“Oh, god, Fletcher, please! Oh…oh my god. Stop! STOP!”

I force myself to tear my lips away from the lingerie model’s cunt. Her honey is still smeared across my chin, sweet and sticky and just a little bit too tart for my tastes.

“Something wrong?” I furrow my brow and wipe my lips with the back of my hand.

“Oh…god, no, not really…it’s just—”

Her chest is still heaving, tits rising and falling beneath the garish print of her balconette bra.

“Too many orgasms?”

She laughs, dazed. “Yeah. This…I mean, this never happens, I’m really sorry, but like…OMG. I’m just—wow. I’m totally spent.”

“Not yet, you’re not,” I growl.

Then I pick her up off my fucking dresser and toss her onto my fucking bed.

This is just same shit on a different day for me. My friends all ask me how I do it, and I don’t even fucking know. One minute, I’m shooting sexy new photos for the latest Lacy Desirables catalog, and the next, I’ve got a lingerie model’s thighs wrapped around my neck while the flash on my camera goes wild in the background.

The whole fucking roll of film is probably useless now. At best, it’s a photographic trophy of the latest notch in my bedpost. At worst, I’ve gotta burn the damn thing or else I’ll have perverts and paparazzi digging through my trash again.

I guess that’s what I get for shooting in burst mode.

If I were a better photographer, I’d find a way to stop myself. But when getting laid is this easy, why deny myself the pleasure?

Besides…there are other benefits to turning this photo shoot into a noisy off-the-walls fuck session. Benefits like what happens when I stick all twelve inches of my cock so deep in this ditzy-ass lingerie model that her next orgasm comes with a scream.

At that point, I go balls-deep and just fucking wait for it.

Hell, I’m looking forward to it so much that I’m actually holding my breath.

And then, right on cue…

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

At the noise, a brief look of confusion crosses the face of the lingerie model.

I just thumb her clit and make her come again as a smug fucking grin spreads across my own face. The next round of thumps shakes the floor beneath the bed so hard that it makes the mattress shake.

But it’s not nearly as satisfying as the next sound that rises up through the floorboards.

“Goddammit, 33D! We get it! Christ! You’ve got a big dick—give it up already!”

Ahh. Like a workweek alarm going off on a Saturday morning. It’s the dulcet tone of my very favorite voice.

32D—the gorgeous, hateful little bitch who lives beneath me.

Shit, I wouldn’t mind having her beneath me in a few other ways, if you know what I mean. Long, dark hair. Ruby red lips. Eyes the color of black rum.

And her apartment number is the same as her bra size.

Other than that, all I know about her is that she hates me—and that she’s fucking tired of me fucking so loudly over her apartment. Not that I’m about to stop or anything.

Nah. If anything, I just start fucking the model in my bed even harder.

She starts moaning even louder, too. Too many orgasms, my ass.

She’s fucking loving this.

Shame that 32D doesn’t share the sentiment.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! goes the broom that I know 32D must be using to pound away at her ceiling while I pound away at this broad. Her rhythm is fucking excellent, too.

In fact, I make a point of matching my own rhythm to hers. It makes the bed shake in time—and makes the lingerie model come louder than ever.

“GET. A. FUCKING. ROOM!” I hear 32D yell up through the floorboards.

“I’ve already got one, sweetheart!” I yell back down at her. “Maybe you’d like to come up and see it sometime?”

“Why don’t you come down here and fight me, asshole!” 32D yells back. “GET A ROOM THAT’S NOT RIGHT OVER MY FUCKING DESK!”

Fuck me. That’s the point when I just fucking lose it. I don’t know what it is about 32D yelling at me like that—but it always makes me blow my load.

I don’t even see it coming. I hear her cute, pissed off little voice shouting up through the floorboards at me like that, and I can’t fucking help myself. I just fucking explode.

I leave the lingerie model in my bed as I head into the bathroom to grab a drink of water.

I make sure to tip the contents of my condom into the bathroom trash before I toss it. There’s a lot of daddy sauce in that thing, and I don’t want any hopeful future mommies trying to smuggle my condoms out of here in their purses again—which happens more often than you’d think.

As I run my fingers through my thick, messy sandy blond hair and look myself in the greens of my eyes in the mirror, I have the weirdest fucking thought, though.

32D. I wonder what color hair she likes.

Oh, yeah. I’ve seen the kind of men she has over to her place.

It’s hard not to keep track when it’s only one or two a year.

Last year, she invited a staggering three to stay the night. A pretentious-looking ginger, a douchebag of a brunet, and some bleach-blonde asshole in a leather jacket.

This year, though, there hasn’t been anyone. I figure 32D has either given up on sex entirely or gone gay. Either way…Christ, what I wouldn’t give to be the one to fix that.

By the time I finish my glass of water, I’m rock fucking hard again. Figures. When you want to go soft, you think of baseball and grandma.

When you want to get hard…you think of 32D.

“Ready for round two?” I stand in the doorway of the bathroom, cock in hand.

“OMG, what?! I thought—”

“You thought wrong.” I smirk, seeing how fucking exhausted she is—and watching her spread her legs for me anyway.

But when I stick it in her, it’s not her that I’m thinking of.

It’s that mouthy, dark-eyed bitch downstairs.

When I make the model cum again, I can practically hear the frustration in 32D’s broom-thumps against my ceiling.

That’s it, baby. Tell Daddy what you don’t fuckin’ like.