Day 2

The second day began no better.

She’d woken early, fussing in the kitchen in her flimsiest summer dress. The straps were forever sliding down her shoulders, and with no bra beneath, her tits kept threatening to flop free. She hummed as she buttered toast, swaying her hips, her bare arse peeking every time she bent.

Of course Marcus appeared just as she dropped a slice of bread and bent to scoop it up. Her skirt flew up, her arsehole winking at the open air, pussy lips peeking below the hem.

“Oh heavens!” she squeaked, clutching the bread, cheeks flaming. “Silly me, always flashing my… bits at the worst moments.”

She straightened and gave him a nervous laugh. He just gave one of those easy, polite smiles, but she knew. His eyes had lingered. Her nipples pinched hard against the thin cotton.

Later that afternoon, Linda decided to dust the sitting room. She stretched high on tiptoe, dusting the top shelf, when the fabric of her dress betrayed her again. The neckline slipped low, low, until with a soft pop her right tit fell out, pale and heavy, the nipple stiff and brazen.

She froze, brush in hand, her tit swinging.

“Oh, mercy!” she giggled, fumbling the dress back up. “It just, oh dear, silly silly me. These dresses have a mind of their own!”

Marcus said nothing, but she caught the twitch of his jaw, the quick glance before he looked away.

By evening Linda was practically buzzing with tension, nipples sore from brushing against cotton, her cunt slick just from his nearness. She took a long, hot bath to soothe herself, steam curling around her, then padded back into her room in nothing but a robe. She caught herself in the mirror, flushed cheeks, damp hair, the robe gaping low between her tits.

She should tie it properly, but her fingers fumbled the sash on purpose.

That night, she barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she pictured him, his broad shoulders filling the hallways, the heat of his eyes when her tit popped free, the thought of what might be pressing inside those jeans when she caught him looking. She writhed under the covers, thighs squeezing, cunt aching, but never quite touched herself. Too naughty. Too risky.

Instead, she made a plan. She’d wake early, bring him tea and toast. A perfect hostess again. Maybe another little accident. Just a glimpse.

The next morning she tiptoed down the hall, tray in hand. She was still in her robe, half-heartedly tied, the hem brushing her bare thighs. Her heart hammered as she nudged his door open with her hip.

The curtains were half-drawn, sunlight spilling across the room. Marcus lay sprawled in the bed, sheets tangled around his legs, the rest of him gloriously bare.

Linda froze, tray trembling in her hands.

His cock lay proud and heavy against his stomach, long and thick, the head swollen and flushed dark.

Her breath caught. Her nipples pinched so hard it hurt. Her cunt clenched around nothing, wetness spilling down her thighs.

“Oh… oh my goodness…” she whispered, eyes glued to the sight.

She knew she should back out, leave the tray on the bedside, pretend she hadn’t seen. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.

The sheer size of him, the way it twitched in his sleep, thick veins running down the shaft. It was obscene. It was glorious.

Her knees wobbled. Her robe slipped loose on her shoulders.

Linda bit her lip, thighs pressing together, cunt pulsing as she stood there in the doorway, the perfect picture of a ditzy hostess, tea and toast in her hands, robe half-open, nipples stiff, staring shamelessly at the enormous cock of the man under her roof.

And God help her, she’d never been wetter in her life.