Relator VI
FM BBC
My fingers find my phone on the daybed where it buzzed against the tangled sheets—the boss's name glowing on the screen, three missed calls, a text that reads:
New client. Three units. Kirribilli. Tonight.
I thumb a quick Confirmed and reach for my navy skirt.
My Mazda's at a workshop. Another frickin bill to pay.
The Uber smells of pine air freshener and the driver's curry lunch. I check my reflection in the window—hair loose, lips bitten pink, professional enough to trust, dishevelled enough to intrigue.
The harbour slides past, ferry lights cutting sharp through twilight haze.
The Kirribilli address is sandstone and glass, a converted terrace with killer views that cost more per square metre than my annual rent.
My boss, Margaret, meets me on the stoop, her silver bob catching the security light.
"American," she says, no preamble.
"Obscene amount of Tech money. Wants all three units for a short-stay portfolio. Thinks he's smart."
"Everyone thinks they're smart."
Margaret's mouth twitches. "He's six-six. Built like he climbs things for fun. Don't fuck this up, Beth."
She leaves me with the key code and a commission structure that makes my throat tight—I clear all my bills if I close all three.
I smooth my skirt, adjust my blouse, and climb the sandstone steps.
The first apartment is empty, staged with furniture that costs more than my car. I check the shower pressure in the master bath—adequate, nothing special—and imagine what a man who climbs things might want.
Space. Clean lines. The illusion of simplicity that only money can buy.
The door opens at 7:47, according to my phone.
I hear him before I see him—footsteps too heavy for the floating staircase, a presence that fills the hallway before his shadow crosses the threshold.
Then he's there, ducking slightly under the doorframe.
Six-six. Margaret understated.
He's Black, skin deep as harbour water at midnight, and built like he was carved from something denser than other men.
His shoulders strain against a linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and his hands—God, his hands—could span my waist with fingers to spare. He carries a leather folio that looks expensive and unused.
"Ms Jones?" His voice is baritone, resonant, the kind that vibrates in your sternum.
"Mr. Okonkwo." I step forward, professional smile in place, hand extended. "Welcome to—"
His palm closes around mine. Warm. Dry. The pressure is deliberate, testing, like he knows exactly how much strength to apply before it becomes a threat. I feel the strength even in his fingers, the width of his grip, and something in my lower abdomen tightens involuntarily.
"Call me Isaiah." He releases me slowly, letting his thumb drag across my knuckles. "Show me what you've got."
I lead him through the first apartment, pointing out the Miele appliances, the stunning views, the original floorboards. He asks precise questions—occupancy rates, strata fees, renovation history—and I answer with numbers I've memorised, percentages calculated in the Uber.
But I'm aware of him behind me, his height forcing me to tilt my head back when I turn, his body heat radiating against my shoulder blades.
"And the master bath?" he asks.
I walk ahead, knowing he can see the sway of my hips in the Target skirt, the pinch of my off-the-rack heels forcing my posture.
The bathroom is marble and glass, the shower a rainfall head with body jets. I reach in and turn the handle, water cascading in a heavy, steady stream.
"Good pressure," I say, professional, detached.
Isaiah steps past me into the stall, fully clothed, and holds his hand under the spray. His linen shirt darkens where the water catches it, clinging to the topography of his chest—pectoral definition, the shadow of abdominal ridges, the V-line disappearing into trousers that sit low on narrow hips.
"Not bad," he says, not looking at the water.
Looking at me.
He turns the temperature hotter.
Steam rises immediately, fogging the mirror, the glass walls, the air between us. I should step back. The door is open. The professional thing is to step back.
I don't move.
"You're wet," he observes.
His shirt is plastered now, transparent enough to show dark nipples, the sparse pattern of chest hair, the heavy architecture of his shoulders.
Water beads on his forearms, runs in rivulets down his wrists, drips from fingers that could palm a basketball.
Could palm my skull.
"It's the steam," I say. My voice sounds thin.
"Is it?"
He steps out of the shower, not bothering to turn off the water, and the steam follows him like a cloak.
He stands too close—close enough that I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes, close enough that my blouse brushes his damp chest, the silk going translucent where it touches him.
"Your pulse is visible here."
He touches my throat, not asking permission, thumb pressing against the flutter.
"Fast."
I open my mouth to say something professional—market analysis, rental yields, anything—but his hand slides down, fingers spreading across my collarbone, spanning the width of it easily.
His pinky catches the first button of my blouse.
"Margaret said you were good at your job," he murmurs. "She didn't say you were nervous."
"I'm not—"
"Your pupils are blown."
His other hand finds my waist, thumb and finger touching at my spine, measuring.
"And you're shaking."
I am.
Small tremors in my thighs, my hands, the place between my legs that has learned to betray me at these precise moments.
The steam thickens, or I stop noticing the boundaries of my own body. His shirt is cold where it presses against me, wet through my blouse, and I feel my nipples harden against the fabric, feel him feel them.
"Three apartments," he says, like he's reminding himself. "Portfolio purchase. Due diligence."
"Yes."
"But you're not talking about square footage, Beth."
My name in his mouth sounds like instruction.
"You're thinking about something else."
His thigh presses between mine, denim against damp silk, and I gasp—actually gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud in the marble room. The shower still runs behind him, water wasting, steam billowing. I should care about the water damage. I don't.
"Show me the second unit," he says, but doesn't move.
"It's—upstairs. Similar layout. Slightly smaller—"
"Show me."
He steps back finally, and I stumble slightly, catching myself on the vanity.
My reflection is wrecked—hair frizzing in the humidity, blouse clinging to breasts I didn't fully realise were heaving, lips parted and dark. He waits in the doorway, water dripping from his hem, patient as something that knows it will be fed.
I climb the stairs ahead of him. The second apartment is identical, staged differently, but I don't turn on the lights. Harbour glow filters through the windows, blue-gold and distant, enough to navigate by. I hear him close the door behind us.
"The pressure's better in this unit," I say, my voice too high. "The plumbing was upgraded—"
"Show me."
The master bath is smaller, the shower a stall rather than a walk-in. I turn the water on and step back, but he catches my wrist—gently, the way you'd stop a horse from bolting—and guides my hand under the spray.
"Tell me," he's standing behind me, his chest against my back, his chin nearly resting on my crown. "Is this good pressure?"
The water pounds against my palm, hot enough to sting, forceful enough that I imagine it against other skin. His hand covers mine, adjusting the angle, and now the spray hits my forearm, my elbow, the inside of my arm where the blouse has gone transparent.
"Isaiah—"
"Mr Okonkwo," he corrects, but he's smiling; I can hear it. "When we're working."
His other hand finds my hip, thumb tracing the waistband of my skirt, and I feel the strength in him coiled and controlled, feel how easily he could lift me, bend me, hold me in place.
The thought arrives fully formed and unwelcome: he could break me.
Not emotionally—Margaret's crack-finding, mother's legacy—but physically, literally, the way a larger animal can dismantle a smaller one.
I should be afraid. My pussy throbs instead, wetter than the steam accounts for, betraying me with the same reliability as always.
"You're thinking about it," he says against my ear, breath hot, water cold where it splashes our joined hands.
"What I'd feel like. Whether you could take it."
"I don't—"
"You're petite."
His hand spans my waist again, proving it, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through wet silk.
"I'm not. That's arithmetic, not psychology."
He releases my hand but keeps the water running, turning me to face him. The steam has turned his skin to polished obsidian, gleaming where the harbour light catches him.
He reaches down—slow, deliberate, watching my face—and adjusts himself through his trousers.
The shape of him is huge. Even soft, even constrained, the length extends past his hip bone, the girth straining the fabric's capacity.
He doesn't rush the reveal. He lets me look, lets my mouth go dry, lets my professional composure dissolve into something more honest.
The lustful need to know. The lustful need to experience.
"That's not—" I start.
"Not what you expected?"
"Not—" I swallow. "Not proportional."
He laughs, a genuine sound that warms the room further.
"Biology doesn't care about proportion, Beth. It cares about function."
He unbuttons his trousers. No belt, just the slide of zipper, the shift of fabric, and then he's guiding himself out with a hand that makes his own anatomy look manageable by comparison.
He's not soft anymore.
The weight of him is visible—actual weight, pulling downward, the head heavy and dark, the shaft veined and thick.
Immediately, looking, I think: I can't.
The thought makes my knees weak, makes my pussy clench on nothing, makes me aware of how empty I am, how small my body is compared to what he's showing me.
"Still thinking about square footage?" he asks, but gently, like he's offering me an exit.
I shake my head. Can't speak.
He steps closer, and the head of him brushes my stomach through my blouse, leaving a wet trail that could be water or could be him. The heat of him is shocking—radiating through the silk, against my skin, a furnace compared to the cooling steam.
"Second unit," he says. "You were saying?"
"Plumbing," I manage. "Upgraded."
"Show me the pressure."
He lifts me.
I don't expect it—one hand under my thigh, the other at my waist, and I'm against the shower wall, legs spread by his hips, my heels still on because he didn't bother removing them.
The water hits my back, soaking through the blouse completely, and I arch against the marbled tile, presenting myself without meaning to.
He doesn't enter me. Not yet. He holds himself against my entrance through my skirt, the fabric the only barrier, and rocks—just rocks, letting me feel the size of him, the heat, the impossible dimensions that make my body panic and clench and want simultaneously.
"Too big," I whisper. Not a complaint. A fact.
"Yes," he agrees. "For now."
He reaches between us and tears my skirt.
Actually, tears it, the Target fabric giving way like paper, and then his fingers are there, testing, spreading, finding me soaked and swollen and small.
Two fingers fill me; I'm not a spacious three—he has large fingers, pianist's span, and I whimper at the stretch.
"Breathing," he reminds me, like I'm climbing something.
Like I'm a novice who needs instruction.
He works me open with patient grace, adding a third finger when I've adjusted to two, scissoring, pressing against the spot that makes my vision spark.
The water pounds against my back, my hair plastered to my neck, my blouse transparent and clinging. I look down and see his hand disappearing into me, see the dark contrast of his skin against my pale thighs, and the image alone nearly finishes me.
"Oohh," I moan.
Yep, I'm a goner.
"The third unit," he says, withdrawing his fingers slowly, letting me feel every knuckle.
"We should see the third unit."
He lowers me carefully, my legs unsteady, my skirt in ruins around my waist.
We leave a trail of water as I lead him up another flight of stairs, past the landing, to the penthouse unit that Margaret mentioned in her text—the one with the private terrace, the Opera House views, the price point that makes my commission calculation stutter.
He doesn't touch me on the stairs. Let's me walk ahead, lets me feel his gaze on my ass, my ruined skirt, my wet hair.
Let's me anticipate.
Boy, am I all anticipation.
I expect. Yet it is delayed.
The penthouse shower is an outdoor installation, glass-walled, open to the harbour sky. The twilight has deepened to purple, ferry lights moving below like slow stars.
He turns the water on—rainfall head, body jets, steam rising into open air—and begins unbuttoning his shirt.
I watch.
I'm meant to watch.
Evolution has me designed to appreciate.
He peels the wet linen from his shoulders, lets it drop, and his torso is revealed in segments—chest, abs, the trail of hair that leads to where he's still exposed, still heavy, still waiting.
He steps out of his trousers, and I see him fully for the first time: the thighs that could crush, the calves dense with muscle, the cock that hangs even at full attention, that sways with his movement like something with its own gravity.
"Your turn," he says.
I unbutton my blouse with shaking fingers. The silk sticks, resists, finally releases.
My bra is white, practical, soaked through.
He doesn't help. He watches me struggle with the clasp, watches my breasts fall free, watches me push the ruined skirt down my hips.
I stand in heels and underwear, harbour wind chilling my wet skin, and feel more naked than I have in any previous encounter.
The scale is wrong. I'm too small, too pale, too obviously breakable.
He could cover my entire torso with one hand spread. Could lift me with one arm. Could—
"Turn around," he says.
I face the harbour. The Opera House glows white in the distance, indifferent to my undoing.
His hands find my hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples above my ass, and he bends me forward until my palms hit the glass—cool against my fevered skin, transparent to anyone on the water who might look up.
He removes my underwear with the same efficiency he used on my skirt, tearing the elastic, letting the fabric fall. The harbour breeze touches my exposed cunt, and I shiver, arch, present.
"Still too big," he murmurs, fitting himself against me.
The head of him presses at my entrance, not entering, just resting there—hot, heavy, impossible.
"But you're wet enough to try."
He pushes. Not hard—controlled, gradual, giving me time to adjust to the stretch that starts immediately, the rawness that makes me gasp and claw at the glass.
"Ooff! Sheez! Ooff" I moan.
He's not even fully inside, just the head, just the beginning of the shaft, and I'm already full, already stretched to the point of wondering, can he do damage?
"Breathe," he reminds me, and I do, deliberately, exhaling into the glass so it fogs with my effort.
He sinks deeper. Inch by inch, pausing when I whimper, advancing when I moan.
"Ooff! Aahh! Mmm! Ooff! Aahh! Mmm!"
A strange combination of rapture and rawness.
The water pounds against my back, against his chest where he leans over me, caging me between his body and the glass. I feel him everywhere—against my cervix, pressing against places I didn't know could feel pressure, rearranging my internal geography with patient persistence.
"Half," he says, and I want to weep, want to beg, want to know how there could be more.
"Christ! Mmm! Oooff!"
He withdraws slightly, letting me feel the drag of him, the friction of my own tightness, then pushes deeper.
I scream—actually scream, the sound carrying toward the Opera House, toward the ferries, toward anyone who might be listening.
"Uhh!"
He doesn't stop. He finds a rhythm, shallow at first, then deeper as my body learns to accommodate, learns to stretch around him, learns that the ache is becoming something else, something that builds in my spine and my scalp and my toes.
"Touch yourself," he commands.
I do. My fingers find my clit, swollen and sensitive, and the contact is awesome—my own touch plus the friction of him moving inside me, the fullness that makes every nerve ending scream.
I'm stuff. Buffeted and stuffed. Yet, I want the stuffing.
I come faster than I want to, harder than I expected, my coochie clamping around him so hard that he groans, actually groans, the first sound of effort he's made.
"Hnnghh!"
He doesn't stop.
He uses my orgasm to slide deeper, finally fully seated, his hips against my ass, his balls heavy against my thighs. I feel him throbbing inside me, feel my own pulse around him, feel the impossible intimacy of being absa-fuckin-filled.
"Three units," he says, voice rough now, control cracking.
"Portfolio purchase."
"Yes—"
"Due diligence."
He fucks me then. Really fucks me, pulling out to the tip and driving back in, each thrust forcing air from my lungs, each withdrawal making me clench and beg.
I'm stretched. I'm spread. I'm dredged.
The glass fogs with our combined breath, with the steam from the shower, with the heat of our bodies. I can see our reflection—dim, distorted, a giant and a woman bent in submission—and the image sends me spiralling toward another peak.
"Aaghh!"
He changes angle, lifting my hips slightly, and suddenly he's hitting something that makes my vision rise and curve like the Opera House shells, makes my legs give out, makes me dependent entirely on his grip on my waist.
I come again, harder, wetter, feeling myself gush around him, hearing the mixed sound of my own arousal partying with the shower's cascade.
"Oorggh!"
"Good girl," he murmurs, and the praise breaks something in me, makes me push back against him, take him deeper, offer more.
He speeds up, losing the perfect control he's maintained, and I feel him swell further inside me, feel the tension in his thighs where they bracket mine, feel the moment before he pulls out and spins me around, lifting me again—effortlessly, terrifyingly—and settling me onto him as he leans against the glass wall.
I sink onto him from above, gravity doing what his thrusts couldn't, taking him deeper than before, so deep I can't breathe, can't think, can only hold his shoulders and ride the sensation.
I'm frickin impaled. Cock lanced. His pecker as rigid as a pole.
He supports my weight with one hand, the other tangled in my wet hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat to his mouth.
He bites me there, not gently, marking, and I feel the vibration of his groan against my skin.
I move on him, awkward at first, finding a rhythm that works, that lets me feel every vein, every ridge, every impossible inch of him moving inside me.
The harbour lights blur. The Opera House disappears. There is only the stretch, the raw tingles, the building pressure that feels like it might actually split me open.
"Now," he says, command and question together.
"Yes—please—"
He comes with a sound like breaking, like something controlled finally releasing, and I feel it—actually feel the heat of him, the pulse, the volume that makes me clench around him instinctively, trying to hold it in, trying to keep him there.
He keeps thrusting through it, milking himself in my ruined body, until I'm sobbing with overstimulation, with the aftershocks of my own pleasure, with the sheer physical overwhelm of what we've done.
He lowers me carefully, supports me when my legs fail, holds me against his chest while the shower pounds against our shoulders and the harbour breathes below.
I feel him softening inside me, still huge, still stretching me even as he withdraws.
The emptiness when he leaves is shocking, wrong, like something essential has been removed.
I miss his shape and already want it back in me again.
Greedy, greedy lust.
"Three units," he says into my wet hair. "I'll take them."
I laugh, the sound hysterical, unprofessional, honest.
"Due diligence?"
"Thorough." He tilts my face up, studies me in the harbour light. "Margaret was right about you."
"Which part?"
"That you'd do anything to close the deal." He smiles, not unkindly. "She didn't mention you'd enjoy it."
I don't answer. Can't answer. The steam rises around us, the water wastes, the harbour waits.
My phone buzzes somewhere in the mussed pile of my clothing—Margaret, probably, or Marcus, my boyfriend, inches behind this giant; or the next client, the next crack to find, the next edge to walk.
Isaiah turns off the shower with one hand, the other still supporting my weight.
The sea breeze finds our wet skin, and I shiver, and he pulls me closer, and I let him.
Below us, a ferry cuts through the dark water, its lights bob like sea buoys. I watch it go, feeling the throb of him still inside me, feeling the commission calculate itself in my head.
What do we want? I just had it frickin all. Yet, I'll want again.
The water in the shower drips.
My pussy drips down my thighs.
The night is young, and I am already thinking about how to extend what comes next.