It was the Roman poet Horace who first coined the phrase ‘Carpe Diem’ (‘grasp the day’ or ‘grasp the moment’)

Ursula Harrows was a creature of habit. She had been ever since the days when she was Head Girl at St Trinian’s Convent (her nickname was ‘Spanker’). She’d kept her husband Philip on a tight rein all their married life, ensuring that her every need – including a month-long winter break in the Caribbean with her sister - was bankrolled by his generous gilt trader’s commissions from the City of London. Ursula Harrows had never set foot in a supermarket.

Working from home during the Covid pandemic, meek middle-aged Philip had lately discovered the delights of early-morning internet porn, in all its myriad manifestations: lesbian love-ins, gay frotting, cumming over tits (something Ursula never permitted) and the improbable Fake Taxi. His current favorite was the seemingly endless series ‘Trucker Suckers’.

The affluent (childless) Harrows household was kept spotless by Mrs Fellows: cleaner, shopper, cook, weather forecaster and all-round Cockney sage. She would arrive promptly at 8.00 am each weekday morning, shortly after Philip had taken his wife her morning cup of tea in bed, before retiring to his attic office.

On this particular Monday morning Philip had been eagerly looking forward to viewing Episode nineteen of ‘Trucker Suckers’. Settling down in front of his laptop he loosened the cord of his pajama trousers, letting them drop to the floor. A swarthy African driver in dirty oil-stained overalls was preparing to fellate a fellow driver in the dimly-lit cab of a sixteen-wheeler. Philip followed their example, taking out his cock and massaging it to a lovely stiffness, confident he could finish with them, before descending to the basement kitchen to make Ursula’s second cup of tea.

Just as Episode nineteen was getting underway, the office door swung open, revealing a flustered Mrs Fellows, clutching the handle of a vacuum cleaner. “Oh, deary me… I’m so sorry, Mr ‘arrows. I thought you was taking a shower.” The cleaning lady stood frozen in the doorway, transfixed by the scene on the small screen on the desk top. “Is that ‘Trucker Suckers’ you’re watching by any chance, Mr ‘arrows?”

“Why yes, as a matter of fact it is,” he replied sheepishly, fumbling to cover his erection.

"My Sid watches it all the time at ‘ome. Loves it! Mind if I stay and take a look? Then I’ll go and do her ladyship’s boudoir.”

Gratified to discover that they had such a broad-minded cleaning lady, Philip Harrows breathed a sigh of relief. “By all means, Mrs Fellows. It’s only just started.”

“So, what’s occurring?”

“Well, it would seem that the Moroccan driver on his knees is about to give that swarthy Italian fellow what I believe is termed a ‘blow job’. Pull up a chair, why don’t you?”

She nudged the office door closed with one foot. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I sit on your lap – facing towards you – and you could watch them two drivers over my shoulder? And I’ll sit on your cock!” He was still nervously fondling his erection beneath his dressing gown, but this seemed like an offer too good to miss. “How’s that sound?”

Philip was quite overcome by the offer and it was all he could do to stutter: “What a splendid idea, Mrs Fellows!”

She leaned forward, tenderly pulling back his foreskin to lick his glans. She whispered in his ear: “Call me Daisy.”

Without further ado, the brazen cleaning lady unbuttoned her cotton housecoat, pulled down her knickers, swung one leg over her employer’s lap and expertly lowered herself onto his erection. There was a lovely squelching noise as she slid home. “Mmmm nice fit, Mr ‘arrows. My Sid’s a bit on the big side,” she giggled: “a bit like some of them truckers!” She gave an involuntary squeal of delight as he thrust his cock fully home. Soon she was bouncing up and down enthusiastically, her moans interspersed with choice Cockney expletives.

“I say, steady on, Mrs Fellows!”

“What’s up?”

“You’re moaning and swearing rather loudly. Don’t want Mrs H to hear, do we?”

"Switch on the ‘oover,” she whispered.

"Good idea. How do I do that?”

"Tap the orange tit on the top with your foot.” The machine sprang into life, drowning out the cleaning lady’s ecstatic moans. Her first orgasm arrived almost simultaneously with an on-screen climax in the lorry cab.

“Can you manage to cum inside me?” she cautiously enquired, hoping that her employer had as big a load to unleash as the Italian lorry driver.

"I'll do my best,” he promised. And like all City traders he was as good as his word.

Mrs Fellows thrilled at the power of his warm creamy ejaculation deep in her womb. She clutched his shoulders tightly and let out a huge scream of delight. The cleaner imagined that frigid Mrs Harrows didn’t get serviced like that very often!

Suddenly the office door crashed open. Ursula stood framed in the doorway, arms folded menacingly. “Philip! What on EARTH are you up to? I’ve been waiting half-an-hour for my second cup of tea! Why, pray, is that slattern sitting on your lap HALF NAKED? And what in Heaven’s name are those two lorry drivers doing?”

With a deft pirouette worthy of a ballerina a third her age, Mrs Fellows stood to attention before her Mistress. “It’s all taken care of, Madam. You see, your ‘usband was trying to find the Australian Test cricket scores on ‘is laptop just as I plugged my ‘oover in. And the computer crashed. I was… like… consolin’ ‘im.”

Cruella de Vil pointed a purple-varnished talon menacingly at the screen. “Well they don’t look much like Australian cricketers to ME, Mrs Fellows! And why is one of them kneeling on the floor?”

“P’raps ‘e’s mislaid ‘is ignition keys, your ladyship?” Daisy Fellows gave a rueful smile as she felt her employer’s fresh semen slither gently down her leg.