Looked like the lady of the house favoured the big arse-hammocks, but there were a few saucy numbers that tickled his knob, so they went in the hoody pocket to join that bra.
Drawer Four was full of socks.
Fuck that.
A wicker laundry basket lurked in the corner, though.
Worth a dip.
Ifhe was quick.
Andrew ripped the lid off and dug in, throwing dirty T-shirts and socks and leggings and big baggy knickers over his shoulder till something frilly appeared.
Snatching them from the basket, he pressed the pants against his mask’s toothy grin. Took a lonnnnnnng deeeeeeeeep sniff. Breathing in the musky sweet-and-salty scent of her pussy. Holding it deep inside him. Then hissing it out in a shuddering sigh, clutching his rock-hard groin. Squeezing.
But there would be time for that later.
So, Andrew pocketed the pants, then went back for another lucky dip. Coming out with a hold-up stocking. Black and sheer. Shiny in the night-vision glow.
He wrapped both ends around his hands, like a garotte...
Then froze.
Hold on.
A sound rattle-clacked out from somewhere downstairs. Keys in a lock.
Quick!
Andrew swept up the discarded washing and stuffed it back into the basket, then tiptoed over to the bedroom door. Adjusting himself through his trousers.
Soon be time to shine...
He poked his head out onto the landing.
Couldn’t see much from here, but there was light outside. Probably a car, pulled up to the front of the house.
Then aclunksounded, followed by thewhoompof an opening door.
Time to move.
Andrew crept out of the bedroom, ran on his tippie-toes across the landing, and flattened himself against the wall. Erection throbbing.
OK, so he couldn’t see what was going on from here, but the important thing was being hidden from view.
When you gave the lady of the house a ‘treat’, it was always best to keep it a surprise till the very last moment.
Because tonight was going to be one of thegoodnights. When he didn’t just slip away into the dark with his little trophies. When creeping turned to somethingfarmore satisfying.
But first:
He whipped off his night-vision goggles a second before the hall lights snapped on, bathing the cold, impersonal hallway in their harsh LED glow.
Which stung like poking wasps in his eyes, after the goggles’ screen.
Down below, a man’s voice shouldered its way into the house. A Central Belt accent, with an uncertain, grovelling edge to it.‘Excuse me? Excuse me, Miss Agapova?NatashaAgapova?’
The answer came in the scraiky flat vowels of somewhere down under: Australia, or New Zealand. Sounding knackered and superior.‘Go away, I’m not in the mood.’
