“A groundbreaking new bill, Bill 202, will provide all previously working postpartum mothers a 12 week maternity leave, paid by the state. They will receive 55% of their gross income. The bill has been nicknamed the Sophia Bill.”
-The Reddington Gazette
When Tom spent time with Françoise, he felt like he time traveled to a different era and to a different place. That was what being with Françoise felt like. An alternate reality, in a sense.
Of course, she was French, so cultural differences could account for some of this.
She was the most intimate person he had ever met, from the way she cooked beef bourguignon in her white floral lace garter, to the way she dragged him by the tie to his bedroom the very first night he took her home. She had a no-bullshit resting bitch face that delighted him; a countenance that rivaled Bond’s sexy accomplices. It certainly made up for the hell that was the nasty divorce last year.
Françoise had introduced him to kink. Tom hadn’t considered himself vanilla; after all, he could make a girl wail in a variety of positions. He wasn’t stuck on missionary and was open to trying anal sex – although few girls he had been with had wanted to.
The first night they met – seated next to one another at a charity auction dinner – she had bed him. Yes, it had been of her and her volition alone; like she had been on a mission. He had not expected to come out of the event with a one night stand, never mind a relationship.
Tom was practically a pawn from the moment he set foot in the taxi. They had nearly fucked on the ride home. Seat belt be damned, the girl was on his lap rubbing herself off on his knee!
Next thing Tom knew, she was placing his fingers directly over her panties, underneath her skirt. Meanwhile, her tongue was making intense love with his. His hand caressed her little breast, and she implored him silently to pinch her nipples harder by demonstrating with her own fingers.
So she wanted it rough, did she?
Tom grinned in spite of himself. What luck.
“What’s your name?” he whispered.
“Françoise,” she said simply, her French accent oozing out in every sound, a delectation to his ears. Francoise didn’t ask Tom his name.
The girl was a beauty. A platinum blonde, she had her hair cut in a bob. Sophisticated and sexy at the same time. She was petite, probably no taller than 5’3”, while Tom towered at 6’4”. She felt like a doll on his lap. He was glad she was kinky and would allow some roughhousing. His fingers tingled to rip into her, his thoughts far away from the lackluster sex he used to have with his ex-wife.
The pair barely interrupted their makeout session as they exited the cab – Tom flung a bill in the vicinity of the center console and grunted a ‘no’ when the driver asked if he would like his change.
Tom had no trouble holding Françoise up on his forearm. She must’ve weighed less than a hundred pounds. Her pelvis grinded into his abdomen, signaling her lust. Tom was desperate to get inside — and not only the house.
What felt like an endless walk up the twenty foot drive ended. They entered his run-of-the-mill bungalow; the one he purchased after the divorce in a hurry. Tom took a moment to rest his back against the door after closing it. Françoise slid back down onto her feet and led the way inside his own house, slinging her expensive-looking bag over her shoulder. He followed keenly.
“Bedroom?” she asked expectantly, once she had walked her way up to the main level of the split entry home.
He pointed the way to the right. Down the hall.
Françoise grabbed him by the tie as though he was a bull on a leash. She pulled on it over her shoulder, leading the way.
He expected the vixen to strip him of his clothes; in fact, he was nearly giddy at the thought. Rarely was he overcome with such effusiveness.
But Françoise faced away from him as he stood at the threshold. She bent down – with ease, her knees hardly bending – into her bag, her mini skirt rising up her thighs. Of course Tom couldn’t help but admire the sight and hoped to get a glimpse of those panties he had handled in the taxi. They had felt soft and damp. He was at the cusp of seeing them – or so he thought – when Françoise whipped around, a pair of ropes in her hands. They were already done up in a zip snare, ready to go.
“You must understand,” she purred, “that it makes any woman uncomfortable to be in a man’s abode.”
Tom gawked at the braided beige strands in the woman’s small hands.
“Not to mention,” Françoise added, “the erotic nature of giving the woman the sexual advantage.” She took a slow step toward Tom, holding out the ropes.
“May I?”
This was not what Tom had expected, but the pulsating bulge in his pants was giving him the okay. He nodded eagerly, then awkwardly asked, “You want me with clothes or without?”
She smiled coyly. “It’ll make it easier if you take your shirt off.”
Just my shirt? Tom thought to himself, but he obliged. His dress shirt was still smoothly ironed from the dinner event, but it would be rumpled in no time now that he tossed it on the floor. Tom laid down on his king size bed while Françoise expertly looped the ropes around his wrists and tied them to each bed post.
“Do you always do this?” Tom breathed heavily, as Françoise came to a straddling position on his chest.
She smiled secretly but didn’t answer him. “Comfortable?”
“Uh, given the circumstances, I guess so.”
“Good,” Françoise murmured.
Read the rest of the story on [Kindle Unlimited](https://www.amazon.com/Françoise-Dominatrices-Book-Lola-Joliette-ebook/dp/B0C2J2NYQ2/ref=sr_1_1?crid=19DV8IQWFJA4Y&keywords=erotica+lola+joliette&qid=1682282180&s=digital-text&sprefix=erotica+lola+joliet%2Cdigital-text%2C120&sr=1-1)
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/12wp9v1/the_dominatrices_françoise_feminist