As a French maid, my days are spent in the pursuit of perfection, yet it’s the hidden depths of my being that truly excite. The scent of lemon oil and the swish of my feather duster may captivate the senses, but it’s the promise of my body, the curve of my hips, that ignites the true desires of my Masters.
My uniform, a teasing invitation, the fishnet stockings and high heels a silent plea to take control. I revel in the heat of their gaze, the weight of their command, my body responding with a lustful eagerness, aching to serve. In the shadows, I’m not just a maid, but a living, sensual dream, ready to be awakened by the right hand.
My passion for cleanliness, an extension of my devotion to the men who command me. Every stroke of my cloth, a prelude to the intimate touches to come. As I scrub away the grime, I imagine the sweat that will soon glisten upon my skin, the moans that will fill the air as I succumb to their every wish.
