Relieving some pressure

You return to the sectional, open the book, and try to read about how herringbone weave creates a chevron pattern that adds visual texture to wool suiting. You read the same paragraph four times. The words blur into nonsense because all you can hear is the distant snk-snk-snk of hedge trimmers and all you can see behind your eyelids is the way Theron's throat moved when he swallowed that water.

You shift on the couch. The silk of your panties—pale pink cotton, thin, barely there—shifts with you, and you become acutely aware of something you've been trying to ignore. Your penis is hardening against the soft fabric, pressing into the cotton, the waistband of your briefs creating a gentle pressure that only makes it worse.

Oh, come on. You talked to him for ninety seconds.

You cross your legs. Uncross them. The sundress is loose enough that there's no visible tent, but you can feel yourself thickening, the head of your cock swelling against the cotton, and the sensation is maddening because the fabric is so soft—nothing like boxers, nothing like anything you've ever worn against an erection. It's delicate and insistent at the same time.

You close the book. Set it on the coffee table. Stand up.

"I'm going to the bathroom," you announce to no one, because HAVEN doesn't need to know.

The master bathroom is cool and quiet, marble floors and frosted glass. You lock the door—habit, pointless in a house you're alone in—and lean against the vanity, breathing hard. Your reflection stares back: sundress, headband, mascara-darkened lashes, the gentle swell of the breast forms beneath the white cotton. And below the hem of the dress, your erection is now fully visible, tenting the fabric.

You reach under the skirt. Your fingers find the waistband of the panties and push them down just enough—your cock springs free, flushed and hard, and you wrap your hand around it.

Theron's hands. Those calluses. Rough pads dragging down—

You close your eyes. In your mind, it's not your hand. It's his. Those work-roughened palms wrapped around a cock that isn't yours—thicker, you imagine, uncut maybe, the foreskin sliding back under his grip. You can almost feel the texture of his palm, the strength in his fingers, the way he'd grip firm and unhurried the way he does everything.

You stroke yourself faster, your back arching against the vanity. The sundress rides up your thighs. Your other hand braces against the marble countertop, fingers splayed, and you're panting now—soft, breathy sounds that echo off the tile.

He'd look at you while he did it. Those dark brown eyes. That barely-there smile.

You imagine being on your knees. Looking up at him. His hand in your hair—not forcing, just resting there, heavy and warm. The weight of him in your hand, hot and thick, and you'd stroke him slowly, learn the rhythm he liked, watch his jaw tighten—

The orgasm hits you like a wave. Your hips buck forward, your hand tightens, and you cum hard into your cupped palm, spurts of warm semen pooling against your fingers. You gasp—a high, breathy sound that doesn't sound like Riley at all—and your knees nearly buckle.

You stand there for a moment, breathing, your cock softening in your wet grip. The bathroom is silent except for your ragged exhales.

Then, before you can think about it, you bring your fingers to your lips.

The taste is sharp and salty, slightly bitter, familiar and strange at the same time. You lick your palm clean, your tongue tracing the lines of your hand, and a shiver runs through you.

I wonder if he'd taste like this. Or different. Stronger, maybe. Saltier.

You stare at yourself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, the sundress hiked up around your waist, your softening cock glistening. You look wrecked. You look like a girl who just got herself off thinking about the gardener.

You just jerked off fantasizing about giving a man a handjob. A man you met twenty minutes ago. While wearing his client's daughter's clothes and fake tits.

You wash your hands. Fix the dress. Check that no semen got on the cotton. Everything is clean. You look presentable again—just slightly pink in the cheeks, which could be from the heat.

Outside, the hedge trimmers resume their rhythm.