The Housekeeper and the Ghost Boy

Dear FemdomU Forum,

When my husband passed three years ago, I thought the worst of it would be the loneliness. Turns out, it was the bills. He left me buried under more debt than I could ever have imagined, and with no pension and no savings, I had to start over. At fifty-eight, “starting over” meant taking whatever job I could find. So now, I clean houses for people who have more bathrooms than I have reasons to smile.

Most of my clients are well-off families who treat me like furniture. You learn to let the little humiliations roll off your back, but some days it’s harder than others. Like when the lady of the house talks on her phone while I’m on my knees scrubbing her marble floors, telling whoever’s on the other end how good help is so hard to find. Or when the teenage daughter tosses her clothes on the floor right after I’ve folded them, just to make me “earn my money.” I’ve been asked to polish a dog’s silver food dish, clean pubic hair out of the master bathtub, scrub blood out of sheets after “a wild weekend,” and once, I was told to wash a grown man’s underwear by hand because he “didn’t trust machines.”

The Thompsons were one of those families. A big, loud household: mother, father, and five kids. Though “kids” is being generous. Their oldest, Clark, was twenty-two and still living at home. A nice enough boy, but spoiled rotten. He was short, about the same height as his ten-year-old sister, Taryn, which didn’t help his maturity much.

Taryn was always dressing up, playing pretend, and she’d come by to show me her costumes while I cleaned. A princess one minute, a cowboy the next. Sweet girl. That day, she was twirling around in a fairy outfit when her mother called her upstairs. I assumed she left with the rest of the family.

An hour later, while I was dusting the hallway, I noticed a little ghost wandering by. A white sheet, two eyeholes, and a small giggle. I smiled and said, “Boo back to you, Miss Taryn.” When she didn’t answer, I decided to play along and gave the “ghost” a gentle poke and then a little tickle at her sides. But something was off. The laughter that came wasn’t Taryn’s. It was deeper.

The sheet slipped. And there stood Clark, red-faced and grinning, in nothing but his tighty-whities.

I froze, mortified, then furious. Something in me snapped. Months of swallowing disrespect, of being invisible, of pretending I didn’t hear people talking about me like I wasn’t there… it all came bubbling up. Before I even thought about it, I barked, “Enough! Bend over my knee this instant!”

He blinked, then laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

I gave him a look that shut him right up. He hesitated, then shuffled forward. I sat on the edge of the bed, pulled him over my lap, and without another word brought my hand down hard across his ass. Once. Twice. Again.

He let out a startled yelp, tried to wriggle free, but I tightened my grip and kept going. The sound filled the room, sharp slaps, his little gasps, the sting on my palm. His underwear came down halfway through, and I could feel the warmth of his bare skin, firm and trembling. He tried to act tough, but soon he was whimpering, kicking his legs, begging me to stop.

I didn’t. Not until his bottom was deep red and his tears were soaking my skirt. That’s when I finally paused, breathing heavy, staring at the boy I’d just reduced to a blubbering mess. And God help me, I felt good. Vindicated. Like I’d just exorcised months of frustration out through my hand.

He got up without a word, rubbing his backside, eyes downcast. I left soon after, heart pounding but lighter somehow.

When I came back the next week, his room was spotless. Sheets folded, clothes hung, not a speck of dust. He even said “Good morning” and asked if I needed water.

So maybe I crossed a line. Or maybe that line needed crossing. Either way, I haven’t had to pick up his dirty underwear since.

Signed,
A Housekeeper Who Finally Had Enough

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