The Erotic Secrets Of A French Maid

'I never heard of a guy saying that sex had come too soon, and he wanted to backtrack to the wooing stage.'

'He's unique, all right. But I don't plan on waiting another whole month for sex. I'm going to break his will tomorrow.'

'How?'

Emma grinned. 'Ever hear of a French maid?'

Russ strapped on his bicycle helmet with its fronds of kale wedged into the openings.

'You're not really wearing that, are you?' Greg asked.

'The helmet?'

Greg gave him a look. 'You're buck naked, and you feel the need to put on a hat?'

'Safety first.'

'I can't believe you talked me into this,' Greg said.

'All you're doing is standing there-you're not riding.'

'Tina would never forgive me displaying my manly goods to the eyes of other women. And quite frankly, I've seen more of your manly goods than I need to for a lifetime.'

'I'm painted green from head to toe, and I have kale tied over my crotch.'

'I've still seen too much.' Greg pulled a digital camera out of his pocket. 'Gotta show Tina, when she gets back from her trip.'

'Like hell you will!'

'She's always liked you. This way I can show her that she got the better package with me.'

'Oh, for God's sake.'

'Lift your kale and smile!' Greg snapped a picture, then examined the result on the small screen. 'You look like a piece of broccoli.' He held the camera out for Russ to see.

Russ saw himself scowling out of the small screen, looking like a mental ward escapee. 'Jesus.'

They moved toward the other riders gathering in preparation for the annual Fremont Solstice Parade, Russ walking his bike.

'What are you supposed to be, again?' Greg asked.

'The Green Man. An ancient mythological figure, usually associated with death, rebirth, and fertility.'

'You're having a midlife crisis, aren't you?'

'I'm only thirty-seven. I'm not old enough for that.'

'Then why the hell come out here with these freaks?'

A young man on an ape-hanger bicycle, wearing nothing but a black vest and helmet, gave Greg a dirty look.

'Present company excepted,' Greg said.

Russ smiled. 'Because I can.'

Greg threw up his hands. 'Fine! But you didn't have to drag me along.'

'Sure I did. I needed someone to take my clothes. My cell phone's in the side pocket, by the way.' He nodded at the carry-on bag Greg held.

'Why couldn't Emma have done this?'

'She's waiting at the end of the parade route, with a bathrobe. Hey, is my butt still green? Does it need a touch-up?'

Greg pulled back as if from roadkill. 'I'm not touching you.'

Russ laughed.

The crowd of riders, nearly three hundred strong, began to form into a column, waiting for the whistle that would mark the start of the parade.

Russ threw his leg over his bike. 'Wish me luck!'

'You don't need luck,' said a dark-haired, masked young woman, riding up and stopping between Russ and Greg. Her body was painted black and white, to look as if she was wearing a French maid's outfit. There were white ruffles around her painted neckline, cuffs, and midthigh hem, and a white apron painted over her lower belly. A small white cap sat atop her head. 'You have me!'

'Emma?' Russ choked out.

The whistle blew. The column of riders let out a cheer and began to move, Emma along with them. White apron ties painted over her toned, black-painted buttocks rippled with movement as she pedaled.

'You lucky bastard,' Greg said.

Russ grinned and joined the throng, quickly catching up to Emma. And together they cruised down the street, nothing but the wind between their naked skin and the hard road below-and nothing but possibilities ahead.

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