She loves to Cook and my Cock on Sunday mornings

Mmmh... that smell!

Isabelle is cooking meatloaf, and that can mean only one thing: it's Sunday.

And do you know why Sundays make me especially happy? Because Isabelle doesn't work, so we get the whole day together.

She has so many good qualities, but she's not exactly a skilled cook.

Then again, she doesn't even have time to practice.

She's the head of the U.S. branch of Seiryu Biotech—a Japanese pharmaceutical multinational with research centers all over the world.

Her job takes up a huge amount of time, but it pays her more than enough for the time she puts in—and in case it's not clear, that woman is filthy rich.

That's why she has a housekeeper who handles all the chores, including cooking for me—Mrs. Morales.

But don't get the wrong idea.

Mrs. Morales is the last kind of woman I'd ever feel that kind of interest toward—both because of her age, well over sixty, and because her body isn't exactly the kind I like in a mature woman.

I think that's exactly why Isabelle chose her—being as jealous as she is, there's no way she would've let a remotely attractive woman stay alone at home with me.

Still, Mrs. Morales knows what she's doing, and I wouldn't trade her for any other housekeeper in the world.

And yet, for some strange reason, Mom's meatloaf always comes out insanely good, and since she insists on cooking personally whenever we're home together... she always makes the one dish she can nail.

Though honestly, when she's wearing that kitchen apron with only a thin red thong underneath and nothing else, she could cook literally anything and I'd eat it without hesitation.

«My little Rennie»—that's the nickname she uses—«What do you say we have dinner tonight at that resturant—»

She suddenly stops as soon as she feels my fingers clutching her massive tits, squeezing, kneading them hard.

God, those tits.

The eighth wonder of the world.

So firm, so full, so heavy—I always wonder how her back doesn't give out when she walks.

I could stay glued to her tits 24/7.

«R-Rennie... j-just give me a moment, I'm still cooking...» she moans.

She pants.

Her mouth tells me to stop, but her body says the exact opposite.

She pushes her back against me, her ass grinding against my hard cock—hard since I woke up, like every time we're home alone.

I lick her neck, nibble her earlobe—that always drives her crazy.

And then...

«Ow...!»

She cuts her fingertip slightly with the big knife she's using to chop the veggies.

Blood.

I couldn't have asked for more—the cherry on top of a perfect Sunday morning.

And she knows.

She knows her blood turns me into a sex maniac.

She does it on purpose—sticks her index finger into my mouth, lets that tiny cut drip onto my tongue.

She doesn't say a word, but we don't need words between us.

I pull her thong down in one swift motion, letting it fall at her bare feet, painted with nail polish the same color as the blood that slowly sends my taste buds into ecstasy.

And now, bent forward, her back arched, her tongue hanging from her soft, full lips... she pants, moans, screams my name.

Her nails dig into my thighs as she pulls me deeper into her—every inch of my cock sliding into her warm, soaked pussy.

She thanks the God of Light for choosing me that cold December morning.

Isabelle once told me she had always wanted a child, but her job left no time for men—or for a real, lasting relationship.

And of course, raising a baby alone was out of the question.

That's why she adopted one who was already ten.

In a way, I've solved both her problems.

And maybe that's why she can't get enough of my cock now—she spent too long locked away in her office without anyone to fuck her properly.

Now I'm that someone.

I know, it sounds strange coming from me, but when it comes to her, I'm probably even more jealous than she is about me.

I know I should get my head straight, but come on—I'm only eighteen. If I don't enjoy myself now, when the hell should I?

«R-Rennie... today you're... you're even more passionate than usual... God, it drives me insane!»

Her screams grow sharper, more intense.

And no, we don't live in a mansion out in the middle of nowhere.

We live in a loft in the trendiest skyscraper in Manhattan, and I seriously doubt the soundproofing is enough to hide her muffled moans and the uncontrollable screams of pleasure pouring from her mouth.

But honestly, I don't give a fuck—they can think what they want, gossip all they want.

Nothing's going to stop me from pounding her pussy every chance I get.

And she feels exactly the same.

We actually talked about it once, after some neighbor left a note on our door a couple of years ago.

[Shut that mouth when you do those things. We don't care to hear you screaming like a possessed woman every night!]

But Isabelle didn't let herself be intimidated.

«This is my house, and I'll fuck when, how, and most of all, with who I want! If some unsatisfied woman or jealous man can't handle the fact you make me cum like that, that's their problem—not mine!»

I guess after this morning, we'll get more than just a single angry note.

Because...

«Rennie...! Rennie...! Cum inside me, Rennie...! I want it all... all of it inside me...!»

By instinct, my fingers grip her hips even harder—I thrust deeper, harder, until...

It's crazy how perfectly our bodies have synced over the years—my orgasm explodes inside her at the exact moment her juices drip down her thighs, mixed with mine, right after one last desperate and satisfied moan.

My thick, white cum runs down her soft, trembling legs.

She turns to face me.

She kisses me, and I kiss her back.

Our tongues twirl together, just like our legs, as my still-hard cock presses tightly between her thighs.

«Looks like someone's not done yet...» she murmurs with a teasing smile, brushing my tip with her fingertip.

Done? Pff... we haven't even started.