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CindyLouChains

The LFM Mystique

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CindyLouChains
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I think I’ve finally figured out the mystique of the Little French Maid fantasy. Took me long enough.

There’s something uniquely, archetypically feminine to the Little French Maid uniform, and that aura of femininity goes a long way towards getting a gurl into the right frame of mind to play. That short black satin dress ending above the knee, skirts flouncing out in a flurry of petticoats. That pristine white apron defining the waistline. That little cap knotted just so over your bangs. That ribbon tied into a bow at your neck. Once you complete the LFM uniform with stockings and with black patent pumps, your gurly essence will kick into gear and put any lingering traces of your manhood squarely in the rear-view mirror. You’re going to be ready for action.

“But get real, Cindy Lou,” I hear you saying. “Don’t maids have to tidy things up? Are you really the kind of anally retentive, obsessive-compulsive clean freak who likes to tidy things up?” Well, keeping things tidy and shiny is kind of in the Little French Maid’s job description, and it is the kind of strenuous, tedious busywork that most of us gurls like to avoid if we’ve got a choice. That’s the genius of the LFM fantasy, though...we have to have the discipline and the mindset to get through all that scrubbing and dusting because of the position of servitude to our Tops or Dominants that we’ve put ourselves in. We feel good about serving Master or Madam and getting the job done, and they feel good about being served. Besides, gurls, admit it...you get turned on by that stare and that smirk you get at your ass when you reach up to the top shelf with your feather duster.

That feeling of being in someone else’s power and control is part of what turns the drudgery of mere housework into the powerful bodice-ripping fantasy of Little French Maid role play. When you’re in that LFM uniform, your body, mind, and heart are only your own until your Madam or Master thinks of something better for you to do than cleaning out the microwave oven. It comes when you least expect it...the grasp of your wrist while you’re wiping the kitchen counter, the trace of a suede flogger’s tails across your shoulder blades while you’re scouring some stubborn bolognese stain from the dining nook floor, the telltale pulse between your ass cheeks as you’re grabbed tight from behind while you’re vacuuming the couch...and just like that your command of your actions is revoked, your limits are tested to reveal desires you never knew you had, your body pleads for mercy while your spirit screams for more...

...and then you’re thrown back to work to struggle and toil while you await the next flurry of passion. Again, that kind of is in the Little French Maid’s job description.

So why am I just figuring this out now, you ask? Call it a flowering of my feminine side. The Little French Maid fantasy is common enough that for a long time it was background noise for me, a cliché. I had to find a way to make the fantasy my own before inviting the Dominants I meet to make it theirs in turn, so that for Them I could become a better, more submissive gurl.

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