Sowing his oats

Simon let Muriel’s words hang between them and felt the familiar pull of opportunity settle in his chest. The idea of taking what he wanted sounded good on the surface, but seventeen years of security work had drilled caution into his bones: nothing came without strings, and blind trust was a liability. As long as he wielded his words carefully, though, the strings could be cut before they ever tightened.

He remembered Muriel’s barbs too clearly, all of those casual, cutting remarks delivered from the safety of her landlord status, knowing no tenant could push back without risking eviction notices or worse.

One comment still stung: a week or two ago, in the lobby, she’d looked him up and down and sneered something about how his ‘obsession with work’ explained why he’d never have a family, never settle down, never amount to anything beyond another rent cheque. Convenient, coming from the woman whose sky-high rents **** him into fourteen-hour shifts in the first place.

So why take when he could give?

While Sharon already carried his child—or soon would, thanks to the command he’d planted—MURIEL was no less deserving of the same irony. A harpy then, a harpy now, even in this flawless new skin.

“Hey, Muriel,” Simon said, voice low and even.

She lifted her head from his shoulder, dark eyes bright with devotion, still straddling him, his length buried deep inside her slick heat.

“Do you remember what you said to me a week or two ago? About me never having a family, never having kids, because of my work?”

Muriel’s expression fractured shock first, then genuine shame flooding her newly youthful features. Her full lips parted, colour rising along her cheekbones.

“Is there any way I can make it up to you?” she asked, the question trembling slightly at the edges. One manicured hand rested lightly against his chest, as though anchoring herself to the moment.

Simon let the kiss linger a moment longer than necessary. Muriel’s lips pressed warm and yielding against his, soft fullness parting just enough for her breath to mingle with his own.

The faint floral trace of her perfume drifted closer, warmed by the heat rising from her skin. Her tongue brushed his in a slow, tentative sweep, hesitant at first, then bolder, curling with quiet apology. One of her hands cradled the side of his face, thumb tracing the line of his jaw with feather-light pressure. The other rested flat against his chest, fingers splaying wide as though anchoring herself there.

He tasted the sweetness of her earlier gloss, now faded but still present, and felt the subtle tremor in her breathing when she exhaled against his mouth. Her body shifted minutely in his lap, thighs flexing around his hips, the silk of her blouse whispering against his open shirt with every small movement. The kiss stretched, unhurried, her lips catching his lower one in a gentle pull before releasing, then returning softer, deeper, as if she were trying to pour the regret directly into him.

When he finally eased back, just enough to see her eyes, her lashes fluttered once, dark and thick against the flush on her cheeks. Her gaze held his, wide and unguarded, lips still parted and glistening faintly from the contact.

“I’m so glad you asked how you can make it up to me,” he said, the smirk returning slow and deliberate.

“First,” he continued, tone calm and final, “after I finish speaking, I am going to climax inside you.”

The words landed like a switch flipped. He felt the pressure coil instantly in his groin, hot and inevitable, his body responding to the command before his mind could catch up.

“When I do,” he went on, “it will be the greatest climax you have ever experienced. It will send you over the edge of pleasure, Muriel. Wave after wave will shatter you completely as I fill you up making you orgasm harder than you ever have before. And what’s more, this will make you pregnant.”

“Yes,” Muriel breathed, nodding eagerly, her inner walls fluttering around him in immediate anticipation. “I will get pregnant.”

She barely finished the sentence before Simon’s release hit.

Simon groaned low in his throat. His hips jerked upward once. The first thick pulse surged deep inside her. Rope after hot rope flooded her womb. Each spurt drew a fresh, greedy clench from her walls as they milked him.

Reacting instantly, Muriel's back arched in a sharp curve. Her head fell back. Long black hair spilled down her spine like dark water pouring over stone. A raw cry broke from her throat, high and trembling. The sound carried none of the restraint she had shown before. Her whole body locked tight. Thighs clamped around his hips with bruising strength. The first wave of pleasure crashed through her.

Her inner muscles spasmed. They clamped down in frantic, rhythmic pulses. Each contraction pulled more from him. Her breasts rose and fell in heavy surges beneath the open silk blouse. Hard nipples pressed visibly against the thin fabric. Sweat appeared across her sun-kissed skin. It caught the soft light filtering through the curtains and made her glow.

Pleasure overwhelmed her. Her fingers dug into Simon’s shoulders. Nails pressed into his skin. Her hips ground down hard. She chased the sensation with **** rolls. Another cry escaped her. This one carried no words. It shattered into quick, gasping whimpers. Her walls rippled around his pulsing length. Every squeeze drew his release deeper and pushed her climax higher.

Her eyes rolled back for a moment. Lashes fluttered rapidly. Then her gaze snapped open again. Pupils had dilated wide. Hazel irises looked glassy and distant with bliss. Tremors ran through her arms and legs. Her thighs shook against his sides. She rocked forward. Her forehead pressed to his. The second wave hit. Then the third. Then the fourth. Each one ripped fresh moan from her lips.

“Simon… oh God… yes…” The words fractured. They dissolved into incoherent sounds. Her body bowed once more. Her spine curved in a smooth, trembling arc. Every muscle stood taut. She hung suspended at the peak. Slick heat coated them both. It dripped down where their bodies met. Wet sounds filled the quiet room as she rode the aftershocks.

The intensity slowly faded. Muriel collapsed against his chest. Her body trembled. Breaths came in ragged bursts. Her walls continued to pulse softly around him. The faint flutters felt **** to release their hold. She turned her face into the crook of his neck. Her lips brushed his skin in slow, dazed kisses. Each one carried quiet reverence.

“I… I felt it,” she whispered, voice hoarse and awed. “All of it. Inside me. You… you gave me everything.”

She lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from earlier kisses. A soft, dazed smile curved her mouth—genuine, unguarded, the mask of bitterness gone forever.

“And I’m yours,” she murmured. “Completely.”

Across the room, Sigríður stood rigid as stone, yet every line of her body betrayed how close she was to breaking. Sweat beaded along her thick neck and trickled down to soak the collar of her white shirt, darkening the crisp fabric in irregular patches. Her massive chest heaved in short, ragged pants that strained the buttons, each breath forcing the material tighter across her swollen pecs and breasts. Her mouth hung open slightly, lips parted and glistening, hot exhales escaping in visible puffs that matched the frantic rise and fall of her shoulders.

Her fists remained clenched at her sides, knuckles bleached white against the deep tan of her forearms, veins standing out in sharp relief along her bulging biceps. Pale blue eyes fixed on Simon with unblinking hunger, pupils blown so wide the irises had narrowed to thin rings. The gaze devoured him, tracing the way Muriel lay limp and spent across his lap, the slow, viscous drip of their mingled release, the faint, involuntary twitches of Muriel’s hips still chasing echoes of pleasure. Sigríður’s nostrils flared with every inhale, as though she could taste the thick, musky air from where she stood.

A low, throaty moan slipped from her open mouth. The sound started deep in her chest and rose in pitch, trembling with the **** of it. Her lips stayed parted, breath hitching as the moan stretched longer, breaking into soft, needy whimpers at the end. Raw arousal pulsed through every note, her throat working visibly with each wave that rolled over her.

The sound carried the unmistakable edge of someone teetering on the brink of climax, body locked tight yet shaking from the sheer intensity of watching, feeling the air thick with the scent and sight of Muriel’s release without being allowed to join. Sweat rolled down her temple. Her massive frame quivered once, hard, as another muffled moan escaped, quieter this time but no less ****.

Simon noticed this, though he was not certain if he should leave Sigríður for later, or handle here now?