Short Story: Fantasie Française

Short Story: Fantasie Française

Françoise Labrune has been a chambermaid at The Pontchartrain Hotel in New Orleans for half of her 30 years, so she has a good idea what a man like you hopes for when he checks in for the night. She starts her shift extra-early, ignoring your “Do Not Disturb” sign, feeling a surge of excitement tingling through her supple body as she slips in, silently securing the lock. She knows just what to do before taking your breakfast order.

She tiptoes over to find you asleep in bed. You’re half-awakened by her white linen apron chafing softly against her silky black skirt and her stiletto heels clicking delicately on the wooden floorboards. You wonder if you're still dreaming as she works her way around you, crouching briefly to gently rustle some papers into the bin. As she reaches to dust under your bed, just inches from your face, you catch the stupendous sight of her taut bosoms squeezed into the lacy cups of a plunging brassiere, straining at the pearly buttons of her barely-opaque blouse.

You secretly watch her feather duster fluttering over every surface, and her lithe form stretching for the top of the wardrobe, causing her skirt to hoist just sufficiently for you to detect where her fishnet stocking meets her mouth-watering thigh. Your eyes follow the slit of her skirt up to the curvaceous beckoning of her buttocks, where the muscles expand and contract in rhythm with her handiwork. She pauses to sweep the ringlets of hair back from her glowing temples and strokes the beads of perspiration from the nape of her slender neck.

The golden bangles on her slim wrists are tinkling in the air and twinkling in the hazy morning sunlight as she bends over to polish the dresser mirror with a strong sense of purpose. You’re torn between stealing a glance at her perfect reflected features and spying on her tantalising hips swaying within your reach. Turning to rest momentarily, she raises one foot onto the bedside table to adjust her garter-belt, allowing you to glimpse her satin French knickers, loose at the frilly edges and clinging tightly at the creamy epicentre, where you’re curious to explore, long and deep.

You smell her irresistible scent infusing your potent body. You imagine the sensation of her dexterous hands going to work with you under the covers. You’re aching to press into those succulent breasts, to taste the delicious warmth of her pouting lips, and to grind yourself into her hot moist skin.

As she hears your deeply masculine desires becoming vocal and urgent, she clicks her way towards you, lifting her soft long lashes to meet your eyes directly with her own intense gaze, licking her lips in acknowledgement of the thirsty work she has performed, and in anticipation of the tasks yet to be demanded of her.

"Voulez-vous, Monsieur?" she asks coyly.

Your desperate demand, "Drain me dry!" is met with willing submission, as she kneels and sinks her fangs in your neck.