Chapter 4: The Penthouse

The penthouse reeked of primal things before they even touched: Bob’s clean male sweat already turning sharp with anticipation, the faint metallic bite of the snow-melt dripping from his boots on the entry mat, the expensive cedar-and-amber candle guttering low on the side table, its wax pooling like warm blood—thirty-second floor. Snow outside fell in thick, sound-deadening curtains, but inside the air was dense, humid, alive with the wet musk of arousal and the low throb of bass from the city far below.

Bob lay sprawled naked across the black silk sheets—thirty-eight, body built from years of carrying lumber and swinging hammers, chest broad and furred with coarse dark hair that caught the amber light like wire. His cock stood rigid against his stomach: thick as a wrist at the base, tapering only slightly, veins bulging angrily under flushed skin, the fat mushroom head glossy and dark purple, weeping a steady, viscous thread of pre-cum that stretched and snapped with each heartbeat, pooling in the deep hollow above his navel in a small, shimmering lake that smelled faintly of bleach and salt.

Nawana stood at the foot of the bed, naked, skin gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat under the low sconces. Her full breasts rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths; dark areolas puckered tight, nipples hard as river pebbles; the smooth lips of her cunt already swollen and parted, inner folds glistening, a thin silver thread of arousal hanging from her clit and dripping slowly down the inside of her left thigh, cooling against her skin in tiny goosebump trails.

She crawled onto the mattress like a panther that had learned to hunger and straddled his hips. Wrapped one hand around the scorching base of his cock—fingers failing to meet—and angled the blunt head against her entrance. The first contact was electric: heat against heat, slick against slick. She sank.

One long, ruthless, full-depth drop.

Her cunt yielded with a loud, wet sucking sound. The stretch was brutal—lips parting wide, inner walls fluttering in frantic protest as every thick, ridged inch forced them apart. She felt the veins drag along her sensitive flesh like fingers; the slight upward curve pressed relentlessly against her front wall, grinding her G-spot with each centimeter gained until the fat head kissed her cervix with a dull, deep, bone-rattling throb that radiated up her spine and made her vision flicker white at the edges. Her clit mashed hard against the coarse tangle of his pubic hair, the friction so intense it bordered on pain. Slick poured out around him, running in hot rivulets down his shaft, coating his heavy balls, soaking the silk beneath them in dark, spreading patches that carried her sharp, tangy musk.

Bob’s low groan vibrated through both of them—gravel and animal need.

Then the electric prickle ignited at the base of her skull, hotter than fever.

“Don’t fucking move,” she hissed, voice thick.

Time stopped.

The room went deathly quiet except for her own ragged panting, the obscene wet squelch of her cunt as she began to use his locked shaft, and the faint drip-drip of melting snow against the window glass.