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  The Naked Cleaner

  Sophia Soames

  Copyright © 2020 Sophia Soames

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ISBN 9798604796269

  Cover Photography and Design ©2020 Aurelia Morris

  The people in the cover images are Models and should not be connected to the Characters in the book. Any resemblance is incidental.

  All photos and fonts are licenced and/or free for commercial use by Sophia Soames, for distribution via electronic media and/or print. Final copy and promotional rights included.

  Graphics: Mop floor by Verry and Cleaner spray by Vectors Point from the Noun Project

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  References to real people, events, organisations, establishments, or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organisations or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  The Author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the products mentioned in this work.

  Beta reading by Erika

  Edited by Ann Attwood Editing and Proofreading services

  Formatting by Leslie Copeland at LesCourt Author Services

  Proofreading by Katie Jaarsveld.

  This book contains material that is intended for a mature adult audience. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content and adult situations.

  Find Sophia Soames on Social Media @sophiasoames

  For F and R

  Contents

  The Naked Cleaner

  Please note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Sophia Soames

  The Naked Cleaner

  It’s always been a thing, the gag joke gift Pontus Andreassen’s so-called friends present him with for Valentine’s Day. Not that people care much about Valentine’s Day in Denmark these days, and anyway, all of them are now grown up and sensible and mature and… adult. Pontus hates that word. He hates it almost as much as he hates going out and meeting other human beings and engaging in socialising, conversation and mutual masturbation.

  Until the day he gets gifted a cleaner, and his quiet Friday turns into the Valentine’s date from hell.

  Louis Ramsdahl-Soto’s grandmother would probably have whipped his third-generation Chilean immigrant arse if she knew that he has turned her famous recipe for Pastel de Choclo into some Scandinavian vegan delicacy. She would have whipped his arse for a lot of things, he knows that. The problem is that Louis seems to lack that vital gene to get his life in order. Instead he has moved back home to his parents and started up his own company, which is going well, if only his clients would remember to pay him, and if he could sometimes remember to put his meagre earnings in the bank. He’s a little bit of a disaster, but at least he’s good at what he does. Until he meets Pontus Andreassen.

  Please note

  This story is set in Copenhagen, Denmark, but some street names mentioned are completely fictional. The names and places in this story were all chosen by my lovely readers.

  This story is edited in UK English, any mistakes are the Author’s own.

  Chapter One

  Pontus

  It’s always been a thing, the gag joke gifts my so-called friends present me with on Valentine’s Day. Not that people care much about Valentine’s Day in Denmark these days, but at one point in time, all my friends were single, stupid and desperate. Desperate enough that this idea was born of gifting each other ridiculous things to make us feel better about being losers. Single, pathetic losers. Now I’m the only one left who is single, and a loser, and totally desperate if you believe my friends, all of them being all grown up and sensible and mature and… adult. I hate that word.

  I feel like everyone else has just grown up around me, yet I still sit here like an imposter adult in my tiny flat, decomposing like some sun-starved zombie.

  I need to get out more.

  I need to get a life.

  They all tell me, and to be honest I agree. It’s just when the choice comes up between spending the evening under a big cosy smelly blanket, wearing those flannelette pyjama bottoms I currently tend to live in, eating junk food out of cardboard boxes and occasionally sniffing my own armpits to realise I should probably shower and change my clothes? Then there is that other option. Going out and meeting other human beings and engaging in socialisation, conversation and mutual masturbation.

  I’m a slob. A fairly successful slob, running my own freelance company that allows me to conduct my entire working life from my surprisingly tidy desk, so that I never actually have to leave home. I get my food shopping delivered. Anything else I need I can easily buy online, and again, some poor soul will turn up on my doorstep with parcels and make my life supremely easy. Comfortable. Lonely.

  I’m not really lonely, because I sit in on several customer meetings every week, meetings where I actually put a nice shirt and tie on, to sit in front of my webcam, sometimes even bothering to brush my unruly mop of hair into a messy manbun. Haircuts are a thing, my friend Jonas will sigh when he pops around to make sure that I haven’t succumbed to starvation or electrocuted myself on one of the many wires that crisscross the messy floor.

  Slob. That’s what Jonas calls me. Over and over. All I can do is agree with him.

  So, it didn’t surprise me when the boys looked like they were ready to burst on Friday night when I had actually showered and dressed and ventured outside my own four walls down to the Mexican bar on the corner. The boys had laughed, their faces far too smug for my anxiety demons not to wonder what the hell they had been playing at.

  I still don’t truly get it. Apart from that the envelope they had proudly presented me with was pink, and the card inside said, ‘For my true Valentine,’ in swirly writing, signed by all the lads. The voucher attached was for four weekly house cleans. Two hours each time, covering a complete deep clean of all areas of my one-bedroom apartment.

  It is a ridiculous gift. But then, so have the gifts been the previous years. An evening class in knitting for beginners. Speed-dating vouchers. Live nude painting.

  I had thanked them all politely, enduring their catcalling and teasing with suitable grace whilst doing an inner eyeroll over the adultness of it all. Cleaner. My grandparents used to have a cleaner. Posh housewives in Frederiksberg have cleaners. I definitely don’t need a cleaner, and despite the mess I kind of acknowledge to myself that I do live in, what would a cleaner do about it? Apart from probably unplug one of my many essential leads and mess up my systems and my screen setup would be askew and smudged, and it would all be a flipping mess. It was bad enough when Jonas once did my dishes and I couldn’t find my favourite coffee mug for about a week. That was a bad week and I gave Jonas ALL the blame for the shit that went wrong that week. All of it.

  Well that was last Friday, and I should really have come up with something to retaliate with by now. Book the guys stupid Pizza deliveries on Valentine’
s Day to stir up some shit with their frankly, very understanding wives and girlfriends. They buy me stupid gifts for Valentine’s Day? I should at least be allowed to spend the rest of the year pranking them.

  It’s just, I am too tired right now. Too tired to even care. I should go and get something to eat. Perhaps have a nap. Stop my head churning over for a little while.

  Instead I am sitting here staring at the email that has just appeared in my inbox.

  TO: [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  DATE:14 February 2020

  RE: Confirmation of your initial cleaning appointment

  Dear Pontus,

  Thank you for entrusting us with your weekly clean and we very much look forward to brightening up your living space this afternoon. Our cleaner will be with you at 2.30 for a 2-hour initial clean. Please do not worry about the tidiness of your home, it is our job to ensure that your abode will look its best using our own locally sourced, organic, environmentally friendly cleaning solutions.

  I sigh loudly, almost making myself jerk with fear at the sound of my own breathing through the silence around me. I should put some music on. I should change my clothes. I should lock my bloody front door and pretend to be dead. Invisible at least.

  It’s bloody Valentine’s Day, and of course the boys have booked my delightful cleaning appointment on the very day. Yup. They had laughed in my face and told me that at least I could get on Grindr and get myself hooked up, because my flat would be sparkling clean. Wow. Thanks.

  No thanks. They are idiots. They are all bleedin’ idiots.

  I decide that I won’t open the bloody door. And to be honest I had forgotten all about the boys’ totally inappropriate gift until this damn email popped up with a cheery pling and now it will go on to totally ruin my day. It’s a normal business day for fuck’s sake, and I have things to do. Work to finish off. Naps. Stuff to watch on TV. Navel-gazing. A few beers. Sleep.

  We are a professional company catering mostly to the elderly members of CNS, and welcome new clients that have been referred to us by the CNS and its members. All our cleaners are trained professionals and hold current Police criminal record certificates. You may ask your cleaner to show their ID and credentials on arrival.

  Blah Blah Blah. I couldn’t care less. I look down at myself, the white shirt I carefully donned for this afternoon’s meetings buttoned up under my chin, the blue tie, the only tie I own, fastened neatly around my neck. The clothes I am wearing then beautifully accessorised by my naked hairy legs, and a pair of fluffy unicorn slippers that was once part of another totally inappropriate Valentine’s Day gift, from years ago when we were all still at school. They must be over ten years old, but I like them. They’re comfortable, Okay? And somehow, they remind me that I was once someone else. Someone who had a life, apart from working and eating and sleeping.

  My screen once again comes to life in front of me, signalling another video call, and I let myself get lost in my professional persona again, sitting up a little straighter and plastering another fake smile on my face before, once again, losing track of time.

  Time. It’s funny how I can lose hours drafting client proposals and budgets and getting a tiny bit excited about how it all adds up. Another deal in the can with a healthy paycheque making its way into my bank account. Not that I ever look at it, apart from when I do my taxes. I don’t have many outgoings and the normal things that people save up for, cars, holidays, kids? I can honestly say I don’t want for anything. I dabble in shares and investments, but other than that?

  I’m just not interested. Not at all. No happily ever after for me, thank you.

  The doorbell jerks me out of my headspace with a shrill, and I almost trip over my own feet in frustration as the bell just keeps going and going and going. And going.

  “What the FUCK!” I shout as I stumble across the floor, taking the corner into the hallway a bit too fast, only to fling the door open with a slam, staring angrily at the no-doubt brain-dead, deaf and dumb idiot standing outside my flat.

  A dude.

  And my heart does a stupid jolt.

  Because. Hello. Dude. Wow.

  “Andreassen?” The dude says, and I kind of shiver. Fuck.

  I haven’t felt like this in years. Like someone speaks and it goes straight to my gut, like his voice has somehow winded me. Not that that is the full truth, but hey, the guy is hot. Seriously cute. Ruggedly handsome with his dark locks, golden skin and stupid beanie. I don’t get impressed by random hot dudes. I don’t. It has happened once, or twice and never led to anything. And everything else has been a waste of time. But. Wow. Just... Wow. I should perhaps turn on the charm? Smile?

  “Yes?” I snarl instead, because I have zero social skills. I may be well versed in proposals and quotes and wowing potential customers with my immaculate economics and skills and training. I can talk shop until I am blue in the face. Dealing with actual humans?

  “Have I got the right place? I mean, I am here from Naked Clean Copenhagen? 2.30 appointment for an initial clean?” Mr Hot Dude says. He’s as tall as me. Kind dark eyes that twinkle when he shoots me a little smile. Dimples. Skinny, but kind of built. Legs that go on for days. Big feet. Those dimples though.

  “Ehhrm. Yes. Oh. Okay.” That’s me. Holding a great conversation, as always.

  This is the part where I should apologise and slam the door in his face. This is the part where I should throw the guy out and text Jonas a bunch of angry emojis and threaten to cut him out of my will. He may be my best friend, and someone I have known since we were both snotty kids in high school, but this is when Jonas Rojas-Soto deserves a proper phone call, so I can shout at him and make him regret this totally stupid idea. I bet it is his idea. Damn him. Instead I stomp back into my office and the guy follows through the door, carrying some kind of wheeled box and a couple of brooms and mops into my cramped hallway. And a cordless hoover of some kind. At least that is what I think it may be. Some kind of sucking contraption.

  Which makes my mind dive headfirst back in the gutter.

  I would suck this guy’s dick, anytime. Just say the word.

  “So, I’m Louis, I’m the owner of the company. Thank you for entrusting us with your weekly clean and if you have any special requests, just let me know, otherwise I will get started and will be out of your hair as soon as I am done.”

  “Ehhrmm.” I say.

  Smooth. Very Smooth.

  “Where can I put my clothes?” The dude asks. Louis. I think I heard Louis. The guy’s name is Louis. Louis. Wow.

  “Anywhere?” I say, wondering what the fuck the dude is on about. He’s wearing a beanie, threadbare t-shirt and shorts. Short socks. Posh trainers. And a load of junk around his wrist. Not enough clothes that he should be removing anything. Apart from perhaps the hat, but then it is February in Copenhagen and who the hell wears shorts in winter anyway?

  “Feel free to relax, unless you prefer to go textile.” The dude says. Louis says. And I snap back into reality.

  “What?” I’m either losing my shit, or the guy, this Louis, is speaking Mandarin. Despite the fact that he is speaking perfect Danish. I think. Or he might just be totally weird. Not that I know what to say, because now I have kind of lost my ability to speak. Breathe. And live.

  Louis has just stripped naked. Not just taken his top off, no. He has gone and dropped his pants and lost his shirt and is busy untangling the lead to something and lifting contraptions out of the box-thingy and there is shit all over my hallway. Stuff. And a totally naked man. Naked. I can see his crack. I can see his bloody balls when he leans over.

  “The fuck?” I finally shriek.

  “Cool isn’t it?” Louis turns around and is grinning harder than he probably should, considering he is naked. And his dick is right there, and it’s a fucking gorgeous dick too, and I hide my face in my hands and shriek. It’s not cool. This is not cool.

  “It’s a steam cleaner, throws out steam s
o hot it kills ninety-nine per cent of common household bacteria without using chemicals. I use it on everything, and you should see how clean things come out. It’s very satisfying to use.” Louis says cheerily, dragging a lead across the floor, then stopping to look at my spaghetti junction of leads plugged into the large surge-protector plug bank on the floor.

  “I bet it is.” My mouth says as I’m cringing in fear and embarrassment and sheer panic. There is a naked dude in my hallway. Staring at my plugs. He will mess up my plugs and unplug something he shouldn’t and fuck and FUCK! The naked dude is in my living room. I need help. I need to ring 999, 112, 911, whatever fuck the damn number is these days.

  “I did burn my balls once when I lost my grip on the damn nozzle. It wasn’t pretty. Mr Holte, whose flat it was, almost had a heart attack when I came running into the kitchen screaming and tried to get my balls under the cold tap. “

  “No shit.” My mouth responds like it’s running in automatic, as I am hyperventilating into my hands. Please just stop talking. Please just take your fucking burnt balls and leave.

  “So, Pontus is it? Is it all right that I call you Pontus?” Louis has taken a few steps back into the room. Into my office, and his hands are firmly placed on his—naked—hips, as he turns around the room and surveys the ceiling. “Cobwebs. Easy. I’ll sort them first before I start clearing the floor. Is there a recycling station in the basement?”