The French Maid

I slip the key into the lock, the door closing behind me with a soft click. The bed is wrecked, sheets twisted and damp, pillows strewn like someone couldn’t hold still. A faint musk lingers, sweat and sex still clinging to the air. I peel the covers back, a pale spot dried into the linen. My pulse climbs. I picture her on all fours, thighs spread wide, that married couple fucking like animals while the headboard hammered the wall. My own cunt pulses at the thought. I sit on the edge of the mattress, unbutton my blouse. My nipples tighten under my bra. I slide a hand beneath my skirt, fingers gliding over soaked panties. The fabric clings as I rub, slow circles that make my breath hitch. I wonder where he took her, how deep, how hard. My clit swells under my touch, slick and needy. Pushing the panties aside, I sink two fingers into wet heat, the squelch loud in the empty room. I fuck myself in rhythm with the ghosts of their moans, thumb grinding against my clit until my legs shake. Juices coat my knuckles, drip onto the ruined sheets. Blonde hair falls across my face as I grind down, chasing the same reckless release they left behind. I come hard, biting my lip, thighs clamping around my wrist. The room smells like me now too. I straighten the pillows, tuck the sheets, leaving the evidence buried beneath fresh cotton.