From our penthouse perch, thirty floors above the glittering city, I spot her again. Bunny. The temporary resident in the neighboring mansion’s private garden. She’s at it once more, polishing that mini-volley pole with her naked curves. Bill pretends ignorance. ‘What’s she doing?’ he asks, blue eyes twinkling. We’ve watched a dozen times. My brush slaps wet pink paint on the nursery wall—flic-flac echoing off marble floors.
‘One day that concrete-filled tire base will topple on her,’ I mutter, indifferent. Truth? Her bronzed tits bouncing don’t faze me. She’s house-sitting the Parsons’ estate while they’re yachting the Med. I dip the brush, stroke upward. Silk robe discarded hours ago, my swollen belly gleams under crystal chandelier light. Pregnancy rounds my once-sleek hips, but Bill devours me still.
The Privilege
‘Goddamn,’ Bill breathes from the floor-to-ceiling window. Champagne flutes chill nearby, Veuve Clicquot bubbles waiting. ‘New toy.’ Not the cat, thank fuck. Bunny’s on the kids’ swing seat now. Her lithe body pumps the iron frame skyward. Head thrown back, hips grinding, legs kicking high. Those killer breasts heave in fleshy waves. The frame lifts a foot off manicured grass. She laughs, lost in her rhythm—probably AirPods blasting trap beats.
Flic-flac. Paint dries in the pot. ‘Darling, nursery done before birth? Two months flies.’ Jealousy nips. Bunny’s a high-end dancer, nights at exclusive clubs demand that all-over tan. She rehearses here, brazen. Me? My taut frame blooms. Wonderful, yet… inconvenient. Yesterday, hose in her slit. Today, swingset fuck.
‘Eyes back, help me.’ I command. Bill glances, chokes. I trail the cold brush over bare skin—neck, heavy breasts, erect nipples, dome of belly. Our child kicks. Plif-plof on hot flesh. His gaze locks mine. Mine.
He circles the ladder, sheds clothes on Italian leather steps. Boxer briefs hit the silk-protected floor. God, he stirs me after years. Penthouse views frame us: city lights, private helipad below. I tease cheeks pink with paint. His thumb smears it along jaw, chin. Kiss lands—tender, promising everything. Then it snaps. Wild.
‘I love you,’ he growls.
The Excess
‘I know.’ Pinned to wet wall, gentle but firm. Paint sticks, irritates skin. Ignites. Hand smacks lower, spreads rose over curves. I claw him pink, leg hooks thigh. Crush him close.
‘Like that, Bill. Fuck me like that.’ Face wall, hands splayed in paint. Bend. Offer dripping slit. Tongue traces spine, dips hollows, swells. Breasts flatten pink. I gasp, beg. Cockhead teases clit, slides lips. Unbearable. I shove back. He thrusts. ‘Fucking stud—inside!’
Hand paints his thigh, nails dig, yank. ‘So hungry today, little one,’ he bites earlobe, alpha grin.
‘Little? Been ages.’ I roar-laugh, impale. Battle-fuck. Pan, bang-bang. Each rammet I roar. Final plunge, fingers twist red hair. Breath hot, he erupts. Cum floods, my spasms milk leaks down thighs. Elbows crater paint, nipples gouge circles.
We collapse on silk tarp, sweat-paint crusting. Laugh at wall art—debate keeping one mark. Child’s room souvenir. Passion’s fragile print. Champagne pops. Secret sealed in glass walls.
