A couple in their early 30's. Just about ready to start a family, the wife has a deep need to experience her teen years for a short period before doing so. So finds a spell on the dark web and asks her husband if he would revert to a teen for a week.

Chapter 3: Rising Action

I could feel my climax building within me, the pleasure coiling tight in my core. "I love it, monseigneur," I gasped, my French accent coming out more natural as I became more lost in the moment. "I love being your little French maid slut." I was embarrassed by the words coming out of my mouth, but at the same time, I was powerless to stop them.

Here I was, bent over the bed of one of the guestrooms, in my skimpy French maid outfit, with the skirt and petticoats so short that in this position, my naked, bald pussy was completely exposed. It was also currently, completely full with Calvin's cock as he slowly fucked me.

"No, Heather," he said as he continued his languorous pace, "I thought the accent would be enough, but I find it even sexier when you speak French. From now on, as long as you wear your French maid outfits, every word you speak will be French. Even if myself or anyone else doesn't understand, you're to only speak French from now on. So tell me again, how much you love it when I fuck you like this." Calvin's voice was low and husky, full of desire. He was relishing every second of this moment, the feeling of being in control, of dominating me, of possessing me.

"Je t'aime quand tu me baises comme ça." I said, my voice coming out husky as I spoke in French. I love it when you do this to me. When in reality, I hated it. I hated being in this teenage girl's body with it's outrageous curves, innocent face, and tight little pussy between my shapely thighs. But Calvin was rich and powerful and responsible for my former wife, his new wife, to be stuck in these body's. Hers identical to this one. We had become twins. Only she was the respectable lady of the house as Calvin required for his mate. But he took perverse pleasure in forcing me, a former man in body and still very much one in my mind, into overtly feminine and revealing attire and roles.

He enjoyed seeing me struggle with the expectations of womanhood, knowing that it was all just a farce. It was a power trip for him, and I was his unwilling pawn.

As Mr. Quinn's pace quickened, I could feel my climax building within me. I closed my eyes and bit my lower lip, trying to stifle my moans. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he affected me. But it was no use. My body betrayed me, responding to his touch and the roughness of his fingers on my hips.

I could feel myself getting wetter, my body betraying my every thought, my every desire for freedom and escape. I pushed back against him, grinding my hips, willing him to take me harder, to fuck me like I was one of his toys, something to use and toss aside. I wanted this over. He and my former wife, now my sister, Jacklyn were going to be gone the entire day seeing to our trip on Calvin's yacht that starts tomorrow afternoon. I longed to be alone and not seen in this hateful, sexy, teen girl body, dressed in fetish attire designed not to be practical, but only to inflame men's lust and desire. So, I gave him what he wanted, what he demanded of me, even though I had absolutely no choice but to do so. I said all the things a man wants to hear a woman say while he's fucking her, but per his orders, it all came out in perfect French: "Tu es si grand, si fort, si bon, mon dieu, tu me fais tant de bien. Je suis ta pute, Vas-y, baise-moi, baise-moi plus fort, j'aime ça." I could feel my climax building, my body tensing with pleasure, my words ringing out in the room.

I knew my words and my accent had the desired affect when I felt him drive himself deep and hold himself there, his grip on my hips growing even tighter, then that swell of his cock a split second before he unloaded deep into my pussy. And I hated myself for screaming out to him, the pleasure he had forced upon me.

I hated that my body couldn't help but respond, that it couldn't help but crave the release of an orgasm. I hated that he had the power to make me feel this way, to turn me into a moaning, writhing mess beneath him. But those aren't the things I said to him. Instead, I said: "Mon Dieu, tu es tellement grand et fort, mon cher. Tu me fais me sentir tellement bien. Oui, baise-moi plus fort. Prends-moi comme ta pute." I couldn't believe the filthy words that were coming out of my mouth, but I was beyond caring. I just wanted him to take his victory and move on.

"Oh my God, Heather," he gasped as he pulled out of me. "That was so fucking hot. I wonder if I could have your sister talk French to me when we're doing it. Now then, go clean yourself up and get started on your duties. Jacklyn and I have quite the busy day. I expect this place to be spotless when we get home tonight." Mr. Quinn barked out his order as he turned and left the room, leaving me to deal with the aftermath of our encounter. I sighed heavily, feeling a mixture of relief and frustration wash over me.

I couldn't believe what had just happened. I mean, I was still reeling from the fact that I was now trapped in this petite, teenage girl's body with its luscious curves and full, perky breasts.

And now, I was forced to serve my own wife, Jacklyn, and her husband, Calvin, as their French maid. But to make matters worse, Calvin had demanded that I not only look like a French maid, but sound like one too. So now, every time I donned that skimpy outfit, I was expected to speak in a fake French accent. It was degrading, to say the least.

I cleaned myself up in the bathroom, disgusted as I wiped my pussy clean of our fluids. I would never get used to that. I would never get used to being in this body. That's what the spell... the curse... did to me. Enhancing my already male mind, or soul if you believe in that kind of thing, so that I would never grow used to being in this body and every second of every day, wanting to be back in my male body, but never able to regain my masculine self. With those thoughts rattling around in my head, I made my way out of the guest bedroom and back down the grand staircase to the kitchen.

Mr. Quinn was on his phone in the library. As I neared the kitchen, my stilettoes tick-tacking on the marble floor, I saw my sister still at the table finishing up her second cup of coffee. I felt the shame was over me. Not just from her knowing what had just happened, but the thought of her discovering the latest change Calvin had forced upon.

"Heather," she began softly, knowing what a fragile person I had become in this body, forced to play this role, "I'm so sorry. Are you ok?" she asked me.

I didn't respond, couldn't respond. I just shrugged, trying to keep the tears that threatened to fall at bay. I couldn't let her see me so vulnerable, so weak. I was supposed to be her protector, her confidante. I had failed in that duty. I had failed in every duty since I had been forced into this body.

She stood up, her chair scraping against the floor, and approached me. She wrapped her arms around me, holding me close. I could feel her warmth, her love, and I couldn't help but let go. "Hey, hey.... c'mon, talk to me. Whatever our troubles were, we always talked about them. Don't stop that now." she pleaded of me.

It wasn't that I didn't want to confide in her. I didn't want to talk to her, knowing everything I said while dressed this way was going to come out in perfect French, in a perfect French accent. Just one more humiliation I was made to endure. But her pleading and the love I saw her eyes.... I couldn't just let her hang there like that. So, I told her everything that had happened in the only words I was allowed to speak now and said: "Jacklyn, je viens de baiser avec monsieur. Il m'a fait jouir comme une pute, mais je le déteste pour ça." (Jacklyn, I just fucked Mr. Quinn. He made me cum like a whore, but I hate him for it.)

My sister's eyes widened in shock as she processed that I had just spoken perfect French like a born Parisienne. "Heather," she gasped in shock, "was... was that French you just spoke? I didn't even know you knew French. I'm sorry, but I don't understand French. Can you say that again in English for me please." I wanted to. I wanted her to understand me. But per Calvin's orders every word that came out of my mouth was now perfect French delivered in a perfect French accent, as long as I was dressed like a French maid. And though I knew she wouldn't understand, I tried to tell her that when I said: "Je viens de baiser avec monsieur. (I just fucked Mr. Quinn.

Jacklyn's brow furrowed as she shook her head, clearly not understanding what I was trying to say. "Heather, I'm sorry but I don't speak French. Can you please tell me what's going on?" She pleaded with me, concern etched all over her face.

I tried again to tell how her husband had forced me to speak French only. But the results were the same as I said to her: "Monsieur, il, il m'a fait porter la tenue de la French maid et il a dit que je dois parler français toute le temp." (Monsieur, he made me wear the French maid outfit and he said I had to speak French all the time.)

Jacklyn stared at me confused. I couldn't blame her. I was her identical twin. Any other day we could swap places and no one would notice. But now, in this French maid outfit, her brow furrowed as she tried to understand me. But to no avail.

"He did something, didn't he?" she stated more than questioned. "He didn't just fuck you. Is this what he wants now? A French, French maid" she asked me. I was grateful that she understand what had happened, but that didn't change things. I had to speak French, she didn't understand French. But I answered her anyway as I told her: "Oui, il veut une pute française parfaitement obéissante qui est toujours prête à se faire baiser comme une vulgaire salope." (Yes, he wants a perfectly obedient French whore who is always ready to be fucked like a filthy slut.)

Jacklyn's eyes widened as she understood. Not the words I had spoken, but the extent to which Calvin's power permeated me. Though I tried to fight everything, I failed at every step. The magic of the curse, forcing me to be subservient to his every whim. I looked at the sadness in my former wife's eyes and told her that I had to begin my duties and to have a wonderful day and not worry about me. Of course, when it came out of my mouth it sounded like this:

"Je dois commencer mes devoirs, ma chérie. Avez une journée merveilleuse et ne vous inquiétez pas pour moi." I watched as she walked away, despondent and worried. I felt bad, but there was nothing I could do with the curse placed upon me. I turned to head to my first task when I heard, "Heather! Is that French I hear coming from your lips? I can't tell you how fucking hot that sounds in that sexy French accent." I stopped in my tracks and turned to see Calvin walking down the hallway. "God, I wish I had the time to take you again, my sexy little French, French maid. Tell me, would you like that? Would you like another good fucking, right here, bent over the kitchen table where just 30 minutes ago you served me and your sister breakfast?" he asked me, expecting an answer.

So, dutifully, I said to him: 'Monsieur, je vous obéis. Baisez-moi, baisez-moi sur la table,' I pleaded with him, hating the sound of my own voice, the way it made me feel so vulnerable and powerless.

Calvin smirked as he approached me. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as he closed the distance between us. I knew what was coming, and I hated myself for it. I hated that my body couldn't help but respond to his touch, to his proximity.

"You know I can't understand French, Heather," he whispered in my ear, "but that just makes it all the sexier, don't you think. Unfortunately, I don't have the time for it right now. So why don't you get started with your duties. Perhaps I'll call later just to her that sexy French accent speaking French to me, maybe really get me in the mood to fuck your former wife on my yacht as we finalize preparations," he finished wistfully, barely taking notice of me, until he looked at me once again. I knew what he expected. I curtsied and said to him: "Oui, monsieur. Je vais faire mon travail avec diligence et rapidité. Vous pouvez compter sur moi." (Yes, sir. I'll do my work with diligence and speed. You can count on me.)

Calvin gave me a quick nod as he turned and headed back down the hallway. I took a deep breath as I watched him leave, feeling both relieved and frustrated. I wanted nothing more than to rip this damn French maid outfit off and burn it, to never have to wear it or speak French again.

But I couldn't. I was trapped, both physically and mentally. Physically because I was a man in a woman's body, and mentally because I was forced to be subservient to Calvin's every whim, to serve him and my former wife, Jacklyn, in whatever capacity they saw fit.

As I began my daily duties, cleaning and tidying up the mansion, I couldn't help but fantasize about freedom. I thought about my past life, my life as a successful contractor and husband, with plans to start a family with my wife.

I missed the feeling of being in command, of making decisions and seeing them through to the end. I missed the satisfaction of a hard day's work, of creating something with my own two hands, of providing for my family.

But now, I was reduced to being a glorified servant, cleaning and tidying after others, always at the beck and call of my new husband, Calvin, and my former wife, Jacklyn. I hated every moment of it, I hated the feeling of helplessness and submission, but I had no choice but to comply.

I couldn't reverse the spell and I didn't have the money or resources to leave. So, I gritted my teeth and went about my duties, all the while fantasizing about escape.

As the day dragged on, I couldn't help but feel a growing sense of dread. Calvin and Jacklyn were going to be gone all day, leaving me alone in the mansion in this sexualized teenage girl body. I knew that, while they were gone, I would be expected to maintain my maid duties, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen.

Despite my fears, I went about my duties, cleaning and tidying up the mansion. My mind kept drifting back to my former life - my successful business, my loving wife. I missed those days, but I knew I couldn't go back. I was stuck in this body, and there was nothing I could do about it.

It was about 2pm when I heard the front doorbell ring. I felt a rush of fear and shame wash over me, wondering who the hell that was. Then I remembered that I was to take delivery of a grocery order today. Now I was sure who it was, but that didn't lessen my shame. Someone, a stranger, was going to see me dressed this way. But there's was nothing else to be done about it, so I went and answered the door.

Standing on the doorstep was a young man, maybe in his early twenties. He was delivery driver, wearing a blue uniform and hat. As soon as he saw me, his eyes widened in surprise, taking in the skimpy French maid outfit, my long blonde hair, and my toned figure. I could feel my face burning with shame as he looked me up and down.

"Uh, hi there," he stammered, trying to regain his composure.

I could tell he was trying to keep his eyes off my body, but it was a losing battle. I cleared my throat and said, "Hi, I'm Heather. I'm expecting a delivery. Is that you?" That's what I tried to say. But Calvin's directive held firm and it all came out in French: "Oui, je m'appelle Heather et je m'attends à une livraison. Est-ce toi?" The driver nodded, still clearly struggling to keep his eyes off my body.

I stepped aside, gesturing for him to bring the groceries inside. He did as I asked, but not before giving me one last lingering look. I could feel myself blushing again, annoyed at my own body's response to his gaze. I knew I couldn't let myself get distracted right now. I had to keep my head clear and focused on my duties.

I couldn't let myself be distracted by the random strangers who would now see me dressed like this. I took a deep breath and turned my attention back to the driver, who was awkwardly standing in the foyer, avoiding eye contact with me. I could feel his attraction to me, despite his best efforts to hide it. I wanted this to be done as quickly as possible, with as few words as possible, as I could not only did my body and attire stoke his lustful fires, but my French and French accent were affecting him as they had, Calvin. But the driver stood there with a couple of bags in his hands waiting for me. So I said to him: "Merci de m'avoir livré ces provisions. Ils ont l'air délicieux. Au revoir" (Thank you for delivering these provisions. They look delicious. Goodbye)

I don't know if he understood my words, or it was the tone, but he said, "Wait, there's still more. I have to make a few trips. There's like a month's worth of groceries there. Do you mind?"

Shit. Not only was this going to take longer, but I was going to need to talk to him some more. I said to him: "Non, non, Monsieur, je vous en prie, entrez et déposez ces sacs dans la cuisine. Je vous aiderai à apporter les autres ensuite." (No, no, sir, please come in and put these bags in the kitchen. I'll help you bring the others in as well.)

With the driver's eyes still on me, I led him to the kitchen, his gaze lingering on my ass as I walked. I could feel his stare, his lust, as I put the groceries away.

With every movement, my breasts would jiggle under my tiny, white, lace bustier, drawing his attention. I could hear his heavy breathing, his thoughts, as he watched me bend over and reach into the cabinets showing him my bald, naked pussy which I knew was starting to glisten with my moisture. I hated how responsive this body was to men. How needy it was for release. I hated it, but I couldn't deny it. If no one had shown up here today, I would have been fine with the fucking Calvin gave me this morning. But now, this 20 something deliveryman with his strong arms and hands was affecting me. And though I tried to fight it with every fiber of my being, I knew how this was going to finish.

My mind racing, my heart pounding in my chest, I turned to face him. I knew what he wanted. I knew what I wanted. I could feel the ache deep within me, my pussy begging for attention. I knew I was going to give in. But I wasn't going to let him have all the control. He didn't know that he had that power. That I answered to men's needs, wants, and commands. If I took control right away, then at least I had that. I just wish I could stop everything coming out in my perfect French.

I tried again to tell him in English, "Look, these groceries are heavy, I'm happy to help you bring them in, but you don't need to stare at me like that." But what came out of my mouth was, "Je suis heureux de vous aider à apporter ces provisions, Monsieur, mais vous n'avez pas besoin de me regarder de cette façon."

The driver's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and I could tell he was confused by my words.

I sighed, realizing that it was no use trying to speak in English when I was dressed like this. I would just have to stick to French.

So, I repeated myself in French, emphasizing each word to make my point. "Je suis heureux de vous aider à apporter ces provisions, Monsieur, mais vous n'avez pas besoin de me regarder de cette façon. Je suis une personne, pas juste un objet sexuel." (I'm happy to help you bring these provisions, sir, but you don't have to stare at me like that. I am a person, not just a sex object.)

I could see a total lack of understanding on his part. I sighed. His eyes bulged as my tits bulged with my sigh. I had to hurry and get these groceries in and put away. It wouldn't do to have anything melt. Mr. Quinn would not take kindly to that. And this fucking body's needs were growing. I knew I was getting fucked by this guy before he left, I just wanted to take as much control of the situation as possible. Maybe in this case, being forced to speak French could work for me. Let's face it, the French often sounded pompous and demanding. Maybe with a bit of an air of confidence, even if he couldn't understand the words I spoke, he would acquiesce to my instructions. I put down the bag of groceries I had in hand and cleared my throat.

"Écoutez, jeune homme. Je sais ce que vous pensez. Mais je ne suis pas seulement une pièce de cul. Je suis une personne et je mérite d'être traitée avec respect. Je suis heureuse de vous aider avec ces provisions, mais je ne resterai pas debout ici et vous permettra de me regarder comme un morceau de viande. I said in my perfect French, hoping that the direct tone and hard stare would convey my message loud and clear.

"S'il vous plaît, dites-moi si vous comprenez ou si je dois répéter ce que je dis. Je ne veux pas perdre mon temps à plaisanter avec vous alors que j'ai encore tant de travail à faire." (Listen, kid. I know you can't understand my words in French, but I'm sure the tone and directness of my speech conveys my message clearly. Do you understand? If not, please let me know so I can repeat myself.

He just smiled and nodded like an idiot as he continued to stare at my large tits. I just threw up my hands and headed out to his truck to indicate to him to get the rest of the groceries. I knew his eyes were glued to my ass as we walked to his truck. I sighed internally knowing that this is the way is way going to be for me from now on. At least, for the moment, I had some measure of control. When we got to the truck, I pointed inside and told him to give some more of the groceries and he could take the rest. I knew he wouldn't understand, but still, I said to him: "Allez, donnez-moi les prochaines provisions et vous pouvez prendre le reste. Je vais les transporter jusqu'à la cuisine." (Go ahead and give me the next batch of provisions, and you can take the rest. I will carry them into the kitchen.)

He didn't move right away and I almost growled in frustration. I had to repeat myself a few more times, but finally, he started handing me the bags, his eyes still glued to my cleavage.

I could feel my irritation rising, but I pushed it down. I needed to stay in control of this situation. I couldn't let him have the upper hand.

As I turned to walk back to the house, I couldn't help but feel a sense of disgust wash over me. I hated how this body responded to men's attention. I hated how it craved their touch, their rough hands on my delicate skin. I hated how it begged for release, my wet pussy throbbing with desire. We had to hurry this up. If I wanted some control over what was to come next, I needed to get the perishables away quickly, so that I could direct the tryst that was to follow.

So I told him to hurry up and get the rest of the groceries while I put these ones away. "Allez, dépêchez-vous et apportez le reste des provisions. Je dois les mettre dans la cuisine et avoir les mains libres pour la suite." (Go, hurry up and bring the rest of the groceries. I have to put these away and have my hands free for what comes next.) I'm sure he didn't understand a word, just the urgency in my voice that he quicken his pace.

I could feel my body's need growing stronger with each passing moment, my pussy aching for release. I tried to push it aside and focus on the task at hand, but it was no use. I could feel myself getting wetter, my juices coating my inner thighs as I bent over and reached into the cabinets. I could feel the driver's eyes on me, his gaze burning into my skin as I moved.

When he had brought the last of the groceries in, I went through them quickly to see what needed to be put away immediately. To my mind's shame and my body's relief, everything else could wait. Which meant, my needs no longer could. I hated myself for it, but when I realized it was now time to satisfy the carnal needs of this body, I threw myself into his arms and kissed him deeply and rubbed his cock through his pants and told him. "Baise-moi, maintenant! Je t'en supplie!" (Fuck me, now! Please!) His response was immediate, pulling me close and kissing me back fiercely as he started to undo his pants. I couldn't believe this was happening again. I couldn't believe that I was about to have sex with a stranger, a virtual stranger, someone who had just delivered groceries to me.

But as much as I was hating myself, my body was betraying me again.

The moment I felt the outline of his hard cock, I could feel my pussy clench with desire. I moaned into his mouth as his hips bucked forward, grinding his thick length against me.

"Baisez-moi, s'il vous plaît, baisez-moi comme la pute sale que je suis." (Fuck me, please, fuck me like the dirty whore that I am.)

With that, I pulled the driver close and ground my hips against him, desperately seeking friction for my aching clit. The driver wasted no time, his hands roaming over my body, squeezing my ass and groping my tits through the thin fabric of my maid outfit. I moaned as he bit and sucked on my neck, his stubble scratching my sensitive skin. I could feel the heat of his erection pressing against my belly, and I reached down to stroke him through his pants.

I had tried to take some control of the situation, but whether I was too late, or the curse forced me to be subservient when engaged in sex with men, I quickly found myself following his lead. He had seen my naked pussy already, so he knew he didn't need to undress me. In fact, like many, if not most men, fucking me while still being dressed this way was a fantasy made real. Which meant I was stuck in this outfit and speaking French, when he turned me around and bent me over the kitchen table. It wasn't lost on me that Calvin had suggested the very same thing this morning.

But there, bent over, pussy aching to be filled and my wetness beginning to run down my leg, all I could do was beg him, in French: "Pénétrez-moi, s'il vous plaît, pénétrez-moi maintenant!" (Fuck me, please, fuck me now!) And it didn't stop there. I had opened the floodgate on my voicing my body's needs and the vulgarity of it continued on in perfect French: "Oh putain, oui! Baise mon cul! Baise-moi plus fort!" (Oh fucking yes! Fuck my ass! Fuck me harder!) And more: "Est-ce que tu aimes ça, mon gros cochon? Est-ce que tu aimes baiser ma petite chatte serrée? Je sais que tu en veux plus, tu en veux plus de cette petite salope!" (Do you like that, you big pig? Do you like fucking my tight little pussy? I know you want more, you want more from this little slut!)

My words were raw and filthy, and they only seemed to turn the driver on more. I hate it, I fucking hate it, but I think they were turning me on more as well, cause I couldn't stop as more French filth fell from my lips: "Baise-moi comme un objet, baise-moi sans pitié." (Fuck me like an object, fuck me without mercy.) I could feel his cock pulsing with need at my words, and I reveled in the power I had over him in that moment. I slammed my hips back into his, wanting to feel his length filling me up. And I did want it, much to my shame. So great was my need, that it transcended into want. My slutty French tirade continued: "Enculer cette chienne serrée, donnez-moi tout le sperme, vous m'entendez? Donnez-moi chaque goutte de votre sale charge!" (Fuck this tight cunt, fill me up with your cum, you hear me? Give me every last drop of your filthy load!) For a moment, I was bitterly ashamed at myself, but the feeling passed in an instant. It was then replaced by a fierce carnal hunger that only intensified as I felt the driver's cock pulsing inside me.

I moaned loudly, slamming my hips back into his in time with his wild thrusts. My mind was a blur of sensation as he reached around to play with my clit. It didn't take long until I felt myself tipping over the edge. My climax hit me hard and fast, a violent wave of pleasure crashing over me.

"Oui, oui, oui!" I cried out, my orgasm racking my body. I could hear the driver's labored breathing behind me as he increased the tempo of his thrusts.

I could feel every inch of him, deep inside me, filling me up completely. I could feel my body responding to his, my wetness coating his cock. I was shamelessly begging him for more, wildly moaning out: "Baisez-moi, encore, encore, encore!" (Fuck me, again, again, again!)

The driver's hands gripped my hips tightly, pulling me back onto his thick cock with each thrust.

I could feel the head of his cock hitting my cervix, the sensation almost painful in its intensity. I relished in it, feeding off of the primal need that coursed through my body.

"Oh putain, oui!" I screamed out, my orgasm tearing through me in waves of pleasure. I could feel the driver's own release following close behind, his cock pulsing wildly inside of me as he filled me to the brim with his cum.

The driver pulled out of me and gasped out, "That was fucking incredible. I didn't understand a word you said, but that must made it even hotter. God, I hope to make more deliveries here, but I'm afraid I really have to run. I have other deliveries in the truck." He took one last long lingering look at my body as he buckled up his pants, then turned and left with an obvious bounce to his step. I stared after him in disbelief, feeling the weight of what had just happened settle over me like a heavy fog. I couldn't believe what I had just done. I couldn't believe that I had just fucked a stranger, a virtual stranger, and I had initiated it. Now, really felt like a slut.

A dirty, used, teenage slut. I stood there, leaning against the kitchen table, my legs shaking from the intense orgasm that had just rocked my body. I could feel the driver's cum running down my thighs, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of disgust wash over me.

What the fuck was I doing? I was supposed to be a successful contractor, not some cheap whore, bending over for any man that came my way. But there I was, in my sexy French maid uniform, 5 inch stiletto heels, no panties, my pussy naked and ready for any man and now a sloppy mess. And I couldn't even make anyone, including my own former wife, understand me cause I was forced to speak perfect, fluent French while in uniform.

As if on cue, my iPad announced an incoming video chat. I sighed and dutifully walked over and open the app, as I absently reached over for a paper towel to clean myself up. When it opened, there was Calvin's face, grinning from ear to ear.

Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.