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It was on the first day of July when Jasmine, the new housekeeper, arrived.

She was supposed to be 19, a second year student at the local school, but she looked 30 at the least. I had never seen anybody like her before except in pictures. Her figure was certainly stunning. She looked like Jayne Mansfield before she went to the wall. She smelled like cigarettes and a whole garden of flowers.

I was certain Mrs. B would not have hired her had she actually seen what Jasmine looked like. Mrs. B liked them young, as in young and naive, young and stupid, young and easily taken benefit of. And to put it plainly Jasmine looked like she knew how to take care of herself and anybody else too.

No sooner had she walked in the door that she embraced me and kissed me as if we were lovers meeting for the first time after a long absence. This was not my way of greeting people, especially strangers. I could feel her big boobs mashed against my chest. It was impossible for me to actually return her embrace, so I settled for a passive acceptance of her gushing enthusiasm.

Perhaps encouraged by my lack of resistance, her hands wandered over my body with touches, squeezes, pressures that made me blush. She lifted up my hair and let it fall again with a sigh of surprise and pleasure.

She finally drew away from me, and turned to examine the rest of the house. I showed her the tiny attic room that was my room and would now be her room as well.

And then I left her to unpack and making some inane excuse scurried out of the house.

*

The house was Mrs. B’s. Mrs. B was a corporate lawyer and some time socialite. Her house and to a certain extent her life was ran by a team of domestics comprised of mostly underpaid recent school grads with no hope of a real job.

The only really eligible person among us was Ms. X the cook, a middle aged woman who worked as a private chef before she came to Mrs. B’s. Mrs. B paid her much more than twice the amount the rest of us got combined. Ms. X was also our de facto supervisor, and while the rest of us were slotted like sardines into the numerous nooks and crannies of the house, Ms. X had the entire finished basement to herself. It was a condition of her employment.

And no wonder. People who looked down their nose at Mrs. B’s court room abilities didn’t go so far as to spurn her dinner parties. In fact, one of the big perks of working for Mrs. B was the kitchen leftovers. Thankfully Ms. X didn’t care for her own cooking, and Mrs. B would sooner eat her own foot than her own leftovers, so us underlings got to have it all.

I was Mrs. B’s assistant. In an earlier century, my job title might have been companion. I sent out invitations, RSVPs, thank you cards, opened her mail, things like that. My other duties were less easily definable.

It was the summer and Mrs. B was away at her vacation home, taking Ms. X with her. I was the only person on the team who had been retained on half-pay to watch the house, the rest had been let go on one pretext or another. Mrs. B didn’t like to keep anybody around for too long for the obvious reasons. Ms. X and myself were the sole exceptions. I often thought what she would do once she got tired of us.

Jasmine was supposed to be the new housemaid.

Now, I couldn’t see Jasmine as a housemaid or maid of any kind. She lacked the proper servile attitude to be one of Mrs. B’s domestics. Mrs. B lived in the 15th century so far as the plebes were concerned.

In Mrs. B’s house, the domestics all had to wear uniforms while there were guests around. And frankly speaking, Jasmine’s figure wasn’t cut out for that kind of thing. Her curves would give a lewd twist to even the tamest outfit and make it look like a sexy Halloween costume. I thought how long she would last before Mrs. B gave her the boot.

On the other hand, Mrs. B was no fool and I couldn’t imagine her not knowing what she had let herself in for.

Anyway it was gonna be a good show once Mrs. B gets a load of Jasmine. Boa constrictor vs giant croc: who wins?

The evening air was muggy like the inside of a sauna. The sky was cloudy and moonless. I walked at random, turning down numerous side streets, seeking a refuge from the busy night time traffic.

I found myself in a quiet and deserted street of recap bungalows and empty lots wondering what Jasmine was doing – for some reason I could not imagine her doing anything so banal as unpacking or making dinner – when my stomach dropped and my heart nearly burst out of my chest as I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I would have screamed had I been capable of uttering a sound.

There before me stood a girl, perhaps my age or younger. She wore what appeared to be a nightgown, and her hair was expensively cut but disheveled as if she had just woken up.

Her eyes were opened very wide, and she looked at me without blinking as if she was not quite awake.

I stared back at her, too startled speak a word.

“Is this St. John’s Place?” she said, with the air of a person in the grip of an idee fixee.

If I was startled before, it was nothing to what I was feeling now. For St. John’s Place was the street where Mrs. B’s house was, the house from which I had just come.

“Did you hear me?” she said, leaning towards me, her face now inches from mine.

“Yes,” I said.

“You won’t tell on me will you? I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?” she said, her eyes gigantic with anxiety and yet somehow also intensely blank.

“Of course not,” I reassured her. “I can show you where St. John’s place is, it isn’t far.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” she said feebly.

“If you follow me, I can take you there now,” I said.

“Thank you, I’m so…so grateful to you,” she said, her voice trembling with confusion.

It only struck me later that she might have been on some sort of drugs, or else suffering from the aftermath of being drugged. There is nothing more ominous than coming upon a half dressed girl in the middle of a bustling city. It is odd, it is shocking, and it carries with it its own odor of evil and sinister intentions. It was as if in a dream.

“Will you promise me something,” she said.

“Sure,” I said.

“Promise me you won’t tell on me,” she said.

“You have nothing to worry about on my end,” I said bitterly. “Who would I tell?”

I was in a way as alone as this poor waif of a girl.

“Do you know anyone here, a friend or family?” I said.

The girl turned her head to the side as if pondering an answer. Finally she said, “I’m not sure.”

“Well,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, “I haven’t either. So see, your secret is safe with me.”

This was the wrong thing to say. Her eyes widened, the white of her eye almost glowing in the darkness. “You know?”

I hastened to reassure her that I knew nothing.

As easily as she had startled, she was calm again.

“Tell me,” she said as we walked, “are you very rich?”

I laughed out loud. “No. I’m very poor.”

She gasped with relief. “Thank God!”

We had reached the busy intersection by now. We crossed the street and was only a few blocks away from St. John’s Place where the house was. All of a sudden the girl gave a stifled scream and ran into a side street. By the time I had sense enough to see where she had gone, she had disappeared.

I wandered about for quite a while looking for her. But it was hopeless and I went back to the house.

Jasmine was nowhere to be seen when I let myself in.

I got into bed, thinking of the mysterious girl, wondering what had frightened her, and why she was looking for St. John’s Place.

I woke up with the light of the moon on my face. Jasmine was lying next to me, watching me as if waiting for me to wake up. She had slipped off my clothes and I found myself stretched naked beneath her gaze as if in a dream. She forced a finger into my vagina and I felt strangely paralyzed beneath her touch.

I knew it wasn’t right what she was doing but I couldn’t stop her. In the moonlight, the silence of the night, the typical strictures and conventions of the real world slipped their moorings. I lay there as if sleeping, but in fact I was wide awake.

She kissed my breasts, my neck. When she put her mouth on my lips, I turned my face away. I hated to be kissed on the mouth. She pushed a thumb into my anus and I held my breath.

“Who is this person?” I wondered to myself. And in the great confusion of my mind, she and the mysterious girl became mixed up in my mind.

*

Jasmine and I went into Mrs. B’s main bedroom, going over a checklist I had on my phone.

The room was spotless and if you didn’t know Mrs. B’s methods, you would have wondered nothing but sleeping babes ever passed through its sterile chambers.

It was the last day of Mrs. B’s vacation, and my mind dreaded the return of my employer as a prisoner dreads going back to his cell. After giving the bedroom with its floor to ceiling windows and fireplace one last lookover, Jasmine and I went back to the attic.

Our room seemed smaller and shabbier than ever to my eyes. The filth and dust made me shudder. Jasmine threw open the windows to make the stuffy attic air less gross. But the air outside was as still as a cup of dirty water, and it was like stepping out of a sauna into a steam bath.

Jasmine undressed me as I lay on the bed, sweaty and catatonic. The humidity was killing me slowly. With every day that passed I felt myself becoming less of a person. Jasmine pinched my nipples a little harder than usual and I flinched like a half dying insect. She spread my legs as far as they would go and slid a finger inside me.

“You’re almost a virgin,” Jasmine said, taking my hand, “here, feel how tight you are.”

“No,” I said, pulling my hand away.

She took my wrist in one hand with a hard squeeze and forced me into a standing position. I had learned by now she would only hurt me more if I tried to get away, so the only thing was to do what she wanted. I stood up and she turned me around. I could already see a mark developing on my wrist alongside the the other marks. Damn, I wondered. Mrs. B would surely remark on this when she got back, it was so obvious. If I got sacked, I would know who to blame.

Jasmine bent me over the edge of the bed, and then not so gently kicked my legs aside. My knees buckled against the bed, and my feet were splayed awkwardly on the floor. As degrading as porn is, it’s probably downright graceful compared to how I looked at that moment. She pushed the phallus into my ass and the initial shock of pain with its undercurrent of forbidden pleasure paralyzed me. I felt very empty as if I had been relieved of all responsibility, moral and otherwise. The shame was there but not the guilt. I sat at the bottom of a well of degradation and humiliation as if at the center of a storm. Whilst everything revolved about me at top speed, I was absolutely still. I felt as if I was losing my identity.

My face was scrunched up horribly into the pillow and my fingers dug into the bedsheets. My throat was making weird noises I had no idea was even coming from me at first. Jasmine only used spit, refused to even consider store bought lubricant, and it hurt like hell. The thing is no matter how much anal play we do, I can never get over how weird and gross it is. It was my “good upbringing” rearing its head here I suppose. There’s still a part of me that can not believe anybody, much less a woman, would get turned on by an asshole.

But objectively speaking the very worst thing about anal is the afterwards. Nobody ever talks about it, so I guess I will. First of all, the cramps, and secondly, the incontinence.

Anal cramps isn’t like a belly ache. You really feel as if you’re gonna die. Or rather, you wish you were dead. Almost anything is preferable to it, and you swear you will never do this, that and the other thing ever again.

While not painful, anal incontinence is simply humiliating. Being forced to walk down a crowded street naked is nothing in comparison. You’ve never hit rock bottom until you’ve shit out a piece of condom from your ass. About which…I have no idea why but Jasmine sometimes puts a condom on the phallus, to make it more realistic I suppose.

*

Jasmine and I stood in front of the gourmet candy store watching posh looking women go in and out. The customers were suburban types who looked like walking advertisement for expensive face cream, women who at all times smelled like they had just gotten out of a shower. They were as sporty and sterile as a manicured lawn. They made me so jealous I could scream.

I hated them and I hated that I hated them. The futility and the sheer pointlessness of it was what got me every time. There is nothing worse than impotent rage. It can drive a person insane.

“There’s no life in them,” Jasmine said. “They have no guts. They’re not even interesting enough to be ugly or vulgar. They’re dead, just dead.”

“We’re all dead,” I said.

Jasmine laughed. “You weren’t dead last night.”

I felt my face turning red and walked into the store. Jasmine followed after me, still chuckling and smirking. I regretted going into the shop already, but now that I was there, I felt compelled to stick it out as a point of pride.

“Isn’t it disgusting? Doesn’t it make you want to puke?” I said.

“What is disgusting?” Jasmine said absentmindedly.

“This place. Everything. We’re just walking corpses, hollow and stuffed and with straw!”

“How can we be both hollow AND stuffed with straw?” Jasmine said practically, giving my butt another pinch. I twisted away from her, and a store worker gave us the side eye.

“We have to die before we can really live,” I said.

“I think I rather just live,” said Jasmine.

“How can you live without money?” I said. “No privacy, no peace, no quiet, no security.”

“We seem to be living fine now,” she said.

“But for how long?” I said. “It never lasts. Something will happen to ruin it. Something always does. You can’t have anything like quiet unless you can afford a three hundred thousand dollar house.”

Jasmine walked up to the counter and bought a small box of chocolates the size of my hand. It was thirty dollars. Outside the shop Jasmine looped her arm through mine, swinging the bag containing the box of chocolates.

People on the street looked at her appreciatively. Her tanned skin was smooth and glowing, and the expensive shirt she was wearing clung to her curves like a second skin that didn’t leave much to the imagination. If not for the sneer that seemed baked into her face as if she knew a thing or two about everything, she would have fit right in with the rich suburban women in the chocolate store.

“What did you buy that for?” I asked her. “It’s a ridiculous amount of money to spend on chocolates.”

“It’s a gift, stupid,” she said softly.

“For who?”

She stared at me in disbelief and then laughed. “It’s for you.”

*

“Eat the rich,” I said, popping a chocolate in my mouth.

“They taste better with dressing,” said Jasmine.

I sighed with pleasure. The chocolate was truly delicious. “I would be happy if I were rich.”

“You would sell your soul for a box of chocolate,” she said.

“Do you blame me? I’m so poor I can’t even afford a good night’s sleep. Of course I would sell my soul for chocolate. But the question is who would pay for it.”

“I would,” Jasmine said.

“The worst thing about being poor,” I said gloomily, “is the noise and the fear. The sheer meaningless noise made by people you don’t know and don’t understand and are afraid of because you don’t know or understand them. It’s astounding the human capacity for making noise that penetrates walls and carpeting. No wonder the rich live in big houses. They don’t actually need all that room, but it’s only to get away from the poor and each other. I can’t blame them.”

Jasmine looked around the room. “If you ask me, it’s a little too quiet.”

“Oh just you wait. It’s a different sort of place when you-know-who gets back. Anyway, I wasn’t talking about this place. I meant before. I had to move twice and then I was homeless. And then I came here.”

She looked at me for a long time. And then she said, “Do you know I think I’m falling in love with you.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

NSFW: yes

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