Maid for You (Regular Sex Issue 5)

Regular
Sex 5 ~ Maid for you.

By

Kitty French

Welcome to the fifth issue of
Regular Sex, the brand new series of sexy half hour reads guaranteed to make
sure your weekend starts with a bang!

Enjoy, and remember to check out
issue 6 next Friday.

Happy reading,

Love Kitty x

Regular Sex ~ Issue 5 ~ Maid for you.

It's Don's fortieth
birthday in three days, and I've decided to give him a birthday present he
won't forget in a hurry. I'll share this with you upfront - we've been married
for over ten years and our sex life has become dull. It happens to most couples
I'm sure, but lately the only big O's in my life have been at the beginning of OMG
he's finished and I haven't even started yet, and even those O's have become
rare. Don't get me wrong; I'm not blaming it all on Don. I'm just as guilty of
letting things slide. He's too tired after a long day at work or going to the
gym. I'm too busy thinking about the kids birthday parties or racing to read
the end of my book for book club tomorrow because I've not got around to it all
week. Oh, I always intend to, but it's one of those misery-lit things and I generally
prefer to read something racier. Much racier, if I'm honest. That Fifty Shades
has a lot to answer for!

Actually, that's
sort of what's got me thinking about doing something more adventurous for Don's
birthday. There's only so many new shirts a man can need, and his bedside
table's stuffed full of aftershave. No. This birthday, my husband is going to
get his mind blown. And maybe something else too, depending on how he reacts.

It's all
arranged. The kids are going to stay at his mother’s. She's always moaning that
she doesn't see enough of them, and this way she'll get to see Don on his
birthday when he drops them there after lunch. That gives us Saturday afternoon
and evening, and I intend to make every minute count.

I won't lie; I'm
nervous about how it's going to go. Even when our sex life was on track it
always veered towards the safe end of the spectrum - maybe that's why it's
dried up? Variety is the spice of life, and all that. I'm an in for penny, in
for a pound kind of person when I decide to do something, so I'm not thinking
of just buying some new underwear. That would be much too subtle, in fact
there's a high chance he wouldn't even notice. I want to really surprise him;
shock him, even. I tried going into the sex store in town a few days back, and
oh my god, I didn't even know what half the stuff in there was. This wisp of a
boy wearing eyeliner and a string vest caught me handling the vibrators and
asked me if I needed any assistance. I mean! I don't know if he thought I
looked incapable of turning it on or was offering to bodge me with it behind
the counter, but either way I was out of there as if there was grease on the
soles of my shoes. I've shopped online in the end; at least that way I got to
read what everything was and pick out things I think we'll like and that won't
land us up in the local A&E. That would be embarrassing. Don's a doctor
there, he can hardly rock up because I've accidently flogged his cock. Note to
self: never flog a man on his cock. #moodkiller. Are we in the minority because
we've never experimented with sex toys? I think we probably are. I hear enough
from the girls at work to know that the fact I don't own a rabbit puts me out
of step with them. It's not that we're prudish or anything, it's more that we
don't find it so easy to say what we want in the bedroom, and that makes it
difficult to broach the idea of introducing new things to spice things up.

Ooh! Hang on. A
delivery van's just pulled up outside. It must be
the
delivery. Jeez, I
hope they've wrapped it in plain paper or something, our usual delivery driver
is my dad's cousin twice removed. I'll never live it down at family parties, if
the parcel is stamped with a sex shop logo. 'COCKtail sausage, Cheryl? There's
strawberry gateau if you and Don are feeling FRUITY, our Cheryl. WHIPPED cream,
Cheryl?' Nudge nudge, wink wink, aren't we all bloody hilarious. I glance at my
mac on the coat hook as I go to answer the door and start to laugh nervously
under my breath. Christ, pull it together, Cheryl. If just accepting a delivery
of sex toys makes me feel I need to go incognito, how am I ever going to be
brave enough to suggest using them with Don at the weekend?

Second note to
self: buy gin.

Oh, I bought gin all
right, the biggest bottle in the store. I needed it after inspecting the
contents of that delivery box. I've hid it in the ottoman in the spare room for
now; I just hope the kids don't find it over the next couple of days because I
can't think of a way to innocently explain the black latex mask they sent as a
freebie because I'd spent over a hundred big ones. I'd spent more than two
hundred actually; I'm lucky they didn't send me the full latex morphsuit. The
idea of Don trying to wriggle into that makes me feel slightly hysterical, he'd
throw his dodgy shoulder out for sure. I'm really not sure I can do this.  

So, it's Saturday
morning, and Don's just gone off to drop the kids at his mother’s. So far, I'd
say he's had a pretty decent, if somewhat predictable start to his special day.
Breakfast in bed provided with a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday, prezzies and
cards from the kids, and a watch I know he's had his eye on for some time. He
thinks we're going out to dinner tonight at the little Italian in town we
usually go to for anniversaries and birthdays. Jeez, I hope he's not
disappointed when he knows we're not going there, he is pretty fond of their
lasagne. I bite my nails as I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall. It's
coming up for midday now, and he's duty bound to spend an hour with his mother
or she'll grumble, which means I've got ninety minutes or so to get
preparations underway here. I'm going to the shower, via the ottoman. Wish me
luck.

Don's just pulled
into the drive, I'm watching from our bedroom window. God, I feel sick! He's
out the car now and has stopped to pass the time of day with our neighbour, Vanu.
'Keep him talking, Vanu,' I whisper against the glass, because I have a bad
case of stage fright now that I've moved from the planning stage to execution. I
look at him, really look at him, and my breath catches in my throat. No wonder
the nurses at work call him hot Dr. Don. He thinks I don't know, but I've heard
it lots of times over the years at functions and at rowdy, late night leaving
do's in the pub over the road from the hospital.

Outside of work he's
a relaxed man in every sense; his dress sense is all about old jeans and well
loved T-shirts, and he has an easy way with people that means he's never stuck
for the right thing to say. In short, Don is very cool indeed, and I love the
bones of him. He proposed to me on the beach in Lyme Regis on a wintery day,
huge stick letters in the sand as he kissed me senseless; from that day to this
he's been my perfect man. He tells me I'm his perfect woman, too, our marriage
is ship-shape in every way except for one.

I can hear his
keys in the door, and he's whistling. I wonder if he's hoping to watch the
match on the TV without the kids buzzing around him. Will my proposition be more
appealing than a couple of cold beers and an afternoon in the armchair? It's a
sorry thing that I'm not confident about the answer, isn't it?

'Cheryl?' Don
calls up the stairs to me. 'I'll be in the snug if you're looking for me, darl.
There's a game on. Would you grab me a beer seeing as it's my birthday?'

He laughs,
good-natured as always. He's a good man, a good husband. I wouldn't normally
mind grabbing him a beer on his birthday. I just wish... I don't know. I hoped
he'd come up and find me rather than me having to go down there to him, it
would have made it easier.

I catch sight of
myself in the wardrobe mirror. Given how I look, maybe it's a good thing he's
asked me to fetch something for him. God, I hope he doesn't laugh at me.

'Beer?' I say, walking
through the door from the kitchen into the snug to stand beside his chair. He's
on the edge of his seat, gripped by the game, and he holds his hand out and
takes the beer without even glancing my way.

'Thanks honey.' He
knocks back a long swig and then shouts 'Offside!' waving the bottle towards
the TV, shaking his head.

I stand still,
uncertain, and then I bottle it and back out into the kitchen to regroup.

Okay. This isn't
really his fault, because he doesn't have a clue what's going on in my head.
I'll just try again.

'Nacho's?’ I call
out.

'Now you're
talking,' he shouts, and I can hear the relaxed enjoyment threaded through his
voice. Football, beer and nachos. Happy Birthday, Don.

Ten minutes later
I pile the cheese loaded nacho's into a warmed bowl, re-adjust my cleavage and
take a deep breath as I head back into the snug.

'Nacho's?' I say,
returning to my spot beside his chair.

The ref blows his
whistle to signal half time, and Don slumps back and rubs his hands over his
face.

'Bunch of
jokers,' he laughs. 'My Sunday team could give 'em a run for their money if
they keep playing like this.'

He clears his
throat and then, at last, he looks at me, his hand already outstretched for the
bowl of nachos.

It's almost
comical. He freezes, and a picture book of expressions flick over his handsome
face. He starts out relaxed, and then a bolt of shock flashes over his features
as his gaze moves from my face down to my body. His jaw goes a little bit slack,
dropping open like a cartoon character, and then he snatches his arm back in
and pulls himself bolt upright in his chair.

'Fucking hell,
Cheryl!' he splutters.

I want to laugh,
but that isn't very seductive is it, so I lowered my eyes to the nachos and
then back up to Don.

'You asked for
Nacho's, sir,' I say, breathily. 'I've tried to make them just how you like
them.'

He takes the bowl
from me slowly, still staring at me.

'Is there
anything else you'd like?'

He doesn't reply
right away. I don't think he's able, actually.

'I think I'll just
draw the blinds to keep the glare off the screen for you,' I say, partly to set
the mood, but equally as much because Vanu and his wife can probably see in
here from their sunroom and the last thing I need is a witness today.

I can feel Don's
eyes burning into my back as I cross the room, and I know he's taking in my outfit.
Seamed black stockings and patent skyscraper stilettos. Bum skimming black
satin dress with a frilled white edge. I've gone for a messy up-do; I was aiming
for sexy, but I'm unsure if it's more dragged through hedge backwards.

I take my time
over the blinds, giving him a chance to get his eyeful and decide how he wants
to play this. I've had days to think about it, he's only had three minutes. Maybe
that makes him the lucky one though, because all of that thinking time has only
served to fill me with self-doubt and trepidation.

When I turn back
around, he takes me by surprise. He's put the nachos on the side table and
crossed the room to stand right behind me, so close we're almost nose to nose.

I'm breathless
all of a sudden, all the more so when he traces his finger around the deep
scoop of my dress.

'You're dressed
as a French maid,' he says, and his dark brown eyes gleam with surprised
approval.

'For your
birthday.' My fingers play with the tiny frilled while apron over my flippy
little skirt.

He nods, and then
smooths his hands lightly down my bare arms.

'I've never had
my own maid before,' he says. 'What do I do with you?'

His chink of
uncertainty emboldens me. 'I'm yours for the day.' I lick my lips. 'Anything
you want, just ask.'

'Anything?' he
whispers, and his hands move to my waist and sway me against him.

I nod, and then
close my eyes because his mouth is on mine, and I've missed him kissing me like
this more than I'd ever let myself acknowledge. Even when we have sex, we don't
kiss like this anymore. I feel like that girl on Lyme Regis beach again, and he
feels like my sexy undergraduate boyfriend. Except he's all man now and I'm a
thirty-eight year old secretary, and he's just backed me against the newly
closed blinds to kiss me more thoroughly.

'Don.' I whisper
his name when he comes up for air, threading my fingers through his short dark
hair. His hand moves under the back of the ruffled skirt to explore the silk
knickers that came with the outfit.

'You look
sensational,' he rasps, his hand sliding over my backside and down to stroke
the bare skin above my stocking tops. 'And you feel very, very sexy.'

I know that we
could have sex right now and it would most likely be the best sex we've had in
years, but all the same I want to make him wait. I run my hand over his crotch,
taking a moment to savour how much he's straining against his jeans.

'I think
something's come up, sir,' I say, massaging him until he groans under his
breath, and I kiss him lightly. 'Let me fetch you another ice cold beer,
Donny.'

He opens his eyes
again when my hand leaves his crotch.

'It's been a
while since you called me that.'

Years,
probably.
I snake my hand inside his T-shirt and let my fingers roam over
his chest. 'Watch the rest of your game,' I suggest, then lead him back to his
chair and give his shoulders a little push so he sits down again. 'Eat your
nacho's. You're gonna need your strength, sir.'

I hand him the
nacho bowl, and he grins.

'A man could get
used to this,' he laughs, but there's a light in his eyes that I've not seen
for a good long time. It's lust.

I take his beer
through a few minutes later, and this time he doesn't reach for it without
glancing my way. His eyes are on me as soon as I enter the room. On me, my
breasts, my legs, my stockings.  

'Who's winning?'
I flick my eyes towards the screen.

'Me,' Don says,
taking the beer from me, his fingers stroking mine.

'Sounds to me like
you should be paying more attention to the game,' I murmur, then stroke my hand
down his face loving the roughness of his stubble. He has to be clean-shaven
for work, but he skips shaving on his days off. 'Would it bother you if I did a
little cleaning in here while the match finishes up, sir?' For effect, I
produce the feather duster that came with the outfit from the pocket of my
apron.