"Sara, are you home," Emily's voice rang through the house, down the hallway, towards the bathroom I was in, cleaning.
I turned.
"There you are," she smiled as she walked into the bathroom saw me attired in a black French Maid's uniform.
"Ma'am," I blushed, holding onto the sink to steady myself, overcome as I was by simply the sight of her.
"You're sure," she asked, looking at my, looking me over from head to toe, pleased, of course, by the uniform, the eroticism. Pleased, too, by the symbolism.
"Yes," I swallowed, feeling my stomach tighten.
"Sara, you...you don't have...we don't have to," she offered.
"Yes Ma'am, I know. I...I want to, though. I...I want to."
"We're having a drink, appetizers. I won't be home for a couple, I...I'm worried..."
"Go, lover, go," I answered her.
********
I knocked softly, knocked at the bedroom door, at her bedroom door.
"Yes," Emily's voice called out.
"Your wine," I answered, waiting to be admitted to her bedchamber.
I heard her giggle. "Evan," she sang.
Evan. Evan. Evan.
"Come in," Emily called out.
I balanced the serving tray carefully, the two glasses of wine, the chiller, opened the door, walked into the bedroom. Her bedroom. The room with the bed I shared with her often.
I walked into her bedroom, my heels clicked on the hardwood floor, emphasizing audibly that I was dressed as a woman, a maid, a servant.
I should not have stared, I knew that, it ran through my mind immediately. I was her servant, her maid. How could I not stare, how could I not stop, look, lust.
She lay on the bed, naked save for a sheer black bra, panties, the black color heightening the softness of her alabaster skin. She was simply the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
He lay behind her.
Evan.
He lay behind her, shirtless, the muscles of his arm, his chest, hard, defined, with the strength that came from lifting weights, with the confidence a man, a real man has with a woman.
He lay behind her, head dipped to her shoulder, lips touching, caressing, kissing, licking the soft skin of Emily's body.
She watched me watch her. She watched me watch him, kiss, touch. She watched me watch her, breath, heavily, quickly, noises she made when I did the same.
She watched me watch her, stand there, try in hand, stand there, thirty seconds, more, watch him seduce her.
"Please put it over there, on the dresser."
"Ma'am," I bit my lip, turned away from her, from him.
"Hmmm," I heard a soft moan escape from her lips. I heard her breathing quicken, go shallow.
I caught a glance in the mirror, his arm was draped over her side, his hand resting on the flatness of her stomach, above the waist of her panties, below her belly, his fingers lightly stroking her skin.
I knew from experience, knew all too well, what his touch was doing to her. Her moan gave it away, her moan, his hand. If he did not know it, I knew, I knew.
That sound, the touch, the look. She was jumping, dying, needing, almost begging. I knew that touch, that light tease on her stomach, when she was in the mood, was torture to her.
It was torture to me.
The longer he touched her like that, the more she would want, the more she would need.
That unsatisfied, she would beg, beg for his fingers on her, in her, beg, beg.
I turned, had to turn, needed to turn, wanted to turn.
I turned.
I turned.
He was running his hand up her stomach, lightly, back down towards the waistband of her panties. A stroke up, a stroke down, each one closer, closer, closer.
Her eyes were closed, I knew what she thought, begged, wanted.
I knew, I knew.
He looked at me. Evan. He looked at me.
"Thank you," he said simply, softly, quietly, genuinely. "Thank you."
Thank you for the wine.
Thank you for serving.
Thank you, you're dismissed.
And most of all...
Thank you for her.
I nodded, curtsied, watched a stroke up, a stroke down, his fingers touched the waist of her panties.
Her eyes opened just a hair, opened from the darkness of lust.
She looked at me, mouthed the same words, softly, silently. "Thank you," she said. Thank you. Thank you.
I turned and walked to the door, my heels again clicking, clacking.
I heard it as I pulled the door closed. Her moan, loud, higher, different.
Without looking, I knew.
His hand was lower, lower, inside, touching her, spreading her, flicking her, finding her, damp, wet, hot, shaking, needing.
I knew, I knew.
I dreamed.
I dreamed.
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