The Landlord’s Forbidden Hands

"If he can't satisfy you, maybe I can..."

The tiny bathroom reeked of mildew and damp towels as the handyman fiddled with the showerhead.

Then—whoosh!—a sudden geyser of water blasted straight at me.

"Ah!"

I jumped, and the towel around my body slipped, pooling at my feet in one slick motion.

Just like that, I was bare before him—every creamy curve, every forbidden inch on display.

Before I could even gasp, his rough hands shoved me against the cold tiles.

My name is Sophia Laurent. A newlywed with a body built for sin.

Men couldn’t help but stare—at my heart-shaped face, my tiny waist, the kind of chest that made even priests stutter during confession.

Yet my pathetic husband couldn’t last five minutes between the sheets, leaving me aching and restless.

This Thanksgiving, we’d fled to Lugano for our honeymoon—supposedly to relax.

Then the storm hit.

Rain hammered down as we ducked into a public restroom, my sundress soaked through, clinging to every sinful curve like it was painted on. The wet fabric left nothing to the imagination.

His fingers hooked into my lace panties.

"Open up, baby. I’m not waiting."

His palm cracked against my ass, the sharp sting making me whimper.

"But—people are right outside—"

"One-way glass," he growled. "Don’t pretend you don’t love this."

As he hiked my thigh over his shoulder, shadowy figures moved beyond the fogged panes. The danger of being seen sent a wicked thrill straight to my core.

Just as I teetered on the edge—

"Ah!" A bloodshot eye leered through a hole in the stall.

My shock clenched around him, and—of course—he came instantly.

"Too much," he wheezed, slumping onto the bench like a deflated balloon.

I forced a smile, scanning the walls. The peeping Tom was gone.