Tiger’s Maid

It’s a spring afternoon and we lie in Tiger’s bed, the French windows open, a breeze playing across our limbs.  We’ve been eating butter croissants from a white paper bag and the crumbs are scattered across the sheets.  “Hey, he whispers, kissing my cheek.  “Remember my birthday¦?

I grin.  “The French maid?

He play bites my ear, and against my thigh I can feel him getting hard.  Knowing we have hot sex when I retell the story of our French Maid night, I rest my fingers on his cock and begin at the beginning:

It all started with the surprise birthday party I threw him.  Everyone turned up in costume:  James came as an astronaut, Megan as Tinkerbell, Lizzie was Wonder Woman “ the list goes on.  When Tiger entered after a busy day at work, he was greeted with loud cheers from superheroes, imps, clowns and Darth Vaders.  We sang Happy Birthday and raised our bottles of beer, while the party-lights I’d strung from the walls glinted like would-be candles.  As streamers burst into the air and champagne was popped, my man’s gaze flickered around, searching for me.

I was leaning on the sofa-arm “ his French Maid fantasy.  I remember his eyes expanding as he looked me up and down, flushing slightly beneath his sandy-blond hair: he clocked my features one by one “ the little black dress with the frilly white trim that pressured my breasts into two, tanned orbs; the fishnet stockings; the peep-toe stilettos; the feather duster and the lipsticked pout.  I ran my hands up and down my stockings, leaning forward so my cleavage was clear.

He’d told me his fantasy a hundred times:  He’d be in the hotel room, jerking off, the sheets pulled back, his cock in his hand, and suddenly, there’d be a tap at the door, and in she’d walk.  “Je m’excuse! she’d gasp, fingers hovering at her mouth as she pouted and stared at his hard-on.  “I did not know you were still ˜ere!  Shall I come back later, monsieur?

Appraising her thighs in those fishnet stockings, her pumped up breasts, and the little lace-trimmed skirt, Tiger would invite her to come on in.  She’d sing in a smoky voice as she tidied round the room.  Dusting the windows with her feather duster, she’d reach over the desk, so the back of her skirt lifted and he could see the skimpy lace panties that cupped her tight cheeks and the slim thighs clasped by garter-straps.  And as she leaned yet further, he could almost make out her pussy, and his sex was aching as he idly stroked himself.

When she turned, she’d gaze helplessly at his cock.  “Can I clean you any more? she’d purr, walking towards him.  With his eyes on that wondrous cleavage, he’d groan, his hand jerking a little more quickly.

“Come and straighten the sheets, he’d say, patting the bed.

At his side, with those bright, dark eyes, and that cute feather duster, she’d tell him to lean forward while she puffed up the pillows.  As she did, she’d rest one of her knees on the bed so that Tiger could slip a hand up her skirt.  Running his palm across her garter-straps and ass, he’d catch his breath.  “Oh! she’d gasp, glancing back with a guileless look.  Then she’d press her ass into his touch like a luxuriating cat.  At last, he’d kneel up, his cock as hard as steel and throw her against the pillows so she gave a breathy cry.  “Please, she’d plead.  “Oh, I am so dirty.  Plunging one hand down her front so he could cup her breast, and pulling down her panties with the other, he’d push his cock into her tight, slick pussy:  As he fucked her, she’d plead for him to go harder.  He’d say, “This is the kind of filth you can never get clean.

I’d heard the fantasy several times, and the night of the birthday party, while we mingled with the guests, he kept appraising me with a look of dark lust.  While we chatted with Billy the astronaut, Tiger’s hand was up my skirt, and when I went to get fresh beers, he followed me into the kitchen.  Christ, I was so wet from the way he’d been surveying me, that when I opened the fridge and bent over to reach for some beers, I gasped out in triumph as grabbed me from behind.  “Oh monsieur, I told him, in my practiced French accent.  “What will ze manager say?

He pressed himself against my back and I swear he felt as harder than ever before “ my cunt, inside those tight, lace briefs, was wet and hot and thirsty.  At my ear, he whispered, “If you’re nice, you’ll get one hell of a generous tip.

The kitchen door was half-open, and I could see the guests behind it: a guy in a dragon mask was chatting up an angel whose wire halo was wonkier than before, and three musketeers were smoking, talking seriously together.

I’d hoped Tiger would take me like this, in my maid’s outfit, as he’d always longed to do “ but here, in the kitchen, where we’d certainly be heard¦well, that was never part of the plan.  But his cock pressed against the slippery lace of my briefs, rubbing hard against my aching slit, was enough to make me grasp the open fridge door, and glance back with a wide-eyed astonishment:  “Monsieur, you are feeling ˜ard!  I ˜ave never had so wet!

“Turn away, he told me.  I heard him unzip, heard the crinkle of the condom wrapper, before he ripped down my panties and entered so fully that the fridge hit the wall with a thud.  Dear God, I had never been fucked with such fervor!  He thrust and thrust, the fridge wildly wobbling, three lemons and a honey jar crashing to the floor; then he moved out of me, and made me pull up my panties and fall to my knees.  “I’ll show you what service is, he said.  Then he told me to suck him.  I did, quite slowly, staring up so our gazes locked, and I could see the lustful swelling of his pupils.  I worked him with slippery lips, and when he groaned I fancied the friction from my lace briefs would be enough to make me come – and hard.  But just as I was working him with my tongue and hands, enjoying his firmness and his heavy moans, he made me rise to my feet, and lean back against the worktop so he could fuck me, face-on.  I spoke in garbled French: “Oh mon dieu¦oh oui¦! and as he pounded insanely pushing his hand inside my dress, the climax took me over.  He shouted out and came inside me, falling over my body.  I saw his glazed expression “ an agony of pleasure.

Now, in bed together, I finish the story “ a porn-like retelling of that moment in the kitchen:  “You pumped and pumped me, your filthy little maid, with an agony of pleasure on your face.  You kept on going until I thought you might faint.  And then you yelled out like an animal in pain.  I remind him how, once we’d gathered our senses, we’d noticed our guests had moved away from the door, and I flushed to think of it but Tiger just burst into giggles.  After that, we’d spent most of the party glancing at one another across the crowded room.  For the rest of the night my panties were wet, my poor sex thirsting for another wondrous fuck.  And sure enough, when everyone had gone, I idly cleaned the sofa with my feather duster until Tiger took me across his knee.  He spanked and berated me, until both of us were laughing, and later, while I was riding his cock, he joked that I had French blood.

Having relived that sexy memory, the breeze still glosses over us.  I crawl down the bed and begin to lick him, as his fingers twine through my hair.  With my mouth full of him, I attempt a French accent, and he laughs out loud.  “Silly, he chuckles.  “You’re such a big prat.  And with that, his wonderful sex softens in my hand.  Kneeling up, I ask him if I’ve lost my je ne sais quois, and he shakes his head, beckoning me into a hug.

“You’re my fantasy, he tells me, “maid or no.

I close my eyes and smile.

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