Go with her

You were torn for half a second. Emma and the new girl by the pool sounded easy, soft, and ready. But Kat was standing right there, licking her lips in that slow, deliberate way that always got under your skin. There was something about her—the cold, professional efficiency mixed with pure hunger that hit differently. Most of the women who ended up on their knees for you still carried some leftover shame or performance. Kat treated it like any other task on the schedule: something to be handled thoroughly, competently, and without drama. You wished more of them could be like her.

You looked at her and asked, “You sure about this?”

Her expression stayed blank, almost bored. “You know that doesn’t matter. I’m here to personally assist you with everything you need. And from the look of things, even though you’ve already fucked multiple times today, you’re still going to need to cum a few more times at least. Do you really want to break the new girl before you’ve even had a proper chance to use her? You can be as rough as you want with me. Get some of that energy out. Then you’ll still have plenty left for them later.”

She stepped closer and pressed her palm against the hard length of your cock through your pants, giving it a firm, assessing squeeze.

“Also,” she added, “this will give us a little more time to talk about the upcoming trip.”

You nodded. “Okay. You make a good point, as always. Lead the way.”

She spun on her heel without another word and started walking toward the small house at the back edge of the property. You followed. Officially it was called the guest house, but it had become her apartment—really a small English-style cottage tucked against the rear wall. From the outside, with the high perimeter wall surrounding everything, it almost looked like it belonged to a different estate entirely.

She opened the door and strode in. You stepped in after her.

“Give me one minute,” she said. “I’ll be right back down to deal with that so you can still get in to see Emma.” She disappeared up the narrow staircase.

You glanced around while you waited. In the three months she’d lived here she’d made the place hers—framed photos of her at school with friends, a few carefully chosen paintings, soft throws over the furniture. You were glad you’d put the money into fixing the cottage up. It was useful having someone competent living on the property, and when she eventually moved on it would still be a solid place for the next assistant, a groundskeeper, or whoever else you needed.

A few moments later she came back down the stairs completely naked.

The professional clothes had hidden everything. Underneath she was covered in large, intricate tattoos that ran across her ribs, down one thigh, and over one shoulder dark, detailed work that somehow made the clean lines of her body even more striking. Most people would have said it was like putting bumper stickers on a Lamborghini. You thought of it more like putting actual art on a canvas. No one ever told da Vinci he’d ruined the blank surface by painting on it.

She moved with the same controlled grace she used in the office, but the second she reached you she dropped straight to her knees on the hardwood floor and looked up. There was no shyness, no hesitation—just calm, open readiness.

She reached forward, undid your belt with efficient fingers, and freed your cock. It sprang out heavy and already throbbing. She wrapped both hands around it, gave a slow experimental stroke, then leaned in and dragged her tongue from the base all the way to the tip in one long, deliberate lick.

“You’re still this hard after everything today,” she murmured, almost clinically. “Good. I can work with that.”

Then she opened her mouth and took you in without another word, sinking down until her lips met her fists, treating the whole thing like just another item on the day’s agenda—one she fully intended to complete thoroughly before sending you back to the main house.