French Maid For Fantasy

"French Maid for Fantasy"

by J.D. Savanyu

Lola Robida was a gorgeous French redhead who loved good housekeeping and great sex. She worked as a live-in maid for Pierre Cassel, a billionaire Paris fashion mogul. Vacuuming his floors, polishing his antique cabinets, and washing his vast collection of

haute couture

apparel. Pierre gazed longingly at that lean busty ginger, prancing gracefully about his mansion with a feather duster and a Hoover. She loved his sense of style and his curious personality. Effeminate and gracious in public, but wild and virulently masculine in private. The best of both worlds.

It wasn't long before their professional relationship turned "personal," having wild kinky sex every night after Lola finished tidying up his

budoir

. Pierre tied her up in various poses with luxurious fabrics and exotic leathers, and lashed her big milky tits and fire crotch with awesome custom-made whips and crops. Making it hurt so good, just the way she liked it. Then he pounded Lola's

chatte

with his big fat

coq

while shouting every dirty phrase in the French urban dictionary. That crazy fashionista believed he was the reincarnation of the infamous Marquis de Sade, and Lola was a glutton for punishment.

Their tumultuous affair kept steamrolling along for nearly two months, until Pierre wandered off to a blonde runway model named Sophie Moreau. Sophie was a gorgeous

damoiselle

with long flowing hair like spun gold, but not much of a brain behind it. Lola felt like a cheap trashy Cinderella, polishing Pierre's crystal chandeliers while hearing his new pencil-thin princess getting whipped and fucked by a rich maniac in a tacky eighteenth century costume. Sophie kept begging for more, just like his previous maid sub:

"Harder, Master!

Ah oui

, I love the way you whip my

putain

!"

Lola quit that high-paying maid job the next day and moved to a small apartment in the Red Light District. A little slice of Paris that was once full of

chic

sex shops, brothels and live XXX shows, soaked in bohemian

Misty Beethoven

ambience. But now it was just another hollow corporate tourist trap. No more porn theaters full of leisure-suited creeps. Lola wandered from one kinky one-night-stand to another while working as a cocktail waitress at the Moulin Rouge. Banging lots of tourists with a fetish for old-school Frenchies.

Her passion for housekeeping was rekindled when she saw an advertisement for "Prim Nannette." They offered live-in maid services from native French women, exporting them to any country in the world. Catering to a niche market of rich celebrities and CEO's who wanted a "classy vintage experience" instead of the usual frumpy illegal immigrant maids from Third World hellholes. The ad featured a sexy 1920's white French housekeeper in a black dress and bonnet with white lacy trim, wiggling across the Versailles palace with a feather duster. Setting a seductively nostalgic mood.

Lola had to grab that opportunity by the balls and get the hell out of France. She needed to "find herself" abroad, like many other dissolute twenty-somethings. So she signed up with Prim Nannette and got assigned to Richard Newcastle, a famous fantasy novelist who lived in Greenwich, Connecticut, a ritzy suburb of New York City. Lola loved Newcastle's best-selling

Dragons of Delhaize

novels, and the smash hit TV-MA Netflix series of the same name. Her parents proudly supported her "great american adventure," completely unaware of how perverted their beloved daughter had become.

Lola's Cinderella fantasies glimmered back to life as she hopped on a jumbo jet to meet her yankee Prince Charming. The inflight movies were all crappy CGI-riddled sequels to sequels to sequels, so she reached into her day bag and pulled out a paperback copy of

The Princess War

, the first novel in Richard's epic five-novel series. The story began with Katvana Merovin working as a prostitute in the capital city of Darvine, gazing up at the lofty spires and flying dragons of Castle Delhaize while "entertaining" two sleazy sailors. A few hours later, Prince Lavantium visited the brothel in disguise under a false name. The second-in-line to the Delhaizian Crystal Throne was instantly smitten with the future Princess Katvana. He tied up that busty redhead like a Bavarian pretzel and dominated her quite skillfully. Turning her milky white ass red with a black leather riding crop, and ramming her pussy with his big royal prick.

Richard's books were kinky enough to grab attention, but not kinky enough to be relegated to the unprofitable "medieval BDSM" subcategory. A New York Times reviewer cleverly dubbed him "E.L.R.R. Newcastle," punning on the authors of Fifty Shades of Gray and Game of Thrones (whom he shamelessly "borrowed" from.) Lola's overactive imagination ran wild in seat 32A of flight 238, picturing her own pussy getting whipped by that dashing two-faced prince. His face soon morphed to Pierre's face, snarling viciously in vintage character while calling her "the dirtiest fucking ginger I ever besotted."

Lola fantasized about fucking crazy playboy billionaires in classic French maid outfits ever since she read F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby at Lycée Henry-IV High School. She made all her dark dreams come true in the heart of France, and now she was seeking new submissive adventures across the pond.

The plane finally landed at JFK airport. The driver that Richard hired was waiting for her at the front of the terminal, holding up a sign that said "L. Robida." He loaded her bags into a luxurious town car and drove off toward the Manhattan skyline. Lola sighed dreamily at the gleaming chrome pinnacle of the Chrysler Building, pretending she was Princess Katvana riding a royal horse-drawn carriage through the bumpy cobblestone Darvinian streets. Lola tossed her shiny red bangs and adjusted her sleek blue summer dress, eager to please her new literary boss. Perhaps he would turn into her next "master"... but she was getting dangerously ahead of herself, after living two long months in crazy kinky fantasy mode.

Being a writer is a much different animal than being a fashion mogul, so she expected Richard to be "mysterious" in a much different way. The world's loneliest profession, breeding many dark erotic obsessions? A natural assumption for girls who read too much implausible romance and "erotica." For all she knew, he might turn out to be a total slob like Stephen King. Completely uninteresting and unarousing outside of his stories.

The driver cruised northward into the peaceful tree-lined suburbs, passing the headquarters of a dozen Fortune 500 companies. He finally pulled off Interstate 95, turning west on Putnam Avenue. Entering a seaside neighborhood full of postmodern $5 million+ mansions and sexy trophy wives jogging along in Lululemon spandex. Greenwich lacked the classical Parisian charm Lola was used to, but it still screamed one-percenter entitlement.

Richard's sky blue mansion was nestled along the Long Island Sound at the end of Sunset Road. His Wikipedia page didn't mention any wives or girlfriends, past or present, so Lola assumed he lived all by himself in that huge fucking house. Nothing but fictional dragon-riding heroines to sooth him on those cold Connecticut nights.

She stepped out of the town car with a giddy rush of excitement, hearing seagulls squawking nearby on a private beach. Forty year-old Newcastle emerged from his "castle" with a warm smile on his ruggedly handsome face, wearing a cliché tweed English professor outfit with brown leather patches on the elbows. (Or a cliché French professor, interchangeably.)

"

Bon après-midi, Madame Robida

," Richard uttered awkwardly in a deep husky New York accent.

"

Bonjour à toi, cher Monsieur Newcastle

," she replied smoothly in her native Parisian accent. "

Enchanté de vous rencontrer

."

"Slow down, cowgirl. That's about all the French I bothered to learn."

"Good thing I paid attention in my english classes, instead of passing notes to cute

garçons

," Lola giggled. Lola's love of American books and movies made her fluent in English without softening her sexy continental accent. Richard was instantly smitten by her girlish ginger beauty.

"My-my, Miss Robida. You're twice as lovely as your profile photo suggested."

"

Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Newcastle

," Lola snickered, tossing her red bangs. A cute pair of blush marks flared up on her pale cheeks. She looked like one of those dolls they sell in Paris souvenir shops, dressed up with pretentious black berets and black-and-white striped

camisoles

.

"You must be reeling with jet lag. I'll give you a little tour of my mansion, then I'll let you settle in for the night."

"Sounds great,

Monsieur Newcastle

."

"

Monsieur Newcastle

is too formal for my taste. Just call me Richard for short."

"How about Dick for shorter? Or is that too informal?"

"Whatever mood

you're

in, Lola."

"I'm in a good all-American mood, Dick," she giggled.

"I'm liking you already," he replied warmly. He led her into a large room that didn't have a single hint of luxury.

"Your living room looks nothing like Versailles."

"I'm not one for conspicuous consumerism, unlike most of the hedge fund motherfuckers around here. I donate most of that disposable income to charity instead, knowing damn well how many starving writers are lurking outside of crazy rich Greenwich. I was one of them until six years ago, when I hacked my way to the top of the New York Times bestseller list, and sold my soul to Netflix."

"I love reading your epic books, after cleaning mansions like a french Cinderella."

"I never cared for simple formulaic fairy tales. I was a wild kid who loved Tolkein and Robert Jordan. Driving my parents and teachers crazy, like Gollum trying to snatch the ring of power."

"You must have been quite a handful."

"I still

am

a handful, Lola. That's what all my girlfriends have told me. None of whom lasted very long."

She locked her green eyes on Richard's piercing brown eyes, feeling a pleasant rush of arousal between her legs. He cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to stay professional after paying top dollar to bring that gorgeous french maid to his inner sanctum.

"Come on, I'll show you the rest of my mansion. Sorry about all the dust. That's one of the reasons I hired you."

He led her through eighteen more rooms on the three floors, with no luxurious crap whatsoever. Just ordinary furniture with ordinary lamps. Lots of plywood shelves full of fantasy books and tables full of printed manuscripts with penciled revision marks. She liked Richard's attitude just as much as Pierre's. Newcastle was more "manly" in the traditional definition, with no wrist-flapping "thread count" fashionista flamboyance... but he was just as fascinating to any woman with a pulse.

"Last but not least, here's my kitchen. The only room I spared no expense on, because I love to eat just as much as I love to write. Two convenient forms of self-therapy for a moody guy."

"I'm a good cook. I would be glad to make

gourmet

dinners for you every night, at no extra charge."

"I'd love that, Lola. I've been dying to try some genuine French cuisine. None of that Americanized 'tweezer food' junk that gets five stars in Manhattan," he replied warmly. "By the way, I still haven't shown you my basement."

He led her down a flight of wooden steps and through a maze of boxes full of his old childhood stuff from the 1980's and 90's. She pictured Richard's adventures as a rebellious book geek in the piney outer suburbs of Gotham. Like a cross between

The Goonies, The NeverEnding Story,

and

Calvin and Hobbes

. He paused in front of a closed white door with a sign that boldly warned: "Private - Do Not Enter."

"As you can see, this room is private. I don't want

you

to enter it either, under any circumstances. I'll clean it myself."

"Very well, Mister Newcastle. I also like retreating to my own private 'woman-cave' when the real world gets too crazy."

Richard laughed under his breath while adjusting his tweed jacket. Like a smug English professor flirting with his favorite ditzy redhead student after class.

"Well, I'll let you settle in upstairs, Miss Robida. I'll be in my office, working on the final volume of the

Dragons of Delhaize

saga."

"I can't wait to read that book, and see it come to life with Bella Thorne."

"That sexy ginger really kills it as Princess Katvana."

"Bella is so

bella

. Such a talented ginger," Lola swooned, tossing her shiny copper bangs

"Gentlemen prefer redheads," Richard replied playfully.

She went upstairs to her new bedroom, unpacking her suitcases in a dreamy haze. The sun set gloriously over the Long Island sound, with a warm summer breeze wafting through a picture window above his private beach. Lola always slept in the nude. It was a good skin care hack that put her in a nice natural sexy mood, leading to lots of masturbation (if a man wasn't keeping her "company.") She stripped bare and lay face-up on a comfy memory foam mattress, gazing at the blank white ceiling with chaotic kinky thoughts rushing through her mind. Was Richard's Newcastle's "private" room a BDSM dungeon, just like the one Pierre Cassel had in the basement of his Paris

chateau

? Richard loved writing bondage sex scenes, and he obviously didn't do the girlfriend thing, just like Christian Grey. She warned herself not to jump to conclusions and get in trouble, as she often did.

Her naughty mind was flooded with morbid curiosity. She simply

had

to find out what was behind that subterranean portal. Lola was magnetically drawn toward taboo secrets, like Katvana snooping around and discovering Prince Lavantium's adulterous affair with her sister Esmelda. She peeked around a corner in the royal dragon stables and saw him fucking the shit out of that hot blonde bitch, near her favorite dragon Infernaka. Newcastle's novels were chock-full of fetish sex, rough incest, and gory medieval violence. Plenty of boobs and blood for his geeky fantasy fanboys, and just enough romantic royal melodrama to keep his fangirls satisfied.

"Curiosity will kill Katvana," the Prince remarked to her during post-kink pillow talk in his castle dormitory. Lola's arousal reached a fever pitch. She grabbed her favorite genuine leather riding crop and ran the smooth black tip over her large milky breasts, lingering on her pointy pink nipples while recalling an intense bondage session with Pierre two months ago.

"Will you be a good obedient maid from now on, and stop sneaking around like a slutty cunt?" she could almost hear him growl. Pierre glared at her menacingly in a ridiculous antique Marquis de Sade costume, complete with a grey powdered wig. She whimpered softly; hogtied and suspended three feet off the concrete basement floor at 1113 Avenue des Champs-Élysées. Green straps of exotic alligator hide wrapped tightly around her milky white flesh, leaving her tits, pussy and ass fully exposed. A silky black-and-white

carnivale

harlequin mask covered her face, enhancing their vintage cosplay fantasy vibe. Pierre gave her the same rough slave girl treatment that Sade gave to many servants at his Lacoste chateau.

"

Oui, maitre

. I will be a good girl, serving you well," she murmured distantly.

"I can tell you're lying, bitch!" he barked out, swinging a leather crop hard against her large breasts. Lola whipped her own breasts in real time, moaning pleasantly with the sweet sting, writhing on that Greenwich bed just like she did while hanging on those Parisian alligator straps. She kept swinging that genuine leather against her pointy pink nipples. Her pussy got nice and wet with masochistic pleasure, dripping down on Richard's silky blue sheets.

"I speak the truth,

Maitre

! I did not fuck that dirty plumber."

"You've been speaking nothing but

lies

, you filthy ginger maid. I'm gonna mop the floor with your ass!"

Lola whipped her pussy just as aggressively as the CEO of the Dujardin fashion and cosmetics empire. Moaning harshly as shockwaves of sweet pain raced up to her throbbing clit. Loud enough for her new boss to hear, three doors down in the master bedroom.

"Oh god,

oui mon maître

!" she shouted toward Newcastle's ceiling, pounding her twat with that crop while squeezing her tits. Wishing her hands were big and strong like Pierre's.               "Fuck me hard in the ass, like fucking Sade!"

Lola reached over to her nightstand, grabbed a pink foot-long dildo, and shoved it deep in her tight asshole. So many nerve endings flaring up with pleasure. She rocked that fake cock back and forth at a rapid clip, moaning even louder while picturing Richard taking Pierre's place. Screwing her fast and hard, whipping her tits and ass American style. She worked her pussy and clit with her other hand, soaring toward an epic climax in full fantasy mode.

"Oh shit, oh shit. Oooohhh,

ooooohhh

,

ooooooWAAAAH

!"

A massive orgasm made her entire body shudder violently, with a geyser of clear fluid blasting out from between her legs.

"I'll make you a

very

good girl, my kinky Joan of Arc," Pierre grunted to the back of her head in a fuzzy afterglow memory, three thousand miles away in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. Lola sunk into deep murky catatonia on a silk-wrapped memory foam pillow. Utterly satisfied, yet starving for another harrowing erotic adventure in a strange distant land.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The next morning, Lola took a long hot luxurious shower, then she did some nude yoga, keeping her body a perfect ten to please her wealthy "clients." She opened a dresser drawer and slipped into her cute vintage maid outfit. It fit her lean voluptuous body like a glove, putting her right back into hazy cosplay fantasy mode. She wiggled in front of a full-length mirror, loving how the lacy fabric enhanced her D-cup breasts and sweeping downward curves.

"I love that Roaring 20's outfit, Madame Robida," Richard beamed at his kitchen table, eating a poppy bagel with cream cheese. "I wish a lot more maids would dress like that. I'm sick of all these gender-neutral sky-blue Motel 6 uniforms that every border-crashing Mexican bitch has to wear."

"You're way too rich for Motel 6," Lola giggled while dusting breadcrumbs off the top of his toaster.

"Fuck yeah. I got the Waldorf-Astoria on speed dial," he snickered, taking another big bite of bagel. "By the way, don't disturb me in my office during the day while I'm writing, unless it's an emergency. That really pisses me off, like Jack in The Shining.

Heeeeere's Johnny

!"

"Very well, Monsieur Newcastle."

Lola spent the rest of the morning undertaking the monumental task of cleaning his vast mansion while also planning for dinner. Picturing many kinky scenes behind that door in the basement. She had to wait until Richard went to sleep at night to sneak down there and check it out. The anticipation was killing her, with a steady nagging buzz in her clit. She needed to get dominated by a good hard american man, regardless of his social status.

A couple hours later, Richard grabbed his car keys and opened his front door, waving at Lola as she polished one of his many bookshelves. "I'm going out to the grocery store to get those ingredients on your list."

"Nothing but the best brands, Monsieur Newcastle. You deserve some

fine

french cuisine," she replied sweetly.

"I'm also meeting a friend at a coffee shop in Cos Cob. I'll be back in a couple hours."