The Sissy Cleaner: Cassie Cleans Up

Sometimes a guy just needs extra cash while he’s home from college, and it ain’t easy to get it.

That’s why, for the past few weeks, I’ve moonlighted as a glorified cleaning boy.

I know—it’s the kind of job you expect out of your little sister, not a twenty-one-year-old man who should probably be hunting tail and busting his balls at all hours. But the job is easy, and the money spends the same as any other.

I grew up a little on the young side for parents of a guy my age. It’s hard to imagine these days, but my folks were younger than I am now when they had me. Meaning they’ve got no shortage of friends and acquaintances with young kids at home and more expendable income than good sense.

I exchange my time and flexible morals for easy money. And since, apparently, rich people can’t clean their own dookie out of their toilets, it’s a growing business.

“They call,” Jake Miller answers.

All I have to do is show up in khakis and a polo shirt and run a vacuum cleaner around for a couple hours—a job a Roomba could do—but they think I’m the son they wish they had. A good, clean-cut boy to impress their lazy daughters.

Sometimes it pays to be a good boy.

It comes with a few perks. The customers usually leave a six-pack in the fridge and send me on my way with one for the road, along with a pat on the back for “taking initiative.”

I get little tidbits on the local landscape—who’s sleeping in separate bedrooms, who’s helping out at bake sales because they got booted from their job at the country club. You can pick up a lot by being a fly on the wall.

And the best part? The real treasures are upstairs.

In the dirty laundry.

Yeah…I’m a panty sniffer.

I’m not proud, but a man’s got needs.

Single and/or bored housewives do not keep Victoria a secret from me.

Since college, I’ve developed a taste for fifty-dollar panties, and a man’s gotta get his fix somewhere.

From a young age, I was taught to appreciate beautiful things, although my parents probably didn’t know that would translate into being turned on by their friends’ wives. Or their wives’ unmentionables.

Stepping into those doorways, entering bedrooms I’d only glimpsed in passing growing up, I get to breathing heavy.

Panty drawers are like bookcases. You can tell a lot about a woman by what she puts in there. And I love to get inside a lady’s panty drawer.

I love to sniff them. Rub them on my face. My balls, too, if I’m being honest. I get hard just thinking about it.

My folks’ friends have excellent tastes in lingerie, too. In fact, when I see them in public, I can’t help picturing the sexy lace dancing around between their legs.

Their husbands probably would, too, if they gave less of a shit about golf.

On this particularly warm, sunny afternoon, I found myself making my way up the stairs in the Ferguson household.

Brad and Melissa Ferguson live in the