Chapter 3: The Morning After
He stirred into consciousness not with a thought, but with a sensation. A profound, anchoring weight, settled across his ribs and stomach, warm and impossibly soft. The scent of her hair—vanilla and sleep—filled his nostrils. Jimmy kept his eyes closed, letting the reality of her reconstitute him: the slow, deep rhythm of her breathing, the whisper of silk sheets, the golden-pink light of a Saturday morning pressing against his eyelids.
He opened his eyes. Ruby lay half on top of him, her head nestled in the crook of his neck, one arm flung across his chest. The sheet had slipped down to her waist. And there they were. Her breasts, colossal and bare, spilled over his torso, each one a world of warm, pliant flesh. The morning light, filtering through the gauzy curtains, gilded their upper slopes, leaving the deep, shadowed valley between them a mysterious chasm. They rose and fell with her breath, a gentle, tectonic shifting that he felt in his bones.
He was held captive. Not just by her limbs, but by the sheer, breathtaking mass of her. This was his altar, his paradise. The marks from the old, hateful bras were fading, thanks to Madame Dupont’s miracle. The skin there was smooth, vulnerable, begging for worship. He swallowed, his mouth dry.
He moved with glacial slowness, not wanting to wake her. He slid his arm from under her, the loss of her heat immediate. He propped himself up on one elbow, just to look. The geometry of her sleeping form was a masterpiece of impossible curves. One nipple, a pale pink berry, pebbled slightly in the cool morning air. He watched it, hypnotized. He could see the faint blue tracery of veins beneath the translucent skin, a map of life and abundance.
A low groan built in his throat, purely involuntary. He leaned down, his shadow falling over her. He didn’t kiss her mouth. He went straight to the source.
His lips brushed that pebbled peak, a ghost of a touch. He inhaled her scent here – clean skin, something sweet and uniquely Ruby. He opened his mouth and took as much of the soft, yielding mound as he could, suckling gently. The taste was salt and sleep and her.
Ruby stirred, a deep, visceral hum resonating in her chest and vibrating against his tongue. Her hand, still asleep, drifted up and tangled in his hair, not pushing, but holding. Her back arched, pressing more of her breast into his mouth. A soft, sticky sigh escaped her lips.
He switched his attention, his tongue painting slow, wet circles around the other nipple before drawing it in. He suckled harder now, the pull deep and rhythmic. His free hand came up to cradle the opposing breast, his fingers sinking into the impossibly soft flesh, feeling the dense, heavy core beneath the plush surface. He weighed it in his palm, a familiar, beloved heft.
“Jimmy…” she breathed, her voice husky with sleep. Her eyes fluttered open, hazy and gold-flecked in the morning light. She smiled, a slow, sated curl of her lips. “Morning already?”
“Mmhmm,” he mumbled against her skin, not stopping his ministrations. He pinched the nipple he was suckling lightly between his teeth, then soothed it with his tongue. A sharp gasp ripped from her, and her hips bucked against his leg.
“God… you’re like a starving man,” she whispered, her fingers tightening in his hair.
“I am,” he said, lifting his head. A string of saliva connected his lip to her glistening skin for a second before breaking. “Every morning. Starved for you.”
He descended again, this time lavishing the underside of her breast, where the weight was fullest, where the flesh was most tender. He kissed the delicate skin there, nuzzled the sensitive curve where breast met ribcage, the place that used to be marred by wire. Now it was pristine. His.
Ruby’s breathing grew ragged. Her hands were everywhere now, roaming his shoulders, his back, clutching at him. She guided his head, pressing him deeper into her cleavage, moaning as his scruff rubbed against her. The sensitivity was, as always, immediate and profound. He knew her body’s pathways to pleasure better than his own.
He moved down, his mouth blazing a trail over the soft, quivering plane of her stomach. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her silk shorts—the only thing she’d worn to bed—and pulled them down, taking his time. He kissed each hip bone, the gentle swell of her lower belly. He settled between her thick, soft thighs, pushing them apart with his shoulders.
The scent of her arousal, musky and rich, hit him. Last night’s activities had done nothing to dim this. If anything, the evidence of her readiness, glistening on her inner thighs and dark curls, made his own need sharpen to a painful point. But this wasn’t about him. Not yet.
He looked up the length of her body. Her breasts were jutting towards the ceiling, peaked and begging. Her face was turned to the side, eyes closed, lips parted. She was a feast.
He lowered his mouth.
The first slow, flat stroke of his tongue made her cry out, her back leaving the bed. He held her hips down with firm hands, anchoring her. He delved deeper, his tongue exploring her familiar folds, finding the swollen, aching center of her pleasure. He drank from her, his movements deliberate, relentless. He could feel the tension coiling in her belly, in the clenching of her thighs around his ears.
Her hands fumbled for her own breasts, squeezing them roughly, pulling at her own nipples. The sight of her pleasuring herself while he worked between her legs was almost enough to make him come untouched.
“Don’t stop… right there, please, right there…” she chanted, her voice breaking.
He didn’t. He focused all his attention, his tongue a relentless, clever instrument. He felt the exact moment the coil snapped. Her body stiffened, then exploded into a violent, shuddering release. Her scream was muffled by the pillow she clawed at. Waves of convulsions gripped her, and he rode them out, gentling his tongue but not withdrawing, milking every last pulse of ecstasy from her.
When she finally went limp, breathing in great, sobbing gulps, he crawled back up her body. He was painfully hard, straining against his briefs. He kissed her stomach, her ribs, the under-swell of a breast, then finally took a pebbled nipple back into his mouth, suckling gently, soothingly. He could taste the salt of her sweat on her skin.
Her hands came up, weak and fluttering, to push at his briefs. “Now,” she gasped. “I need you inside. Now.”
He didn’t need telling twice. He shoved the briefs down and kicked them away. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her soaked, tender flesh. He looked into her eyes, still glassy from her climax.
“Slow,” she whispered, her hands gripping his biceps. “I want to feel all of it.”
He obeyed, pushing forward with an almost unbearable slowness. The sensation of her, hot and velvety and tight, enveloping him inch by inch, made him see stars. He buried himself to the hilt, groaning as his hips met the soft cushion of her pubic bone. He was sheathed completely in her warmth.
He stayed there, not moving, just feeling the tremors of her aftershocks around him. He lowered his chest, letting the full, impossible weight of her breasts press against him. They engulfed him, soft and warm, molding to the contours of his muscles. He turned his head, nuzzling into the fragrant valley between them.
“You’re my religion,” he murmured into her skin.
He began to move. A slow, deep withdrawal, then an even slower, deeper thrust. The pace was a deliberate, measured cadence of possession. Each stroke was felt through their entire bodies. The bed, sturdy as it was, began a quiet, rhythmic creak in time with his hips.
Ruby’s eyes rolled back, her mouth falling open. Her hands slid down to grasp his ass, pulling him deeper with each plunge. “Yes… just like that… so deep…”
He kept the pace, letting the pleasure build like a slow-burning fire. The visual was devastating. With each of his thrusts, her breasts shuddered into dramatic, mesmerizing motion. They rocked, they swayed, they collided in the middle with soft, fleshy impacts. It was a chaotic, beautiful counter-rhythm to his own steady piston. He was transfixed, watching the perfect, heavy orbs dance for him, their movement a sheer, physics-defying spectacle of abundance.
He shifted his angle slightly, and she screamed, her nails digging into his back. He’d found a new depth, a spot that made her eyes fly open, wide and unseeing.
“There! Oh God, Jimmy, right there!”
He hammered that spot, his slow pace fracturing into something more urgent, more demanding. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, mingling with their ragged breaths and her sobbing pleas. He braced one hand on the headboard, the other gripping the fleshy part of her hip, holding her in place as he drove into her.
Her second climax built quickly, a tsunami following the earthquake. He felt it gathering in the tightening of her internal muscles, in the way her back arched violently off the bed.
“Come for me,” he gritted out, his control fraying. “Let me feel you.”
It was all the permission she needed. She shattered, her cry long and loud and raw. The convulsions that gripped her this time were apocalyptic, milking him irresistibly. He lasted three more thrusts before his own orgasm tore through him, a blinding, white-hot wire of pleasure that stripped him of thought, of sight, of everything but the feeling of emptying himself into her warm, clenching depths.
He collapsed, his carefully managed weight mostly to the side, but one arm and leg thrown possessively over her. They were a tangled, sweaty, spent mess. The air was thick with the scent of sex and their shared heat.
For a long time, the only sound was their struggling lungs fighting for air. Sunlight crept across the rumpled sheets, finding the damp patches, glinting on the sheen of sweat on Ruby’s quivering stomach.
Eventually, he pushed himself up on an elbow. He looked down at her. Her face was flushed, her hair a wild golden halo across the pillow. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly, their magnificent expanse glistening. He leaned down and kissed each one, a soft, reverent press of lips.
“We broke the bed again,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse.
“It’s what it’s for.” He brushed damp strands of hair from her forehead. “Bath?”
“In a minute. I might be paralyzed.”
He grinned and slipped out of bed. He returned with a warm, wet cloth and tenderly cleaned her up, wiping the sticky evidence of their joining from her inner thighs and stomach. She sighed, boneless and pliant under his care.
After, wrapped in thick robes, they made their way to the kitchen. The world outside was bright and ordinary. Jimmy made coffee, the rich aroma cutting through the haze of sex still clinging to them. Ruby sat on a high stool at the kitchen island, her robe gapping slightly to show the upper curves of her breasts. She watched him, a soft smile on her face.
“What?” he asked, pouring cream into her mug.
“Just you,” she said. “My lumberjack gigolo. Making me coffee after… all that.”
“Priorities,” he said, sliding her mug across the granite. “Caffeine, then more worship. Probably in that order.”
She laughed, sipping her coffee. Her eyes drifted to the living room, where the ivory bra, washed and dried, lay neatly folded on the arm of a chair like a piece of sacred vestment. “I can’t get over it. Putting it on yesterday felt like putting on armor. Good armor. Not to keep people out, but to hold me in.”
“That’s exactly what it is.” He came around the island and stood behind her, his hands massaging her shoulders through the robe. No knots. Just supple, relaxed muscle. The miracle of it still hummed in his fingertips. “You want to do the bar tonight? The plan?”
She leaned back into his touch. “The coat. The whiskey. The staring.” She tilted her head up to look at him. “Yeah. I do. I want to feel that all over again. The secret.”
They spent the day in a lazy, contented bubble. They read the paper. He made them eggs and bacon. They watched part of a movie, Ruby curled into his side, his arm a permanent fixture around her, his hand inevitably sneaking under her robe to rest on the warm, bare swell of a breast. Not groping, just holding. Possessing. Reassuring himself.
As evening bled into the sky, painting it bruised purple and orange, a different energy crackled between them. It was the anticipation of performance, of a shared secret about to be enacted in public.
Ruby stood before their full-length bedroom mirror. She was already wearing the bra. It gleamed against her skin, its structure both concealing and accentuating. She pulled on sheer stockings, attaching them to a garter belt Madame Dupont had included—another piece of engineering with wide, gentle straps. Then came a simple pair of black lace panties. And then she stopped.
“Just the coat?” she asked, her reflection looking at him where he leaned in the doorway, already dressed in dark jeans and a simple black pullover.
“Just the coat.” His voice was low.
She walked to the closet and took out her winter coat. It was a beautiful, heavy wool thing, charcoal grey, with a dramatic swing to it. Normally, she belted it to contain the bulk of her bust under layers of sweaters. Tonight, she shrugged it on over her naked shoulders, the cool lining a shock against her skin. She left it open. She looked at herself. The coat framed the ivory bra, the stockings, nothing else. It was an absurd, erotic juxtaposition: formal winter wear over intimate, architectural lingerie.
“I feel… dangerously underdressed,” she said, but her eyes sparkled.
“You’re perfectly dressed for where we’re going.” He stepped forward, his fingers brushing the lapels of the coat. He didn’t close it. He leaned in and kissed her, deep and slow. “You look devastating.”
The bar on Maple was everything he’d promised: dark, intimate, all polished wood and low leather banquettes. The air smelled of whiskey, old books, and wood polish. A few patrons glanced up as they entered, their eyes widening at Ruby’s striking figure even in the open coat. Jimmy guided her to a round booth in the very back, a cocoon of shadow.
A server appeared. “Single malt, neat. Two,” Jimmy said, not taking his eyes off Ruby. The server nodded and melted away.
Alone in the semi-darkness, Ruby let her coat fall open a little more. The soft glow from a nearby sconce caught the sleek silk of the bra, illuminating the deep, dramatic cleavage it created. Jimmy’s gaze was a physical weight, a laser of pure adoration. He didn’t stare at other men noticing her; he stared at her, at the secret they shared in this public space.
“Can you feel it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “The difference?”
She took a slow sip of the whiskey that had appeared, the liquor warming her throat. “All I feel is support. And your eyes on me. It’s… incredibly hot.” She smiled, a bit wicked. “Knowing what I’m not wearing under here. Knowing you know.”
He reached under the table, his hand finding her stocking-clad knee, sliding up her thigh until his fingertips brushed the lace edge of her panties. She jumped, then pressed her legs together, trapping his hand. “Behave,” she murmured, but her cheeks flushed.
“I am,” he said, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. “I’m just appreciating the context.”
They stayed for an hour, maybe two. The whiskey burned slow paths through their veins. The conversation was low, intimate, about nothing and everything. But the entire time, the subtext thrummed between them: the bra, the coat, the imminent unwrapping. It was the longest, most exquisite foreplay of their lives.
Finally, Jimmy threw a generous pile of cash on the table and stood, offering his hand. “Let’s go home. I need to conduct a thorough inspection of the infrastructure.”
Back in their front hall, the door closed with a definitive thud, locking out the world. The house was dark, quiet. Jimmy turned to her. His hands went to the open coat and slowly, slowly, pushed it off her shoulders. It fell to the floor with a heavy whump.
She stood there, in the dim light from the streetlamp outside the window, a vision in ivory silk, black stockings, and shadow. The bra did more than support; it presented her like the most priceless of artifacts. Her breasts were lifted, proud, the clean lines of the garment making their colossal size seem even more intentional, more magnificent.
He fell to his knees. Not in worship this time, but in sheer, overwhelmed admiration. He pressed his face against her stomach, his arms wrapping around her hips, holding her.
“You’re a miracle,” he said, his voice muffled against her skin.
Her hands cradled his head. “You’re the one who found the miracle worker, remember?”
He looked up, his eyes glinting in the dark. “I just found the mechanic. You’re the fucking spacecraft.”
She laughed, the sound rich and warm. He rose, grabbing her hand, and led her to the living room. He didn’t head for the stairs. He guided her to the large, soft rug before the fireplace.
“Here,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
He laid her down on the rug, the wool soft against her stockings. He followed her down, his body covering hers, but he supported his weight on his forearms. He kissed her, his tongue delving into her mouth, tasting the lingering whiskey. His hands went to the front closures of the bra, but he didn’t open them. He palmed the silk-covered mounds, squeezing, feeling the rigid support beneath his fingers. He ground his erection, still confined in his jeans, against the lace of her panties.
“You’re so fucking beautiful in this thing,” he growled against her lips. “I want to fuck you while you’re still wearing it.”
“Yes,” was all she could manage.
He made quick work of his own clothes, then tore her panties aside, not bothering to remove them. He positioned himself at her entrance. He looked down at the breathtaking sight: her face flushed, her lips swollen, her body sheathed in the perfect, ivory construct. He pushed inside in one smooth, powerful stroke.
The sensation was different. The bra held her immobilized in the best way, a stable foundation for his assault. He could pound into her with abandon, and her upper body remained magnificently framed, her breasts trembling with the force but staying gloriously aloft. The silk was cool under his sweating palms as he gripped her for leverage.
He fucked her with a desperate, possessive intensity, the pent-up anticipation of the entire night erupting out of him. The sounds were raw, animalistic: his grunts, her sharp cries, the wet, rhythmic slap of their joining.
“Touch them,” she begged, her hands fumbling at her own breasts, massaging the silk-covered flesh. “Please, Jimmy, play with them!”
He obeyed, squeezing them through the fabric, pinching her nipples hard enough to make her scream. He was lost in a frenzy of sensation: the tight, wet heat of her, the impossible softness under slick silk, the sight of her coming apart beneath him.
Her climax, when it hit, was silent and profound. Her mouth opened in a soundless scream, her body bowing up off the rug, held only by his hands and the relentless drive of his hips. He felt her internal muscles fluttering around him, a silken, sucking vise.
It drove him over. He shouted, a guttural, wordless release, as he spilled into her, his vision tunneling to just her, just the exquisite, bra-clad wonder of her.
He collapsed beside her, pulling her half on top of him. They lay on the rug in the dark living room, their breathing the only sound. The streetlamp cast long, angular shadows. The ivory bra was between them, a now-warm and slightly damp barrier.
After a while, Ruby’s fingers found the front closures. Snick. Snick. Snick.
The architecture of the bra loosened. She shrugged it off, letting it join the pile of discarded clothes on the floor. She turned into him, pressing her naked, sweat-slicked skin against his. The full, heavy weight of her breasts settled against his chest, a familiar and perfect comfort.
“The test drive,” she murmured, her lips against his collarbone. “A success.”
He held her tighter, his hand stroking the miraculous, unmarked skin of her back. “The first of many,” he promised into her hair.
Outside, a light rain began to patter against the windows. Inside, on the rug before the cold fireplace, they slept, a tangle of limbs and satisfied exhaustion, the world finally, perfectly, arranged.