The Erotic Secrets Of A French Maid

hand, then reached for his plate.

'I'll get it,' he said, starting to stand.

'No, you can relax. Let me.'

He stayed where he was, the feeling of that small touch on his hand lingering. As he watched her move away with the salad plates he yearned to sink into the warmth she seemed to offer; wanted to forget himself in her, if only for a few hours. Something about her seemed capable of that type of magic, transforming the grayness of his everyday life into something brighter.

The rest of the meal passed with light conversation about the city, about where they grew up, about places they'd been in the world. She'd spent her junior year of college in Italy and traveled extensively while she was there, which gave them plenty of impersonal topics to explore. They moved through the meal and into dessert: a mint truffle ice-cream terrine with two sauces.

'My God, you made this?' he asked as she set the square slice of ice cream with truffle polka dots in front of him.

'It wasn't as hard as it looks.' She launched into a rapid-fire description of the construction, her voice higher than it had been over the lamb and side dish.

It took him a couple minutes to figure out what was going on. The instant he did, her nervousness became contagious. Once the ice cream was finished it would be time for that other 'dessert.'

Dammit! He'd forgotten about that-a testament to her cooking, or to his powers of denial.

Would she expect him to take the lead? No, wait. She'd said something about being creative with sex.

Crap. What did creative mean?

B movies rife with whip-wielding dominatrices cracked through his mind. Or maybe she'd bought a frightening toy at a sex shop: something long and electric, with nubs and lights and six speeds of humiliation.

He only had three bites of ice cream left until he was going to find out.

He made those last three bites last as long as he could, then looked at his watch. Eight-thirty. The night was young. Plenty of time for whatever she had planned.

Oh God.

'It's time, isn't it?' Emma asked, her voice going up two octaves.

'For coffee?' he asked, pretending ignorance. Hoping she would take the stall.

'Coffee breath,' she said. 'Although I suppose we could brush. Only you didn't bring a toothbrush, did you?'

Oh God. Did he have bad breath? Was there food in his teeth? 'No. I could go out and buy one.'

'Easier to save the coffee for later, don't you think?' she asked with a quaver. 'I imagine you'll, uh, be sleepy. Afterwards. And you have to drive home.'

'Sleepy. Yes.' Ah jeez, she meant after he'd come. Oh God. Oh God.

'You were planning to go home afterwards, weren't you?'

'God, yes. I wouldn't want to intrude.'

She giggled. 'No. We wouldn't want that. No intrusions of any sort!'

'Emma-' he started.

'No,' she said, cutting him off. She took a deep breath, regaining her composure. 'Don't say it again. I want to do this. If you need to use the bathroom, please go ahead and do so. Then I'd appreciate it if you'd go into my bedroom, undress, and lie on the bed. I have something special planned: the 'something big' you said you wanted on Fridays, to last you through the weekend.'

All I meant was a nice casserole.

'Okay.' He went to clean up in the bathroom with all the enthusiasm of a man preparing himself for the guillotine.

When he came out, she was leaving the bedroom. They sidled past each other in the short hall. He went into his former bedroom, dominated now by a queen-size antique brass bed, its covers folded down to the foot revealing a white expanse of crisp, clean sheet. Candles in small glass votives covered the dresser and bedside tables. The furniture and a cheval mirror were all antiques: like the dishes, they must have been inherited from her grandmother.

The thought threw more water on his already damp amour. He didn't want to think of Grandma looking down from her heavenly abode at what was happening to her granddaughter on her bed.

That didn't stop him from undressing. He heard Emma go into the bathroom. She clearly wanted to do this; apparently was looking forward to it, and that, as much as his own awareness that he was not quite so reluctant as he pretended to himself, made him fold up his clothes and leave them in a neat pile on the floor beside the dresser.

He climbed onto the bed and lay down, his head on a pillow. After a moment he found the position too vulnerable, and stacked up all the pillows behind him so that he could sit up. He crossed his arms over his chest.

His penis lay half-tumescent as if it, too, was not sure if this was going to be a good experience.

He wished he had something to cover it with.

He heard a curse through the bathroom wall, right behind his head. Then another curse and movement. What the hell was she doing in there?

He perked his ears, listening. She must not know how easy it was to hear through these walls.

'Ow!' she said. 'Ow! Dammit! Ow!'

His eyes widened. Visions of nipple clips and leather-wrapped objects for insertion into various orifices danced in his head.

Emma muttered darkly and thumped around a bit; then there was an ominous silence. His ears strained, trying to pick up some hint of what was happening. The silence continued. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought there was no one there.

And then all at once the silence was split by a Hai-ya! and a brief ripping sound. He bolted upright, his semiarousal shrinking like a snail withdrawing into its shell. There was a slap and a squeak, and then all was quiet again except for the pounding of his heart.

The water ran and was shut off, and a minute later the bathroom door opened. He grabbed the sheet at the bottom of the bed and pulled it up over his hips as he lay back, trying desperately to look relaxed.

'Almost ready!' she called softly. 'Are you?'

'Sure.' He swallowed and gathered his courage. He didn't want to disappoint her or hurt her feelings; somehow, no matter what she had planned, he was going to have to perform.

He tried to imagine her bare breasts. Touching one. Licking the nipples.

He heard the microwave turn on.

The microwave? What the hell was she doing with the microwave? She wasn't heating up a dildo, was she?

He closed his eyes and tried to think happy, bouncing-booby thoughts. He reached down and shook his penis, trying to encourage it to return to life. A shrunken willie was not the first naked impression a man wanted to give a woman.

The microwave stopped, the door opened and closed. Then the music that had been playing stopped and he heard her changing disks. The pianissimo opening bars of Ravel's Bolero began to filter into the bedroom. His penis perked up. It was the music used to cheesy sexual effect in the old Bo Derek movie, the piece composed of the same few bars of exotic, swaying melody repeated ad infinitum, only slightly louder each time as if building to a climax. Cheesy, but very promising.

He sensed Emma approaching. He pulled his hands back above the sheet and opened his eyes.

She was standing in the doorway, a red mixing bowl in her hands. She wore black fishnet stockings, a tiny white apron, and a small white cap pinned atop her head. His gaze skimmed over her body, seeking out piercings and straps of leather buckling on latex appendages. Relieved to find none, he took a slower, more appreciative look, his sex reviving as he took in the fall of her dark hair against the smooth paleness of her shoulders; the gentle fullness of her breasts with their pinkish brown nipples; the slope and rise of her waistline; the hint of black curls imperfectly concealed behind that little apron that he now guessed was meant to be an abbreviated French maid's outfit.