F is for French Maid
The puffy, ultra-short skirt, held outwards by a stiff, frilly underskirt. The sound of heels on the wooden staircase. The demure expression on her face, determined not to trip and spill the precious cargo.
The warm spice and soft pastry, soaking up the cream. Sugarless tea to offset the intense sweetness.
The criss-cross of the fishnets that hug her thighs and calves.
Her round globes thrust out, awaiting the kiss of crop, flogger and paddles. Her head hung low, fighting the vertigo of looking down from the upstairs gallery.
Knickers, crisp, white and taut against her smooth pudenda.
The blush of her rosy cheeks, warm and ripe from their spanking. The sudden rush and whoosh of orgasms so intense that the linen bears the marks of gush, blood, even pee.
I revel in such memories because we won’t be able to make new ones for a couple of months and more. And I rejoice in the sure and certain knowledge that she’s mine.
New Year’s Day, 2019
See who else is being sinful this Sunday