Greetings, pervs, and pervettes. I'm Beth, a twenty-six-year-old, who's wandering aimlessly since graduating from UCLA with a degree in Italian Renaissance Literature. With such a practical degree I knew opportunity would soon come banging on my door replacing the student loan vampires currently camped at my Westwood double-wide.

Broke and desperate, my nerves were as frayed as the jeans I've worn during my seven years of college. My baloney and generic hot dog diet were as tasteless as an Earnest P. Worrell film festival. Fate intervened when I spent my last fifty cents on the LA Times where I discovered what I thought was only an urban legend: the classified ads.

My beady eyes immediately found the potential answer to all my financial woes: a Help Wanted ad for a maid in Beverly Hills. Since I'm a closet Weezer fan I knew this was kismet. The only requirements were "honest and hard-working." Those attributes could be problematic so I began embellishing my resume in hopes the homeowner didn't have access to a polygraph. After selling plasma to finance a trip to a discount hair salon, I began work on my yard sale chic wardrobe.

An upgrade was necessary. Luckily, Walmart still hadn't repaired their surveillance cameras so I picked up two stylish and clean outfits. (Let's just say 'clean') After spending two-minutes on my equally yard sale chic makeup I felt like trailer park royalty. Plus, fortunately, I have a French maid uni left from Halloween that I could now use and write off my taxes.

I drove my classic muscle car, '74 Chevy Vega, through the gated community and parked next to a pristine Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. I was escorted inside stately Wayne Manor where I met the lady of the house, Mrs. Dorothy Dumont. Dressed in designer casual, she had Nouveau Riche written all over her. She's the type who feels classy because she binge-watched PBS once after losing her remote.

I assumed she married into money although her sugar daddy was nowhere in sight. The walls were decorated like the Getty Museum with art by Degas, Pollack, Picasso, and Hopper although I doubted she knew who painted what. She seemed more likely familiar with caricatures drawn on Venice Beach. Despite my rude stereotyping she was quite attractive: mid-thirties, five-foot-four, brunette, perky titties, and an ass worthy of iambic pentameters.

Her butler served tea on the veranda where we discussed the job's responsibilities. As she droned on about those trivial details I couldn't help but notice her perfect tan and sparkling teeth which were even whiter than the neighborhood. Even more impressive was her tongue which she used to wipe her forehead. 

"Beth, might I ask you a personal question? The answer is irrelevant. I'm naturally curious," she asked cautiously. While I was elated to hear of her curiosity I'm nervous of any question framed in that manner.

With her teacup jostling, she continued, "As I said, it makes no never mind, but I notice your gorgeous dark complexion. Are you perhaps of Hispanic heritage? It's fine if you are since I've been taking Spanish lessons for the past two years."

"Si." Although that was a lie. The only thing Mexican in me was Raul, a frat boy from school.

"Si? Please slow down! I'm still a novice-o. But I must ask, do you have papers?" 

"Rolling or toilet?" She didn't crack a smile. Tough room! Tough room! I get no respect.

Waving my fictional resume, she resumed with increased anxiety. "What percentage of this is true?" 

"Maybe ten percent if you grade leniently."

She giggled. "At least you're honest about your dishonesty."

"I had a parole officer tell me the same thing once."

With that, she folded the paperwork and offered her delicate, well-manicured hand, then informed me I was hired. "You're exactly what I'm looking for, Beth, as long as you're comfortable with a couple of points. First, I demand discretion from my staff. My husband is a wonderful man but he doesn't need to know all my secrets."

I couldn't help but notice she practically gagged while saying "wonderful." I had a few secrets of my own so I related to her predicament and hastily agreed to her terms while completely ignoring the rest of her babblings.

With job secured she walked me to my car. Along the way she slyly waved to Chad, the pool boy. I instantly knew they were fucking. Not an unusual occurrence in the 90210 zip code, but what made this unusual was the absence of a swimming pool. She stopped long enough to ask him about crabs but he was far too busy clawing at his groin to discuss seafood.

During my first week on the job, I began discovering clues about her 'secrets.' Her laptop's history explained why I had to sandblast her keyboard daily. She seemed to be researching 'lesbian humiliation fetish' in-depth. Luckily for her, that was my minor at college. I even made the Dean's List. Unfortunately for my figure, it was Paula Dean's List.

One morning while hopped up on amphetamines she foolishly left in her unlocked medicine cabinet, I sauntered into the billiard room, surprised to find her spread-eagled on the pool table masturbating while simultaneously deep-throating a warped pool cue, blue chalk on her lips. As she pushed an eight-ball deep inside her gushing puss, her primal scream sent seagulls into a frightened migration to San Diego. The lasting image, however, was her unruly bush which was as unkempt as David Letterman's beard. I would be coughing up hairballs for decades.

She whimpered and blushed after noticing my presence which further soiled my saturated thong. To ease her mind I began caressing her left foot which was wedged inside the corner pocket. "Please don't touch me like that," she pitifully implored. "I'll go to Hell for feeling gay."

To placate her evangelical mind I leaned closer, whispering, "You won't go to hell, goofy. Actually, I'll take you straight to Heaven. The next stop is the gates of St. Peter-less." Already my 'subby sense' was tingling like a perverted Peter Parker, but before I could pursue her submission and humiliation I had preparations to make.

My first concern was our health in these COVID times. "Do you have a fever?" I asked as a precaution. I'd prefer not dying for pussy...unless it's a quick and painless death or the pussy is really, really good.

She softly replied as her honey dripped on the green felt, "You may check if you wish, but all I have are some jumbo rectal thermometers." My perfect attendance was assured.

Over the weekend I stowed party supplies in a small overnight bag then hid it in M'lady's boudoir. Next, I tackled the laundry. Sorting the household hamper I uncovered a pair of her red lacey bikini panties. Obviously expensive and just as obviously recently worn. Lifting them to my nose and inhaling deeply, my sinuses and pussy began to drain simultaneously. Moments later I detected movement by the door.

There stood Mrs. Dumont, her face as red as the Ferrari parked in the garage. She even had a Ferrari watch which, ironically, always ran slow. I could practically hear her heartbeat as she watched me. She then glanced down at her shuffling feet as if being cross-examined by Perry Mason. I finally broke the silence.

"You smell wonderful. Do you taste just as good?" There was no need for her to reply. I walked past her quivering body before stopping and speaking firmly. "Dorothy, go to your bedroom and undress. Then meet me in the kitchen. Be sure all the drapes are open." She was whimpering either from embarrassment or excitement. Did she even notice I addressed her so informally? 

As she fled I began serenading her with the Hall and Oates classic "Rich Girl" accompanied by my derisive laughter. I might listen to too much 80's music on Pandora. Humming and excited I danced to the kitchen where I cleared space and prepared the necessary utensils. Preparations were completed just as she joined me on shaky legs, her naked body flushed. I could smell her even over the recently used Comet. I was prepared to take this wench to Funkytown by way of Electric Avenue... word to your mother!

"I'm glad you could join me, bitch!" My harsh words caused her to grip the marble countertop tightly, her inner thighs drenched with her leakage. I wrapped my arm around her waist and led her to the kitchen island then bent her over, exposing her perfect bubble butt. "You need discipline in your life don't you, Dorothy?"

"Yes, Beth, I do. I've searched so long for it," she timidly replied.

My open palm promptly landed fiercely on each cheek. "You're my bitch now! Address me as Miss Beth. Understood?" I began playing my role worthy of a Daytime Emmy.

"Yes, Miss Beth. Treat me however you see fit! I AM your bitch." Her voice was quivering with pitch-perfect vibrato.

With that understood, I grabbed the large wooden spoon and continued wailing on her now bruised cheeks. Her hand was busy between her legs, fingering expertly like Clapton on a Stratocaster. I flipped the spoon around, guiding the handle into her winking anus. She protested until I reminded her of her place by jamming the handle even deeper. After her powerful orgasm, I eased the spoon out slowly before examining it. 

"It looks like you're a quart low plus the oil seems a little dirty."

"Oh, dear  God," she howled in embarrassment.  I next leaned over her back, my fingers exploring her glistening slit.

"Now I want my slut to beg for the number of fingers you need in your nasty cunt." My lewd vocabulary had her standing in a small puddle of her own juices before she urgently, desperately answered. 

"FOUR PLEASE!!" With my fingers pumping she grunted, pushed back hungrily, and corrected, "Please wait! Does the thumb count as a finger?" She received her answer when my fist disappeared inside her velvet hole, knuckles scraping her smooth walls. Immediately she came again, spraying my arm. She had taken the early lead in orgasms but that needed to be corrected.

I took her hand and led her back to the bedroom to introduce her to my party favors: butt plugs, anal beads, ball gags, cuffs, strappy, and a Happy Meal nipple clamp. To get the ball gag rolling, I stripped and sat on the edge of her bed. Looking into her sparkling eyes I commanded, "Get on your knees, you white-trash tramp! Your obedience lesson can now begin."

She complied immediately, kneeling with her hands linked behind her back. Looking up at me with a hint of uncertainty. I explained my syllabus. "Your first lesson will be foot worship." With that, I smeared my toes over her pouting, quivering lips like flea market Maybelline. She enthusiastically began sucking each sweaty toe like a child slurping a Dreamsicle. 

"Now, pop quiz, hotshot," I continued in a strict tone normally reserved for telemarketers. "It's time to test your pussy eating expertise so gobble up, nasty girl." And she did...with gusto! She devoured my needy cunt like a Sunset Blvd. hooker seeking a great Yelp review. When my legs finally stopped trembling I stroked her cheek and hair, praising both her submission and that magnificent serpentine tongue. Then I kissed her tenderly, which is not recommended in "Dominance For Dummies", but I felt we both deserved it.

In our short time together I had come to understand her inner workings. She was all about style over substance. Her flashy, powerful Ferrari was only for show. She couldn't drive a stick so she merely parked the pricey beast where it could be seen by passers-by. Naturally, I was able to use this phony facade to my advantage. When we went out, instead of her classy attire I made her wear the sluttiest outfits Frederick's of Hollywood had to offer. She feigned embarrassment, but I could smell her arousal as soon as she pulled up her ripped fishnets. I also substituted Avon for her Channel No. 5.

I doused her with it by the gallon. The stench was so unbearable skunks were seen hastily packing and moving to Encino. When she was scented and dolled-up I would drive her to a local truck stop to show her off. One day she even made seven-dollars, all in change. The filthy truckers seemed content, happy to get their fifty-cents worth. Such times were rare because I discovered it depressed me to share her. Although the seven bucks came in handy.

Sometimes she purposely did or said things to guarantee fierce discipline. Such as asking me, "Are you working hard or hardly working?" That trite quip always led to the crop crashing on her ass like Babe Ruth swatting a wiffle ball. Her other ingenious ploy was to lie across my lap and defiantly inform me she was voting for Trump AGAIN. I required rotator cuff surgery after those paddlings.

I had worked there several weeks before I met Mr. Dumont. I was in my revealing maid's outfit, bent over the pool table scrubbing Dorothy's stains. Her nectar proved quite potent as it seemed to eat through the felt like a xenomorph's blood. I felt eyes on my exposed bottom and turned toward the handsome voyeur, who introduced himself as he stepped out of his expensive trousers revealing a most impressive erection. He looked like the kind of man who walks naked into Krispy Kreme and asks the cashier to play ring toss with hot donuts. Mmmm donuts!

"Nice view," he exclaimed as he moved closer,  gripping my hips and grinding his tool between my spread legs like he was the Key Master in Ghostbusters. His expensive Tom Ford cologne filled my nostrils. Despite the exciting naughtiness of the situation, I protested half-heartedly. 

"Listen, Hef, I'm not a whore!" He threw a wad of bills on the table next to me. "I prefer 'prostitute'." 

He began pointless rationalization. "I know this is wrong but lately Dorothy has been holding out on me. I think she might even be cheating. Plus, for some reason, she always reeks of diesel fumes and that nauseates me." I whistled innocently. We resumed humping like aardvarks in heat when suddenly he went limp. Turning, I noticed him staring in disbelief at the doorway.

Following his terrified gaze, I saw his wife observing our carnal activity with eyes and mouth as wide-open as my legs had been only moments before. It was certainly getting crowded here. I was thinking of opening a lemonade stand until she screamed, "Get out!"

"Who, me?" her hubby and I asked in unison.

"Yes, both of you tramps." I burst into 'Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves,' but once again my song selection fell as flat as Cher's chest. I wiped off while he dressed and together we exited hastily via the front door. Again my absence of morals had destroyed a relationship but this time I actually regretted it. I'm no domme. I don't even play one on TV. I'm even worse than a domme: a shameless romantic. (One of my secrets)

During my Walk of Shame, I felt tears flood my cheeks. The tears I try so hard to hide because they reveal my embarrassing vulnerability. Ever since my family picked on me for sobbing hysterically during 'Marley and Me' I swore to never again reveal my emotions. I'd rather be thought of as a stone-cold Vulcan bitch than a weak, weeping diva who wears her heart on her sleeve for all to ridicule.

I never wanted to hurt Dorothy. Not emotionally.

I promptly ceased wallowing in self-pity when she yelled from her open door, "Hey, stop!"

"Who, me?"  he and I once again answered in two-part harmony.

"Just Beth," she answered hesitantly. It was then I noticed she was toting a hefty suitcase. "Are you through with him?" she asked, nodding at Mr. Biggus  Dickus. I quickly nodded. "Are you through with me, Beth?" she asked quietly as if afraid to hear my answer.

"Dorothy, the question is 'are you through with me?' I'm so sorry for everything." We hugged and she whispered in my ear.

"Of course not. When we first met I said you were exactly what I was looking for and today I still mean that more than ever. The only thing I ask is that you delete that fuckin' Pandora app."

Fighting bravely to restrain the tears I glanced at the suitcase. "That I can easily do since you haven't lost that loving feeling. But why the suitcase? Are you going somewhere?"

"Well," she began with sparkling eyes and damp cheeks. "I hear Westwood is nice this time of year. Oh, I almost forgot. Can you drive a stick?" She tossed the sportscar keys to me and my tears proudly flowed. We then kissed as Mr. Dumont took pics with his phone either for masturbation inspiration or as Exhibit 69 in the divorce proceedings. We were two happy California girls. God only knows someone should write a song about us.