her finish? When I felt that it was coming, I warned her, “I’m about to explode.” My voice vibrated while my balls stirred. It wasn’t long before I lost it.

She responded by pulling me closer, so my cock was deeper in her mouth. In seconds I spurted streams of come down her throat. She swallowed about half and let the rest trickle down her chin. I wanted to wipe it clean, but the tissue box beside my bed was empty from my activity earlier that day. So I brought my comforter up to her face, then hesitated in midair, worried about staining the material.

“Might as well,” she said, shrugging. “I’ve got to do a load of laundry anyway.” As I wiped the come off her face, I said, “Guess you’ll have to start dealing with a lot more loads.” And I snuggled her close to me.•