Literati!–Tis JULY 14th–Time to Thorn–I mean STORM–the Bastille! Without the French being revolting, I mean the revolution and all, we might never have had French kissin’ in the USA or French maids! Tis no secret, His Moiness(that would be the editor in chief) is fallen French aristocracy. But I willingly would have surrendered all lands, title, and property had the charge been led by Monica Brinkman. Wanna see why? Catch a glimpse of her on her regular podcast of It Matters. Monica, my dear, please post the links and explain a bit about the show in the comment box. Oh…and the guy in your story was unworthy, anyway.
The Love of Her Life
by Monica Brinkman
The rustle of fabric against bare skin broke the silence of the moment as Mindy twirled and spun in front of the full-length mirror hung on the bedroom door. She curtsied, a demure smile upon her dimple cheeked face, the type of smile only a woman who realizes how hot she looks can possess. After a few poses of pouting, tongue touching nose then circling lips, as well as boosting her amble breasts to overflow the tight white low cut blouse, Mindy exited the bedroom.
She walked to the kitchen while the minutes and seconds ticked away. What a surprise it would be when Jeffrey arrived home from his business trip. She’d be greeting him at the door, adorned in the proverbial French Maid costume, the only piece of clothing hiding the nakedness of her firm, toned body. She blushed when a surge of sexual electricity ran through her body and shuttered at the pleasant feeling of what was to come.
The loud, irritating shrillness of the oven timer interrupted her senses and she rushed to turn off the annoying sound. She opened the oven door and saw the stuffed peppers required another ten minutes or so before they reached perfection. Jeffrey so loved stuffed peppers. He insisted they were prepared with rice and ground chicken rather than the typical ground beef and onions, which took a bit more time to prepare. Mindy didn’t mind. She loved her husband with all her heart and it gave her pleasure to see him satisfied.
Now all she had to do was wait, perhaps another five minutes or so, for his arrival. The familiar ring of the landline broke her contemplation. She rushed toward the phone, picked it up and pushed the button before saying the mandatory, hello.
Mindy grimaced, her face contorted with the accompanying wrinkles. She sobbed and dropped the handset to the floor.
The woman’s voice was clear. The automatic hang up, well known. She knew betrayal. Mindy realized it was happening, again.
(original French Maid costume stops men dead in their tracks)