Josh the nerd that sent the email retrieves his prize

The doorknob turned with a soft click, the hinges groaning as the door creaked open. A thin figure slipped inside—glasses smudged, sweat beading on his upper lip. His fingers trembled as they clutched the the phone that he sent the fateful email on.

"Holy shit! It actually worked!" he whispered, his voice cracking as his gaze landed on Charlotte’s sprawled, **** form. Her plush lips were parted, her chest rising and falling in slow breaths. The whorish parody of a frilly French maid outfit barely contained her, one heavy breast nearly spilling free from the strained lace.

He swallowed hard, adjusting his glasses with a shaky hand. His pulse thundered in his ears as he crouched beside her, reaching out—then hesitating, his fingertips hovering just above the curve of her thigh. The fabric of her stockings was sheer, the warmth of her skin radiating through.

"Jas-Charlotte…?" he tried, his voice barely above a whisper, having a hard time knowing what to call his new maidslave.

She didn’t stir.

A relieved exhale escaped him, his shoulders sagging. Good. She’s still under.

His fingers finally brushed her arm, tracing up the smooth as silk flesh. She was real. Not just a fantasy he sometimes dreamt about anymore. His pulse stuttered as he gripped her wrist, giving a testing tug.

She didn’t wake.

"Okay… okay, time to move," he muttered, shifting to slide his arms beneath her. The moment his hands cupped under her thighs, her body jiggled—soft, pliant, heavy with her new curves. A whimper escaped her in her sleep, her hips shifting slightly, as if her **** mind was still craving touch.

He nearly dropped her.

"Fuck—!" He adjusted his grip, hoisting her up with a grunt. Her head lolled back, platinum curls spilling over his arm, her mouth slack. A thin trail of drool glistened down her chin.

"God this is so hot....."

He staggered toward the door, her stockings brushing against his jeans, her breath warm against his neck. Every step sent her tits jiggling, the corset straining dangerously. He could feel the heat of her even through her clothes, the scent of her—sweet, and something else he couldn't describe yet—filling his nose.

The hallway was empty......

His car was parked just outside, trunk already popped open. He hesitated for only a second before lowering her inside, her limbs folding limply against the carpeted space.

"Désolée, maître…" she mumbled in her sleep, her voice thick and slurred, her French accent dripping like honey. Her fingers twitched, as if reaching for someone or something that wasn’t there.