Chapter Seven

Mason returned home to find both the house and studio empty.

He was partway through pulling out his phone to message Eliza when he spotted a post-it note stuck to the fridge door.

Gone investigating. Be back soon. XOXO.

Her familiar scrawl danced across the page, complete with tiny hearts dotting the i’s. He chuckled despite himself. Eliza could be impulsive. She was also endlessly curious—it was one of the things he’d fallen in love with. And really, who could blame her? The day was too fine to waste indoors.

Setting down the grocery bags, Mason thought back to his morning stroll through town. He’d taken the scenic route home, soaking in the sunshine, oblivious to the summer heat as he drained bottle after bottle of refreshing springwater.

Moorfield was, Mason had to admit, a picturesque place. The sidewalks were spotless, the storefronts freshly painted, their window displays arranged with obsessive care. Manicured lawns framed prize-winning flowerbeds bursting with color. Every corner seemed to emanate small-town charm—pretty as a postcard.

And the people… well, they were just as picture-perfect.

Everyone he passed had been welcoming, but Mason wasn’t about to complain. The town seemed to be populated almost entirely by women: graceful, smiling, radiant women who carried themselves like they’d stepped straight out of a mid-century fashion spread.

Jaw-dropping beauties strutted on the pavement like runway models, deployed in flowing floral-print dresses with cinched waists and horseshoe necklines that could hold watering cans. Their hair was bouffant–superbly styled into ringlets and rolls. Pearls decorated every neck. Lace gloves adorned every wrist. Tall heels and hosiery highlighted long, silky legs.

They waved and simpered as he passed, all blushing cheeks and giddy giggles, like debutantes at a ball or fangirls meeting a celebrity crush.

It was… nice. Maybe a little strange, but flattering. Good for the ego.

Not so good for the ol’ trouser tent that had persisted since Mason’s run-in at the grocery store. He was sure nobody else missed it either. There had been more than a few downward glances and licking of painted lips on his stroll home that, if anything, simply worsened his embarrassing condition.

Even now, as he cracked his fifth bottle of water (to wash away the non-existent road dust), it pulsed insistently.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so horny. And for all the wrong reasons.

“Alright, goddamit.” He grumbled, hustling down the hallway. “Enough is enough.”

A cold shower should cool his jets. The guest bathroom was nearest. Mason slipped in, kicked off his shoes, then shucked out of his sweaty shirt and jeans. His cock sprang free, thick and hard as he’d ever seen it. A splotch of precum had soiled his boxers, with more beading at the turgid tip.

Mason groaned when he gripped his aching shaft, stepping into the white-tiled stall. It felt stiff and heavy in his palm. Sensitive too. A hunting rifle loaded for bear.

There weren’t any sexual hang-ups in his and Eliza’s relationship. No taboo against masturbation. They both considered self-stimulation as a healthy release. She kept a small battery-powered buddy stashed in her sock drawer that occasionally joined their bedtime play, and Mason had his fist.

That ol’ faithful which men had employed for **** the chicken since time immemorial.

Except this felt different on a fundamental level. Somehow shameful. As though this hard-on wasn't for Eliza. Wasn’t for his darling wife. And not like when watching porn, where the silicone-stuffed performers were distant, abstract, sexual creatures expertly objectifying themselves for profit.

No, Mason’s treacherous fantasies revolved around real women. Gorgeous, glamorous femmes who resided within arm's reach. In his neighborhood. On his street…

“My heart was beating a mile a minute, I don’t mind telling you. Gosh, what a dish!”

Right next door.

The familiar voice floated through a casement window positioned at head height in the shower. Mason froze, one hand on his knob, the other hovering over the tap.

The pane wasn’t frosted and sat askew, granting him a clear view over the low white fence. Beyond it, through a gauzy set of curtains, he glimpsed Marcy, Lana, and redheaded what’s-her-name gathered in a sun-drenched bedroom, laying out their latest shopping acquisitions across a quilted bedspread.

“How’s a girl supposed to look at those dark, soulful eyes and copper skin, and not feel a flutter?” Lana sighed, theatrically pressing a forearm to her brow. “Mason, oh Mason. Where for art thou?”

They were giggling, animated, exuberant—and, coincidentally, talking about him.

“Amen, sister. And that body!” The redhead ran hands down her lush figure, wiggling deliciously. “I bet he’s sleek as a panther under those clothes. Marcy, do you mind?”

“Not a bit, Diane.”

Mason swallowed a gasp when the dazzling blonde stepped behind the fiery-haired bombshell–finally identified as Diane–to unzip her dress. When the restrictive bodice slipped from her shoulders, she took a deep, relieved breath that did fascinating things to her excessively ample bosom.

He didn’t dare move, lest they catch him peeping–because Mason was doing precisely that. Goggling slack-jawed at Diane’s incredible chest torpedoes, crammed into a black bullet bra. He instinctively throttled his rigid rod.

They were huge, soft, and round, jiggling joyously in defiance of gravity. The cups supporting their heft seemed a fraction too small, biting into all that pliant tit-flesh.

“He’s probably a wildcat in other ways too.” Lana chirped, shimmying out of her summer gown unassisted. A conical bralette and ruffled panties hugged her waifish frame, separated by an expanse of trim tummy. “I’m glad he favors brunettes. His wife is around my size too. Though I dare say I’m prettier.”

“Much prettier.” Marcy enthused, allowing Diane to disrobe her in turn. “If that silly girl doesn’t shape up soon, someone might steal him away. Did you see how she was dressed yesterday? Tatty t-shirt and jeans. Mercy me! What self-respecting lady steps out looking like that?”

Pastel skirts pooled around the blonde’s high heels, unveiling a buxom beach-bunny figure squeezed into beige satin boyshorts and a sheathlike corselet with garters clipped to her tan stockings.

“I’m going to cook him my special bean casserole.” Diane decided, squirming the close-fitted dress down her wide hips, struggling until her thick butt popped free, strung with a teensy black thong. “Lord only knows whether she can cook—seems unlikely since he’s doing the shopping. Poor dear. A man shouldn’t have to worry about things like that. Maybe I’ll ask him over to fix the leak in my laundry.”

“There’s a leak in your laundry?”

“Not yet…”

Their laughter wafted across the short distance like sweetest birdsong.

Mason knew he should close the window or duck out of sight, but couldn’t drag himself away. His hand began moving rhythmically, slow back-and-forth strokes as he peeked at the bewitching trio.

A small part of him protested at the wrongness of it all. Their catty criticisms of Eliza. His shameful transgression–skulking like a peeping Tom. The blood-boiling attraction he shouldn’t feel for the gossiping housewives.

A bigger, harder, more engorged part of Mason stomped on those measly objections and reveled in the hot, voyeristic thrill.

They were praising him, positively rhapsodizing as they stripped down to their scanties. He couldn’t have wished for a better ego-boost, a grander affirmation of his masculine prowess than the voracious vixens’ cock-stiffening commentary.

“Oh, and I’ll bake a chicken pot pie!” Lana exclaimed, unfastening her bralette. Two supple handfuls capped with puckered raspberry nipples made their showstopping debut. “I’ve got a few leaks he could plug too.” She fished a powder-blue negligee from a shopping bag and held it up for inspection. “What do you think?”

It was a tiny affectation. A transparent scrap of tulle that would only hang to her slender waist. Mason’s mouth went dry imagining the petite brunette modeling it, perhaps somewhere private. He could envision how she’d twirl girlishly, flashing her pert ass and pink pussy.

Would she be waxed or shaved? Somehow, he felt confident Lana was bald down there. Silky smooth with pretty little folds.

Eliza favored the au naturale look. Oh, she regularly trimmed the lawn to keep things tidy, but never went completely hairless.

Mason pumped faster. Imagining a tight, clean cunt. Plentiful precum lubricated the slippery slope to temptation, slathering his treacherous tool.

“Fuuuuck…” He groaned quietly, feasting on the brunette’s lithe perfection.

She could have been Eliza’s younger, hotter sister. Equally appealing in her slight, delicate build, but with more oomph in the chest, hips, and ass. Mason’s lust-addled mind conjured them kneeling side by side–virtually twins–taking turns to lavishing his steely shaft with oral affection. Swapping it between them, their moist tongues extended, licking and exploring every scalding inch.

“Superb.” Marcy kissed her fingertips in a gesture of approval. “You look scrumptious, girl.”

“Good enough to eat!” Diane blurted, hopping and clapping merrily. Her copious curves bounded wildly with every mesmerizing movement. “A scrummy tidbit to be gobbled up whole.”

“More’s the pity my hubby didn’t think so.” Lana pouted, though her tone lacked disappointment. “Otherwise, he’d be at home. Not… well, let’s simply say I’m looking forward to a man who possesses a proper appetite.”

“Someone voracious?” The busty redhead teased, playfully poking her side. “Someone tall, dark, and handsome? Nobody would blame you, girlfriend.”

“Then I’ll bake him my cinnamon-apple bundt cake,” Marcy announced with the supreme confidence of a queen delivering her coronation speech.

Perching a high-heeled foot on the bedframe, the breathtaking blonde unbuttoned her confining corselet. Infinately long legs displayed just so, bubble butt lifted, her shoulders back, and spine arched like a drawn bow to thrust out those mouthwatering melons as the elaborate undergarment slid to the floor.

Mason’s overheated brain short-circuited at the unbelievably sensual silhouette she presented—the heavenly vision of her spectacular, flawless funbags. Rational thought dissolved under a tsunami of white-hot desire that drowned out his guilt.

Fuck, fuck fuck, fuck!

He needed to cum. Nothing else mattered in that super-charged moment.

Saliva bathed his stubbly jaw as sticky strings of precum splattered the shower tiles. Balls seizing, he was almost there. Lightning bolts electrified him, delivering gigawatts of mind-blanking pleasure. Yet, something staved off his final release–pushing Mason to the edge of a precipice, to leave him hanging in exquisite agony.

“Your blue-ribbon bundt cake?” Diane gasped, hands clasped imploringly beneath her prodigious bosom. “Marcy, that’s not fair!”

“Not fair, not fair!” Lana echoed, lower lip trembling in theatrical despair. “How are we supposed to compete with that?”

Marcy preened, basking in their outrage. She gave her golden curls a triumphant toss, chin high, posture regal—an empress presiding over lesser courtiers. Her friends dropped to their knees, begging and pleading for mercy like supplicants.

That’s when her gaze flicked sideways and met Mason’s.

His stomach dropped. For a heartbeat, neither moved. She didn’t scream or hide her nakedness. Instead, her self-assured smirk sharpened into something conspiratorial. And then she winked.

“I’m surprised at you ladies,” Marcy chided, turning back to her companions with renewed hauteur. “Foresaking your husbands to covet a married man. Even if he is an especially handsome and well-built specimen.”

Lana appeared confused, “But… But, you said–”

“I said I’d bake him a cake.” The captivating blonde brushed manicured fingertips across her bare bosom, grazing her stiffening nipples. Mason’s heart and fist resumed beating once again. “And, naturally, I’ll assist him in any way he desires, as a good neighbor should. I’m certain he’d return the favor, being such a kind… obliging gentleman.”

Those same fingers slithered down the flat plane of her belly, headed somewhere indecent. Mason swallowed a groan when she traced the outlined cleft in her clingy boyshorts. A spot of moisture darkened the satin.

The bathroom felt humid. Stifflingly steamy. The vanity mirror was fogged, even though the shower wasn’t running. Sweat poured off him as he stared openly at the three provocative nymphs, casting his last dregs of caution to the wind.

“I bet he’s good with his hands.” Diane moaned, kneading her fat tits like a demented baker. “His big warm hands. Ohhhh, they’d be rough against your skin. Roaming your body…”

“And that jawline!” Lana squirmed jealously, her slim thighs churning around the hand she’d buried between them. “So square with that dark, manly stubble you just wanna nibble. God, he’s such a tall drink of water.”

“Mm-hmmm, that’s right. Keep going.” Marcy crooned, and Mason couldn't be sure if she was encouraging him or her smitten friends. The damp patch on the blushing blonde’s boyshorts spread under her circling digits. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop now…”

Mason pumped away madly. Dazedly. Mindlessly. Heedless of his gruff grunts and audible slapping of his hard flesh. Too horny to care if they caught him. Half hoping they would.

Maybe then he could cum–erupting in a gooey geyser while their gorgeous faces looked on, blushing with illicit excitement.

“Those broad shoulders you could hang from for hours.” The diminutive brunette was quickly working herself into a lather, hunched over her lap and mewling like a cat in heat. “Imagine them flexing as he pushed you down and… and…”

Mason watched, enamored by the play of her toned back muscles as Lana spasmed and twitched on her fiddling fingers, reading the heightening arousal in each minute convulsion.

His balls grumbled with the pent-up rage of an angry mob.

“His arms. Heavens, those strapping arms!” Diane shuddered in lustful adoration, cruelly pinching her erect nipples. “He could pick you up and fling you onto the bed… hmmph~! Or pin you against a wall!”

“Yes, mmmmm… I’m certain that he could.” Marcy’s heavily lidded eyes darted to Mason. Enticing him. Daring him. Ruby lips parting in a silent gasp. “How could I stop him? But we shouldn’t. It-it’s wrong. He’s off limits. We mustn’t… keep going…”

Her words, delivered in a sultry purr, were a goad and a challenge. And completely lost on Mason, whose hips bucked like a bronco as he furiously fucked his clenched fist. Liberal precum doused the shower tiles, spurting in creamy quantities he’d never produced before.

It dripped from his knuckles. Basted his shins. Pooled in the drain, dense and sticky enough to clog plumbing.

“What about his… you know.” The dazzling redhead flushed like a virgin bride on her wedding night. Very becoming despite her hitched breaths and needy little noises. “His masculine endowment. A hunk like him has gotta be packing…”

“God, yes!” Lana quivered ecstatically, clearly climaxing. “P-packing a m-monster. Hung like a–nyaaah~!”

The pint-sized brunette flailed, desperately hugging Diane for support and mashing her howling face into the curvier woman’s copious cleavage.

“He is… gaaaah! He really is!” Marcy wailed, whipping her panties aside and plunging two fingers into her sodden slit. “Oh sugar! Oh gawd!”

Like a breached dam, she came–spraying girl-juices all over her kneeling companions. They bawled and quaked in euphoric unison. Heads tilted back to receive her hot nectar on their reddened cheeks as though it were a holy communion.

That was the last straw for Mason, who exploded with a strangled roar.

“FAA-AAA-AARK!!”

Jettisoning jism in ebullient abundance, pleasure ripped through him in a teeth-clenching avalanche. His mind went blank as every muscle constricted in a blissful paroxysm, and the world turned into blinding light.

For an interminable period, there was only release. Nothing existed but the bone-deep satisfaction of cumming his brains out.

Time thinned. The moment stretched until it lost meaning. There was no shame, no memory, no Mason—just the intoxicating sensation of carnal relief, total gratification, and a strange, boundless calm.

Then came the distant sound of water. Not roaring surf, but the quiet, rhythmic lapping of something still and deep. The noise pulsed in time with Mason’s slowing heartbeat.

He was adrift in nothingness, suspended in a void that smelled faintly of mineral and moss. Beneath him—or perhaps within him—something vast stirred, its presence ancient and unfathomable.

And then, as suddenly as it had vanished, the world reappeared.

Mason’s forehead rested on cool tiles, propping him up against the shower wall. He blinked drowsily, feeling utterly drained yet oddly enlivened at the same time. Wiping dribble from his chin, he grimaced at the gloopy mess oozing between his toes.

Jesus, how hard did he cum? The amount seemed unnatural…

Panic spiked Mason’s breast, guilt returned in a rush, and he glanced toward the window. The view was calm, ordinary—the neighboring curtains drawn, the yard still. Not a sound. Not a giggle. Lacking even the faintest hint of motion.

Had he imagined it all?

He swallowed, uneasy laughter catching in his throat. Maybe it was the Texas heat. Perhaps the new surroundings had rattled him more than he realized.

Mason spun the tap, hoping a cold shower would sting him awake.

“Get a grip, man.” He muttered. “This isn’t you.”

But even as the chilly water streamed down, Mason couldn’t banish a lingering sense of wrongness or his daydream of three gorgeous Moorfield housewives orgasming in mutual appreciation of him.

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