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I have lost my freaking mind. But I couldn’t stop. Giggling like a horny teenager, I tossed the skimpy French Maid costume onto my bed, raced into the bathroom, toweled off, and rummaged through my makeup kit, finding bits and pieces I rarely used.
I started with foundation to cover the freckles sprinkled over my nose and cheeks; applying so much the concealer would take forever to remove later. I did my eye makeup next, fiddling with colors and layering mascara onto my lashes, adding more and more makeup until my green eyes were both enhanced and I looked nothing like Plain Jane.
Overdoing my makeup and wrestling my long, light-brown hair into the black bobbed wig that came with the costume changed my appearance completely.
Even Lolita would walk past me.
I slipped into lacy panties and chose a sexy pink bra that plumped up my boobs. Then I tugged on fishnet stockings with pretty, elasticated lace at the top that held them in position and pulled the costume over my head. The dress fit perfectly, which wasn’t hard, as most of it was made of stretchy fabric.
Back at my wardrobe, I selected my eight-inch black patent shoes, a large black handbag, and the black trench coat I’d bought on a whim during my one-and-only trip to Melbourne.
I revisited my reflection in the mirror and gasped.
“Well, hello, not-so-plain Jane.”
With my heart thundering, and before I changed my mind, I walked out of door thirteen and strode toward the elevator.
Using the mirror on the back of the doors as the elevator rose, I fiddled with my wig, hoisted my boobs, and fanned away the hot blood flushing my cheeks and making them as red as ripe tomatoes.
By the time the doors opened to the silent, carpeted corridor of the seventh floor, the lump in my throat was the size of the oranges grown around the Mildura farms back home.
Forcing it down, I strode to room number thirty-nine.
At the door, I removed my trench coat, tugged my dress down, sucked in a deep breath, and let out a shaky huff.
I knocked. My heart thundered in my chest.
A few pounding heartbeats later, I knocked again.
Still no answer.
He must be fast asleep.
Or maybe he’s passed out in the bathroom? I gasped. Perhaps he needs my help.
Before I scurried away, I banged on the door harder.
The door opened to George in a white bathrobe which contrasted perfectly to his olive skin.
Running his gaze up my body, he raised his hand to grip the edge of the door.
I stifled a gasp. He was completely naked beneath his robe.
I struggled to make my tongue move.
He cleared his throat. “Can I help you?”
“Yes.” My fingers strangled my skirt. “I, ummm, I need help. May I come in?”
Frowning, he stepped back. “Sure.”
I forced my legs to take me into his room and the door closed behind me.
George followed me into the room, sat on the bed facing me and his robe parted, giving me a full view of all his glory. My eyes trailed from his dumbstruck expression, over his olive chest and muscular, ripped torso, and landed on his groin. His enormous testicles filled the gap between his legs. The islander heritage in him enhanced this part of his anatomy tremendously.
Yay me!
He blinked at me as if I was an apparition.
