by Noelle Mack
The steam had cleared enough for her to see her blurred reflection in the freestanding mirror at one end of the bathroom. Dee wrapped a fresh towel around her lotioned-up hips and ass, sliding it back and forth, enjoying the towel’s nubby texture on her skin. She danced a little, a basic bellydance wriggle from a half-remembered class, making her heavy, firm breasts bounce. Dropping the towel, she took both her nipples in her fingertips and tugged at them. They got longer instantly and she bent forward, bare ass out and legs apart, like she was about to push her breasts into the face of a seated man.
Tom Driscoll, of course. Sitting on a chair wearing faded jeans but bare-chested. With an obvious and sizable hard-on going down one thigh.
I really like playing with my tits when you watch, Tom. But I want your mouth on my nipples. She pinched them gently, enjoying the sensation. Sucking one and then the other. Like you can’t get enough. Just looking at big, gorgeous tits makes your cock get huge.
She grabbed the bottle of lotion, shot a stream into her palm and rubbed it over both breasts, circling the nipples, then pinching them harder. Dee closed her eyes, wanting to imagine her new downstairs neighbor more than she wanted to see herself. Her breasts would more than fill his big hands. She hadn’t been nicknamed Double Dee in high school for nothing.
Now, if Tom Driscoll was watching her right now, hungry for her, going crazy from watching her caress herself, she wouldn’t mind that at all. Dee cupped her breasts from underneath and squeezed them together into a deep vee.
Want me to lie down so you can put your cock between there, Tom? Nice and tight and slick and hot. I can get the pressure just right. Tit fucking can be really intense.
She imagined him over her, holding himself up with muscular arms, while he thrust and pumped between her lotioned breasts, about to spray a hot stream of cum. But she wouldn’t let him. Not right away. She’d pull her breasts apart and push him off, then stand up.
Get on your knees and go down on me. I want you to lick my clit while I play with my nipples.
He’d obey, his body trembling a little from frustrated desire, and his cock gleaming from the lube, super-stiff and totally aroused. Dee would run her fingers through his hair and keep his head in place when she felt the first tentative touch of his tongue.
Give me the tip. Just flick it. Yeah…like that.
The condensation on the mirror had nearly cleared. She studied herself, imagining Tom Driscoll again, kneeling in front of her to eat her pussy. Her fingers got busy but she didn’t want to come without the fantasy of a man doing her. Going solo was fine, but sex with a hot, thick-cocked guy was better.
She bent forward a little, her big breasts swaying, her other hand coming up to brush over the nipples. Dee began to move her hips as she masturbated, putting her whole body into it.
She began to moan under her breath, saying Tom’s name in a breathy whisper just to have a man’s name to say, until she orgasmed. Unh. Unh. Her mouth opened with a satisfied gasp. Good one. Thanks, Tom.
Hold on. Her eyes widened. Did she just hear a door open? And a man’s voice? Dee whirled around. Caught in the act? No. The bathroom door was tightly shut.
All the same, there was someone on the other side of it. Someone who was saying, “Looks like I got here just in time.”
Holy freakin’ cow. What was she going to do? Throw bath crystals in his eyes? Kill him with a pillar of beeswax? Dee blew the candle out, wrapped the largest towel she could find around her body, tied it over her tits in a hasty knot and tried to remember where she’d put her haircutting scissors. Not much of a weapon but better than nothing.
Then she heard a second voice, a familiar one with a distinctive accent. The janitor. What was he doing in her apartment and more importantly…who was with him?
“Yes, you is right,” Blastovik said. “You are in time just.”
Tom Driscoll noticed the outline of light around the shut bathroom door and a faint whiff of fragrant, moist air coming from the same direction. The doorman had assured him that Dee Skinner, the tenant in the apartment above his, was on a business trip to China.
Well, if that was true, someone else was taking a bath in 17-B. And his bathroom ceiling in 16-B was about to collapse. An ominous, two-foot-wide bulge had formed and there was a steady drip from its center. There had to be a plumbing leak and he wasn’t about to wait for 5,000 gallons of trapped water to bring the ceiling down.
He’d called the janitor, a morose Eastern European guy who Tom had pegged as a world-class incompetent. In exchange for doing less than nothing, Blastovik got a basement apartment and the chance to watch hours of international soccer on bootlegged cable. He said there was nothing wrong with Tom’s ceiling and hung up.
After another few minutes of watching the bulge, Tom had gone down to the basement and waved a fifty-dollar bill at him, shouting over the match of the century, Bulgaria vs. Albania. Blastovik, a true fan, wouldn’t budge until Tom offered to record the muddy conclusion on TiVo. So here they were.
Blastovik was clutching a can of wood putty, his remedy for everything short of thermonuclear war, and looking toward the bathroom. “Your problem, she is in there.”
Astute comment, as far as it went, Tom thought. “No, she’s in China.”
“She is in there,” Blastovik repeated, hitching up his gray, oil-stained workpants with his free hand. “The doorman says China, but he knows nothing.”
Tom listened to faint sounds from the other side of the closed bathroom door. Muffled sounds that seemed to involve towels and then maybe somebody looking for something in a cluttered drawer. “Hello? Sorry to bother you but—”
The bathroom door was flung open with a bang. Tom just gaped.
There stood a goddess, clad in a towel that was just big enough to cover an amazing rack, from what Tom could see. He got the details above the neck next: pouty mouth, brown doe eyes and spiky wet eyelashes.
Oh, geez. He fell in love on the spot.
Her long, flowing hair was pinned up in a haphazard way, and she emanated a freshly scrubbed radiance and a lovely smell. A womanly, sexual smell. Tom looked over her shoulder into the bathroom to make sure she was alone.
“What are you doing in my apartment?” the goddess asked irritably. She was clutching a pair of scissors, he noticed.
Tom held up his hands. “We come in peace. Please don’t stab me.”
She crossed her hands over her breasts to keep the tied towel where it was but she didn’t let go of the scissors. “Blastovik, what the hell is going on?”
“Miss Dee, there is a ceiling what bulges in Mr. Tom’s bathroom.”
“So why aren’t you in his apartment?”
Blastovik pondered this question for a long moment. “He thinks you are leaking.”
“I just got out of my bath and I didn’t let the tub overflow. There may be a leak but it’s not my leak.”
“Can we look?” Tom said, trying to sound affable. She wasn’t buying it. She glared at him. It was an I’m-at-the-end-of-my-rope glare, not an I-hate-your-guts glare. He hoped.
“No. I just got off a thirty-hour flight and I worked late on top of that. And my new bra is a nightmare, and you scared the crap out of me. I really don’t need the aggravation.”
“Oh. I’m really sorry. About your bra, I mean. And the other things,” he added, feeling like an idiot.
Dee tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I’m not wearing one.”
I can see that, he was about to say and didn’t. What was she, cantilevered? He’d never seen breasts that big and that firm. And he was a breast man, all the way. Why hadn’t he known that the best set he’d ever seen was living right upstairs?
She’s a beautiful woman, he reminded himself. A whole person. There had to be much more to Dee Skinner than just an amazing rack. Yeah, right, another part of his anatomy retorted.
“I design bras, just in case you were about to ask.” She waved the scissors at a roll of papers on the floor in front of him.
>
“Oh,” he said. “I wasn’t going to ask, but that—that would involve bras, wouldn’t it? I mean the one you’re not wearing.” Tom winced inwardly at his attempt to be polite and sound interested. Way to go, buddy. You sound like you have an IQ of about forty.
She gave him a withering look. “Listen, I’m not going to stand here and chat. I have to have a new prototype ready to scan and send within twenty-four hours to a Chinese manufacturer, complete with specs and a purchase order for material.”
Blastovik bent to pick up the roll of paper, straightened up, and dropped it. The first sheet unrolled from the rest. The two men stared down at a bra sketched in bold strokes of velvety red. A bra with major uplift but barely-there engineering. The kind of bra that could bring a strong man to his knees. Tom dropped to his and began to roll up the sketch, trying not to look at it. “Sorry we bothered you, Ms. Skinner.”
“Give me that and get out of here.” She clutched the towel and looked at him like she really would stab him with the scissors if he didn’t.
“But my ceiling—” Tom began, handing her the rolled sketch.
“I don’t care about your stupid ceiling! I’m going to bed!”
“What if it collapses?” he asked the janitor.
Blastovik shrugged and tapped the can of wood putty in his hand. “She will fall down eventually. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow night. Maybe never.”
Back in his apartment, Tom surveyed the buckling ceiling one more time. New cracks radiated out from the still dripping center but it didn’t seem to be falling down. Yet.
He yanked off his T-shirt en route to his bedroom and caught a glimpse of his bare chest in a mirror. Giving in to a moment of male anxiety, Tom curled his arms under to broaden his shoulders and pump his biceps. Not bad. Then he slapped his belly, which could be called rock-hard if he sucked it in and when he hadn’t overindulged in takeout Chinese food. But tonight’s moo shu was showing a little.
No biggie. Seemed obvious to him that an intelligent woman like Dee wouldn’t be overly impressed by gym rat abs. He sucked in his belly and struck a he-man pose, then relaxed. He looked pretty good.
Now she was close to perfection as far as he was concerned. Physically. And mentally. There was a lot going on in those doe eyes, he’d picked up on that right away. And he actually liked the way she’d thrown him and Blastovik out of her apartment.
A bra designer. How cool was that? His most favorite piece of feminine apparel was her specialty. Tom had spent his formative years mastering the manly art of getting hooks and eyes apart, and when he’d hit his teens had made out like a one-handed bandit on every date, every basement nuzzlefest, and every sporting event sponsored by Booker High.
An unbroken record of joyful unhooking that stretched back years. If you didn’t count the last twelve months.
After the so-called love of his life had dumped him for a hedge fund king with a gut and a bald spot and two other girlfriends, Tom had done the curl-up-and-die thing for a while. Especially since the hedge fund king was his former boss.
But he had uncurled eventually. Collected new clients, hoovered up some available capital, and started a hedge fund of his own. The Driscoll Group wasn’t in the top of Fortune’s rankings but it was doing nicely, thank you.
Sex had been the last thing on his mind lately, but now that he’d met Dee, it was first and foremost again…and making the front of his jeans twitch.
Tom looked down. His erection was straining against his fly. Good thing it hadn’t decided to say hello to Dee five minutes ago. She would’ve kicked him and that crazy janitor down the stairs and tossed the can of wood putty after them for good measure.
He headed for the bedroom, unzipped and slid off his jeans and briefs in one go. No sense wasting a solid hard-on. Tom flopped backward on his bed, looking up at the ceiling. Whatever Dee was doing in the room above his, she wasn’t making a sound.
He grabbed his stiff rod and dedicated the session to her, keeping the vision he’d seen—rosy, damp and towel-clad—in his mind. Five minutes oughta do it. Then he could sleep.
Tom rolled over onto his side, cock in hand, and checked the nightstand drawer for some glide, squirting it into his palm to warm it up. He settled back into the pillows, giving his rod an upstroke that twisted around the head lightly and then swiftly down.
Now if he could do that while she watched…even better. He imagined her eyes on him, half-closed and dreamy but intent on his hand action. She might even bend forward for a better look, flicking her tongue around the hole, lapping up the first pearly drop of cum.
Just thinking about that made a drop appear. He left it there, pumping himself with slow strokes to just under the head of his cock. Whew…he was getting too hot. He took his hand off and rested his head on it, letting his erection cool off a little. But it didn’t go down. Thinking about Dee parting her wet, soft lips and taking him in her mouth made him stiffer than before. And if she happened to have on that red velvet bra in the sketch…bending over so that her amazing tits were spilling out of it…Tom felt a little more cum pulse out involuntarily. He rubbed around the plum-purple head, slicking himself, fantasizing about her eager tongue doing the honors, her fingers wrapped around the shaft and stroking.
He added a red velvet garter belt to his dream Dee. One that would frame her curvy ass just right, with red elastic straps that pressed into her soft flesh and made it look even softer. He wondered if she liked to be spanked. Turn around, Dee, he whispered in his mind. Turn your back to me and bend over. Way, way over. Legs apart. Don’t be shy. Spread and show me everything.
Her long, dark hair had to hang almost to her waist. She’d play with it before she did what he wanted, sashaying around in that red bra and garter belt—he added stockings to the visual—then twisting her flowing hair around her hand and pulling it forward over her shoulder. Then, hands on hips, she’d bend from the waist…real slow. Grab her ass cheeks and squeeze ’em with red-fingernailed hands. Nice and slutty. Uh-huh. Then she’d pull her cheeks apart suddenly. Give him the show of his life while she cooed at him over her shoulder and talked about how much she wanted his cock in her pussy. To the hilt.
He thrust his hips up, matching the rocking to the pumping, holding himself more tightly. He hoped her pussy was au naturel, with delicate soft curls to tickle his balls when he rammed it in and pounded her from behind.
Tom squeezed his cock hard, pressing a thumb under the tip in front to keep from coming.
He wouldn’t put it in her right away, he decided. No, he’d make himself wait until he’d eaten her out. From behind, with her still spreading her ass cheeks with her hands, digging her red fingernails in and moaning. His tongue would slide in and out while he put his hands over hers and helped her keep her bottom spread, and her pussy taut and stretched wide. She would love that—he couldn’t really do her clit from behind but a hot tongue-fucking would be an intense warm-up for the next stage.
Dee looked like a pretty healthy girl but he could still pick her up easily, no problem. He would turn her around, sweep her off her feet and lay her back on his great, big, unmade bed. If he landed her just right, her tits would come partway out of the red velvet bra, bouncing and brimming over the uplift cups. Nipples popping out. Then she would caress her overflowing, succulent flesh—pinch the tips and beg him in a breathy voice to suck her hard—oh, jeez.
He couldn’t believe how much he wanted to see her do that. And more. Hear her talk soft and low and dirty. Get her on top and let her ride, letting him reach up and cup her tits. He’d sit part way up to suck on her erect nipples while she cried out with pleasure, wanting more and more, pushing them in his mouth…Tom stroked himself hard and tight and superfast, shooting a pulsing stream of cum that nearly hit the ceiling. A few drops splattered back onto his tense belly as he moaned her name under his breath. As for the rest…okay, he would have to change the sheets. Goodnight, goddess, he thought dreamily. Sleep well. He did a fast clean-up with his gym towel
and tossed it in the general direction of the laundry basket. Good enough. Tom rolled over and passed out.
Not for long.
The bathroom ceiling came down with a crash about an hour later. He half-woke, and sat up, groggily realizing what had happened, coughing a little from the dust that drifted through the air into his bedroom. He blinked at the clock.
Fuck it. Tom flopped back down into the pillows. Blastovik was useless and nothing was going to get fixed at this hour of the night. He wondered if Dee had heard the crash and imagined her coming to his rescue, still wearing only a towel. Are you all right? she’d ask anxiously, and then…
Fat chance. He remembered her saying that she’d gotten off a thirty-hour flight not all that long ago. Dee was probably out cold. He blew her a kiss, and went back to sleep.
2
Dee sipped her morning coffee, which the deli downstairs had sent up with an ancient cruller for no additional charge. The coffee was hot and black and came in a paper cup with no logo, and it was awful. But she refused to stand in line, ever, behind anyone ordering a double skim fluffacino with a squirt of hazelnut goo and an artistic dusting of cinnamon.
She liked having the time alone before Jami came in. The sun poured in the high windows of the design loft, almost blindingly bright. Dee was feeling almost human after seven hours of uninterrupted sleep. She drew on the sketch in front of her, adding side views to the red velvet bra that Tom Driscoll had gotten all stupid over.
Her private fantasy about him had been right on target. Interesting. She sketched another version of the bra with cutouts for the nipples and idly added a nice pink pair. Tom would like those. Very suckable. She heard Jami let herself in and kick the loft door shut behind her with one army boot.
“Hell-ooo,” Jami yodeled. She walked over to Dee’s drafting table, dropping her messenger bag and jacket on the floor along the way. “I brought you a smoothie. The Invigorator. Carrot juice, soy milk, and fresh pulverized ginger.”
