Most people groan unhappily when the alarm goes off in the morning. Not me. The sheets caress my naked body as I stretch lazily. A smile spreads across my face, and a tingling starts low in my tummy, but I repress the urge to do something about it. My morning is packed full of chores, and I can't be late.
Jumping out of bed, I take a quick shower, making sure I'm shaved and presentable. While my skin is still damp, I face the floor-length mirror and fix my hair into a high ponytail. I laugh at how my breasts bounce as I move.
I laid my maid's uniform out last night, and now I put on the white shirt with puffed sleeves. It's a bit tight over my chest, so I leave the top buttons open. I always feel restricted wearing a bra, and thankfully, the Caldwells don't make me wear one. The black skirt is short--it only reaches mid-thigh--and it swishes nicely around my legs when I walk. I tie the little white apron at my back, and when I tie the top part around my neck, it almost pushes my tits out of my shirt.
Lastly, I put on a new pair of white cotton panties. I know they won't stay on for long.
I twist and turn in front of the mirror to make sure I look all right. This French maid uniform is so much more fun to wear than the ugly, shapeless tunics I wore when I cleaned rooms in hotels. I shudder at the thought of it. I was sacked from my last employer when a guest complained about me. She had found me bent over the hotel bed with her husband eagerly pumping into me from behind. He had such a nice cock and knew how to use it too, but apparently, my work contract said that it was a sackable offense to get pleasured by the guests.
I thought I was going to have a hard time finding a new job after that, without a good job reference, but thankfully, the Caldwells hadn't minded when they advertised for a maid. Before I started working for them, I made sure their contract didn't say that fucking was a sackable offense.
The first chore of the day as a live-in maid in the Caldwell household is to make sure Jonathan gets off to college. He's not as eager to get up in the morning as I am. He groans from underneath the blankets when I pull the curtains and the windows open wide to air out some of that unmistakable smell that every young man omits.
"Time to get up, Johnny boy," I singsong.
"Go away, Jess."
I only laugh and walk over to the bed. Messy hair and a toned chest emerge when I gently pull the sheets down. At eighteen and ten months, Jonathan is only a few years younger than me. He still has that lanky teenage body, but he's started to fill out nicely. I bet he'll end up having just as hot and muscular body as his dad has.
"You need to get up."
Eyes peer up at me from narrow slits.
"Make me," he grumbles.
