Mmmh... that smell. Isabelle is cooking meatloaf, and that can only mean one thing: it's Sunday.
And do you know why Sundays make me especially happy?
Because Isabelle doesn't work, so we get the whole day together.
She has so many good qualities, but cooking isn't really one of them.
Then again, she barely has time to practice.
She's the head of the U.S. branch of Seiryu Biotech—a Japanese pharmaceutical giant with research centers all over the world.
Her job eats up an incredible amount of time, but the money more than makes up for it.
And in case it's not clear, that woman is filthy rich.
That's why we have a housekeeper, Mrs. Morales, who handles everything—including cooking for me.
But don't get the wrong idea.
She's the last kind of woman I'd ever be interested in—partly because she's well over sixty, partly because her body isn't what I like in a mature woman.
I think that's exactly why Isabelle chose her.
With how jealous she is, there's no way she'd allow a remotely attractive woman to stay home alone with me.
Still, Mrs. Morales is good at her job, and I wouldn't trade her for any other housekeeper.
And yet, somehow, Mom's meatloaf always comes out insanely good.
Since she insists on cooking whenever we're home together, she always makes the one dish she knows she can pull off.
But honestly, when she's in that apron with only a thin red thong underneath, she could cook literally anything and I'd eat it without hesitation.
«My little Rennie»—that's the nickname she uses—«What do you say we have dinner tonight at that restaur—»
She suddenly stops the moment 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 all day.
«R-Rennie... j-just give me a moment, I'm still cooking...» she moans.
She pants.
Her mouth tells me to stop, but her body begs for more.
She presses her back against me, grinding her ass on my cock.
It's been hard since I woke up, like every time we're home alone.
I lick her neck and nibble her earlobe, and just like always, that little move drives her crazy.
Then it happens.
«Ow...!»
She cuts her fingertip with the big knife while chopping the veggies.
Blood.
The cherry on top of a perfect Sunday morning.
And she knows it—she knows her blood flips a switch inside me.
She does it on purpose.
She pushes her finger into my mouth, letting the tiny cut drip across my tongue.
No words are needed.
I pull her thong down in one swift motion, watching it fall at her bare feet, toenails painted the same shade as her blood.
She bends forward with her back arched, tongue hanging from her soft lips.
She pants and moans, screaming my name as her nails dig into my thighs.
She pulls me deeper, every inch of my cock sliding into her warm, soaked pussy.
And in that moment she thanks the God of Light for choosing me that cold December morning.
Isabelle once told me she had always wanted a child, but her work left no room for men or for a real relationship.
Raising a baby alone was out of the question, so she adopted one who was already ten.
In a way, I solved both her problems.
Maybe that's why she can't get enough of my cock now.
She spent too many years locked away in her office without anyone to fuck her properly.
Now I'm the one giving her what she missed.
I know it sounds strange, but when it comes to her, I'm probably even more jealous than she is about me.
I know I should get my head straight. But come on—I'm only eighteen.
If I don't enjoy myself now, then when the hell should I?
«R-Rennie... today you're... you're even more passionate than usual... God, it drives me insane!» Her voice breaks as her screams grow sharper, more intense.
And no, we don't live in some mansion far away from the world.
We live in a loft in one of the trendiest skyscrapers in Manhattan, and I'm sure the soundproofing isn't enough to hide her muffled moans and wild screams of pleasure.
But honestly, I don't care.
They can gossip all they want.
Nothing will stop me from pounding her pussy every chance I get, and the best part is, she feels exactly the same.
We even talked about it once, after a 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 wasn't intimidated.
«This is my house, and I'll fuck when, how, and most of all, with who I want! If some unsatisfied woman or jealous man can't handle the fact you make me 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 me, Rennie...! I want it all... all of it inside me...!»
By instinct, my fingers grip her hips harder.
I thrust deeper, faster, until our bodies explode together.
It's crazy how perfectly we've synced over the years.
My orgasm bursts inside her at the exact moment her juices flow down her thighs, mixing with mine after one last desperate moan.
My thick cum runs down her trembling legs.
She turns to face me and kisses me, and I kiss her back.
Our tongues twirl together as my still-hard cock presses tightly between her thighs.
«Looks like someone's not done yet...» she murmurs with a teasing smile, brushing my tip with her fingertip.
Done? Please.
We haven't even started.