The week after the live stream felt strange. The building was too quiet. Mr. Callahan's texts stopped. I felt unmoored, a secret ache blooming between my legs that had nothing to do with physical need and everything to do with the silence. The hum of his possession was gone.
So, one morning after a long, steamy bath, I dressed for myself. A baby blue, laced-up crop top that did nothing to hide the deep swell of my tits, and tiny matching shorts that clung to the generous curve of my ass. No bra, of course. Never a bra, cold silver against my flushed skin.
I was padding to the kitchen when I heard it—small, frantic barks right outside my door. I frowned, opening it a crack.
A little brown poodle tumbled inside, yapping happily. I laughed, a real sound that felt foreign in my own ears, and scooped the wriggling thing up. "Hey there, where'd you come from?" I checked its collar. A tag. If found, contact Apartment 304.
That was the new tenant. The one who'd just moved in across the hall last week. The sounds of settling had finally stopped. I carried the poodle, its tiny heart thumping against my palm, and knocked on the open door of 304.
"Hello?"
A man appeared. Tall, in his sixties, with a soft belly and gentle eyes behind round glasses. He looked down at the dog in my arms and his face broke into a relieved smile. "Oh, Biscuit! You naughty girl, you got out!"
"She was at my door," I said, handing the poodle over.
"Thank you, thank you so much," he said, cradling the dog. "I was just bringing in the groceries and she slipped out. Please, come in. Let me thank you properly."
"Oh, no, it's really okay," I said, taking a step back.
"I insist," he said, his voice kind but firm. "Just for a moment. I'm Leonard."
Polite girl instincts won. I stepped inside. His apartment was sparse, boxes still stacked, but an easel stood by the window, canvases leaning against the wall. Portraits. He was an artist.
I sat on the edge of his sofa, feeling the lace of my shorts dig into my thighs. He locked the door. The click was soft, but it made my breath catch for a reason I couldn't name.
He sat in a chair opposite, asking polite questions. I answered, my voice shy. Freelance accountant. Yes, I live alone. I manage.
He nodded, a slow smile spreading. "A young, independent woman. Impressive." He moved then, not back to his chair, but to sit right beside me on the couch. The cushion dipped, his weight shifting close. "I'm a portrait artist," he said. "Divorced. Biscuit here is my best friend."
As if on cue, the poodle jumped into my lap, her little paws scrambling. She nipped playfully at the thin strap of my crop top. I giggled, trying to gently push her away. "No, sweetie, that's not a toy—"
The strap stretched.
The flimsy top, already strained over my heavy breasts, was yanked down by the dog's momentum. In one swift, terrible second, my tits spilled free into the open air of Leonard's living room.
I gasped, freezing. My hands flew up, but it was too late. He'd seen everything. The full, heavy weight of them, my pale skin flushed from the bath, the silver barbells glinting from my tight, pink nipples.
A hot, vicious blush scorched my entire body. "Fuck," I whispered, scrambling to pull the fabric up.
But Leonard's hand was already there. He gently took the poodle and set her on the floor. Then his eyes, now dark and appreciative behind his glasses, raked over my exposed chest. He didn't look away. He leaned in.
"Don't be embarrassed," he murmured, his voice lower than before. "My god. You have lovely tits. I could look at them all day, to be honest."
Before I could process the words, his hand came up. Not to help me cover, but to cup my right breast. His palm was rough, an artist's hand stained with paint and life. He pressed gently, testing the soft, giving flesh. A low, traitorous moan slipped from my lips.
"There we go," he said, his thumb brushing over my nipple, making it pucker harder. "That's a good sound." His other hand joined, sliding around my waist, pulling me closer. He rubbed my sides, my stomach, his big hands mapping the curves of my body through the thin lace of my shorts and top. His touch was exploratory, possessive in a new, shocking way.
He pushed his hands under the hem of my ruined crop top, his rough palms skating over the bare, sensitive skin of my ribs, my stomach. I moaned again, my head falling back against the couch. Shame and a deep, crawling arousal warred inside me.
"So soft," he commented, his breath warm against my cheek. "So fucking cute."
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my top and my shorts together. "Lift your hips, sweetheart."
Dazed, I did. He peeled both garments down in one smooth motion, dragging them over my hips, down my thick thighs, and off. He tossed them aside. I was naked on a stranger's couch, my body plump and exposed under his hungry gaze.
"My, my," he breathed. He didn't touch me yet. He just looked, his eyes devouring me. "What a canvas." He leaned down and kissed my stomach, just above my navel piercing. His lips traveled lower, over the soft mound of my belly, heading toward the thatch of dark curls between my legs. I trembled.
"Turn around," he said, his voice husky. "On your knees. Show me that ass."
Blushing so hard my ears rang, I obeyed. I got on my knees on the couch, facing the backrest. I felt his eyes on the full, rounded curves of my ass, the way my thick thighs spread to support me.
"Jesus Christ," he groaned. "Look at that ass. It's perfect. Ripe. Made for smacking." His hand came down in a gentle, stinging slap on my right cheek. The flesh jiggled, a ripple of sensation spreading through me. I whimpered.
He leaned in, his face close to my exposed center. I felt his warm breath on my soaked folds. "And this pretty, dripping hole," he muttered. He didn't ask. He just buried his face between my cheeks, his nose nudging my pussy from behind. He inhaled deeply. "Fuck, you smell good."
Then his tongue was on me. A hot, wet stripe licking up my slit. I cried out, my fingers clawing at the couch cushions. He ate me from behind, his tongue spearing into my hole, lapping up the wetness that was already flowing for him. His hands gripped my hips, holding me still as he feasted. It was messy, loud, and so fucking good. The scrape of his stubble on my inner thighs, the suction of his mouth on my puffy outer lips… it was too much. My orgasm ripped through me without warning, a sharp, shocking clench that had me shaking and moaning into the fabric of the couch.
"That's it," he growled against my wet flesh. His fingers found my swollen clit, pinching the pierced bead gently, then chewing on it with his lips. The overstimulation made me sob. He pushed his tongue deep inside me again, fucking me with it, then gave my ass cheek a sharp bite, leaving a mark.
"Come here," he said, pulling me back to sit beside him. I was boneless, blushing, my cunt throbbing and exposed. He pulled me into his lap, my back against his chest, and his hands went straight to my tits. He cupped them, weighing them, then began to suck on my right nipple, his tongue swirling around the metal.
"I'm a blessed man," he mumbled against my skin between sucks. "In my sixties, and I get to taste a beauty like you. These tits are a fucking masterpiece." He smacked one, making it bounce, then kissed the reddening skin. He covered my neck and chest in wet, open-mouthed kisses, his hands mauling my breasts.
The doorbell rang.
We both froze. His mouth stilled on my nipple. My heart hammered against my ribs.
"Dress," he said, his voice suddenly pragmatic. He handed me my clothes.
My hands trembled so badly I could barely pull the shorts and torn top back on. He gave me a quick, assessing look, then straightened his own shirt and went to the door.
He opened it.
Mr. Callahan stood in the hallway.
A bolt of pure, electric shock shot through me. I stood there, disheveled, my lips swollen, my tits barely contained in the top,his scent undoubtedly all over my skin.
Mr. Callahan's eyes moved from Leonard's slightly flushed face to mine. He saw my breathless state, the fresh blush, the way I couldn't meet his gaze. His own expression didn't change, but his eyes turned to chips of dark ice.
"Daniel," Leonard said, a bit too heartily. "Just doing a neighborly check-in? This young lady found my dog."
"I see," Mr. Callahan said, his voice flat. He looked back at Leonard. "Just wanted to make sure everything was set up for you. No issues with the plumbing?"
They exchanged a few bland sentences about the apartment. Then Mr. Callahan's gaze sliced back to me. "Mia. I need to see you about some building fee calculations. My records are off. Now, please."
It wasn't a request. It was a cold, hard command. The possessiveness in his tone made my already soaked cunt clench. I like it when he's possessive, the traitorous thought whispered.
"O-of course," I stammered. I mumbled a goodbye to Leonard, and followed Mr. Callahan's rigid back out the door and across the hall to my apartment.
The door clicked shut behind us. He turned the deadbolt with a final, heavy thunk.
Before I could breathe, he was on me. He spun me around, pressing my front against the cool wood of the door. He pinned my arms above my head, his big hands wrapping around my wrists, holding me there. His body was a solid, furious wall at my back.
He buried his face in my neck, inhaling deeply. Then he kissed me. Not a kiss. A claiming. He turned my head and his mouth crashed down on mine, his tongue forcing its way past my lips. He sucked my tongue into his mouth, possessive and deep, a growl vibrating in his chest. The taste of another man wasn't on me, but the scent of my arousal for someone else definitely was. He could smell it.
With his other hand, he yanked my shorts down my thighs. He hooked one of my legs, lifting it, and wrapped it around his waist. I was balanced on one foot, pinned, exposed. His hand slid between my legs, his fingers sliding easily through the slick mess there.
"You have been such a naughty girl, Mia," he whispered, his voice a dark, dirty rasp against my ear. His fingers rubbed my swollen folds, checking. "You're soaked. Fuck. You swore this cunt was mine. And you go around, playing the sweet little neighbor for a old man?" He smacked my clit with his fingertips—a sharp, stinging tap that made me cry out and gush around his hand. "You like that, don't you? You like getting caught."
He kissed me again, deep and punishing, his tongue dominating mine. "Dirty girl," he breathed between kisses. "Letting him look. Letting him touch. Letting him taste what's mine."
He pushed two fingers inside me, curling them. I was so wet they slid in to the knuckles instantly. He pumped them slowly, the squelching sound obscene in the quiet hallway. "So fucking wet for your punishment," he observed, his voice thick with anger and lust. "Good girl. But you will be punished. Soon."
He pulled his fingers out and sucked them clean with a loud, nasty slurp. Then he leaned down and bit the side of my neck, not a kiss, a sharp, branding bite that would leave a dark mark. "Mine."
He released me suddenly. I sagged against the door, my legs weak. He walked to my dining table, where a small, sealed plastic bag sat. Inside were his white cotton boxers—the ones he'd stuffed inside me after the live stream. He'd left them for me to… keep.
He tore the bag open, brought the fabric to his nose, and inhaled. A dark, satisfied smirk touched his lips. "Still smells like you," he said, his eyes locking on mine. "Still smells like my come and your slutty juice."
He came back to me, knelt down between my still-spread legs, and pressed his face into my bare pussy. He didn't lick. He just gave the soft, fleshy mound a hard, sucking kiss, leaving an instant, dark purple hickey right above my curls. A mark of ownership.
He stood up, tucked his boxers back into the bag, and walked to the door. He unlocked it, opened it, and looked back at me, still slumped and blushing against the wall, his mark already blooming on my neck, another on my mound.
"Think about what you've done, sweetie," he said, his voice deceptively soft. The smirk was back, full of promise and threat. "I'll be thinking of your punishment."
The door shut behind him.
I slid down the wall to the floor, my hands trembling as I touched the fresh hickey on my neck. My cunt was throbbing, empty, soaked. A helpless, thrilled blush burned across my skin.