Mmm… something smells good.
Veronica is cooking meatloaf, and that can only mean one thing: it's Sunday, and do you know why Sundays make me especially happy? Because Veronica doesn't work, so we can spend the whole day together.
She's a woman with plenty of great qualities, but cooking definitely isn't one of them. Though, to be fair, with the kind of job she has, she doesn't get much free time to improve.
After all, she's the director of the U.S. branch of Seiryu Biotech — a Japanese pharmaceutical giant with research centers all over the world. That job eats up a ridiculous amount of her time, but I'd say the money more than makes up for it — yeah, in case it wasn't obvious, that woman is filthy rich.
That's why we have a housekeeper, Mrs. Morales, who handles everything — including cooking for me during the week.
But don't get me wrong, she's the last woman I'd ever look at that way — partly because she's over seventy, and partly because even if she were younger, I'm not exactly a fan of women who are too heavyset.
I'm pretty sure that's exactly why Veronica chose her — with how jealous she is, she'd never allow a woman even remotely attractive to stay home alone with me.
And yet, for some reason, Veronica's meatloaf always turns out amazing, and since she insists on cooking whenever we have a day together, she always makes the one dish she's genuinely good at.
But honestly, when she's wearing that apron that's completely open in the back, with nothing but a thin red thong underneath, she could cook anything and I'd eat it without hesitation.
«My little Jacey,» — that's the nickname she uses when we're alone — «how about we go out for dinner tonight at that resta—»
But she cuts herself off the instant she feels my hands grabbing her breasts from behind, squeezing and kneading them hard.
God, those tits are the eighth wonder of the world. So firm, so huge — I could stay glued to her all day. Though honestly, I have no idea how her back manages to hold all that weight when she walks.
«J-Jacey… g-give me a second, I'm still cooking…» she moans, breathless.
Her mouth tells me to stop, but her body is begging for more.
She pushes her hips back just a little — her back pressing into my chest, her marble-hard ass grinding against my equally marble-hard dick, stiff since this morning… like every time we're home alone.
I lick her neck from her shoulder blade all the way up to her ear, then gently nibble her earlobe — a move that always drives her crazy, and then—
«Ah!»
A sharp gasp escapes her lips — she just cut the tip of her finger with the big kitchen knife while chopping vegetables.
Blood — the cherry on top of this perfect Sunday morning. And she knows it — she knows her blood triggers something in me, makes me lose control completely, wipes out every last inhibition. She does it on purpose when she presses her finger against my mouth, letting the tiny cut drip onto my tongue, flooding my palate with that intoxicating sweetness.
I yank her thong down in one quick motion, letting it slide to the floor around her bare feet, her toenails painted the same shade as her blood. She bends forward with her back arched, her tongue hanging from her parted lips — panting, moaning, screaming my name as her nails dig into my thighs and she pulls me toward her, letting every inch of my cock slide into her hot, soaked pussy.
It's in moments like this that I thank every existing and non-existing deity for making Veronica choose me that cold December morning.
She once told me she had always wanted a child, but her job left no room for men — let alone a relationship. Raising a newborn on her own wasn't an option, so she adopted one who was already ten. And in a way, you could say I ended up solving both her problems: the desire for a son and the desire for a lover.
Maybe that's why she can't get enough of me now — she spent so many, too many years locked in her office with no one who truly loved her, and now I'm here, giving her everything she's always been missing. Me, and no one else.
«J-Jacey… today you're… you're even more passionate than usual… God, you're driving me crazy!» she screams, using every bit of breath she has.
And no, we don't live in some isolated villa in the middle of nowhere — we live in a loft in one of the most luxurious skyscrapers in all of Midtown Manhattan, and I'm pretty damn sure the soundproofing isn't enough to hide her sharp moans and wild screams of pleasure. But i don't give a fuck.
People can gossip all they want, accuse us of bullshit like incest or abuse — nothing will ever stop me from fucking her every single time we get the chance, and she feels exactly the same.
We even talked about it once — after some anonymous neighbor left a note on our door a couple of years back:
[Keep your damn mouth shut when you do those things. We don't need to hear you screaming like a demon every night!]
But Veronica didn't let herself be intimidated.
«This is my house, and I fuck when, how, and especially with whom I want! If some unsatisfied woman or jealous man can't stand the fact that you make me scream that hard, that's their problem — not mine!»
I imagine that after this morning, we'll be getting more than one threatening note…
«Jacey…! Jacey…! Come inside me, Jacey…! I want it all… I want all of it inside me…!»
Instinctively, my fingers tighten around her hips. My cock slams into her harder, faster, until my orgasm explodes inside her at the exact same moment her warm juices run down her thighs, mixing with mine after one last, prolonged scream of pure pleasure — it's insane how perfectly our bodies have synced over the years.
My thick cum drips slowly down her trembling legs, rolling all the way to her feet.
She turns toward me — her tongue slides into my mouth, and mine into hers, twisting and curling together while my still-hard dick presses firmly between her thighs.
«Looks like someone isn't finished yet…» Veronica whispers with a mischievous smile, gripping my still-pulsing erection.
I return her smile with a satisfied grin.
«Finished? Oh, please — we haven't even started.»