The Erotic Secrets Of A French Maid

She met his gaze, her eyes dark with arousal, then lifted one hand off his chest to tug down her zipper.

'There,' he said when the zipper was at midtorso. He reached up and slid it off her shoulders, trapping her arms at her sides, her breasts coming free. He lowered his hands to her hips and urged her farther up his body.

A frown pinched her brows. 'What are you doing, Mr. Carrick?'

'Assisting.' He continued to walk her upward on her knees until she was forced to step over his shoulders, at which point the light dawned.

'Oh, no, Russ. No, you can't mean to-'

'Shh. The other patients will hear you.'

She grabbed the headboard for balance, her arms still partway pinned by her dress. She looked down at him, her face framed by the mounds of her breasts, and started again to protest. He gripped her hips and laid his tongue to her folds. He wouldn't let her get through this night without an orgasm.

Emma's words shimmered into nothingness as the sensation of Russ's tongue on her sex rushed through her. Still, she felt self-conscious as she straddled his face and hung onto the headboard, her thighs straining to keep in position above him. He could see so much of her from down there; his view upward must be of her tummy. She felt exposed and alone, but when she looked down, she found him watching her, only his eyes and forehead visible. She was embarrassed that he was watching her while he licked her.

She felt his tongue find the right spot and swirl, and she had to look away from the intensity of his eyes. She turned her head to the side and closed her eyes, trying to forget that he was there.

His tongue became something else in her mind: a nameless tool used to give her pleasure as she straddled it; as she was forced to accept its touch whether she wanted to or not. It was easy to imagine herself elsewhere this way, with her eyes closed and no contact with him beyond that warm mouth on her sex and the firm grip of his hands on her hips.

His wet, warm tongue stroked up and down her folds, parting them, then skimming their edges. He flattened his tongue and laved the length of her, almost too hard, trapping her between pleasure and discomfort. The tip of his tongue played at her opening, rubbing gently until she parted to admit a bare breath of tongue. He moved up again and sucked at her nub, his tongue teasing it with gentle flicks inside the tight, sucking confines of his lips. She gripped the rail of the headboard and tightened the muscles of her thighs, straining toward the pleasure. The flicking of his tongue was light enough to make her press her hips toward him, asking for more even as she knew that harder would not feel as good as this taunting, teasing touch.

She was suddenly impatient for him to thrust himself deep within her, touching places that no tongue could reach, with that thick, stretching width that satisfied the way no fingers could.

She wrenched herself away from his mouth, dismounting. 'There's something I want to do to you,' she said before he could protest, reaching over him for the massage oil and the gloves.

'If you wish. I was quite happy where I was, though.'

She gave him a small smile, not sure of the truth of that, and pulled on the gloves. As much as she wanted him to give her an orgasm, part of her also didrit want it. There was power in being the one to give and not receive. She was in control: of him, of herself, of how much of her inner self she revealed. She could find plenty of pleasure without reaching that big O.

'You'll be even happier when I'm through with you,' she said, raising an eyebrow suggestively as she unzipped her dress the rest of the way and shrugged it off.

Naked on top, with only the garter belt, stockings, and spike heels below, she poured massage oil into her gloved palm and warmed it between her hands. She cupped her breasts in her slick hands and coated them in oil, watching as his gaze followed every move. The oil smelled of lavender; it was supposed to be a turn-on for men.

She put her hands on him and started kneading his chest and shoulders, then worked her way down his arms to his hands, taking her time, running her fingers between his and massaging the webs, the joints, the center of his palm. He made small happy sounds of pleasure.

She went to his feet next and gave them the same treatment, running her thumb hard along his arch, pulling gently on his toes, and giving a soft pinching massage to the two indentations on either side of his Achilles tendon. Up his calf, over his knee, and then to his thighs, working gradually up them until she reached his balls. She cupped them in her hands and stroked them with infinite care, then lay down beside him on her side, her mouth level with his groin.

She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes as she reached over his hip and urged him to turn onto his side, facing her. He obeyed, and she wrapped her lower hand around the base of his erection and put his head to her lips. She pressed her tongue against the underside of his cock, making her tongue as firm as a thumb as she moved her mouth up and down on him.

She felt his reaction in his body, in the tensing of his muscles and the movement of his hips as he thrust into her mouth. She slowed and sped up, took him shallow and took him deep, her jaw beginning to ache. She settled into a deep steady rhythm as her upper hand slid over his hip, over his buttock, and toward that dark passage where she had never ventured before with anyone.

The book she'd bought said this was a good idea. It said that the prostate was a man's secret G-spot, and that stroking it with a finger up his ass would propel him to skyrocketing explosions that he'd never known before.

His breathing was growing ragged, and she knew that if she was going to send him shooting for the moon, now was the time. Her gloved finger, slick with massage oil, found his tight entrance and dove deep inside.

His reaction was immediate and spectacular.

'Yeeowl' he cried, and reached back to knock her hand away. 'What the hell? What was that?' He wasn't thrusting into her mouth anymore. His whole body felt like a piece of lumber, board hard and not moving anywhere.

Her hand curled into a fist as if to hide its shame and she tucked her face against his thigh in embarrassment. 'You didn't like it,' she said into his leg.

'What?' he asked. 'I can't hear you.' She felt his hands on her shoulder and head, guiding her to look up at him.

She rolled away and sat up. 'You didn't like that?' she asked.

'No!' He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

She bit her lip. 'Not at all?'

'No!'

'The book said it would feel good.'

'I don't care what the book said!' he said, looking at her. 'I don't want you putting your-putting your-I don't want you touching me there!'

She looked down at her gloved hands, feeling like a pervert. Worse, she felt like she'd failed. 'It's supposed to feel really, really good,' she said, trying to salvage her efforts.

'Emma, I don't care. I'm never going to enjoy anything that involves putting something up my-well, up there. I just can't.'

She raised her eyes to his. 'Have you ever tried?'

'No!'

'No girlfriend has ever done this to you?'

'No! And I'm never going to let one!'

'Why not?'

'Because!'

She raised her brows. Was he embarrassed? 'Because-'

'Because I don't want you anywhere near that spot.'

'Because?'

'Because it's not a nice place.'

'In what way, not nice?' she asked. 'Not nice because it's naughty?'

'I don't care about that. I care about…'

'Yes?'

'It's dirty. Unhygienic.'