Backstage with Sandra Black

I wanted a maid for as long as I can remember. Clean white sheets, crisp apron, the door clicking shut behind us. She showed up at the hotel room on time, hair black as coal, apron starched, stockings whispering against her thighs. I sat on the bed, watching her bend to straighten a pillow, and my mouth went dry. She knew why she was here. She straightened, met my eyes, and stepped out of the skirt in one slow motion. The white blouse opened next, buttons popping free, then her hands sliding under my dress, cool fingers brushing hot skin. Our mouths met and everything else fell away. Blonde hair spilled across the pillows when I pulled her down, and she pressed between my legs like she belonged there. She tasted me slowly, tongue circling, lips sucking, until my breath broke into short gasps and my hips rolled against her mouth. When she climbed over me, I felt her heat against my thigh, slick and eager. We moved together, grinding, sliding, chasing that high until the room echoed with the wet sound of us. She came with her fingers buried in my hair, body shaking. I followed right after, back arched, mouth open, the sheets tangled around our legs. The fantasy came true in the quiet hush of the hotel room, just the two of us and the soft rustle of her abandoned uniform on the floor.