Some time ago, I shared an apartment with a friend from school. It was a fairly quiet apartment building, mostly inhabited by older people. Everything was normal until two people of Moroccan origin came to settle in our condominium. Disagreements soon began as they were constantly skipping their shifts to clean the stairs and entrance. They never attended the condominium meetings, and the heated and stressful tones of the attendees were becoming more pronounced. Their excuse was that they didn’t have time to clean the stairs on top of their shifts, and they saw Saturdays and Sundays as their days of rest. Fed up with the constant arguments, I offered to cover their cleaning shift on Saturday mornings, at least with a quick wipe. Needless to say, I was scorned for volunteering to cover their cleaning shift, but it had been going on for months, and it only involved a quick cleaning, estimated to take about ten minutes.
So, every Saturday morning, I volunteered to clean in place of Rashid and Jamil (fictitious names), as they called themselves. It wasn’t long before they learned of my voluntary act. One day, while crossing paths with Jamil, he stopped me and asked why I was filling in for them. After explaining the matter to him, he understood but told me it wasn’t right for them to feel indebted to me. I explained to him that it was not necessary and that, after all, I had the time unlike them, who had to take shifts. As time went on, we began chatting more and more, and I started to develop a certain liking for them. Their attitudes were always confident, and they showed no uncertainty, which made me admire them.
One day, Jamil asked me if I wanted to go to their house for a drink, and I agreed. Upon entering the apartment, I noticed a plain room with a few pieces of furniture covered in a layer of dust. The floors were stained with patches here and there, and the sink was full of unwashed dishes. He noticed my puzzled expression and playfully said, “Not having a woman in the house leads to this.” I replied that I didn’t have a woman in the house either, but I still kept it neat and clean. He sat me down on an armchair and served me a cold beer. We talked, and in the meantime, Rashid also arrived. He sat down and said, “Did you see their house?” I replied yes and explained that they didn’t have time to clean often, so they needed help. Soon after, they offered to pay me 10 euros an hour to clean their house. After considering it for a while, I figured I might as well do it, given the economically difficult period I was going through. We agreed on once a week, on Wednesdays.
So, my weekly work began. Although I must say I didn’t enjoy it, it was tiring. Soon, I started looking for ways to make them like it. I started going to their house wearing women’s panties under my jeans, then with hold-up stockings, and finally, I would dress in cross-dressing attire, all in secret without being discovered. I was afraid that if they realized I was actually a transvestite, they would get angry or even harm me. I liked everything about cleaning their house, as I always felt like I was more at their service than just someone paid for a job.
On some occasions, they would come home while I was still cleaning. One evening, they asked me to stop and have dinner with them. During dinner, I learned about their customs and, as we talked, they told me about their families living in Tunisia and their wives. They explained that they sent part of their pay to their families. However, while they were in Italy, they had taken the liberty of some sexual adventures with Italian girls. This caught my attention, and I mentioned a friend of mine who had married a Moroccan and how possessive and jealous he had become. She could no longer go out alone with her friends or make phone calls. She had to stay at home and only go out with her husband. Other Italian girls had also complained about similar dynamics. They explained to me that deep jealousy and fear of betrayal were the reason behind these restrictions. I told them that some Italians actually accept that their wives see other men and that some even find it arousing. I explained the concept of cuckoldry, and they replied that they despised such attitudes and would treat a man’s wife as if she were the filthiest of bitches and get her pregnant without mercy. I explained that this dynamic also led to arousal for the cuckolded husband. Rashid replied, “That’s because you are weaklings!” I had to admit that they were much more old-fashioned in this regard than we were, and imposing such control over women in our society is often unthinkable, except in certain circumstances. I said, “You are very strict with your women,” and they proudly confirmed that this was how it should be.
After dinner, they asked me to make them coffee. I agreed and served it without protest. It soon became clear to me that with each concession I made, they would expect more. It was the classic attitude of those who, if given an inch, take a mile. Inwardly, I began to wish that they would take much more than just control over me. By this time, I would always go to their house with underwear underneath and cross-dressing attire, which made me appear more docile in their eyes. Soon, I found myself also doing the dishes and laundry, and while cleaning the bathroom, I would clean the toilet and bidet as well. I would do it on my knees with the hope of being seen in that humble position. One day, while I was cleaning the bathroom, Rashid came in and just said, “Sorry.” He stood in front of the toilet and pulled out his penis to urinate. I was visibly embarrassed but stayed on my knees, passing the sponge on the low side of the bidet. When he finished, he stood still, giving me a little look, and I, feeling observed, looked up. He still had his erect penis in his hand and said, “Do you want to clean this too?” My heart pounded with mixed emotions, and stammering, I replied, “Wha-what???” He approached with his erect penis out, nice and hard. He said, “It’s easy,” and stopped in front of me. He leaned back the back of my head to make me look up and, with his other hand holding his member, he literally slid it inside my mouth. The acrid taste was overpowering, and I could feel that he was releasing the last drops of urine on my tongue. He took his hand off the back of my head but stayed still. With his penis in my mouth, I could do nothing but start sucking it clean until it was shiny… to be continued..
