Mmmh... that sll!
Isabelle is cooking atloaf, and that can an only one thing: it’s Sunday.
And do you know why Sundays make especially happy? Because Isabelle doesn’t work, so we get the whole day together.
She has so many good qualities, but she’s not exactly a skilled cook.
Then again, she doesn’t even have ti to practice.
She’s the head of the U.S. branch of Seiryu Biotech—a Japanese pharmaceutical multinational with research centers all over the world.
Her job takes up a huge amount of ti, but it pays her more than enough for the ti she puts in—and in case it’s not clear, that woman is filthy rich.
That’s why she has a housekeeper who handles all the chores, including cooking for —Mrs. Morales.
But don’t get the wrong idea.
Mrs. Morales is the last kind of woman I’d ever feel that kind of interest toward—both because of her age, well over sixty, and because her body isn’t exactly the kind I like in a mature woman.
I think that’s exactly why Isabelle chose her—being as jealous as she is, there’s no way she would’ve let a remotely attractive woman stay alone at ho with .
Still, Mrs. Morales knows what she’s doing, and I wouldn’t trade her for any other housekeeper in the world.
And yet, for so strange reason, Mom’s atloaf always cos out insanely good, and since she insists on cooking personally whenever we’re ho together... she always makes the one dish she can nail.
Though honestly, when she’s wearing that kitchen apron with only a thin red thong underneath and nothing else, she could cook literally anything and I’d eat it without hesitation.
«My little Rennie»—that’s the nickna she uses—«What do you say we have dinner tonight at that resturant—»
She suddenly stops as soon as she feels my fingers clutching her massive tits, squeezing, kneading them hard.
God, those tits.
The eighth wonder of the world.
So firm, so full, so heavy—I always wonder how her back doesn’t give out when she walks.
I could stay glued to her tits 24/7.
«R-Rennie... j-just give a mont, I’m still cooking...» she moans.
She pants.
Her mouth tells to stop, but her body says the exact opposite.
She pushes her back against , her ass grinding against my hard cock—hard since I woke up, like every ti we’re ho alone.
I lick her neck, nibble her earlobe—that always drives her crazy.
And then...
«Ow...!»
She cuts her fingertip slightly with the big knife she’s using to chop the veggies.
Blood.
I couldn’t have asked for more—the cherry on top of a perfect Sunday morning.
And she knows.
She knows her blood turns into a sex maniac.
She does it on purpose—sticks her index finger into my mouth, lets that tiny cut drip onto my tongue.
She doesn’t say a word, but we don’t need words between us.
I pull her thong down in one swift motion, letting it fall at her bare feet, painted with nail polish the sa color as the blood that slowly sends my taste buds into ecstasy.
And now, bent forward, her back arched, her tongue hanging from her soft, full lips... she pants, moans, screams my na.
Her nails dig into my thighs as she pulls deeper into her—every inch of my cock sliding into her warm, soaked pussy.
She thanks the God of Light for choosing that cold December morning.
Isabelle once told she had always wanted a child, but her job left no ti for n—or for a real, lasting relationship.
And of course, raising a baby alone was out of the question.
That’s why she adopted one who was already ten.
In a way, I’ve solved both her problems.
And maybe that’s why she can’t get enough of my cock now—she spent too long locked away in her office without anyone to fuck her properly.
Now I’m that soone.
I know, it sounds strange coming from , but when it cos to her, I’m probably even more jealous than she is about .
I know I should get my head straight, but co on—I’m only eighteen. If I don’t enjoy myself now, when the hell should I?
«R-Rennie... today you’re... you’re even more passionate than usual... God, it drives insane!»
Her screams grow sharper, more intense.
And no, we don’t live in a mansion out in the middle of nowhere.
We live in a loft in the trendiest skyscraper in Manhattan, and I seriously doubt the soundproofing is enough to hide her muffled moans and the uncontrollable screams of pleasure pouring from her mouth.
But honestly, I don’t give a fuck—they can think what they want, gossip all they want.
Nothing’s going to stop from pounding her pussy every chance I get.
And she feels exactly the sa.
We actually talked about it once, after so neighbor left a note on our door a couple of years ago.
[Shut that mouth when you do those things. We don’t care to hear you screaming like a possessed woman every night!]
But Isabelle didn’t let herself be intimidated.
«This is my house, and I’ll fuck when, how, and most of all, with who I want! If so unsatisfied woman or jealous man can’t handle the fact you make cum like that, that’s their problem—not mine!»
I guess after this morning, we’ll get more than just a single angry note.
Because...
«Rennie...! Rennie...! Cum inside , Rennie...! I want it all... all of it inside ...!»
By instinct, my fingers grip her hips even harder—I thrust deeper, harder, until...
It’s crazy how perfectly our bodies have synced over the years—my orgasm explodes inside her at the exact mont her juices drip down her thighs, mixed with mine, right after one last desperate and satisfied moan.
My thick, white cum runs down her soft, trembling legs.
She turns to face .
She kisses , and I kiss her back.
Our tongues twirl together, just like our legs, as my still-hard cock presses tightly between her thighs.
«Looks like soone’s not done yet...» she murmurs with a teasing smile, brushing my tip with her fingertip.
Done? Pff... we haven’t even started.
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