You know how they say if a deal is too good to be true it probably is? Well, this deal was too good to be true. But stupid me, instead of considering why it was so good, simply congratulated myself on my good luck and jumped at it.

I didn't have any suspicions at all. I was that naive.

Which is a bit odd because I didn't consider myself to be naive, to be an inexperienced princess like most of the girls here.

Princeton is an ivy league college, after all. You don't get in without having a lot of money, and usually family connections, too. I had neither. But I was smart, and I had great marks, and so I was able to get a partial scholarship. The scholarship paid for my tuition and books. The rest was up to me.

That meant I had to pay for my room, board and transportation – and everything else. The dean of students made that very clear. She was a very direct woman; one of those very precise, straight-backed Asians who did everything in a steady, machine-like way. She was very businesslike, and not inclined towards chattiness or feigning friendliness.

“How do you intend to earn your keep?” she asked.

“Uhm, well, I guess I'll get a job of some kind,” I replied.

She frowned with disapproval.

“Ms. Cooper,” she said firmly. “You should be aware that you are hardly alone in looking for part-time work while studying at Princeton. Such jobs are in very high demand and very low supply. Particularly those paying above minimum wage and most particularly for those with a resume which, from reading your history, will be quite spartan.”

“I'm sure I'll find something,” I said, trying to exude more confidence.

And I was fairly confident I would. I mean, it's not like I hadn't been working part-time for years while in high school. And, to be honest, I guess I kind of took for granted that I would be given a certain... preference in hiring. I don't want to sound vain, but I'm an attractive blonde.

Does that sound narcissistic? I don't mean to, but it's not like I don't see myself in mirrors and it's not like people haven't been telling me how cute I was since I was four – and how sexy I was since fourteen. What am I supposed to say? That I'm ugly?

Yes, I know that being attractive opens doors in a lot of places. Even at school, when I showed up anywhere everyone was happy to see me – except some of the ugly girls. I'm five feet ten and have a body which is the product of my current part-time job teaching physical fitness.

Yes, I'm very toned and trim, and most of the fat on me is in my breasts, which look amazing in a leotard, believe me.

“Housing costs are quite high, especially close to the university,” she continued in that firm, clipped voice. “And you have left things too late to even apply for student housing.”

“Uhm, sorry,” I said.

I hadn't intended coming here this week. In fact, the letter of acceptance had gotten lost somewhere under my roommate's recipes and I hadn't even opened it until it was almost too late to accept.

“How many hours per week do you believe you would be able to work and still undertake your studies properly?”

“I... hadn't thought about it,” I said.

“Think about it,” she ordered.

“Well, I've had part-time jobs before, during school. I mean, I could certainly work on weekends and Friday evenings.”

“So twenty hours per week, approximately.”

“Something like that I guess.”

“I have a proposal,” she said.

I looked at her in surprise.

She interlaced her fingers as she gave me a direct look.

“I have a large house just outside the university borders. I live there with my husband, son and daughter. They are students here, and busy. My husband is an attorney, and also very busy. I, am very busy.

“It is a large house with large grounds, and several spare rooms. I would be willing to provide you with room and board in exchange for you doing household chores; mainly cleaning, laundry and the like. Not cooking. I enjoy cooking.”

“Uhm, gee, that sounds... generous!” I said in undisguised enthusiasm.

She did not share my enthusiasm.

“I recognize that you will need to go to your courses, and to study and do assignments. However, I will expect the quality of the work you do for me to be high. A desultory wipe of the floor is not up to my expectations. I want a floor you could eat off of. Do you understand?”

“Sure!” I said.

Little did I suspect!

She gave me the address.

“Do you have a vehicle?”

“Uhm, no.”

She pursed her lips. There is no public transportation in that area of town,” she said. “However, it is not a large town, and you appear to be a healthy young woman. You should have no difficulty walking. There is also a free bus which loops around town during commuting hours.”

It all sounded so perfect! What luck I'd had! And for once, I had no suspicion it was because of my looks. Ms. Lee was twice my age, had kids my age, and was such a, well, stern and unsmiling woman I certainly wouldn't think she'd offer a job to me because I was a tall and good-looking blonde.

Again. Naive.

***

Princeton is a town, not a city, in New Jersey. But it's within easy commuting distance of the city of Trenton. It has narrow, winding roads which are heavily treed. In fact, sometimes it’s hard to see much of the houses because many are set back on large lots behind those big trees and bushes.

Away from campus, it's quiet and peaceful, and most of the houses are tidy, large, and old, made of stone or brickwork. It was so unlike the place I grew up, an apartment in Pittsburgh, that it was practically another world.

My apartment, the one I grew up in, was a condo, so it wasn't exactly a bad neighborhood, but the amount of greenery anywhere nearby was pretty small and patchy. The one I moved into with my friend Bethany was worse, and it made me a bit nervous every time I got into an elevator and guys would look at me like they wanted to attack me and tear my clothes off.

These were streets where you could relax and just stroll, not worry about a group of men grabbing you or harassing you.

And believe me, I've had a lot of harassment in my life. A slender body and a thirty-eight D chest will do that for you. Blonde just goes on top of that. I've been ogled and leered at and had obscene suggestions and whistles tossed my way since I was fifteen. And it really doesn't matter what I wear either.

Boys and men have been trying to seduce me, pouring out every possible line to convince me to part with my clothing and let them do what they want for as long as I can remember. It gets a bit … tiring. Trying to sort out who might be honestly interested in me as opposed to my breasts and body is never easy, even with experience.

Men gained experience with age too, after all.

The advantage of being welcome wherever I go, and being hired ahead of others was nice, but didn't entirely offset the harassment. I had been wearily expecting to get some sort of waitress or bar hostess job, because if I smiled and wore something a little low cut – with a short skit – I got really nice tips.

The thought of working in a nice family atmosphere was something of a relief.

This was a nice neighborhood of two and three car garages, with big houses that boasted half a dozen bedrooms. Few were very modern looking. The principle building material was stone, and a lot of them looked like they'd been built a century or more ago. I was going to enjoy living here, and even enjoy the walk – except maybe in winter.

I wondered if I could ski in to class. There was such a lot of grass on either side of every road it ought to be possible. But where would I put the skis once I got there?

I reached the address she gave me, walked up the long driveway to the path that led to the big double doors, then rang the bell, trying to quell a certain level of anxiety about what the job might involve and my reception.

I mean, Ms. Lee had not struck me as a particularly warm and friendly woman. Still, I didn't have to be friends with my boss.

It was a man who opened the door, though, and what a hot looking man! He was tall, for an Asian man, about my height, maybe a bit more, with full dark hair, very piercing eyes, and full lips. He looked whoa-hot, but also had that inscrutable Asian look, that looked like he was suspicious of you.

“Uhm, hi,” I said. “My name is – .”

“Come in,” he said, backing up.

I pursed my lips and stepped inside a wide lobby with a staircase which went up the right wall and a long, wide, and meticulously clean tile floor heading along it towards the kitchen behind. There was a living room to the left, with big French doors, and the hall continued to the right to a bathroom, then went around the stairs.

“Come with me,” he said abruptly.

I shrugged. Not very friendly, but still hot, and somewhat intimidating. He was wearing a dark suit, a very expensive dark suit, and it fit him really, really well. He had broad shoulders and moved very athletically.

We turned right, went past the bathroom, and past a closed door to where a doorway gave onto a kind of library, well, a study with bookshelves. It had a desk, which faced a pair of French doors giving out onto a garden, and he sat down at it, then spun his chair to look at me.

He had not invited me to sit down, and there were no chairs close to where he sat.

“Have you ever cleaned before?” he asked.

“Uhm, well, of course,” I said.

“Have you ever cleaned a house for others before? For pay?”

“No.”

“The standards when your job is to clean are higher, you know, than if you're simply cleaning your own apartment.”

“Cleaning is cleaning,” I said.

He snorted in disagreement. “My wife is a demanding woman. We have a cleaning woman who comes in several times a week, but she is dissatisfied. Yet she lacks the time to do her own cleaning. She calls the woman up several times a week to point out some deficiency in her cleaning. You can expect to have your deficiencies pointed out to you in person.”

“Uhm....”

“However, the ultimate judge of your work will be me. Let us not mince words. In an Asian house, the man is ultimately in charge. I realize this goes against western concepts, but it is no less true. My wife is a strong-willed woman but she is still a product of that culture, as am I. If you are unhappy with my wife's decision you may appeal to me. If you feel her discipline is unfair, you may appeal to me.”

He noticed my widening eyes and snorted.

“Oh yes. Asian culture is quite disciplined. You will, no doubt, become much more closely cognizant of this fact as you observe how my children behave. Their homework, projects and studying habits must satisfy me and my wife before their teachers.

“Their behavior, dress and language also must live up to our requirements. You are not Asian and not one of my wife's children, but you are of an age and she will feel a responsibility in the absence of your parents to ensure you do both your work and your schoolwork up to a high standard.”

That made me uncertain. I didn't need some Asian woman nagging me and demanding to see my homework!

“I'm sure it will be... annoying at times. However, you may appeal to me, and the end result will be that you will get better marks. Be sure of it. Come.”

He rose and walked around his desk to the French door and I followed as he opened them and walked out into the garden.

It was... quite a garden! And past it was a long, wide yard with tall hedges on three sides. In the middle of that was an enormous pool with interlock stones on all four sides, a diving board at the far end, and white roman columns eight feet high set at intervals alongside.

“You will have access to the pool most of the time,” he said. “Unless I or my wife are holding a party of some kind. I believe strongly in physical fitness. As does my wife. I understand you have worked in physical fitness.”

“Yes,” I said as he opened another French door further along the wall.

This led to a beautiful dining room with a big wooden table that would seat ten. To the right was a huge kitchen with miles of counter and cabinets, and a big island in the middle.

“This is my wife's domain,” he said. “You can be assured she will do the cooking, rinse off the dishes, pots and utensils, and put them into the dishwasher, as well as wiping down the counters. Your job will be cleaning the floor, and then doing a more thoroughly cleaning of the counters later.”

That certainly sounded easy enough.

He led me through the family room, with a soft blue carpet, big wall-screen, and comfortable leather sofa and chairs, then the front room, which was more ascetic, with wood-grain floors and less comfortable looking, very square chairs and sofa.

“The floors must be scrubbed once a week, but wetted down every day,” he said. “You need only use hot water and a sponge mop.

I frowned at that. Every day? Well, if it was just wetting down it wouldn't take more than a couple of minutes per room, probably. He led me upstairs and showed me the bedrooms, telling me what I'd need to do in each. Mostly that consisted of vacuuming the carpets and doing the floors.

Of course, I'd have to completely clean the master bathroom and the family bathroom once a week. And I'd have to do a 'wipe down' every day. Again, I was a bit wary. But it shouldn't take a lot of time to wipe down a couple of bathrooms.

The bedrooms were large and comfortable. The master bedroom in particular was huge! As was the attached bathroom and walk-in closet. There were two other occupied bedrooms. One for their son and daughter. Another was empty, and it would be mine. It was the largest bedroom on the floor aside from the master, had a really beautiful view into the back yard, and a small attached bathroom!

Score!

The four-poster bed was nice, and the furniture a bit old fashioned, but it had a table I could use as a desk for my homework, and a closet and dresser which would easily accommodate whatever clothes I brought.

“This will be your room, but do not expect my wife to fail to inspect it for cleanliness and tidiness,” he warned. “She is not a western mother who will ignore your clothes being throw on the floor or onto furniture. If they are clean they must be hung up or put away. If dirty they must be in the hamper.”

I nodded, looking around admiringly and I missed him turning to look at me. When I turned my head back I saw those piercing eyes again, and felt this strange little breathiness at the look. It wasn't... lust or anything like that. I mean, I'd been seeing those looks for years. It was just a very intent look like his eyes were boring into my soul.

It was.. intimidating, frankly. He was an intimidating man, big and with a thick chest, moving quickly, speaking firmly, in that suit of his. He wasn't a guy you said no to very easily!

Which was, to be honest, kind of a turn-on. I mean, he was a very attractive man with the kind of commanding personality that made things pulse down low on a girl, even if he was twice my age.

“Have you ever considered the martial arts?”

I looked at him in surprise. “Uhm, no.”

“Why? They help tone your body, add grace, and confidence, and can be useful if someone threatens you. I am a black belt in Kung Fu myself, and practice regularly. My wife, son and daughter are also black belts, though of a lesser dan.”

He took my wrist suddenly, startling me, and raised my arm up, bending it.

“Make a fist,” he ordered.

Such was his... presence... I guess you'd say, that I didn't consider saying no.

“You have good muscular development,” he said approvingly, running his other hand over my bicep and squeezing it.

His hand was soft and warm against my skin and I felt that flutter again.

Then his hand dropped my arm and abruptly, pressed flat against my belly.

“Tighten your stomach muscles,” he ordered.

I felt that flutter again, as his fingers pushed lightly into my stomach and then lower, into my abdomen. He was well away from dangerous territory, but I was wearing only a t-shirt, and my jeans were low on my hips. My t-shirt was not tucked in, and the bottom was almost level with my belt. So his hand pushed up and rubbed, half of it, and then all of it was on my bare skin!

“Good,” he said. “Very good for a girl who is not involved in training. What exercise do you do?”