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She began timing her tasks to fit around his schedule.

Cleaning the master bathroom while he showered, steam curling under the door, the faint sound of water hitting tile, her fingers lingering too long on the marble counter as she imagined him soaping that massive length, hand wrapped around it, stroking slowly and deliberately. Dusting the home gym when he lifted weights. His grunts echoed off the mirrored walls, biceps bulging, the front of his compression shorts straining visibly with each heavy rep. She'd catch his eye in the reflection sometimes, and he'd hold her gaze a beat too long before looking away, jaw tight.

And the nights.

When Elena was home, Layla would slip down the hall after lights-out, pressing herself against the wall outside their bedroom door, hand already inside her panties as she listened. The sounds told her everything she needed to know about Daniel's skill. He wasn't some fumbling amateur; he knew exactly what he was doing. The bed would creak in a steady, deliberate rhythm. Slow at first, building with purpose, then accelerate into something harder, deeper, the headboard tapping the wall in measured thuds. Elena's moans would start low and sultry, that husky accent wrapping around Daniel's name like silk, only to fracture into sharp, breathless gasps when he hit the right angle. There were the wet, obscene sounds of flesh meeting flesh, the slick glide of his enormous cock plunging in and out, Elena's arousal audible in every thrust. And then muffled screams, impassioned, almost desperate. When he pushed her over the edge again and again, Elena would bury her face in the pillow or bite down on her own arm, but the cries still leaked out: high, keening, raw with pleasure that sounded like it bordered on too much. Daniel's responses were quieter, low growls, ragged breaths, the occasional deep groan when he came, but the control in them was unmistakable. He drew those sounds from his wife like an instrument he'd mastered, prolonging her climaxes, coaxing multiple peaks before finally letting go himself with a guttural sound that vibrated through the walls.

Layla would rub her clit in frantic circles, timing her own release to Elena's muffled screams, imagining the stretch of that thick shaft splitting her open, the burn turning to bliss, the weight of him pinning her down while he fucked her with the same precise, relentless rhythm. She'd come biting her own wrist, thighs shaking, picturing the moment he pulled out, still half-hard, glistening with Elena's release—and turned toward the cracked door where she hid.

Daniel never acknowledged it outright. Not yet.

But he knew she listened.

He knew she touched herself to the symphony of their sex.

As the summer dragged on, with hotter days and longer nights, Layla grew more certain that soon, the quiet, towering man she watched would stop pretending he didn't hear her soft, stifled whimpers in the hallway. She was already desperate for the invitation she hoped would come. Her body, while she worked, felt like a betrayal. Her nipples brushed the inside of her uniform dress when she reached high to dust crown molding; the soft cotton of her panties clung damply between her thighs when she bent to wipe baseboards; the constant, low throb in her clit had become her new normal since that first summer glimpse of Daniel in swim trunks. The outline of his cock had etched itself into her memory like an artist's first bold line on a blank canvas: thick, heavy, and hanging low, even soft, the head clearly defined against navy fabric, promising something that made her knees weak just thinking about it.

She told herself she was fine. Professional. Detached.

But the nights were worse.

She'd lie in the narrow bed in her private bedroom, windows open to the canyon breeze, listening for the faint sounds drifting from the main house. Some evenings, there was nothing—just the hum of the pool filter or crickets. Those nights she'd touch herself slowly, almost angrily, circling her swollen clit with two fingers while picturing Daniel alone in the shower, soaping that enormous length, hand wrapped around the base, stroking himself with the same deliberate control he used on everything else. She'd imagine the water sluicing over his broad chest, down the ridges of his abs, catching in the dark trail of hair that disappeared into those low-slung shorts she'd seen him wear around the house. Her breath would hitch; she'd slip two fingers inside herself, curling them, pretending they were his—thicker, longer, stretching her until she whimpered into her pillow.

Other nights, Elena was home.

The bed creaked first, slow and measured, as if Daniel savored every inch while sinking into his wife. Elena's low, sultry laugh would drift through the walls, that accented purr wrapping around Daniel's name. Then the rhythm would build: wet, rhythmic slaps of skin on skin, the slick glide of his cock plunging deep and withdrawing almost to the tip before driving back in. Elena's moans would fracture—soft at first, then sharper, breathier—until they tipped into muffled screams, the kind that meant he'd found the exact spot that made her lose control. The headboard would tap the wall in perfect time with his thrusts; Elena would gasp, "Daniel—fuck—right there—don't stop," voice cracking on the edges, raw and desperate. Yet, despite her obsession, Layla was painfully aware of what was at risk. Caught eavesdropping on these intimate moments would not only cost her job but also the fragile sense of dignity she'd managed to preserve. Her position, precarious as it was in a world defined by power and wealth, hinged on her ability to remain unseen and unnoticed until she was needed. Layla could picture it too clearly: Elena's long legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper while that massive shaft stretched her open, veins pulsing against sensitive walls, the head kissing her cervix with every brutal stroke.

Layla would press her ear to the hallway wall outside their door, nightshirt rucked up, thighs spread, fingers plunging in and out of her soaked pussy in frantic imitation. Her free hand would clamp over her mouth to stifle the whimpers that wanted to escape every time Elena came—high, plaintive cries that vibrated through the drywall, followed by the wet gush Layla knew meant Elena had squirted around him again. Daniel's responses were quieter but no less telling: a low, guttural growl when Elena clenched down, a ragged breath when he held himself deep, grinding against her clit until she shattered a second, third time. When he finally came, it was with a deep, primal sound that rumbled through the house—a groan that seemed to pull from his chest like he was emptying everything into her, thick ropes flooding her until it leaked out, slick and hot.

Layla would come with them—silent, violent, thighs quaking, fingers buried to the knuckles as her walls fluttered uselessly around nothing. She'd slump against the wall afterward, chest heaving, cheeks wet with tears she hadn't realized she'd shed, hating how empty she felt the moment the sounds stopped.

Because Daniel knew.

He had to know.

The way he'd pause sometimes when passing her in the kitchen, eyes flicking to her flushed cheeks, her slightly parted lips, the way her nipples stood out against the thin fabric of her dress. The way he'd let his hand brush hers when handing her a glass to polish—his fingers lingering a half-second too long, warm and deliberate. The way he'd stand just a little closer than necessary when she was folding laundry, his body heat seeping through the air, the faint bulge in his trousers twitching visibly when she bent forward, and her cleavage spilled forward in the low neckline of her uniform.

He never said a word about it.

He didn't have to.

Every time their eyes met across the room—hers wide and hungry, his dark and unreadable—she felt the tension coil tighter in her belly. A live wire stretched between them, humming with unspoken promise. She knew he heard her too: the soft, stifled gasps she couldn't quite swallow when she touched herself in the hallway, the faint wet sounds of her fingers working her clit while she listened to him fuck his wife into oblivion.

He was waiting.

Or testing her.

Or both.

Layla felt like she was burning up with it. Every glance, every accidental touch, every night spent listening to him with Elena pushed her closer to doing something reckless. She wanted to drop to her knees in the great room, pull down his tailored trousers, and take him in her mouth until he lost control. The air-con hummed softly, creating a steady backdrop that seemed to amplify the quickening of her pulse. As she imagined him bending her over the kitchen island, the click of her heels on the marble echoed in her mind, a punctuating beat to her fantasy. She wanted to beg him to stretch her open until she screamed louder than Elena ever had, the ambient noise a silent witness to her imagined surrender.

She wanted him to know she was ready, dripping, aching, and desperate for the moment he would finally stop pretending and claim what he'd been teasing her with since that first summer day by the pool.

Until then, the tension stayed heavy and hot between her legs, a constant, throbbing ache that only grew sharper with every knowing look he gave her.

And Layla wasn't sure how much longer she could stand it without breaking.

The breaking point came on a sweltering afternoon in mid-July, when Elena was out of town for another investor summit. The house was eerily quiet, only the hum of the air conditioning and the faint trickle of the pool breaking the silence. Layla was tasked with cleaning the master suite. She started with the counters, wiping them until they gleamed, then moved to the shower, scrubbing the glass enclosure. The humidity from Daniel's earlier shower still hung in the air, mirrors fogged, the scent of his crisp, masculine body wash lingering. As she restocked the towels, she caught her reflection, her cheeks flushed, pupils dilated, her uniform clinging to her curves in the summer heat. Her nipples peaked against the fabric, the chill of the room and her wandering thoughts making her acutely aware of her body.

She should have excused herself, mumbled an apology, and fled. But her body betrayed her, rooted in place, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, breaths coming in shallow, uneven pants that she tried to steady. Daniel turned on the shower with a twist of the knob, the water roaring to life in a hot cascade that steamed the glass immediately, the sound a white noise that drowned out everything but the rush of blood in her ears. He dropped the towel without ceremony, letting it pool at his feet on the tile. Layla's world narrowed to the sight before her: his completely naked body, exposed in all its raw, unfiltered glory for the first time.

Her astonishment hit like a physical blow, stealing her breath in a sharp inhale that she barely muffled with her hand. Daniel was a masterpiece of masculine perfection, his six-foot-four frame towering in the spacious bathroom, broad shoulders tapering down to a chiseled chest dusted with dark hair that trailed in a tempting line over washboard abs, each ridge defined and glistening slightly from residual moisture. His arms were corded with muscle, veins standing out along his forearms from his recent workout, biceps flexing subtly as he tested the water temperature. His thighs were powerful pillars, thick and toned from years of rowing and running, leading up to hips that framed the V-cut of his pelvis like an arrow pointing to the center of her fixation. There, hanging heavy and thick between his legs, was his cock. It was flaccid yet astonishing in its size, easily seven inches soft, thicker than her wrist, with a slight curve even at rest. The smooth, veined shaft swayed gently as he moved, the bulbous head partially hooded by foreskin that begged to be peeled back. It was larger, flaccid, than most men she'd been with were erect, thicker than Jake's promise fulfilled, longer than Raoul's slender tool, and more imposing than Carlos's curved girth. The sight made her core clench involuntarily, a rush of heat flooding her pussy, her arousal already seeping into her panties as she stared, unable to tear her eyes away, her mouth watering with the imagined taste of that velvety skin on her tongue, salty and warm.

Daniel stepped under the spray without glancing back, the water sluicing over his body in rivulets that traced every contour, steam rising around him like a veil that only heightened the eroticism. He reached for the body wash, his usual cedar-scented gel, and squeezed a generous dollop into his palm. The squelch of the bottle echoed faintly over the roar of the water. Lathering up slowly and methodically, he started at his neck. Suds formed in thick, creamy bubbles that slid down his chest, catching in the hair there before trailing lower. His hands moved with unhurried confidence. He ran them over his pecs, thumbs brushing his own nipples briefly, making them harden under the touch. Then he moved down his abs, fingers splaying to cover every ridge, and along his hips, the foam gathering in the creases. Layla's breaths came faster, shallow and ragged, her thighs pressing together instinctively as she watched from her kneeling position, hidden just enough by the half-open shower door but with a perfect view through the fogging glass.

Then his hands descended lower, one wrapping around the base of his cock with casual ease, the other cupping his heavy balls, soaping them gently at first. The sight was mesmerizing. His flaccid length lifted slightly under his touch, the suds coating the shaft in a slippery sheen that made it glisten under the overhead lights. He stroked lazily, not yet aroused but clearly enjoying the sensation, the water rinsing away the foam in slow streams that revealed the clean, smooth skin beneath. Layla bit her lip hard enough to taste the faint copper tang of blood, her clit throbbing insistently, demanding attention she didn't dare give it here. But Daniel's movements shifted. His grip tightened just a fraction, strokes lengthened from base to tip, pulling back the foreskin to expose the swelling head, now flushing pink as blood rushed in. He was pleasuring himself now, slowly at first, eyes closing under the spray, head tilting back slightly to let the water cascade over his face, lips parting on a soft exhale that she strained to hear over the roar.

Her astonishment deepened as she watched him engorge. Inch by inch, the shaft thickened and lengthened, veins bulging along the length like ropes under the skin, the head flaring wide and dark with arousal. Fully erect, it was a monster—ten inches at least, maybe more, girthier than anything she'd ever taken, curving upward slightly with a promise of hitting spots she didn't know existed. She dwelled on it obsessively in that moment, unable to believe the sheer scale: the way it pulsed in his fist, the head weeping pre-cum that mixed with the water in glossy beads, the balls drawing up tight as his pace quickened. His breaths deepened to low grunts, chest heaving, muscles flexing across his torso as he stroked faster, hand twisting at the tip with a practiced motion that made the shaft twitch visibly. The steam thickened the air, carrying the clean scent of his soap mixed with the emerging musk of his arousal, a heady combination that made Layla's head spin, her own scent blooming between her legs as her panties grew soaked.

He brought himself to climax with unerring control. Strokes shortened as he focused on the sensitive underside, his free hand bracing against the glass as his hips bucked forward involuntarily. His release hit like a storm. The first stream shot out in a thick, white rope, splattering against the glass door with a wet smack, followed by another and another. Five or six powerful spurts painted the pane in creamy arcs, the quantity astonishing, more than she'd ever seen from a man, enough to fill her mouth twice over if she'd been there to catch it. The semen clung to the glass, slowly sliding down in viscous trails. The scent was faint but detectable even through the steam, salty, musky, and potent. Daniel groaned low in his throat, a deep rumble that vibrated through the air. His body shuddered with the aftershocks, cock twitching in his hand as the last drops oozed out, the head still flushed and swollen. Layla couldn't move, transfixed, her body a live wire of need. Her clit was aching, walls clenching around nothing, breasts heavy and sensitive against her dress. The sight of his semen, so much of it, thick and fertile-looking, ignited a fire in her that burned hotter than anything before, a carnal hunger that made her thighs slick with her own arousal. She finally fled when he turned off the water, rushing back to her room on trembling legs, the door slamming behind her as she collapsed onto her bed. Panting, she yanked open her nightstand drawer and grabbed her dildo, a six-inch silicone toy that had once felt substantial but now seemed laughably inadequate, thin and short compared to the beast she'd just witnessed. She stripped frantically, uniform pooling on the floor, her skin flushed and damp with sweat that carried the faint citrus tang of the cleaner still on her hands.

Spreading her legs wide on the cool sheets, she plunged the dildo inside with a desperate thrust, the stretch barely registering. Her walls were greedy for more, clenching around the toy as she fucked herself hard and fast. Her free hand rubbed her clit in furious circles, the friction electric, but it wasn't enough. The toy didn't fill her as he would, didn't pulse or throb, and didn't hit the depths she craved. She imagined Daniel's cock instead: thick veins dragging along her inner flesh, the head battering her cervix, his semen flooding her in those endless spurts. Her breaths turned to whimpers, building to moans. She muffled herself in her pillow, but the orgasm hit like a tidal wave anyway. Her body arched off the bed, walls spasming around the dildo as she gushed, warm fluids soaking her hand and sheets. The release was powerful but hollow, leaving her gasping and unsatisfied, tears pricking her eyes from the frustration. It was the jet fuel that ignited her sexual fire for Daniel, a blaze that consumed her thoughts, making every glance and every accidental brush feel like foreplay to the inevitable.

That summer, during her downtime, Layla's restlessness gave way to a frantic search for satisfaction; her nights were a whirlwind of clubs and bars in downtown LA, where the air was thick with perfume, cologne, and the underlying musk of sweat and desire. She'd dress to kill: short skirts that hugged her generous hips, low-cut tops that showcased her full breasts, makeup accentuating her plump lips and doe eyes, and hair cascading in raven waves that begged to be gripped. The first man she hooked up with was a bartender named Mike, mid-20s with a cocky grin and average build, his body lean but unremarkable, his cock a standard six inches erect that barely registered after what she'd seen of Daniel. They ended up in his cramped apartment above the bar, the air stale with beer and old pizza, his kisses sloppy and eager as he stripped her, his hands groping her breasts with too much force. She rode him with enthusiasm, grinding her clit against his base, moaning loudly to spur him on. Still, he came up short and quick—thrusting erratically for less than five minutes before grunting his release, spilling thin spurts inside her that felt meager, leaving her frustrated and empty as she faked her own climax with a theatrical gasp, her body aching for the fullness she craved.

Undeterred but increasingly desperate, Layla chased the rumors she'd heard whispered in club bathrooms and locker rooms about well-endowed men, letting her curiosity guide her deliberately into new experiences. Her searches led her to dimly lit lounges where the bass thumped like a heartbeat, scents of cognac and weed mingling with the sweat of dancing bodies. One humid Friday night, she caught the eye of three college basketball players at a rooftop party. They were tall, athletic, and in their early 20s: Jamal, 6'5" with smooth skin, braided hair, and a lean, ripped physique from court drills; Tyrone, 6'3" with a deep tone, dreads tied back, and bulky muscles from weight training; and Marcus, 6'6" with a warm complexion, fades, and a wiry build honed for speed. Their bodies were temples of youth and vigor. Jamal's cock was eight inches, thick and veined. Tyrone's was seven inches with a pronounced curve. Marcus's was nine inches, slender but long. They smelled of fresh sweat and cologne as they pulled her into a private cabana, the air heavy with anticipation.

The foursome orgy unfolded like a fevered dream: hands everywhere, stripping her slowly as lips and tongues explored her skin. Jamal sucked her nipples with firm pulls that made them ache. Tyrone's mouth was between her thighs, lapping her folds with long strokes that tasted of her tangy nectar, and Marcus kissed her deeply with a flavor of mint and beer. They took turns, bodies slick with sweat, dripping in salty beads, scents of their musks blending into a heady cocktail. Jamal entered her first doggy-style, his thickness stretching her with a burn that turned to bliss, thrusts powerful but erratic; Tyrone followed missionary, his curve hitting her g-spot in jolts that made her moan; Marcus from behind, his length delving deep but lacking girth. They switched fluidly: double penetration with Jamal in her pussy and Tyrone in her ass, the fullness overwhelming but chaotic, Marcus's cock in her mouth as she sucked the salty pre-cum from his head. Breaths were ragged, moans filled the cabana, hers high and keening, theirs deep grunts, stamina prolonging the frenzy as they came one by one, spurts filling her mouth, pussy, and coating her breasts in warm, sticky loads that she savored on her tongue, salty and bitter.

Yet even that wild night, with bodies entwined in a tangle of limbs, scents of cum and sweat thick in the air, and her climaxes crashing in waves that left her quivering, could not match Daniel's impressiveness. Their cocks, while significant, lacked his girth, his control, and the sheer quantity of semen he had unleashed against that glass. Their releases were plentiful, but not the endless streams she had witnessed. She left sore and spent, but the fire for Daniel burned hotter, unquenched, her searches proving futile against the memory of his body.

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