Can I be your French Maid? Ch. 04 - Sex Stories

Can I be your French Maid? Ch. 04

"Got a second?" Valerie asked when she found me in the kitchen.

I lowered my phone and looked up at her. I'd been furiously typing, trying to reach my wife. What had started out as a simple cleaning job had escalated into a full blown disaster.

... simple cleaning job.

Ok, that may be a bit of a stretch. Typically the cleaning staff weren't crossdressers wearing frilly French maid's uniforms. That being said, it was how the service was advertised.

... service.

It was wild how quickly I'd swallowed it hook, line and sinker. Was it that complicated? No. My wife's IT department had set up a website advertising my services as a kinky maid after she'd accidentally filmed me prancing around our living room in a French maid's uniform. She'd promised to take it down on Monday but not before I fulfilled one contract.

It was just one job. What could possibly go wrong?

Quite a bit, apparently. The cleaning part of the job had been simple enough. Some light dusting, mopping the floors, wiping down the kitchen surfaces. That sort of thing. It was when I had crept up to the second floor, looking for whoever had hired me that things had gone off the rails.

What was his name again? I'd heard the director say it before he stormed out of the room.

... Josh.

Aside from the absolute shock of walking into a porno shoot, I was wrestling with something else.

That toned body, those chiseled abs, the jaw that was cut from a slab of granite. I wasn't... attracted to ...

... him, was I?

I brought my hands up and traced the lines of my push-up bra through the soft cotton of the French maid's uniform.

No... of course not. I wasn't gay. I was the textbook definition of masculinity.

I looked down and counted the absurd number of frilly bows on my dress.

... ok, maybe not verbatim, but I knew my own sexuality. I'd never questioned it before. I was exclusively attracted to women.

... well that was before you became one.

Nonsense, I thought. It's just some harmless crossdressing. I'm not gay. I'm not!

"Yvette?" Valerie asked, snapping me back into reality.

I stared at her with a blank expression.

"Would you feel more comfortable if I spoke French? Cela ne me derange pas," she said.

French, of course. Incredibly, I'd been using it so long as my primary language, I no longer noticed.

"Non... No," I said softly and looked down. There was still no reply from my wife. "It's ok."

"Good," she said, smiling. "Because that was about the extent of it."

I smiled and looked up at her. I still had no idea who she was. I remembered her from the coffee shop. How could I forget? That short snow white latex dress was burned into my memory. It hugged her body like a thin layer of paint, the hem eager to make the acquaintance of the plunging neckline.

See, straight! I tried to reassure myself. As if to prove it, my eyes drifted down to her breasts. Stunning, I thought in both languages.

"Can I get you anything?" Valerie asked me ...