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Author’s Note: Hi! I’m Rachel Heath, an erotic writer who loves her work. This is the beginning of my novella, “The Man Who Was put On Earth To Serve Women.” It is my hope that some of you who read this start will want to learn what happens next — and buy “The Man Who Was Put On Earth To Serve Women.”
The Man Who Was Put On Earth To Serve Women shook some Ajax into a toilet and used the scrub brush vigorously. He folded a paper towel into a square then sprayed the seat and rubbed it clean. He did not work quickly for he was under no deadline but he was always mindful of doing the best possible job and leaving everything in the sparkling clean state that would please Cathy, Lydia, and Sarah. He threw that paper towel away, then paused in his work to take a couple of drinks of cold water from a Dixie cup. Looking in the mirror above the sink, he admired his own clean-shaven reflection. He was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and ruggedly handsome. He possessed a light beige complexion, short wavy hair of a medium brown color, bright blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and prominent cheekbones. He tore off another paper towel, and removed the Kleenex box and the latest issue of the Reader’s Digest from the tank before wiping it clean.
Then he gave the same careful and thorough treatment to the sink, the mirror above it, and finally the bathtub. Before he left the lavatory, he looked around to make sure he had left no spot behind that he was capable of erasing. Finally he sprayed the bathroom lightly with air freshener and went to Cathy and Lydia’s bedroom.
There he removed knick-knacks and jewelry boxes from atop the two chests, setting them down temporarily on the ladies’ bed. He dusted thechests, trying to get all the crevices between the drawers. A certain fluttery sensation of sexual arousal mingled with fear and shame rose inside him as he got to the bottom drawer of the larger, maple chest: that was where the instruments of his correction were kept. He dusted the frames around the pictures hanging up on the walls. Then he returned to the kitchen to fetch a can of wax and polished what he had just dusted until the wood glowed with a fine sheen. He put each knick-knack back in its place after carefully removing the dust from it. Like most people, The Man Who Was Put On Earth To Serve Women had a name. However, unless he was at his regular job as an actuary (luckily he was back to working under a woman boss) or at church or in some other public venue, he did not like to think of himself by his name. He preferred to think of himself as The Man Who Was Put On Earth To Serve Women or simply as “fella,” the term used for him by Cathy, Lydia, and Sarah.
Taking a break from his chores, he went to the kitchen to fix himself a sandwich. He took that into the living room with a Coke and turned on the tube.
It was quite awhile after that, while he was in his own bedroom reading a recent issue of Time, when the buzzer went off. He jumped up. It was time for inspection. He quickly combed his hair and straightened out his butler’s uniform, slipped into his shoes and headed for the living room.
Cathy and Lydia were there. As was her wont, Cathy sat up in a straight-backed chair while Lydia was stretched out on the couch, shoes beside it and head propped against a pillow. Cathy was in her early twenties and Lydia had recently turned forty. Even though they were together all the time, no one ever took them for mother and daughter because they looked nothing alike except that both were of average height. Cathy was pleasingly plump, very large-breasted, with a light olive complexion and short, jet black hair that she wore parted on the side and in an old-fashioned pageboy. On this day, she was wearing a maroon-colored business suit with a black blouse. She wore a light make-up and no jewelry. Lydia was a svelte, small-breasted blonde with alabaster skin and an oval-shaped face. She had small green eyes and a large black mole on the side of her chin. Attired in a dark blue dress and pale stockings, she had no make-up on save for a baby pink lipstick. She wore earrings of gold in teardrop shapes, a couple of thin gold-colored necklaces and rings on both hands.
“You called,” fella said with a brief bow.
“Yes, indeed,” Cathy replied. She looked around the clean and tidy room. “It looks like a pretty good job.”
“Thank you, Madam,” he replied.
Lydia rose from the couch and pulled up the cushions. “You remembered to clean under here this time,” she commented, slipping her shoes on.
“Yes, Madam,” he replied.
Cathy continued around the room and stopped at the windowsill. She looked at her fingers: covered with dirt. “Unh-oh,” she uttered. Her brown eyes narrowed as she looked at The Man Who Was Put On Earth To Serve Women. “Not so good, fella,” she commented.
“I am sorry, Madam,” he said with his head bowed.
With Cathy in the lead, Lydia behind her, and fella last, the group went into the east wing bathroom.
“It sparkles,” Lydia said with evident satisfaction.
“Thank you, Madam,” he replied.
“But . . . my glass,” Lydia said in a severe tone.
“Yes Madam?” he asked.
Lydia showed him the little black ceramic cup (Cathy, like fella, drank from Dixie cups when in the bathroom). He could see that there was a small, reddish stain in the bottom of it. He ought to have washed it or at least replaced it with a fresh one.
Again his head bowed as he said, “I am sorry, Madam.”
“You should be, fella,” Lydia remonstrated.
He was silent and his head was still bowed.