The Zipless ... Ironing Bored

She was nineteen years old, from Glaavorn in the far North of Sweden. Tall and blonde and beautiful. Blue eyed with golden skin. A young Nordic goddess. She stood at the ironing board pressing one of his shirts. It was her third week as au pair to the Corduffs, and the first time Corduff had stayed home. He had a cold. Or said he had. She finished the shirt and reached for another.

He sat at the kitchen table nursing a coffee in a London Tower Bridge mug. He had showered and shaved but his hair, thinning on top, wasn't brushed. He was dressed in a faded blue dressing gown; a pair of old slippers on his feet. From time to time he looked at her. Her name was Gretal. Steam hissed from the iron in her hand. Her shoulders lifted as she bore down on the collar of the shirt. It was summer, warm. She was dressed in a simple cotton frock, no stockings. On her feet were flat-healed pumps. Her long hair was caught in a French twist at the back. A simple gold chain round her ankle was the only jewellry she wore. Corduff folded his newspaper. Got to his feet. Stretched. Gretal had her back to him. Continued to iron.

He placed the paper carefully on the kitchen table. Squared it off. Straightened a knife on a plate, as yet unused. Let his eyes drift back to girl. The flat-healed pumps on the worn linoleum of the kitchen floor. The slim ankles, one moving as she ironed. The softly shaped calfs. The gentle indent at the back of her knees. The flare of her legs as they built to her thighs – cut off half way up by the dancing hem of her light summer frock. The girlish buttocks in cotton, firm and hard as they rolled as she moved, pert and lively as they clenched, and then relaxed, then clenched again – from smooth river-stones to soft and maleable handfulls. Handfulls you'd love to have in your hands. These hands. (My hands!)

Corduff was pressing on the table with his fingertips. Pressing down hard as his eyes continued up the girl ... from tiny waist drawn in by the darts on her frock, up the fillets of muscle either side of her spine to the smooth flare of shoulders and neck. Her neck was long and graceful, like a swan. Her hair glistened in the morning sun from the garden through the window beyond.

He took a step towards the corner of the Kitchen table. Stopped. He pressed down hard with his fingertips again, eyes all the while on the girl. The ironing girl. His au pair. Their au pair, from Sweden. He moved again. Edged quietly round the corner. Her shoulders and back moved with the strokes she was making with the iron. Her attention devoted to the shirt. His shirt. Not him.

Gretal was employed to look after the Corduff's six year old nephew, Stephen, who was coming to stay. (A problem at home that needed to be solved.) But he hadn't arrived yet. He'd been due last week. Postponed. He had the flue, it seemed. So they had Gretel to themselves, for now. Francoise, Corduff's wife, was as taken with Gretel as he was, he thought – though she hadn't said, (just looked).

Francoise had already left for work.

The ironing table was set up between the kitchen table and the sink. Corduff had told her to set it up there. So that he could watch her, he realised now, without her knowing he was doing so. He moved around the kitchen table towards the girl.

Now he was standing beside her, looking at the shirt – suddenly, alarmingly, maddeningly aware of how close she was. Was she as aware of him as he was of her? (She didn't seem to be.) Did being away from home make one more sensitive to the physical proximity of another human being? Why was he so aware of her, when she seemed almost blissfully unaware of him? Wouldn't being away from her boyfriend, or lover – or lovers – for almost a month make her more sensitive to men? Even him?

'Be careful with the collar,' he said.

She turned her head. Their eyes were inches apart. Corduff had a sudden urge to reach out and pull her to him, thrust his mouth against hers – so full and lively, lips so plump – force his tongue deep down the lovely girl's throat. But he didn't.

'The collar,' he said, looking at the shirt.

Her English was not very good. A look of puzzlement creased her brow. She looked back at the shirt.

'Here, let me show you,' he said, putting his hand over hers on the iron, and starting to move it. The back of her hand was smoth, delicate, warm and alive. The touch sent dark secret waves to his deeper, darker places. She let her hand be moved. The shirt wrinkled up.

'No, not like that,' he said, so gently it was almost a caress. The frown on her brow went away: such gentleness couldn't be scolding. He eased behind her gently. Like a cat, perhaps. Reached his other hand around her waist, caught her other hand from the table and put it on the collar. 'Like this,' he said, now holding the collar with one hand on hers, and the iron and hers in the other, and moving the two. The collar was smoothed.

'You see?' he said, his head by hers.

She nodded. Yes she saw.

'Now you try,' he said, releasing her hands but staying where he was. Her buttocks, round and firm and warm and plump, were soft and lightly touching his groin. Her shoulders gently pressed against his chest. A feminine ear was light, delicately held against his cheek. His hands came from hers. Her skin so smooth. Each settled on a hip, both hers, both round and smooth and filled with the heat and the movement of girl. They settled lightly as if she were a bird, and might fly away, if alarmed. But she didn't fly away. Or move away. Or flinch at all, in fact.

'You see?' he asked, as she did what he instructed. She nodded her head and did it again. 'That's right,' he said with approval, and with the approval he flattened the palms of his hands against the curve of her flanks, and pressed, as if showing approval. And as he pressed he felt the shape of the girl beneath, and the comforting way that the line of her hips snuggled inocently into the curve of his fingers and palm. 'Go on,' he said, 'I'll supervise,' he added, letting her continue, trying to imbue his supervisery role with a light-hearted spirit. A spirit that might explain the presence of his hands on her flanks, feeling her beneath: her hips, the curve below, the start of legs, long legs. Womanly legs. She continued to iron in the manner he'd decreed. He continued to hold her in the manner that gave him most interest, though not daring to move. Not daring to breath.

Then he did. Breath. But only softly. And only once he had found some words, some attempt at explanation that might justify his actions, his actions of moving his hands on her – which the feel of her made him have to do.

With a sudden brainwave, he asked, 'Have you eaten breakfast?'

'Breakfast?' she answered, her voice like a Norse bell, but lower. Throatily low. Secretive, almost. So femine it stirred things inside him.

'Breakfast,' he repeated, making it a joke, fingers on her flanks drawing her against him. Making it a cheerful form of chiding and mentally melting as round young buttocks moulded to his groin.

'Oh yes,' she sang back, understanding now, flashing a sing-song smile.

'I'd never have known!' he said, laughing as he did – as best he could with such a tantalising bottom where it was. Tight pressed against his crotch. Roundly arousing. Seriously sexy.

'Oh, why not?' she asked, head down, continuing to iron.

'You're so slim,' he said (his brainwave) as he allowed his right hand to run gently around her, towards her tummy. It was flat and firm. Alive, but hard. Rippled with youthful muscle. He let his fingers stroke her there. Felt her muscles tense, then flex. Relax. Some folds of frock in his hand. It had gathered in his palm from its trip across her flank.

He noticed the reflection of himself and the girl in the glass at the back of the kitchen door. A glass for Francoise to have one last quick look at her appearance before she left the house every day. In the reflection was Corduff and the girl. The Nordic Goddess. The slightly wasted older man. The hem of the sweet girl's frock now lifted up her legs.

'You think my tummy's too big?' said Gretel, joining in the spirit of their game, ironing stilled but letting his hand stay where it was.

'What about my shirt?' he asked, keeping it light, directing her attention to her chore.

'Oh yes,' she laughed, a low subtle laugh, like the snows on a sill, or beneath an eave. Something more than just lightness and air. She resumed the ironing of his shirt. He resumed the movement of his hands. Drew one up her flank. The other stroked her tummy. Stroked it gently, side to side, top to foot. Up to the bulge of a breast's underside, down to the rise of the pubis, seeking the secret ruffle of hair then back up the furrow at the centre of her stomach. Up, and gently further up until the edge of his thumb was was against the underside of her breast. Heavy, softly warm, roundly plump, unrestrained by any bra. Light linen only.

The weight of the breast on the side of his hand. The knowledge of no bra involved. Then it has to move, again, on her. Proceeds on its downward journey back over her youthful tummy. Light mounds either side of a central rift. The tiny hollow of her navel – hand lingers there, gently circles – then on, over the softer bulge of lower tummy to the harder mound at its point. The slightest hint of hair within. Light cotton panties beneath, perhaps? The fingertips lightly across it, right to left, left to right. The indentation of groin one side, lightly over the ruffle of hair beneath, to the indentation of groin the other side. The urge to travel that path. Down to the secrets below. Led by the line of the groin. She turned over the shirt and started to iron the front.

His hand at her flank was curved around the shape of girl: the fullness and firmness of hip, the lighter more delicate shape of her waist – as the other hand climbed up her front once again: the swell and spread of waist to chest, the firm hard ripple of rib, the thick plump start of breasts. And then, once there ... what next?

He had one hand at the top of her stomach, the start of her ribs, the heavy swell of breast atop his thumb, fingers spread out just beneath, the girls upper-stomach held captive. His other hand ran gingerly from hip, to leg, then started to return. Fingers round the curve of upper leg, approaching thighs, the hem of skirt was climbing too. The lower fingers of his hand around her leg were next to skin, the upper ones were lifted up her skirt. In the reflection in the mirror in the door, unnoticed by the girl who went on ironing, head bowed, he watched her leg grow bare as he revealed it ... to the top. Seeing the white of her panties peak out below her hem, now dangerously high, as his fingertips brushed over white cotton. At least he thought that's what it was. How long had it been since his fingertips had touched cotton panties on a youngster like this?

Mrs Corduff never wore cotton panties any more.

'Far too young,' she'd declare with disdain.

But Corduff wasn't complaining. There was nothing wrong with the feel of cotton panties, young or otherwise. In the long mirror at the back of the kitchen door he watched, momentarily mesmerised, as he saw where his hand was on the girl. The hem of her frock falling lewdly from his fingers as their tips so impertently stroked the pubis underneath.

'How do you keep it so trim?' he asked, dropping her hem, removing his fingers from so intimate a place.

What would she think?

She shrugged. And smiled. And continued to iron.

'You are very lucky,' he said, his recalcitrant hand now back at her leg, feeling for the hem of her frock yet again – as if with a mind of its own. He was pressed against her now. To stop from falling forward, into ironing, the girl was having to resist. He could feel her press back. Her buttocks into him, her back into his chest. The back of her legs were against his. How had he done that? One of his legs was between hers! He glanced at the mirror, looking at her feet. Her pumps were apart, one of his slippers had slipped in between. He pulled on the girl, slightly, gently, cautiously, and felt her legs come astride his own as she eased back into him. He pushed some more with his knee, and was rewarded by the parting of her thighs, and the warmth of them as they spread around his own. Enclosing it warmly.

Her buttock, the right, was in his groin. A firm round perky buttock moulded in his groin like a melon, firmly held. Firmly rolled there. Moving, flexing – as she moved, as she ironed. His hand around her leg was coming back up the girl with all of his fingers touching skin. So firm, smooth, the muscle beneath so softly rolling, flexing, moving – as she ironed. His fingertips again came up to cotton. Reflection showing hem now over hand, dropping off either side, neat folds, flowing folds, folds unconcerned at the intrusion. He flattened his hand against her smooth warm flanks, felt the skin, and her shape, and the fingertips, the cotton ... over her pubis, hair beneath. A light silk thicket of hair. Pubic hair. His fingetips stroked the hair through cotton. Tried to lightly stray amongst it, but the cotton stopped that. Then he pressed his middle finger down harder, into the mound's hard centre. Rotated it once, then twice. Then left.

The folds of her hem fell back towards her knees.

The frock shimmered once, then stilled, but for the movement of her, ironing still. Head bowed.

'How do you keep your figure so trim,' he asked, needing some words to go with his hands. He couldn't just stroke her like this! There had to be a reason.

'How is this?' she asked, holding up the shirt for his inspection.

'It's fine,' he said. Too quickly. She turned. Half turned.

'I need to hang it up and get the next,' she explained, almost apologetically, having moved. And he found, that where once had been stomach, now he held waist. And where he'd had flank, he now had a buttock in his hand. And it was round, and firm, and exquisitely pert. And it fitted. His hand. Perfectly!

'Let me help,' he blurted out, releasing the girl. He went to the basket that sat on the counter by the sink, and took another shirt for the girl. She was at the door. The door with the mirror in back. Over the handle of the door she hung his ironed shirt. It was white, with a red chalk stripe. And a button down collar. Buttoned down.

The master of the house, in his dressing gown, was back at the table with the shirt. The next shirt. A blue cotton Oxford. Waiting for her to get back.

She walked back to the board. She looked at the shirt in his hand.

'This next?' she asked in her delightful, lilting, musical voice.

He nodded. This next.

There ensued a slightly embarassing shuffle. Neither quite knowing where to go or how to get there. It looked like a sort of dance, or a type of game, as she made an effort to get back to her position behind the ironing board without incoveniencing him, and he at the same time, and without inconveniencing her, tried to get back behind her. Finally they made it. Back into position. She with the table in front of her. He with her in front of him. She began again to iron the shirt, with him behind her, supervising.

'Am I doing it right?' she asked – explaining, perhaps to herself, why he had remained where he had when the tutorial was seemingly complete. But it gave him the entry he needed. Back came his hands around her shapely waist. Back came the touch of his gown, against her buttocks.

'Like this,' he said, his hands again on hers.

'Like this,' she repeated, as she moved her hands in the manner prescribed with his cupped over hers.

'That's right,' he said, then lifted his hands. They fluttered, momentarily unoccupied, close to the charms of her front. 'The front must be smooth,' he said, (another brainwave). 'Like the front of your dress.' He lightly ran his fingers down the front of her dress. 'It has to lie well.' He lifted his hands to her chin. She had stopped, mid iron, and was listening, her head to one side. 'No, you go on ironing, my dear,' he said, wanting her to do other things, as he did ... other things.

She started to iron again.

He touched the neck. 'Here, you see,' he said, putting his fingertips against the smooth skin of her neck, either side, just below the chin. He caressed her neck, but slightly, lightly, non-confrontational strokes. 'The collar must sit tight against the neck, just here,' he said, running his fingertips round her neck where the collar would sit, were she wearing a collar, which she wasn't. Her frock had spaghetti straps, buttons down the front and a pattern of blue irises on a cream coloured background. One of her nipples poked at the stem of an iris, the other poked free in the core of the flower. 'And the shirt must lie smoothly on the shoulders,' he went on and as he did he flattened both bands over her shoulders, taking the girl's soft skin back in his possession, and into his mind, and ran his hands down her arms.

She stopped, again.

He stopped, at her elbows, then closed his hands around her, an elbow in each hand, and said, 'Don't stop,' as he gently ran his fingers back up her arm, all the way in to her neck which this time he let his hands settle lightly around. Fingers meeting at her chin. She started ironing again.

He tried to remember where he was.

Then he remembered. Lifting his hands from her neck, but keeping his fingertips touching her chin, he said, 'And the shirt at the front.'

What a beautiful neck she had!

'The shirt at the front is important,' he repeated, or said – he couldn't remember which – but he knew the front was next. 'Here,' he said, 'and here,' he added, as he started to move the flat of each hand down the front of the girl, fingertips lightly touching her. The start of the sternum, the top of her boddice, a button, another. Fingertips moving over button number three as two soft breasts pushed their way into the palm of his hands, and a nipple traced a line up each. Then his hands were past. Her lower ribs held warmly, then her tiny waist. The tips of his journeying fingers, growing eager, ended up lower, over frock, over mound. Lightly assertive hair that covered the more assertive mound on which they sprouted, lightly, intimately. His palms flattened warmly on her neat firm-0muscled abdomen, as the tips of his fingers stayed where they were, over the bulge of the point, lower down, where pubic hair. Was.

'You see?' he said.

Perhaps he'd alarmed her for she didn't respond. She usually did.

'Let me show you again,' he said, seeking to allay her alarm, if such it was, as his hands leapt back to her chin like birds released from a trap. 'Here,' he said, before she could object. He started again. More slowly. (Hands shaking.) The girl's pretty breasts came into his hands like ripe warm fruit that was starved of affection. Full, and plump, and heavy, they nestled in his hands like the muzzle of a mare against her stallion. Nosing affectionately closer, pushing more assertively into the flank, or in this case, employer's nervous hands. The nipples felt tight and hard like tiny peas pressed forward, like knots at the top of two honey-filled baloons, the pressure coming roughly, with a sigh. (Or was that imagined?)

This time he lingered. And studied the view in the mirror of the girl, as she ironed, head bowed, neat and tidy, freshly showered, brightly dressed ... while her employer, (himself,) stood in the kitchen, dressed only in his dressing gown and slippers, hair thinning, uncombed, while in his hands he held her breasts. This young, sweet, lovely au pair, employed by his wife from a ring-bound catalogue, blue cover, who stood here acquiescently, sweetly, obediently, offering her breasts without complaint. Their weight settled nicely in his hands, innocently offered. (Gratefully received.) It all felt so right! With the nipple pressing home so aggressively.