The face that launched a thousand ships;

It was labor day weekend, and Steve and Michelle had been planning with anticipation for weeks. She was an Au Pair girl, and doubled as a literal French Maid. His time at West Point was paying off in spades (the universal trump.) For her, he was a trophy, and for him, she was an excellent diversion.

The family turned in, around eleven, with Michelle putting the baby down before nine. He had enjoyed her uniform, and she had enjoyed his voyeurism like all good exhibitionists. She kept the lock and hinges lubricated with silicone. It was a better lubricant than WD40 was a drying agent, but just as good for the second purpose. The door gave no betrayal of his arrival. The night light cast a dim glow about the room, and she stood up to greet him in a soft chemise.

Their dance was familiar and practiced. She met his eye in the darkness, and asked him if he wanted "...to go hunting for truffles?" He cared nothing for truffles, but this was their code, and he affirmed his interest. He unwrapped the gift, and soon they were well positioned at the edge of the bed. "Cherche," she instructed him in a whisper.

He went down. It was a rule with him, not to send the pigskin into any war-zone where his mouth could not safely traverse, but she was the stereo-typical fast and clean machine. He felt her cum, and intoned "J'ai trouve," with quiet satisfaction. He liked that she was neither jaded nor inhibited. He followed hard on by identifying the eighteen hour callous, where her bra under-wire rode, and massaging it thoroughly. She had taught him that, with a bitter-sweet admission that his father had taught it to her.

Their efforts over the next 45 minutes left them happy and spent. She called it "la petite mort." From what he was learning at West Point, there was nothing "petite," about it. Senators and Congressmen deliberately avoided the consummation, lest they be taken advantage of, mercilessly, by their peers. He made a mental note to NEVER let it go that long.

She kissed him, and murmured "Au revoir!" "Je t'aime," he replied, and was gone. A cold shower was a stoic conclusion, but he was Spartan by choice. Luxury was for the damned.