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."

Richard hopped in his BMW and cruised toward Putnam Avenue, leaving Lola all by herself in that huge house. Curiosity led her down to the basement, but she couldn't bring herself to open that secret door. She had to let the taboo urge simmer a little longer, using it as an incentive to get through the day and make a good first impression on her new boss.

She cleaned up the rest of the basement, finding a box with a few literary journal from Stamford high school, three miles down Route 1. They published one of his Star Wars fan fiction pieces way back in 1996. A behind-the-scenes look at Jabba the Hutt's palace, with Princess Leia getting harrassed in chains by that giant alien slug. Wearing that famous kinky leather and metal Tattoinian bikini. It was an early glimpse of Richard's future fetish obsessions in far-flung fantasy worlds, watered down for PG-13 high school standards.

Richard came back home ninety minutes later, accompanied by a lovely twenty-something woman in a brown gingham dress. A petite blonde with perky B-cup tits and a fairy-like face.

"Wow, Dick. Lola really is a cute french maid," she beamed in a perky New York accent.

"Yes, indeed. This is Claire Stephens, Lola. She's an English major at UConn Stamford."

"Pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Stephens," Lola beamed back.

"Ooh, Mademoiselle. That language makes everything sound sexy. How do you say... 'Go ahead punk, make my day!' in French?"

"Poursuivre abruti, fais-moi passer une bonne journée!" Lola replied gruffly, sounding like a gay Dirty Harry.

"Oh shit, that's awesome!" Claire chuckled.

"It sure is," Richard chuckled, wrapping his arms around Claire's shoulders. "I brought Claire home to show her that... interesting room in the basement. Please don't disturb us in there, Lola."

Lola's lips parted in shock, with a dizzying wave of conflicting emotions rushing through her mind. "Uhh... yes, very well, Mister Newcastle."

"Come on, Dick. I'm dying to see how... interesting it is," Claire murmured pleasantly, taking Richard by the hand and leading him through the door to the basement stairs. Lola watched Claire's nice heart-shaped ass disappear around the corner, with her heart sinking way down in her chest. Now she was sure that Richard's private room was a BDSM dungeon, and he was just as sleazy as Pierre. Bringing home lots of random slutty fangirls for cheap kinky sex. Same pig, different lipstick. Fate was determined to grant all of Lola's kinky wishes; steering her toward the craziest men on this crazy planet.

Lola tried going back to her boring maid job, tidying up his sun room with the warm sea breeze wafting through an open window. But her curiosity was too damn morbid. She had to go down there and eavesdrop on their little "playdate," no matter the risk to her job on the very first day. So she tiptoed down those wooden steps like a sexy French cat burglar, hearing the muffled sound of giggling from the other end of the basement. She skulked slowly through that maze of boxes with a feather duster in her right hand, ready to snap back into professional maid mode if Richard and Claire suddenly exited that private room.

"Oh shit. I love that intricate platform," Claire beamed behind that heavy metal door.

"It's covered with top grain leather, blondie," Richard replied seductively. "Nothing but high-end shit for my subs."

"I wanna feel that top grain leather, Dick. Tie me up and whip me good!"

"As you wish, Miss Hogan. Get fucking naked."

Lola leaned against a box full of old VHS tapes, hearing that blonde pixie getting pussywhipped by a filthy rich fantasy writer.

"Oh fuck, yes! Whoop me good, like a naughty princess!"

"Curiosity will kill Katvana," he growled playfully. Lola's pussy throbbed with vicarious pleasure beneath her black lacy dress. She reached underneath her black French-cut panties and masturbated slowly, matching the rhythm of Richard's unseen whip strokes on Claire's cute body. He was old enough to be her father, paying her tuition while spanking her silly.

"Fuck yeah, Dick! Punish my little titties like a dragon master!"

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

Richard growled gutturally while doling out even more pain on her lithe frame.

"Fucking take it, blondie!"

"Oh shit, you're such a good dom. I bet you're gonna whoop that Frenchie ginger too."

"Shut the fuck up, bitch!"

He was just as tough as Lola's old flamboyant fashionista master, behind that staid antisocial literary facade. She couldn't believe this was really happening. It felt like she was living out one of those implausible "kinky chick lit" novels her old college girlfriends loved to discuss while sipping Sauivignon Blanc. Those cheesy stories always drew out the suspense like this, with a ravishing neurotic heroine drifting closer and closer toward an alpha male lothario. A high-class wolf in sheep's clothing.

"Come on, Mister Newcastle. Fuck your gold-digging princess in the royal dungeon," Claire ordered in breathless ecstasy.

"Fuck yeah. Get your ass on that rack, and stretch your legs nice and wide."

The private subterranean chamber erupted into a loud sexual frenzy. Lots of screaming, growling, and spanking. Lola fucked herself just as enthusiastically, covering her mouth with her other hand, trying like hell not to make any noise. Like the devious maids in her wild vintage F. Scott Fitzgerald fantasies.

"I'm gonna cum all over your face, blondie!"

"Oui-oui, Monsieur Newcastle," Claire giggled sweetly in a mock french accent. Lola jacked her clit at full speed, picturing Richard aiming his cock at her pale ginger face instead of Claire's pale blonde face.

"Ooohwaah, oooohwaaah, AAAAAAAAAFFFFUUUUCK!"

Lola climaxed a split second later, seeing stars against the white-painted dungeon door. She could almost feel his hot soothing splooge all over her face, dripping down on her big milky tits. Lola sunk backward against a tall stack of boxes, reeling in ecstasy. Her rational mind turned back on a few moments later, at least enough to get her the hell out of that dingy basement. She raced up two flights up stairs to her new bedroom, diving onto that plush mattress and clutching a plush silky pillow like a teddy bear. Wishing she was cuddling with Richard Newcastle, whipped up to cloud nine.

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

Five hours later, Lola served Richard a steaming plate of Steak au Poivre in red wine sauce. The rich hearty aroma filled his nostrils, mixing with the pleasant breeze wafting off the sound on his back patio, in a glorious sunset. He hummed pleasantly while gazing at the gently rolling waves on his private beach.

"Mmm, this dish is dee-lish, Lola."

"Just like my dear mère used to make in Gei Paris," Lola beamed, taking a bite and savoring her own handiwork.

"What does mère mean?"

"Mother. She loved my father so much, and they both loved me even more. A little too much, actually."

"Same here. I was also an only child, so my parents spoiled my brains out. Leading to a dangerous sense of entitlement, and lots of dead-end 'love' affairs."

"I love all those rough men in your books, seeing what they want and grabbing it."

"I'm not that crazy in real life," he mused, taking a sip of Chardonnay and gazing at the Manhattan skyline on the far horizon. "But it's always been a struggle for me, trying to separate fantasy from reality."

"That struggle has earned you a shitload of cash."

"Yes indeed. Instead of forking over a few hundred dollars to a shrink and telling her about my Freudian hang-ups, my fans give me millions of dollars to read about that shit."

"Shrinks are a bunch of quacks, ever since Freud," Lola chortled. She took a pensive sip of bubbly fermented grape juice, feeling like one of those pretentious actresses in indie French flicks. She already had a great rapport with her new boss.

"Fame is no walk in the park, Lola. I'm sick of all these obsessive fans, acting like my best friend at book signings, and sending me creepy letters."

Lola tossed her red bangs and batted her long dark eyelashes. "Is Claire Hogan one of your 'obsessive fans?'"

Richard sighed softly. "No, she's a nice normal college girl."

"Normal, my ass," Lola chortled. "I could hear you whip her ass all the way upstairs."

"Whatever," he grunted while swirling his brew. "I like playing rough with women who are young enough to be my daughters... but commitment issues are holding me back from true love and happiness."

"Just like my old boss, Pierre Cassel."

"The Pierre Cassel? That crazy fashionista who's all over the tabloids?"

"Oui oui. I was his willing kink slave. He thought he was the reincarnation of the Marquis de Sade."

"No shit, Sade?"

"He dominates many of his servants, just like that old perverted French dandy. He'll probably end up in jail too."

"I'm sure a mob of peasants will break him out of the Bastille," Richard snickered. He gazed deeply into Lola's big green eyes, and she gazed right back at him with a strange sense of admiration.

"Wow. I never thought I'd be having a chic dinner conversation with a hot Paris girl in a French maid Halloween costume."

"I never thought I'd live out my wildest dreams either. But I believe fate brings everyone together for a reason, however great, however small, however good, however evil," Lola quoted from The Dragon's Dungeon, volume three of the Delhaize saga. "Like dragons riding invisible columns of heat in the sky, soaring by the grace of the gods toward their predestined realms."

"Ah yes. That Prince Lavantium is a real smooth-talking devil."

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

Lola retired to her bedroom, yawning and rubbing her back after a long day full of manual domestic labor. She lay down on that plush mattress in her vintage lacy maid costume, listening to the muted splashing sounds emanating from the nearby bathroom as her new boss took a long hot shower. She had to wait until he went to bed to sneak down to the basement, and the anticipation was killing her. Like a naughty spoiled child, chomping at the bit to raid the cookie jar. Lola was much naughtier than Madeline, that frisky redhead boarding school girl she loved reading about in picture books. Back when she was a spoiled little daddy's girl in cosmopolitan Par-ee.

Richard finally turned off the water ten minutes later, then he marched across the hall and hit the hay. Did he sleep in the nude too? She was chomping at the bit to uncover that secret as well. Dick started to snore in his bedroom, so she moved as quietly as possible down the carpeted hallway with bare feet. She glided down the stairs and through the spartan living room like a thief in the night, buzzing intensely between her legs.

The basement was even dingier on that humid summer night. Lola crept up to that private door, plucking up the courage to take the plunge. Before she knew it, her hand was turning the metal knob, revealing a large dark room. A motion sensor detected her presence, turning on several overhead lamps. Revealing a kinky "dungeon" that was nearly as big as Pierre Cassel's. Lola's jaw dropped open, admiring a wide variety of bondage platforms, milking tables and sex swings, with an equally wide variety of whips, straps, chains, crops, paddles, pokers and harnesses along the walls.

The vast watery distance between New York and Paris seemed to melt away, transporting her back to a cool rainy April night in the capital of France. Lola stripped bare in Richard's dungeon and strolled over to a rather intimidating bondage rack. A medieval wooden stockade on top with three holes to bind hands and head, with curving metal bars and ankle cuffs beneath to lock his subs into an awesome yogic inverted C-shape. She glided her hands gently across the sleek genuine leather of the back pad, sighing softly with a rush of giddy arousal.

Lola pictured Pierre entering the room in his ridiculous Marquis de Sade costume. Adjusting his grey powdered wig with a cunning snarl on his effeminate face.

"I knew you'd come crawling back, slut," she could almost hear Pierre growl. "A true French bitch, needing a hard French man."

"I need your big hard cock, mon maître bien-aimé."

"You need to get punished before you get pleasured."

She put on one of Richard's black leather bondage harnesses, with ten riveted straps criss-crossing her lean supple curves. She loved how the bustier part lifted and separated her big tits, but she wished he was there to admire them instead of snoring away in his bedroom, dreaming of the many other women he fooled around with down here. She grabbed a red leather cat o' nine tails from the southern wall, and pretended her old Parisian master was swishing it tauntingly against her naked body.

"Fuck that yankee dickhead," Pierre grunted in her mind. "Writing all those stupid medieval stories with lots of boobs and blood, thinking he's a fucking genius. I make real stylish things that women really want. Fantasy books are fun, but they won't pay your bills or get you laid."

"You are right, Master Sade. I love your runway style. Make me your kinky model doll again, s'il te plaît."

"Get your ass on that yoga rack, bitch."

She grabbed a riding crop from the wall and stretched her body backwards into a "camel" pose against the leather pads, bracing her ankles against a lower metal bar.

"I'm the master of your mantra, Mademoiselle Robida. You need to learn some discipline, spiritually and physically."

WHASSH!

"Oh shit," Lola moaned after whipping her own left breast. "Teach me well, maître!"

WHASSH! WHASSH! WHASSH! WHASSH! WHASSH!

She moaned louder, wiggling her body against that rack, jiggling her perky tits. "Make it hurt, please. I missed this so much!"

Pierre took control of her right hand remotely, working that riding crop over every square inch of her sensitive flesh. She needed that stinging sensation just like oxygen. But doing it herself wasn't nearly as fun as having it done to her by an alpha male dom.

"I will whip your chatte like Heathcliff, Mademoiselle Earnshaw."

Lola giggled at Pierre's punny classic literature/newspaper comic reference, then she shrieked as she lashed her own throbbing vagina. Shuddering against that crazy bondage rack with each blow, working herself into a masochistic frenzy while gazing up at the plain white ceiling of Newcastle's dungeon.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

"Oh god, do not stop, mon maitre! Make me cum on your whip, like vilaine fille!"

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

"AaaaaahhyyyyyyyAAAAAAAAAH!"

She squirted all over that serpentine platform, convulsing with masochistic rapture. The leather cat o' nine tails slid off her soaked body and clattered on the concrete floor. She squeezed her big wet tits with both hands, awash in a dreamy haze of forbidden lust. She desperately needed to submit to her new "master"... but she was too much of a pussy to make the first move.

Lola wiped her jizz off her body and the equipment with a pink towel, returning to regular maid mode with a pleasant hum. She carefully hung the towel back on a rack next to a bunch of bullwhips, in the exact position that she found it to avoid rousing Richard's suspicion. That devious French maid always covered her tracks, loving the thrill of domestic deception.

She exited his dungeon and closed the door gently behind her, returning to the stark reality of his musty basement. She treaded softly back up to her bedroom, reassured by Richard's loud snoring through his closed bedroom door. Falling asleep almost instantly on that comfy pillow, dreaming of Princess Katvana. Soaring two hundred feet above the Quintian Plains on top of mighty Infernaka, with the warm summer breeze whipping her flaming copper hair. Ordering that red battle dragon to breathe fire on two hundred enemy Partakkian soldiers, frying them to a crisp before they could seize the Crystal Throne from King Vardagas, her beloved father.

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

The sun rose once again over the Long Island Sound, hitting Lola's eyes and rousing her from delightful slumber, with no sheets covering her naked body. She stretched out luxuriantly, then she bolted off the bed, eager to start another day of hard work to please her favorite American author. Tidying up Newcastle's castle, washing his clothes and cooking his dinner, so he can focus on the dirty politics (quite literally) of castle Delhaize.

After a nice round of nude yoga in the warm morning sun, and a nicer hot shower, she pranced down the hallway toward Richard's grand central stairway, which was designed in 1969 for a Manhattan stock mogul and his gold-digging Broadway actress wife. Lola twirled a feather duster artfully in the air like one of those ridiculous vaudeville French maids in the "roaring" 1920's. Knowing Dick's kinky little secret gave an extra kick of enthusiasm to that perky housekeeper.

Lola expected to find him eating at a table in his fancy kitchen, but he'd already eaten, with butter-streaked plates lying in the sink for her to clean. She nibbled a light continental breakfast while perusing his pre-opened copy of the Sunday New York Times. Then she set off to work, grabbing a vacuum cleaner and lugging it into the den. Richard was sitting at a computer in the corner of that room. He turned around and looked at her with a weary expression.

"Très bonjour, Monsieur Newcastle!" she beamed in her sweetest native Parisian tone.

"Yes. Good morning, Miss Robida," he replied wearily. None of the playfulness he exuded yesterday.

"Is everything all right, Dick?"

He gazed right at her face for a long moment, searching deeply for a response to her simple question. The same way Lola's father acted when she got home from her high school one afternoon, right before he told his only daughter that her grandmother had fallen down a flight of stairs and died a few hours earlier.

"I have something to show you, Lola," he murmured, gesturing toward a Word document on his computer monitor. "Something... important."

"Let me guess: you have a case of writer's block, and you need some advice on your Delhaize manuscript?" she replied eagerly.

"No, dear," he murmured, turning slowly toward the monitor. Richard gazed at the document on screen for a moment, which contained only one sentence, eerily reminiscent of Jack Torrance in The Shining:

She sells seashells down by the seashore.

"Now, you're obviously a good girl... but you obviously love keeping secrets, just like me."

"Eh... what do you mean?" she replied awkwardly, feeling a sudden rush of fear. Did he wake up in the middle of the night, come down to the kitchen for a snack, and hear her moaning down in his dungeon? He closed the document on the computer and pulled up a different app she didn't recognize.

"Brace yourself, mon cheri."

A few more mouse clicks brought up a video that put a big lump in her throat. It showed Lola entering his dungeon and closing that heavy door marked "Private - Do Not Enter."

"Oh mon Dieu," Lola murmured shamefully, with red blush marks flaring up on her pale cheeks.

"Caught in the act, like a Versailles mouse in a trap," he replied flatly. "That motion sensor turns on the lights, and five cameras that are strategically hidden inside the highest bondage platforms."

"For... security?" she croaked awkwardly.

"No, it's not linked up to my cloud-based home security service. It's for... game film, so to speak."

The overhead camera followed her sexy backside to a shelf full of BDSM accessories, with that red cat o'nine tails catching her fancy.

"Oh please sir, do not make me watch this."

"Of course I won't," he murmured, exiting the recorded video feed as she started removing her white lacy maid apron. "I've already seen the whole thing. I'm just as morbidly curious as Katvana."

"I am so sorry, Mister Newcastle," Lola uttered desperately, fear mixing strangely with horniness while picturing his voyeuristic enjoyment of her late night kink show. "I should not have snuck down to that room and... done all those things with your... toys."

"No, you shouldn't have."

"It's just that... my old French master was so... so..."

"Fun?"

"Eh... yes, fun. And then fate brought me across the ocean to you, so... so... "

"Conveniently?"

Lola sighed wearily, kicking herself in the ass for being such a foolish imp.

"Relationships are built on trust, Miss Robida. Personal and professional."

"Yes, sir. I am so sorry for violating your trust."

"You're only sorry you got caught, Lola. Just like I would be."

"Oui, monsieur," she sighed defeatedly. "Please do not fire me. I will be a good maid from now on, I promise."

"You're lucky you're so pretty. I suspect you were a devious maid with Pierre too, but he didn't fire you either."

"Oui, monsieur," she sighed again. "I cheated on him at his mansion, with a plumber."

"A plumber? Naughty Lola," Richard replied sternly.

"Naughty Lola," she shamefully agreed. "But then he cheated on me, with one of his runway model bitches."

"Crazy french motherfucker," he grunted. He got up and leaned against a cabinet, tapping his fingers against the wood with a pensive expression. "I'll let you keep your American dream job, but you better not snoop around any more."

"Oui, monsieur. I will be a good girl. The best maid you ever had."

"You don't sound very sincere, Lola. I think you need a little punishment, to set you straight."

"What... kind of punishment?" she murmured, with kinky desire instantly flaring up in her pussy.

"You know damn well what kind," he replied with an evil grin.

"Eh... yes, master," Lola murmured pathetically, sinking back into her old familiar submissive role. "I want you to punish me, like in your books."

"I'm not your 'master' yet. I'm just your boss until I say otherwise. You will refer to me as Mister Newcastle. Understood?"

"Yes, Mister Newcastle."

"You will obey all my orders, like a good old-school French maid. Not like those spicy Latina bitches in fucking L. A."

"Oui-oui, Mister Newcastle. I am your humble sub."

"Good. Very good," he snickered haughtily, with his piercing brown eyes sizing up her 36-25-35 body through that tight black lacy costume.

"I want to get whipped in your secret man-cave, Mister Newcastle," she uttered meekly yet eagerly.

"I don't take any girls down there until I've gotten to know them. I'm gonna break your wild spirit right here in my den," he uttered with a shit-eating grin. "Take off all your clothes, except those vintage stockings and that cute maid cap."

"Oui, Mister Newcastle."

Lola's hands moved even faster than her mind, hastily removing that vaudeville costume. Her breasts felt so good to be free of that black lacy bra, and her ginger pussy felt even better without those black lacy panties. Richard sighed pleasantly, admiring her long red hair draping over her milky boobs.

"Damn, you're such a hot fucking Frenchie. Such a shame I have to cover that milky white body with red stripes."

Lola was desperate for domination, yet she whimpered fearfully, not knowing how rough a master he was. Just like her first time with Pierre after he came home from a big fashion show, buzzed on champagne and eager to "clean up" his redhead housekeeper.

"Lie down on top of that table," Richard grunted.

"Yes, Mister Newcastle."

She shimmied her tight ass onto the smooth shiny wood, bunching up her stockings toward her flashy garter belt. She eased her head down on the hard surface and gazed up at a gleaming golden Waterford crystal chandelier that was installed by the previous owner of the mansion. Richard opened a drawer in a nearby cabinet, pulled out several lengths of rope, and used them to bind her wrists and ankles to the table legs. Stretching her limbs out in a tight X-shape. She sighed meekly, completely helpless against her favorite freaky author. Living all by himself in a huge Gatsby-esque mansion, pretending it was a medieval castle full of dirty secrets.

"There you go, you dirty fucking maid. All stretched out, and nowhere to go."

"Putain ouais, Monsieur Newcastle. Punis-moi bien," she groaned, reverting to her native language as she slid deeper into fantasy mode.

"English, bitch."

"Punish me good, Mister Newcastle."

"Don't tell me what to do, bitch."

"Sorry, Mister Newcastle."

"I better teach this devious maid some manners," Richard grunted pleasantly. He reached into that same drawer and pulled out a long black leather riding crop. Tapping it menacingly against his right palm, just like Pierre Cassel. Richard's bourgeois english professor outfit gave him a much more down-to-earth air than her previous, equally wealthy dominator who dressed like the fucking Marquis de Sade. Dick's dick rose to full mast as he fondled her breasts with his free hand.

"You got the best pair of tits I ever saw, Frenchie. I better mark them as my own private property."

He swung the riding crop hard against her left breast, making her yelp.

"Oh shit, yes. Whip my big fucking tits, Mister Newcastle."

Thwish! Thwish! Thwish! Thwish! Thwish! Thwish! Thwish! Thwish!

He covered those milky boobs with red stripes, making her moan in masochistic delight. Richard's dominator character was more intimidating than Pierre's effeminate act. Dick reminded her of the sleazy 1970's men who haunted the Red Light District porn theater in the opening scene of The Opening of Misty Beethoven. A rougher version of Jamie Gillis.

"You fucking love that, Frenchie," Richard growled at her pretty face.

"Putain oui! Harder, Mister Newcastle!"

"I'm gonna break you like the Sun King's royal stallions."

Thwish! Thwish! Thwish! Thwish! Thwish! Thwish! Thwish! Thwish!

"Oh mon dieu, oui! Whip my fucking pussy!"

"Don't forget your manners, maid," he grunted, whipping her tits yet again for emphasis.

"Please whip my fucking pussy, Mister Newcastle!"

He swung that riding crop gradually downward, whipping up her flat yoga-toned abs, driving her crazy with anticipation. When that genuine leather tip finally lashed her throbbing clit, her entire body convulsed on the table.

"Oooh fuck, just like that! Punish my clit like Majka on Katvana!" Lola shrieked, referencing a rough lesbian tryst between that Delhaizian princess and her royal maid in The Dragon Dominator.

WHASH! WHASH! WHASH! WHASH! WHASH! WHASH!

Every millimeter of her ginger pussy stung so good, with rapid blows from every possible angle. She thrashed about in tight X-shaped bondage

"Oh mon dieu, please Mister Newcastle. Fuck me hard while you punish me!"

"I never fuck any girls on first dates either," Richard growled haughtily. "But I do fuck their faces."

"Fuck yeah. I want to taste your big manly coq, Mister Newcastle."

"I'm gonna ride your face like a red dragon, ginger."

He took off all his clothes, then he hopped on that big wooden table, stretched out his arms and legs to match her bound position, and 69'd that French bitch. Pumping his long thick penis down her throat while slurping her fire crotch noisily and messily. Lola sucked hard on his pistoning prick while growling gutturally. His rapidly flicking tongue and harsh nibbling pushed her quickly toward the edge. He pulled back and smacked her cunt nice and hard, over and over with both hands. Stinging it up even more, making her scream against his cock. She climaxed spectacularly a minute later, with a geyser of clear fluid gushing two feet up in the air, soaking his face.

"Naughty fucking maid, squirting all over my face and my table."

He smacked her soaked pussy harder, and fucked her face faster. Making her scream louder with a mouthful of meat. She knew he wouldn't last much longer.

"Oh fuck, I got a big one coming!"

He pulled out and masturbated in a rapid blur, aiming right between her big green eyes.

"Oh gah, oh gah, a-hooooWUUUUUUUGGGH!"

Lola winced against a powerful jet of splooge, clouding her vision with hot white gack. She moaned triumphantly, tilting her head farther back and opening her mouth wide to taste his bitter essence. It kept spurting and spurting, completely covering her pale face and red hair with soothing warmth.

"Awww yeaaaaah! Fucking biiiiiiiiitch!" he roared, smacking her creamy cheeks with his massive prick.

"Oui oui, Monsieur Newcastle. You please your maid so much better than Monsieur Cassel," Lola beamed, wiggling her bound whipped-up ass in dreamy satisfaction.

"Fuck that goddamn French fag. I'm your real American man."

"A real man who dwells in fantasy worlds?"

"You're way better than Katvana, Lola."

"Is that so, mon cheri?" she giggled sweetly. "Too bad I don't have a blonde sister you can fuck behind my back in the dragon stables. But you do have that blonde pixie english major, who's also young enough to be your daughter."

"You talk too much, Mademoiselle Robida. A typical French bitch," Richard grunted pleasantly. He freed Lola from bondage, and she fingered all that hot jizz into her mouth, swallowing it with a contented hum.

"You better write this kinky scene into your new novel, Dick. Exactly how it happened."

"Fuck yeah, mon douce dame. I'm gonna make some major revisions, giving Lavantium a slutty new maid to tie up and smack around."

"When Kat's away, the Prince will play," Lola snickered. She got off the table and kissed him passionately, with his big cock pressing hard against her flat belly.

"I wish I could ride a big dragon like Infernaka, but you're the next best thing. I can't wait to try all your crazy bondage shit down in the dungeon. Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets."

"And this little man wants you," he beamed while squeezing her ass with both hands. "In the meantime, you better get dressed and get to work. I want my mansion to gleam like Versailles, you devious fucking maid."