Nessa listens with her ear to the wall and one hand teasing down between her legs. With her other hand, the Au Pair traces a finger around her mouth while the sound of sex wafts through the sheetrock. They've been going at it for the better part of an hour now, and the walls are thin. His voice carries, and God, does she love the way he sounds.
It amazes her just how different he is during the day. While the sun was up the Mister maintained a polite and professional demeanor. His etiquette was easily the gold standard of all gentlemen, with his bespoke attire, greetings of salutations, and an ivory league vocabulary. His cadence was always relaxed, his tone was always warm, and he always, always, always spoke to Nessa kindly, like a prim and priggish lady, instead of some nameless hired woman who watches after the children.
But at night, Nessa heard him transform. His voice dipped down into something brutish, with his words vulgar and commanding. It fascinated her how such a stark contrast could occupy the same body, and share the same beating heart.
Tonight, she hears the brute, only his voice is like a chorus to Nessa. His voice carries through the walls as he teases, commands, scolds, praises, and encourages the Madam of the house. Nessa hears her voice too, high and sweet, with a hint of a southern accent. But her voice, while pleasant to Nessa's ears, isn't the one that leaves her thighs dewy. No, it is the Mister's brute chorus that stirs Nessa. It soothes her like a lullaby for her fantasies.
She imagines the Madam with her hands bound while the Mister stands behind her. His hands claw at her neck and breast while the Madam moans and begs wantonly. She imagines the Mister's grin, full of grit and mischief before forcing his wife down to her knees. She can see him free his cock with perfect clarity before it disappears into the Madam's mouth.
Most of her fantasies help to ease her frustration. However, this particular fantasy causes jealousy to roil in Nessa's chest. She works her fingers faster as if they can assuage the green in her eyes, but Nessa knows better. While her dreams involve being malleable in the Mister's grasp, she knows that he'd never lay a hand on her, though in her wildest dreams, she fancies that she is the focus of his desires.
She's tired and should sleep; Tomorrow she'll have to rise early and wrangle the children up. But Nessa can't help but listen to her employers engage in a sort of congress that is foreign to her. Even though she isn't some chaste virgin, Nessa has never experienced that kind of sex before. The kind of back parlor sex that left her bottom cherry-colored from discipline, her pussy stretched from a pounding, and her throat sore from pleasing. Judging by the Madam's breathy pleas, that is the sort of sex happening on the other side of this wall, and hearing it has Nessa breathing shallowly while her hand is busy under her nightgown.
It's no surprise to her that she cannot tend to the entirety of her desires with her fingers alone. The only thing that comes close is when she sucks on something while she works. It surprises Nessa because it's so foreign to her. She isn't a loose woman, nor is she some fiend, but there is some sweet mischief from the fixation of her mouth being used as an object of pleasure while she works her honeypot with her other hand.
The problem is, for the life of her, Nessa cannot recall where this ardent and sluttish behavior came from. Certainly not from her Christian upbringing. Certainly not from her schooling. But she must have learned it somewhere, right? She wracks her brain trying to remember, but efforts go unrewarded. It's akin to recalling a dream half faded from your mind: The more Nessa tries, the more blurred it becomes.
At last, she hears the Madam of the house call out like a singer, her rapture loud, with a sprinkle of champagne sweetness at the end. Then there is laughter, followed by low self-congratulatory talk before things finally go quiet on the other side of the wall.
