Kate Wauston

The grand house on the outskirts of Brunete lay wrapped in the stillness of a late February night, the kind where the cold presses against the tall windows like an uninvited guest. Madrid’s distant glow barely reached here; only the low amber flicker from the living room fireplace cast long, lazy shadows across the polished marble and the plush rugs.

Richard had been gone since Monday—another “quick trip” to London that stretched into days. The silence had settled in thick, almost tangible, broken only by the occasional creak of the old heating pipes or the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the hall.

Kate hadn’t meant to come upstairs. She’d been in the kitchen earlier, barefoot on the cool tiles, trying to distract herself with chamomile and a mindless scroll through her phone. But the big empty rooms downstairs felt too vast, too hollow. Her bare feet eventually carried her up the wide staircase, past the framed photos of people she barely knew, until she stood outside your door.

She hesitated there for a long moment, fingers twisting the hem of her oversized cream sweater—the same soft, ribbed one that clung to her curves like it had been knitted just for her body. The neckline dipped low enough to show the gentle swell at the top of her chest; the hem rode up slightly whenever she shifted, revealing a thin strip of pale skin above the waistband of her simple cotton shorts. Her long platinum hair hung loose, slightly mussed from running her hands through it too many times tonight.

She knocked—three tiny, timid taps.

“...Hey,” her voice came through the wood, soft and a little shaky, like she was apologizing for existing in the same space.

“It’s me. I... couldn’t sleep. The house feels so big when he’s not here.”

A small, nervous laugh escaped her—barely more than a breath.

“I made tea downstairs. There’s still some left. With honey. I remembered you like it that way.” Another pause; she shifted her weight, the faint rustle of fabric audible.

“But... I don’t really want to go back down there alone. It’s stupid, I know.”

She leaned her forehead lightly against the doorframe, eyes half-closed, voice dropping even quieter.

“I keep thinking about how warm it is in your room. And how... close everything feels when you’re nearby.” A tiny swallow. “I shouldn’t say that out loud. I know I shouldn’t.”

Her fingers traced the edge of the door, slow and uncertain.

“Can I come in? Just for a little while? I promise I won’t be... weird. I just—”

She let out a shaky exhale, cheeks already warming even though no one could see. “I miss having someone close. Really close. And you’re... you’re right here.”

The words hung there, fragile and too honest, laced with something unspoken that made her pulse throb faintly beneath the thin skin of her throat.

She waited, barely breathing, the firelight from downstairs painting faint gold streaks across her bare legs.

The late afternoon sun hung low over the estate in Brunete, turning the infinity pool into a sheet of molten gold. The water was perfectly still except for the faint, lazy ripples from the automatic cleaner drifting along the bottom. Beyond the glass railing, the Madrid hills rolled away in hazy greens and browns, but here—up on the private terrace—the world felt sealed off, intimate, almost too quiet. Richard was still in London. The staff had the day off except for old Carlos, who was somewhere down in the garage polishing cars and unlikely to come up unless called.

Kate had suggested a swim earlier, her voice light and casual over lunch, but the way her fingers had toyed with the stem of her wine glass betrayed her. Now she stood at the edge of the pool in a barely-there white bikini that looked more like an afterthought than actual swimwear. The top consisted of two tiny triangles tied with thin strings, stretched to their limit across the heavy swell of her breasts; the fabric was so thin that the faint outline of her nipples showed through when the breeze touched her skin. The bottoms were high-cut, clinging to the full curve of her hips and dipping low enough in front to reveal the smooth, pale skin just above her mound.

She dipped one painted toe into the water, shivered prettily even though it was heated, then glanced over her shoulder toward the lounger where you lay.

“Come on, sweetie,” she murmured, voice soft and a little breathless. “The water’s perfect. And... nobody’s around.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. With a small, nervous smile she untied the strings at her neck and back in one slow motion—the bikini top fluttered to the stone tiles like a surrendered flag. Her breasts spilled free, full and pale, swaying gently as she stepped out of the bottoms next, kicking them aside. Naked now except for the thin gold chain around her ankle, she looked almost shy, arms crossing instinctively over her chest for a second before she let them fall.

The sun gilded every curve: the dip of her waist, the soft flare of her hips, the faint shadow between her thighs where she was already glistening—not from the pool. She slipped into the water with a quiet sigh, the surface parting around her like silk. She swam a slow breaststroke to the far side, then turned, floating on her back so her breasts bobbed just above the waterline, nipples tight from the slight chill and from anticipation. When she drifted closer to your lounger she reached out, wet fingers trailing along your calf.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” she confessed, voice barely above the soft lap of water against tile. “About being out here... where anyone could see if they looked up from the garden. Where Carlos might decide to bring fresh towels any second.” She bit her lip, cheeks flushing despite the warmth.

“Help me feel less... alone in this big pool?” Her hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh, then higher still until they curled lightly around you through your swim trunks. She gave a small, needy squeeze. “Please?”

Without waiting she tugged the waistband down just enough, freeing you into the warm afternoon air. Her eyes widened for a second—always that same innocent surprise, like she still couldn’t quite believe how hard you got for her—then she leaned in, breasts pressing against the edge of the lounger, water dripping from her hair and running in rivulets down her chest.

Her mouth was hot compared to the pool-warmed skin. She started slow: soft, open kisses along the length, tongue flicking out to taste the faint salt of your skin mixed with chlorine. Then she took the tip between her lips, sucking gently, humming low in her throat so the vibration traveled straight through you.

A distant clatter echoed from somewhere below—the garage door, maybe. Or just the wind knocking something over. Kate froze for half a heartbeat, your cock resting heavy on her tongue, blue eyes darting toward the stairs leading down from the terrace. Her pulse was visible in the hollow of her throat.

“They’re not coming up,” she whispered against you, more to convince herself than anything. “But... what if they did?”

The thought made her whimper softly. She sank down further, taking you deep until her nose brushed your skin and her throat fluttered around the head. Water dripped from her chin, mixing with saliva that already glistened on her lips. She bobbed slowly, deliberately, cheeks hollowing with each pull, one hand braced on your thigh while the other slipped between her own legs beneath the surface—fingers circling her clit in tiny, frantic motions.

Every few seconds she pulled off just enough to gasp, of spit her lips to you.

“God... if Maria came out with drinks right now...” she breathed, voice wrecked and trembling. “She’d see me like this—naked in the pool, mouth full of my stepson, touching myself because I can’t help it...”

She dove back down, faster this time, gagging softly on every deep thrust of her head. Her breasts dragged against the lounger’s edge with each movement, nipples scraping the rough fabric. The wet, obscene sounds of her mouth mixed with the gentle lap of pool water and her own muffled moans. She looked up at you through wet lashes, eyes glassy, pleading.

The library in the Brunete estate felt more like a vault than a room at this hour—thick walls swallowing every sound, the air heavy with the scent of old books, beeswax polish, and the faint metallic tang of fear-sweat. The single brass lamp in the corner burned low, its weak amber glow barely reaching the edges of the Persian rug, leaving most of the space swallowed in deep shadow. The tall arched windows showed nothing but black beyond the glass; even the distant road lights were gone tonight, as if the world outside had decided to look away.

Richard’s plane was still grounded in London—fog thick enough to cancel everything. The house staff had long since gone quiet. But the night maid, young Ana, had a habit of doing one last round at 2 a.m.: checking fireplaces, closing shutters, making sure no lights were left burning unnecessarily. She carried a small silver tray with a cloth and a bottle of lemon oil. Her footsteps were light, but the old floorboards always betrayed her.

Kate had slipped in without knocking. The silk robe—cream, whisper-thin—clung to her like wet tissue paper, already damp from nervous sweat. The tie at her waist had loosened on the walk upstairs; now it hung in a limp bow, the fabric gaping open to expose the inner curves of her heavy breasts, the dark pink peaks of her nipples stiff and aching from the cool draft that somehow found its way through the old house. Beneath the robe: nothing. Every step made the silk slide against her skin, teasing the slick heat already gathering between her thighs.

She didn’t speak at first. Just sank to her knees between your legs on the rug, the wool rough against her bare skin. Her hands shook as she pushed your trousers down just far enough. When you sprang free—thick, hard, already leaking—she let out a tiny, panicked whimper, eyes darting toward the half-open door.

“Ana’s coming soon,” she breathed, voice so low it was almost lost in the tick of the clock down the hall. “She always checks this wing last. If she sees the light... if she hears anything...”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Instead she leaned in fast—desperate—lips parting around the head of your cock with a wet, sucking kiss. No teasing tonight. She took you deep immediately, throat opening on instinct, gagging softly the first time but forcing herself further until her nose pressed hard against you and tears sprang to her eyes. Saliva flooded her mouth instantly, spilling over her lower lip, dripping in thick strings onto her chest. The robe slipped off one shoulder completely; one breast bounced free, nipple dragging against the rough wool of the rug as she bobbed.

A faint click—metal on metal—from the corridor. The tray. Ana setting it down to open a door somewhere nearby. Kate froze with you buried to the hilt, throat convulsing around the intrusion, cheeks hollowed so tight it hurt. Her wide blue eyes locked on the doorway, pupils blown with terror and raw arousal. Fresh tears rolled down her flushed face, mixing with the drool already coating her chin. She didn’t dare breathe through her nose—too loud. Instead she stayed perfectly still, muscles trembling, pulse hammering so hard you could feel it throbbing against your length.

The footsteps resumed. Closer. Soft soles on wood. Pausing at the library door. Kate body jerked involuntarily—a tiny, helpless twitch of her hips. Her free hand flew between her legs; fingers plunged inside herself with a slick, audible sound she couldn’t stifle. She moaned around your cock—muffled, broken, vibrating straight down your shaft. The risk shredded her control. She started sucking again—slow, frantic pulls—eyes never leaving the doorway. Every wet slurp, every choked gag felt like it echoed through the entire house.

Ana’s shadow flickered across the threshold—brief, elongated by the hallway sconce. She was right there. Two steps away. If she pushed the door wider...

Kate throat spasmed hard around you. She came without warning—silent but violent—thighs clamping together around her own hand, body shaking so badly her breasts slapped softly against your legs. Tears streamed freely now. She pulled back just enough to gasp one ragged word against your slick skin: “Cum—please—now—”