The hallway light flickers dimly. Floorboards creak under my sneakers as I turn the key quietly. Apartment building’s old, walls paper-thin. Neighbors asleep, TVs off. It’s Monday night, canicule still raging. I push the door open slow. Radio blasts from the living room. No knock—she won’t hear. Heart thumps already. Peek around the corner. There she is. Nadia. My cleaner. Bent over the ironing board. Black lace thong hugging her copper ass cheeks. Matching bra straining against those massive tits, 95C at least. Nipples poke through. She sways hips to the beat. Sweat glistens on her skin. Fuck. My cock twitches instant. She doesn’t hear the door click shut. I freeze, watch her ass jiggle with each press of the iron. Steam hisses soft. Light filters through blinds, stripes her curves. Risk hits me—Mrs. Lopez next door loves gossip. One moan, we’re busted. But I step closer. Parquet groans. She spins, eyes wide, smile quick. ‘André! Early again?’ Voice husky. No shame. She knows I look. Last week, fuschia set. This week, black lace. Game on.
Her tits bounce as she folds shirts. I sit on the couch, bulge growing. ‘Finish like that,’ I mutter. She grins, arches back. Ass flexes. I hand her the bag from O. Lingerie shop. Pastel blue-green set, see-through back. Truth game seals it. Questions fly. Did she steal my resille boxer? Yes. Jerked to her? Yes. She fingered herself with my string? Yes. Cheeks flush. She opens it, eyes light up. Tries it in bathroom. Comes out dressed. Tease. But truth round two. She lets me unbutton her blouse. Slow. Press studs pop soft. Bra revealed. Tits heave. I touch. Fabric slides under fingers. Nipples harden. Kiss deep, tongues wrestle wet. Unhook bra. Fingers pinch peaks. She gasps, muffled. ‘Quiet,’ I whisper. Neighbors. Hand to her panty. Wet spot spreads. Pull it aside? No, she drops pants. New thong transparent. Ass perfect, plump. Hands grab cheeks. She kneels, strips me. Boxer resille tents hard. Her fingers trace. Pulls it down. Cock springs free. She sucks slow. Slurp echoes too loud. Walls creak? No. Spit drips. Balls cupped. I groan low. Pull her up. Suck tits hard. Bite nipples. Hand in thong. Shaved smooth, soaked cunt. Fingers plunge. She bucks, bites lip. ‘Fuck me with hand,’ she hisses. Orgasms hard, walls clench fingers. Juices flood. She shakes, tits slap my chest.
The Contact
Her turn. Kneels again. Sucks deep, throat tight. Gags soft. ‘Gonna cum,’ I warn. She stands, jerks fast. Presses thong to pussy. I erupt. Thick ropes splatter lace, drip down thighs. She moans, rubs it in. ‘Mark my panties.’ We collapse, sweaty. Hands roam. Cock hardens again. She whispers, ‘Best part.’ Lifts hips. I peel thong slow. Sniff it—musk, cum mix. Cunt lips glisten, pink. Ready. But door? Hall light under frame. Footsteps? No. Heart pounds. She spreads legs. ‘Fuck me now.’ Risk electric. Neighbors dream away. Parquet cold under knees. I slide in raw. Tight, wet grip. Thrust slow. Bed creak next door? Imagination. She claws back. Tits swing wild. Pace up. Slaps skin echo. ‘Shh,’ she pants. Cum builds. Flood her deep. She quivers, second orgasm. Silence falls. Pull out. Cum leaks. Wipe with thong. Kiss sloppy.
She dresses quick. Thong ruined, stuffed in bag. ‘See you next Monday.’ Door clicks. Hall empty. Creep down stairs. Heart hammers. Old man on first floor nods sleepy. Did he hear? Grin inside. Secret burns. Back home, replay moans. Neighbors clueless. Transgression sweet.