The Not-So-French Maid

It was around Christmas time when he first started spanking me like this, and here we are in mid-July. He calls me from work, and even though I didn’t think I’d like it at first, my pussy responds at once.

“I want to spank you later.”

Later on, he calls me again from work and says he has a surprise waiting for me in his closet. I take the phone with me and, opening his closet door, see the cute little French maid’s costume hanging there amongst his clothes.

On the closet floor’s a package of seamed stay-up stockings and a pair of black rhumba panties, tucked in under an ostrich-feather duster.

“We’re really going all out, aren’t we?” I ask him.

His response is a wicked chuckle.

“Hang up and get ready,” he tells me, and I have no problem obeying. I slip the outfit from its hanger and toss it on the bed. I can’t wait to try it on, so I hurry into the shower, ’cause I want to be all fresh when he gets home.

I towel off, and then at last, I start to get ready.

The scenario’s already playing out in my mind, and I’m the star, the naughty French maid who needs to be taught a lesson. My darling husband is the stern employer, and he’ll be the man who teaches that lesson.

It’s a common enough scene for role-playing couples, true, but that doesn’t stop it from being fun.

I whip out the curling iron and I’m able to manage some very pretty spiral curls that spill down the back of my head. After that, the make-up’s a breeze, so I hurry through it so I can put the dress and stockings on, almost giddy with excitement.

I glance in the mirror, pleased with my appearance.

James’ll really like this.

I take the feather duster and go into the living room and I bend myself over the arm of James’s chair, just to see what it’s like. I pretend I’m over his lap even now, James contentedly swatting my upturned butt, and I pretend to thrash around and sob, but the hard chair arm’s nothing like James’s warm, soft lap, so I give up.

A sudden inspiration strikes me and I go back into the bedroom to get the container of baby powder I keep in there. I bring it back out with me to the living room and I pour some into my hand, blowing it onto the coffee table to simulate household dust. I do that with all the other furniture, too, and then I return the powder to its rightful place.

James will certainly be impressed by my ingenuity. He loves play-acting every bit as much as I do.

After all, we did meet in our community’s Little Theatre.

Glancing at the clock, I see it’s nearly time for him to get home. I pick up the feather duster, ready to go the minute he walks through the door.

“Fifi?”

Fifi. Oh, well. What he lacks in originality, he makes up for in stamina, so I come forward, the duster still in my hand.

“You know I like you to meet me at the door with an Old Fashioned,” he says, pretending to scold. “What do I pay you for?”

“I don’t know, Monsieur.”

He steps past me and sets his keys down on the entry table, then he goes straight into the living room.

“Look at this place,” he tells me, and I can see he appreciates my attention to detail. “It’s filthy. What on earth have you been doing all day?”

“I’m sure don’t know, Monsieur.”

He runs a finger over the fake dust on the coffee table.

“Filthy. And not even a hot dinner ready for me.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Monsieur.”

“I’ve heard that from you before, Fifi. I’m afraid time it just isn’t working. I think I’ll have to fire you.”

“Oh, no, Monsieur,” I say, dropping to my knees. “Anything but that.”

“No. You have to go. You definitely have to go.”

I seize his hands and kiss them frantically, begging for pity, explaining how I’m the sole support of an aged mother and a twelve-year-old sister.

“They will starve if you turn me out.”

He looks down at me, his lips set in a convincingly grim line.

“Well,” he tells me, weakening. “Maybe there is another way.”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur, anything. Anything you desire.”

He helps me to my feet and leads me by my arm toward the couch.

“Anything?” he asks. “Even a spanking, to teach you to do better in future?”

I pretend to gasp.

“Oh, no, Monsieur, I could not.”

“Well, then, you have to leave.”

“Please, Monsieur, not that. I cannot go home in such disgrace.”

“Then come here and take what you deserve.”

With that, he sits down and pulls me over his lap.

“Last chance, Fifi. It’s the spanking or the door. You decide.”

“Oh, Monsieur...”

“Is that a yes?”

I nod reluctantly and settle myself on his lap. He grabs my hip and pulls me into a more favorable position, and then he lifts my stiff, frilly skirt.

He sighs when he catches a glimpse of my ruffle-clad bottom, and spends a good few moments fingering the lace.

“Very nice, Fifi. Very nice indeed. It’s a terrible shame you won’t be needing these panties during your lesson.”

His voice low and intimate, he runs his hand down the seams of my stockings, sighing again. He makes me lift up a little, and I feel him hook his fingers into the elastic and pull down my panties. He leaves them at half-mast, but I know they won’t stay there for long. Pretty soon, I’ll be flopping like a carp and they’ll slide their way down, and quite possibly off.

“Ah, that’s the way I like it. A blank, empty sketch pad, waiting just for me.”

I groan, my heart pounding hard for real now. I clench my butt and swallow convulsively, but I don’t say a word.

What words can I say, anyway? I’m within moments of getting my ass beat like a child. I only hope I can bear it gracefully, because even though we’re just pretending, in truth, he’ll do it like he means it, like it’s for real. Often enough he’s left me weeping and shuddering, weak at the knees and truly chastised.

“Well, Fi, you have to admit, I’ve been very lenient with you so far.”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“I’ve tried to overlook your slovenly habits, but today’s the last straw.”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“I’m going to spank you quite hard. You know that, don’t you? Have you ever been spanked before?”

“Oui, Monsieur. My papa used to do so.”

“Did he? Tell me about it.”

“He used to force me over the back of a chair, my hands on the seat, and then he’d pull up my skirt, just as you have done, and bare me for the razor strop. And then, Monsieur, he would strap me until he felt I’d learned my lesson.”

James lays his hand on my bare butt and begins tracing little circles with his palm.

“Well, then, you can count yourself fortunate. I’ve nothing like a razor strop to use on this tender little behind of yours.”

“No?”

“No. Not this time, anyway.”

He enlarges the circles, encompassing my entire buttocks as he chafes and warms me, readying me for the spanking to come.

“No, Fifi, your punishment won’t be as drastic as that. But tell me, did you learn your lesson after your papa beat you?”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur, of course I did. He only found it necessary to give me a handful of whippings my whole life.”

James sighs, moving his hand near the top of my stockings, caressing the bare skin on my sit spot.

“Did he sometimes slip and spank your thighs by mistake?”

“Often, Monsieur.”

“And when he was done, did you sometimes go into your bedroom and look at your bottom in the mirror, to see how many welts he gave you?”

“Oui, Monsieur, and there were always many. My father believed in doing the job thoroughly. I always had bruises for days afterwards.”

“Then this will seem like a picnic, Fifi, as I’ve no intention of being quite so severe with you. Just severe enough so you’ll remember what I expect from you in future.”

“Yes, Monsieur. Thank you, Monsieur.”

Anxious for him to begin, I lay my forehead on my arms, which are propped onto the seat cushion.

“All right, then. I’ll get started, but if I ask you a question, I want it answered immediately, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

With that, he lays the first swat on my upturned butt. It’s a firm, solid swat, hardly painful at all. Nevertheless, I cry out.

He strikes me again, this time a little harder.

James likes for me to be vocal during a spanking, so I oblige him, and he draws back and smacks me again.

This time it really hurts.

“Ow, Monsieur.”

Having hit his stride, James begins in earnest, spanking each cheek separately but equally, reddening my ass as I cry out with each blow. It still doesn’t really hurt, but I squirm on his lap and throw my right hand back to cover my bottom anyway.

He grasps me by the wrist and bends my arm up behind me, pinning it to the small of my back.

“That little show of willfulness has earned you ten extra swats, I’m afraid.”

Hearing that, I go limp over his body and he starts spanking me harder and asking me a lot of questions.

“Do you know what time I get home?”

“Oui. Five-thirty, Monsieur.”

“Five-thirty is right. Is there any reason I can’t have a hot dinner when I get home?”

“No, Monsieur. I’ll see that it gets done from now on.”

“Is there a reason why I must come home from working hard all day to find my furniture covered with dust?”

“No, indeed, Monsieur. I’ll take care of it immediately.”

“Not right now, Fifi. I’m far from being finished with you.”

My ass is hot and achy and his slaps begin to sting, but that only makes me crave more, in a way I can’t explain. He goes on for quite a while after that, until it’s clear I’m genuinely uncomfortable.

“Shall I stop, Fifi?” he asks softly, and I shake my head vehemently.

“No, Monsieur . Not yet. I do not think I have fully learned my lesson.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps you need something more solid than my hand.”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur. Perhaps a hairbrush, or - if you possess one - a paddle?”

“Why, yes, Fifi, I do own one. It’s an old ping-pong paddle from my college days, but why choose only one? Get up and go kneel down in the corner while I get them both.”

I hasten to obey and James sets off toward the garage. My bottom’s scorching hot and I reach back to rub it. I know the paddle and hairbrush will both hurt, but they’ll also send me to Lala Land, and I can’t wait for him to get back.

I don’t have long to wait.

He returns and sits back down, ordering me to resume my former position. Once there, he dispenses with my panties altogether and starts in with the paddle immediately, bringing it down in a flurry of brisk and painful swats.

This time, there’s no need for fake cries of pain. The harsh blows get me writhing and thrashing around, trying my best to avoid the paddle.

“Stop struggling, Fi. There’s nowhere to go, and we’re going to stay here until I’m satisfied that I’ve made my point.”

“Yes. Oh, yes, Monsieur.”

Suddenly I give up the struggle and I’m flying. Suddenly the heat radiating through the lower half of my body feels good, and my pussy contracts with each hard blow. All I have to do is say the safe word, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to do that.

Before long, my hips rise to meet each punishing swat. I no longer seek to avoid the pain. Instead, I seek it out, my swollen, distended clit throbbing with every single smack. All of a sudden, James stops and I groan in protest, not quite done but very close to an orgasm.

“Just three more, Monsieur, I beg of you.”

He drops the paddle on the cushion in front of me and picks up the hairbrush, and when he starts up again, I know for sure he’s chosen the right implement.

It’s actually an old clothes brush, long and thin, one of the finest on the market. Crafted of pear wood half an inch thick, it has a nicely contoured handle, making it soft on the hands but very, very hard on the butt.

He strikes me once more, harder than any of the other swats.

“Count,” he tells me.

“One. Thank you, Monsieur.”

Another blazing strike of the brush jolts me forward on his lap, damn near pushing me to the edge of ecstasy right there on his lap.

“Two, thank you, Monsieur.”

His final blow is the hardest of all, and it gets me just to the precipice, but fails to send me over into the abyss.

“Three. Oh, thank you, Monsieur. I swear I’ll do better from now on. I swear I’ll make it all up to you.”

Interested, he sets the brush down.

“Yes?”

Instead of speaking, I slide off his lap and drop to my knees, my hands flying to his belt buckle to undo his trousers. I pull them down past his knees; boxers as well.

His rigid cock springs out, and I take it into my eager, greedy mouth. I take it all the way into my throat and lick at the base and then all the way back up to the tip. My hand cups his balls and I stroke them, coaxing him toward release.

Glancing up, I see he’s relaxed into the back of the couch, his eyes closed, his face strained. I continue working his cock, sucking and licking and caressing until his breath changes, coming heavier and faster now.

I know he’s about to come and I throw myself into it even further, determined to give him the best blowjob of his life.

He comes into my mouth and I avidly drink down his juices, keeping it up until he grows flaccid in my mouth. I sit back on my heels, the contact reminding me of my aching bottom, and I crawl up to kneel on the couch, bending over the arm to display myself to James.

His fingertips brush the reddened skin and he caresses me lightly. As soon as his breath returns to normal and his heart stops pounding, he gets up and takes off his clothes. As soon as that’s accomplished, he sits back down on the couch.

I hear him call my name, all soft and sweet, and I turn to him.

He’s hard again already. He reaches for my wrist and pulls me closer, urging me to straddle him. When I do, he impales me on his cock and pulls my mouth to his to kiss me hard. Unable to help myself another minute, I begin to ride him, my hips rocking against his with a snapping motion as I bury his engorged dick inside me.

The sensation I felt over his lap begins to creep back up on me. The tension builds, until at last I feel my release, feel the satisfaction I’ve been seeking and craving all evening.

It washes over me, engulfing me. I hear myself calling his name aloud, and I shudder as the orgasm releases me from its iron grip.

I fall against him, exhausted and exhilarated, more in love with him than ever. He crushes me against his chest and holds me there for quite a while, until the sunlight fades and casts the living room into shadow. Suddenly, he releases me and urges me off his lap.

“Come with,” he tells me, leading me toward the bedroom.

“Now what are you up to?”

“Come here and you’ll find out.”

When we get to the bedroom, he pulls the padded bench from the foot of our bed to the side of it and pushes it up against the mattress.

“Kneel down on the bench and bend over that bed.”

I do as he asks, still dressed up in my French maid outfit, sans panties. Before long, I hear him squirting some lube into his hand.

“You know what else naughty employees get when they don’t do their jobs well?”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“What?”

I hardly like to utter the words, but he smacks my ass again hard.

“An ass-fucking, Monsieur.

He rubs some lube over my tight little asshole and climbs up on the bench behind me.

“That’s right,” he says, reaming me with one of his fingers.

He works it in and out, again and again. By now I’m so turned on I can hardly wait for him to take me in the ass, to spread my cheeks wide and just spear me on that lovely, hard cock of his.

“Oh, Monsieur, I must have you now.”

His teasing fingers are replaced by the head of his dick trying to nudge its way in. I feel him ease it in until it’s fully sheathed inside me, and then he just stops.

“Please,” I tell him. “Please.”

It took me a long time - several years of marriage - to discover I liked anal sex, and he was patient with me, teaching me and bringing me along. At any rate, I’m so hot now I wouldn’t care even if I disliked it.

His stillness is maddening and I try to wriggle around to get him going. All he does is land me another stunning slap on the ass, causing me to buck forward with a grunt.

“Stay where you are, Fifi, or I’ll take my belt to that gorgeous little ass of yours.”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“Now I’m going to fuck that asshole of yours, and hopefully you’ll learn to do better from here on out.”

“Without a doubt, Monsieur.”

Only then does he start pumping into me, pulling out nearly all the way and then slamming it home, rocking me forward again, earning me another slap on my tender bottom.

“I warned you to stay still,” he tells me. “When we’re done here, guess what you’ll get?”

“The belt, Monsieur?”

“Exactly. Now quit your screwing around and take your punishment.”

With that, I fall silent and he really starts pumping into me. I want to reach down and play with my clit, but I don’t dare. Lucky for me, he does it instead, brushing his fingertips over my sweet spot while he thrusts in and out, in and out.

What with his fingers on my clit, his dick in my ass, and the thought of the whipping I’m about to receive, I go skyrocketing off again, jerking and shuddering and moaning aloud, and still he ass-fucks me, keeping at it so long I fear he’ll never stop. At last he picks up speed, faster and faster, until he finally pulls out and finishes on my bare naked ass.

To be honest, it feels good. My butt’s still sore and full of heat, and his jiz has a cooling effect. He drops to his knees on the carpet and spreads it around, working it into my skin with both hands, and when he’s done, he sits back on his heels to admire his handiwork.

“All right,” he tells me sternly. “You can get up and go bring me the belt.

So I totter off to the living room, a little unsteady on my feet, and I return with his thick leather belt in my hand. He seizes it from me, ordering me back up onto the bench, hunched over the bed for further punishment.

“Since it was just a tiny little slip-up on your part, I’ll go easy on you,” he tells me, gathering the ends together.

A moment later, the first lash falls.

We haven’t done the belt in ages, and it both surprises and pleases me. The heat blooms and spreads out, forcing a cry from my throat. The next one falls right on top of the first, doubling the heat and the sting. A third and fourth fall, and he continues on in this manner, working me over so thoroughly I have to cry and beg for him to stop.

But I still haven’t used the safe word.

He sighs and throws down the belt, and then he pulls me to my feet and turns me around to face him.

“No more screw-ups, you hear me? Next time it’ll be twice as bad as this.”

I swallow hard and nod, already wondering how soon I can get myself back into this maid’s outfit and earn another session over his lap and over the bed.

Twice as bad?

Ooh, I’ll have to be extra naughty now.

Extra naughty, indeed.