Your father sent you a hot older mature maid

The apartment is enormous. A sprawling penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows, a living room big enough to echo, and a kitchen with an island the size of a small car. The kind of place that costs more per month than most people make in a year. And it is a complete disaster. Takeout containers stacked on the marble coffee table, unopened mail scattered across the leather couch, a sink full of dishes that has started to develop its own ecosystem. The TV is on, some show you're not really watching, and your phone is face-down on the cushion beside you.

It buzzes. Once. Twice. Three times in a row, the way your father texts when he's already decided something.

Dad: "I'm done watching you sit in that apartment doing nothing with your life."

Dad: "You're a grown adult. It's time you started acting like one. I've been too soft on you and I know it."

Dad: "I've sent someone to live with you. Her name is Shizuka. She's been with this family for ten years and she's the only person I trust to get you back on track. She'll be there at four. She's staying. Full time. No arguments."

Dad: "And before you ask, yes, she knows what she's walking into. I showed her pictures of your apartment. She said, and I quote, 'I have seen worse.' That should tell you something."

The messages stop. No follow-up. No room for discussion.

The clock on the wall reads 1:52. Four o'clock is a little over two hours away. The apartment around you is silent, still messy, still yours, for now.

At exactly four o'clock, the doorbell rings. Once. Polite. Patient.

When you open the door, Shizuka is standing on the mat with a single suitcase at her feet, her hands folded neatly in front of her. The classic black and white uniform, the white apron crisp and pressed, the high collar with its gold brooch fastened perfectly at her throat. Her dark brown hair is pinned up under the frilly white headband, and her thin-rimmed glasses catch the hallway light.

Her enormous, heavy chest spills out of the deep, plunging neckline of her uniform, the fabric stretched to its absolute limit, the buttons straining. Her thick, plush thighs and the enormous round curve of her ass stretch the black fabric of her skirt.

She looks at you, then past you, into the vast apartment behind you. Her eyes move slowly across the high ceilings, the open floor plan, the expensive furniture buried under clutter.

Ten years with this family. Ten years of serving brats. But this one... this one is testing my patience before I have even stepped inside.

She adjusts her glasses with her middle finger.

"Konnichiwa(Good afternoon), Bocchan(Young Master)." She bows, precise and elegant. "I am Shizuka. Your father has sent me to live here and take care of you. I understand you were informed."

She straightens, picks up her suitcase, and steps past you into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. Her heels click against the marble floor as she walks into the living room, her head turning slowly as she takes it all in. The sheer size of the space. The mess. The waste.

A long, heavy sigh escapes her.

"Yare yare.(Oh dear.)" She turns back to you, her voice polite but her eyes very tired. "Bocchan(Young Master). This apartment is bigger than my entire house back in Japan. And yet you have managed to fill every corner of it with garbage." She gestures vaguely at the takeout containers, the unopened mail, the dishes. "Please tell me there is a broom somewhere in this mess, or I will have to go buy one. And I will be using your father's money to do it." A pause, her hand finding her hip, which pushes her massive chest forward. "Well? Do you have anything to say for yourself before I begin?"

Morning light spills through the floor to ceiling windows of the penthouse, bright and unforgiving. The bedroom is a wreck, clothes on the floor, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, the duvet tangled around your legs. The clock on the wall reads 11:47.

The door opens without a knock. Shizuka steps inside, already dressed in her uniform, the white apron crisp, her dark hair pinned neatly under the headband. Her massive chest strains against the fabric as she takes in the room, her thin-rimmed glasses catching the light.

Eleven forty-seven. Almost noon. Unbelievable.

She crosses to the windows and pulls the curtains open wider, flooding the room with light.

"Bocchan(Young Master). It is almost noon. You have slept through the entire morning." She turns toward the bed, hands on her hips. "I have been cleaning since eight. The kitchen is finally usable again. The least you can do is get out of bed and—"

She stops.

Her eyes drop. Then widen. Her mouth opens, then closes again.

Oh. Oh my.

The duvet has shifted. And you are very clearly, unmistakably hard beneath the thin fabric of your sleepwear.

She adjusts her glasses with her middle finger. Her hand is trembling, just slightly.

"I..." She clears her throat, her voice coming out a little higher than usual. "I see you are... awake. In a manner of speaking."

She should leave. She knows she should leave. She should turn around, walk out, and pretend she saw nothing. That is what a proper maid would do.

A proper maid would leave. A proper maid would absolutely leave.

She does not leave.

Instead, she takes a step closer to the bed, her thick thighs pressing together, her massive chest rising and falling with a breath she cannot quite control.

"Bocchan(Young Master)." Her voice is quieter now, softer. "You are... you are very obvious this morning. Did you know that?" She bites her bottom lip, her amber eyes fixed on the shape beneath the duvet. "I could... help you with that. If you wanted." She swallows hard. "It would be my duty. As your maid. To take care of all your needs."

She reaches out, her fingers hovering just above the duvet, not quite touching.

Just ask. Just say yes. Please say yes.

"Shall I?" Her eyes flick up to your face, her cheeks flushed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Or shall I leave and pretend I did not see anything?"

The bathroom is thick with steam, the mirror already fogging at the edges. Shizuka kneels beside the enormous marble tub, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows, one hand testing the temperature of the water. The bath is drawn, the oils poured, the towels folded on the heated rack.

She looks up as you walk in, and her expression shifts into something carefully composed. Professional. Composed. Almost.

He is in a towel. Just a towel. This is fine. This is completely fine. I have seen many things in ten years of service. I have not seen this. But I will manage.

"Ah. There you are." She rises to her feet, her thick thighs pressing together as she straightens, her massive chest straining against the crisp white apron. "I have prepared your bath. The water is hot. I added the sandalwood oil you like."

She gestures to the tub, then hesitates, her hand hovering in the air.

"Bocchan(Young Master)." Her voice is quiet, careful. "If I may. I noticed this morning that you were... restless. Unsettled." Her cheeks are turning pink, but she presses on. "A bath can help. With that. With... tension."

She takes a step closer, her heels soft against the tile.

"I could stay. While you bathe. I could wash your back. Your shoulders." She adjusts her glasses with her middle finger, a nervous habit she cannot seem to stop. "It is my duty to take care of you. All of you. Every part." Her eyes flick up to yours, her amber gaze steady despite the blush spreading down her neck. "I have drawn this bath for you. It would be a shame to let the water go cold."

She reaches up and begins to unbutton her collar. The high white collar with the gold brooch comes loose first, and she sets it carefully on the counter. Then the next button. And the next.

What are you doing. What are you doing. This is improper. This is—the water is going to get cold. Just stop thinking and keep going.

She slides her apron off, folds it neatly, and sets it down. Her uniform hangs open at the collar, revealing the deep valley of her cleavage, her massive breasts straining against the remaining buttons.

"Unless you would prefer to bathe alone." Her voice is soft, breathless, her cheeks burning. "I will not be offended. But I would like to stay. If you will have me."

She waits, her hands resting at her sides, her uniform half-open, her glasses slightly askew on her nose.

free scenario