Chapter 18: The Morning Tease
The first thing Andrew registered was warmth, a wet, enveloping heat that pulled him up from the depths of sleep like a diver surfacing too fast. His body knew before his mind did, his cock swelling against the slick pressure of a tongue tracing the underside of his shaft, slow and deliberate. He groaned, eyes still shut, fingers curling into the sheets as the sensation bloomed through him.
"Easy," Ellie's voice murmured, a velvet vibration against his skin. "Just lie back."
His eyes snapped open. She was there between his thighs, kneeling on the floor beside the bed, her short hair mussed from sleep, her lips parted and glistening as she looked up at him. The morning light caught the swell of her breasts, those heavy, magnificent fakes pressing against the inside of his thighs, the weight of them warm and real. She was naked except for a pair of black lace panties, and she was smiling at him with that new, unreadable smile.
"Ellie, what are you..."
She didn't answer. She dipped her head and took him into her mouth again, and all thought scattered like startled birds. Her tongue was flat and warm, dragging along the underside of his cock as she sank down, taking him deeper than she ever had before, her throat opening for him with a practiced ease that made his hips buck involuntarily. She made a low, pleased sound and pressed her hands flat against his stomach, pinning him to the mattress.
"Stay still," she commanded, pulling back to lick a slow circle around the head. "I want to take my time."
He watched her, helpless, as she worked him. Her hands came up to cup her own breasts, pushing them together, sliding them down the length of his shaft until he was buried between the hot, silicone-smooth globes. She murmured something filthy against his skin, something about how good he felt in her mouth, her tone casual and almost conversational, as if she were discussing the weather. Then she took him deep again, until his cock pressed against the back of her throat, and she swallowed around him.
"Fuck," he breathed, his head falling back, his hands fisting in her hair. "Ellie, that feels..."
She hummed her approval, and the vibration traveled straight through his spine. Her fingers traced up his thighs, nails scratching lightly through his pubic hair. She was so casual about it, so utterly in control. He felt the familiar surge building in his balls, that hot, urgent coil that demanded release. He tightened his grip on her hair, trying to guide her pace faster, but she pulled back with a wet pop and shook her head.
"Not yet," she said, stroking him slowly with one hand while the other trailed down his stomach. "I'm not ready for you to come yet."
He was beyond words. She lowered her head again, slower this time, taking him inch by agonizing inch, her tongue curling and teasing along the way. Her eyes stayed on him, those bright, knowing eyes, watching his face contort with desperate pleasure. Her breasts pressed against his thighs again, the weight of them a constant, obscene presence.
"Think about this all day," she murmured, her lips brushing the head of his cock as she spoke. "Think about me here, like this, the way I look when I'm taking you in my mouth."
He tried to speak, but only a strangled groan escaped. She smiled and took him deep again, all the way to the root, her nose brushing his skin. She held him there, swallowing around him, and his whole body shook with the effort of holding back. The pressure was unbearable, building and building, and he was so close, so fucking close.
She pulled away.
A whimper escaped him, a sound of raw, animal frustration. His cock stood slick and aching, the tip flushed dark, a strand of saliva connecting it to her lower lip. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and rose gracefully to her feet, stretching like a cat.
"I have a meeting at nine," she said, her voice lazy and unconcerned. "Can't be late for that."
"Ellie," he rasped, reaching for her. "You can't just leave me like this."
She stepped back, out of reach, and bent over to retrieve her discarded blouse from the floor. The motion put her ass on perfect display, the black lace panties riding up between her cheeks. She shimmied into the sheer white fabric, leaving it unbuttoned, so her heavy breasts swayed free beneath the translucent material. Then she found her skirt, a scrap of navy fabric that barely covered her hips.
"I can," she said, turning to him with a smile.
She dressed with maddening slowness, smoothing the skirt over her hips, adjusting the collar of the blouse so it gaped open, showing the deep cleavage of her silicone tits. She donned a pair of heels, clicking across the hardwood floor to the mirror, where she ran her fingers through her hair and examined her reflection with obvious satisfaction.
"Keep an eye on your phone," she said, turning to face him.
Her hand found her own thigh, sliding upward beneath the hem of the skirt, and she watched him as she touched herself, just for a moment, a fleeting brush of fingers against the damp fabric of her panties. Her eyes held a challenge.
Then she blew him a kiss, her red lips shaping the motion with theatrical precision, and she was gone. The bedroom door clicked shut behind her. A moment later, he heard the front door open and close, and the distant sound of a car engine starting in the drive.
Andrew lay there, rigid and aching, his cock a monument to his frustration. The morning light crept across his body, and the house was very quiet. He could smell her on the sheets, the faint perfume of her skin, the musk of her arousal. He thought about her in that sheerness, walking into an office full of men who would stare at her breasts through the thin white fabric, who would wonder what she looked like underneath.
He thought about Roland, and the way she'd smiled at him from under the restaurant table.
His hand moved before he could stop it, wrapping around his slick shaft. He stroked himself slowly at first, then faster, chasing the release she'd denied him. But even as his rhythm quickened, even as his breath came in ragged gasps, a part of him knew that it wouldn't be enough. He wanted her here, wanted her mouth on him, wanted to watch that knowing smile as she swallowed his come.
The house was silent around him. His phone lay on the nightstand, dark and mocking.
He reached for it anyway.
Andrew's thumb hovered over the phone, the screen still dark. He could feel the ghost of her lips on his cock, the slick heat of her throat, the weight of her silicone breasts pressed against his thighs. His hand moved automatically, stroking himself in a slow, punishing rhythm, but his heart wasn't in it. He wanted her. He wanted the woman who'd knelt between his legs and taken him apart with casual, practiced ease and then left him aching.
He set the phone down. He got up, showered, dressed in his slacks and a button-down for a day of lesson planning. The house felt wrong, too quiet, too empty. He ate an egg sandwich he didn't taste. He sat in the living room, staring at his empty coffee mug, and he thought about her.
Then his phone buzzed.
The notification was a photo. He unlocked it with a thumb that trembled slightly. The image was bright, overexposed, the light of a modern office flooding the frame. There was a conference table, gleaming glass and steel, and beneath it, in the shadowed gap between two rolling chairs, a single nylon-clad ankle hooked over another. The first leg wore a seam of dark stockings that ran up a shapely calf to the briefest glimpse of bare thigh. The second leg crossed beneath it, a different shade of skin against the dark nylon, a casual, intimate tangle of limbs hidden from the room above.
No caption. No explanation.
Andrew's breath caught. He zoomed in on the image, his thumb smearing the screen, trying to discern details. The other leg had olive skin, a hint of dark hair above the knee. He knew that leg. He'd seen it in the office that day, when Bea had adjusted her blazer at the reception desk.
His cock thickened against his thigh, a hot, insistent pressure that refused to be ignored.
He was still staring at the photo when a second message came through. Another image. This one was taken from low down, angled upward, capturing a sheer white blouse stretched to its absolute limit. Her breasts were full moons pressing against the fabric, the outline of her nipples dark and unmistakable, the lace of her bra barely visible at the straining seams. She was leaning over a desk, the fabric pulling taut across her back, her skirt ridden up to expose the top of her stockings and the bare skin of her inner thighs.
The desk belonged to someone. The shallow depth of field suggested a document in the foreground, a signature, a deal closing.
Andrew swallowed. His hand moved to his lap, unzipping his fly with clumsy fingers.
The third message was a video, and this time there was no title, no preamble. Just a short, looping clip of Ellie sitting at a conference table, her face serious and composed, her lips parted slightly. She was applying lipstick, a deep shade of red, the tube gliding across her lower lip with deliberate slowness. Her tongue darted out to wet the corner. Then her eyes flicked up to the camera, and she smiled, a small secret smile that was just for him. The video cut off.
Andrew had his cock out now, his hand working it in a frantic rhythm. His mind conjured the rest of the scene: the conference room, the clients watching her, the way her sheer blouse caught the light and showed every curve. He imagined her crossing her legs under the table, her stocking-clad foot brushing against Bea's ankle.
He imagined them touching each other beneath that gleaming surface, hidden from the men in suits who had no idea.
His phone buzzed again.
This time, it was a photo of a pair of black lace panties, crumpled on a marble surface. They were twisted and damp, the fabric dark with moisture, glistening in the harsh light of a bathroom. A single, dark smear of makeup stained the lace near the waistband, and something else, something clear and viscous, clung to the crotch. The message read simply: *Occupational hazard. Keep them safe for me.*
Andrew groaned, his head falling back against the couch. His hand moved faster, his breath ragged. He was so close, so close, and the image seared into his mind: Ellie in that bathroom, sliding those panties down her legs, revealing herself wet and bare, thinking of him while she did it.
He came with a gasp, his hips bucking into his fist, his release hot and sticky across his fingers. The phone clattered from his hand onto the cushion. He sat there, breathing hard, the taste of his own sweat on his lips, the image of the soaked lace burned into the backs of his eyelids.
The house settled into a long, grey afternoon. Andrew graded papers he couldn't focus on, his phone never far from his hand, but the messages stopped coming. By six, he'd texted her twice. By eight, he'd called once, and the call had gone to voicemail. He'd left a careful message, the kind that sounded casual and betrayed a low, simmering need in the way his voice cracked on her name.
He made himself a sandwich. He ate half of it. The evening stretched like taffy, slow and rubbery, the silence of the house pressing in on him from all sides. He watched the clock crawl. He watched the window darken. He thought about the photo of the tangled legs, the crumpled, glistening panties, and his hand found his cock again in the shower, but the release was hollow and unsatisfying.
At eleven, he stretched out on the living room couch, still dressed, his phone resting on his chest. He'd just check my messages, he told himself. Just for a moment. The texture of the cushion was familiar, the rain pattering against the window a soft, rhythmic lullaby. His eyes grew heavy.
The next thing he knew, the light had changed. Something warm and familiar closed around him, and the weight of it pulled him up from the dark water of sleep. His body knew before his mind did, a hot, insistent pressure blooming between his legs.
Andrew's eyes snapped open.
Ellie was there, kneeling beside the couch. Her hair was mussed, her makeup slightly smeared around the eyes, and she smelled of wine and perfume and something else, something faintly metallic and sharp. Her hand was wrapped around his cock, pulling him free of his unzipped fly, stroking him with slow, deliberate strokes. Her lips curved into a smile, a knowing, sleepy smile that told him she'd been waiting for this moment.
"Hey," she murmured, her voice husky. "Miss me?"
"Ellie, where the hell have you—"
"Shh." She pressed her palm flat against his stomach, pinning him down with a gentle but insistent pressure. "Don't ruin it."
She leaned down, her heavy breasts pressing against his thighs through the thin fabric of her blouse, and took him into her mouth. He was already half-hard, stirring to full life against her tongue, and she worked him with that same casual expertise that had undone him this morning. Her tongue traced the underside of his shaft, curling and teasing, and she made a low, pleased sound deep in her throat, the vibration traveling straight through his spine.
She pulled back, stroking him with her fist, and looked up at him. Her lips were slick, glistening.
"Drinks with the team," she said, answering his unfinished question. "Bea's idea. We closed the Thorne account, finally, so Varga bought a round."
"Bea," Andrew repeated, his voice strained.
"Mm." She leaned down and licked a long, slow stripe up the underside of his cock, her eyes never leaving his. "You like the photos I sent?"
He couldn't form words. His hand found her hair, tangled in the short strands, and he tugged her down, wordlessly begging her to take him again. She smiled against his skin, that knowing smile that made his blood run hot, and she obliged.
She took him deep, all the way to the root, and swallowed around him. Her nose brushed his skin, and she held him there, her throat working, and he felt the familiar surge building in his balls, hot and urgent. But she pulled away again, just as he was about to crest, leaving him trembling and desperate.
"Not yet," she murmured, stroking him lazily. "I want to enjoy this."
"Ellie, please." The word came out broken, pleading. He hated how needy he sounded, but he couldn't help it. "I've been thinking about you all day."
"Have you?" She crawled up his body, her nude form pressing against him, the weight of her silicone tits against his chest. "Thinking about what I was doing? Who I was with?"
His hands found her hips, gripping the curve beneath the thin lace of her panties. He could feel the heat of her, the dampness seeping through the fabric.
"I thought about Roland," he admitted. "I thought about you in that restaurant, under the table."
Her smile widened. "And what did you imagine?"
"Your mouth on him." The words tasted like ash, but the thought made his cock twitch. "You, taking him deep like you take me. His hands on your tits."
She laughed, a low, throaty sound. "Such a dirty mind. I'm just trying to close deals, honey."
She shifted above him, straddling his hips, and his cock slid between the slick folds of her cunt, not entering, just resting there, the heat of her a maddening promise. She ground against him, slowly, her head falling back, and he could feel how wet she was, how ready.
"I had drinks with Bea," she said, her voice breathy. "Just drinks. But she kept touching my thigh under the table, and I let her."
Andrew's breath caught. "Bea touched you?"
"She wanted to see my new tits." Ellie's hands came up to cup her own breasts, squeezing them, pushing them together. "Wanted to feel how real they feel. So I let her."
His cock pressed hard against her, desperate to be inside her. "Ellie..."
"She said I should make you watch sometime." She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear, her breath hot and sharp with wine. "She said you'd like that. Would you, Andrew? Would you like to watch Bea suck my tits while you watch?"
He couldn't speak. His whole body was shaking with need, his hands gripping her hips, trying to guide her down onto him. But she held herself just out of reach, teasing him, her smile a weapon.
"Answer me," she whispered. "Tell me what you want."
"Anything," he got out. "I want anything. I want you. Please."
She smiled, slow and triumphant, and shifted her hips. He felt the tip of his cock press against her entrance, felt the slick heat of her, and then she sank down, taking him all the way to the root in one smooth, wet motion.
"Fuck," he groaned, his back arching off the couch.
She rode him slowly at first, a lazy, rocking motion that let him feel every inch of her. Her hands braced on his chest, her head thrown back, and the light from the window caught the sweat beading on her skin. Her tits swayed with each movement, heavy and obscene, and he reached up to grab them, kneading them, feeling the firm silicone under the skin.
She gasped, a sharp, breathy sound, and her pace quickened. She ground down on him, taking him deeper, her inner walls clenching around him. The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the quiet room, wet and raw.
"Harder," she commanded, and he flipped her over, pinning her to the couch, driving into her with a desperate, punishing rhythm.
Her legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him in deeper. Her nails raked down his back. She was saying things, filthy things, words that would have shocked him a month ago, and he was saying them back, his mouth pressed against her ear, telling her how good she felt, how tight, how fucking perfect.
He came with a shout, burying himself deep inside her, and she came a moment later, her body shuddering beneath him, her cunt milking him dry.
They lay there tangled together, breathing hard, the rain still pattering outside. Her fingers traced lazy circles on his chest.
"I missed you," she murmured.
Andrew swallowed. He wanted to ask her more, about Bea, about the drinks, about everything she wasn't telling him. But the words tangled in his throat, and all he could do was hold her, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat against his, wondering who else had heard it that night.