Sweat beads on my palms. Heart hammers against ribs. I stand at the heavy door of her 19th-century bourgeois house, dead center in Angers. Friday evening. That ad burned into my brain: ‘Quality woman seeks over-fifty docile man for housekeeping, Friday night to Sunday afternoon.’ My filthy craving? Total abdication. Her toy. No will. Just obedience.
Door creaks open. Marie-France towers there. Tall. Skeletal thin. Fifty-five-ish. Severe chic. Glossy black patent flats. Flowing navy pleated skirt. Sheer white blouse tracing tiny tits in a white bra. Pearl strand. Bobbed graying hair. Lips thin, commanding.
The Fever
“In.” Voice soft but iron. Door slams. She mounts three steps in the wide hall. Looms over me. Eyes me like meat. “You’re Martine now. My maid. Serve without question. Or leave.”
Spins me by shoulders. Behind me. Hands knead: shoulders tense, arms wiry, hips narrow, ass firm. Presses close. Palms slide front. Pinch my chest. Then down. Grips my cock through pants. Squeezes. Hard. Breath hot on my neck.
“Passable, Martine. Nearly. One last test.”
“Kneel. Eyes shut.”
Silence stretches. Her breath quickens. Perfume floods my nose. Skirt smothers my face. Fingers clamp nape. Grinds pubis against mouth. Fabric warms. Pulse races in my throat.
Hands vanish. Skirt lifts. Cool silk petticoat drapes head. Bulge of her mound presses. Through panties. She rocks. Slow. Urgent.
Pulls back. Wet cotton jams my nostrils. Musk hits. Pungent. Aroused. “Lick. Taste your Mistress, darling.”
Tongue darts. Salty tang floods. She shoves crotch panel into my mouth. Soaked gusset. Her essence.
Skirt drops again. Bare now. No panties. Heat radiates. Prominent lips. Bushy. Dripping. Age-defying slickness coats my nose.
Skin prickles. Cock throbs painfully. Hers to command.
The Blaze
“Lick till I cum, little pet.”
Tongue traces inner folds. Bottom to top. Slow drags. U-dips at vaginal entrance. Suck hood. Flick clit tip. She sways. Hips roll. Soft moans escape. “Yes, Martine. Good girl.”
Breath hitches. Grinds faster. Lips swell against mouth. Clit hardens. Twitches. Cyprine floods. Heart pounds sync with her rhythm. Sweat slicks my brow under skirt.
She shudders. Gasps. Hot squirt hits tongue. Waves pulse. Body quakes. Grips head fierce.
Pulls off. “Clean me dry.”
Laps inner walls. Sucks remnants. Tongue polishes lips. Last drops swallowed. Her taste lingers. Bitter-sweet fire.
Skirt falls. Cool air hits flushed face. Still kneeling. Eyes sealed. She straightens. Voice steady. “You’ll replace Martine fine.”
“Rise. Follow.”
Legs shaky. Eyes track her ass swaying up attic stairs. Maid’s room unchanged. Three months empty. Uniform waits. Tablier crisp.
Skin still scorches. Pulse echoes her orgasm. Owned. Branded. This dangerous thrill? Worth every filthy second. Her pet now. Weekend just begins.