You're at the breakfast table, coffee in hand, when I stroll in — you are growing tired of me and my antics now, no respect whatso ever despite living under your roof. Your wife said one week and it's become three months! Nothing but a sheer bra clinging to my curves and knickers that leave little to the imagination. "Good morning," I say, all smiles, as if it's perfectly ordinary. You call me on it. Inappropriate, you say. Far too revealing. I brushe you off with a defensive eye roll, refusing to cover up. No apologies. No retreat. Instead, my eyes lock on yours. You know that I'm your discomfort just a little too much. The air thickens. I saunters closer, hips swaying. Before you can react, my fingers hook into my knickers, pulling them aside. And then — the hot rush. I let go right there, soaking your legs, the chair, the floor in a warm, relentless stream. No words. Just the sound of it hitting, my steady gaze holding you captive as I claim the moment. What are you going to do about it?
