Summer time in the Hamptons where the rich like to take a vacation from whatever they consider troubles. It was a paradise not only for the privileged but also for those that attached themselves to the wealthy like mistresses and secret lovers that were given their own private property so their rich paramours could visit them discreetly.
***
The moon was a quarter full. It was a cloudless July night. The waves crashed on the night shore. The summer breeze cooled the warm night carrying the smell of the salty sea.
Marcella had just showered 30 minutes ago. Her black hair was still damp but already regaining some volume. She threw on her pink silk kimono robe and white cotton hip hugger panties.
She had washed away that afternoon of dirty hot sex with her sugar daddy and she missed it already.
Marcella pursed her pouty lips looking at herself in the mirror. Vanity was a sin but when you looked as hot as her you are allowed to be a bit vain. She was a Latin goddess with a round booty that made every guy stop and stare. She could stop a room with just the hypnotic sway of her hips.
She sat down on the bed comforter, it felt like a cloud. Marcella rubbed Dove lotion into her caramel skin. Her long black hair loose about her shoulders, her dark chocolate eyes intent on her work. She wore her favorite pink silk robe. Marcella felt the lotion absorb into her skin. For some reason it made her feel horny.
Lotion was always perfect lubricant. She was already out of KY. Her last millionaire lover emptied the whole bottle. At agree 29 Marcella was still roping in men with money who usually preferred women 18-25 and no higher.
Marcella's sugar daddy was some real estate mogul. At least he wasn't fat and only in his 50s. Why couldn't rich old men be better looking?
Marcella's skin was her best feature so she made sure to take care of it. Her pussy began to tingle as she rubbed the Dove lotion into her breasts. They weren't big but of modest cup size. A 34C with small nipples. Her nipples hardened as she messaged her breasts.
Marcella remembered her older lover from that day. He had to get back to his wife so he didn't stay over but that afternoon it was all hot sex and wine. It was because of him Marcella could afford to live on the shoreline of the Hamptons.
She was reminded of his mouth on her nipple, suckling her, occasionally biting down when she commanded. Marcella liked it a little rough. Marcella lay back on her fluffy pillows and turned out the light.
The window was open blowing in a sea breeze to cool her hot skin that erupted in goose bumps as her hand descended down towards her panties.
She was so damp. Opening her legs a little wider, Marcella rubbed herself, biting her lip as warm tingly sensations spread through her muscles. She groaned softly as she felt her panties get wetter and hotter.
Marcella slipped her French manicured nails inside her damp panties. Her shaven petals saturated with arousal. She sunk a finger into her tight hot depths, her sweet berry engorged and rubbing against her palm.
Then Marcella heard a crash. A vase broke downstairs. She stopped what she was doing, annoyed that she was being interrupted by such a small thing. Marcella crept downstairs entering the kitchen and getting a carving knife. She didn't use it often she was a terrible cook but growing up Marcella knew how to carve flesh to make a point.
She heard a man grunt in frustration. Marcella hid behind a column. Her heart pounded and adrenaline coursed through her veins alerting her every nerve ending.
She didn't hear anything more. Marcella slowly peeked from behind the column to see a man with a gun in her face speaking in a low menacing voice, "Don't scream or move or I'll shoot."
***
A few minutes earlier...
Dyson and Rogan sat in the disguised cable truck watching the lights in the house. It was 11 o'clock at night on a Tuesday. Most people who lived alone in the Hamptons were either at a party or a senior citizen in bed by 8 pm.
"Damn does chick have a bedtime?" Rogan sighed frustrated.
"She's some rich white guy's whore," Dyson said. "Surprisingly though she's not at some charity trying to pick another sugar daddy."
Dyson and Rogan had staked out the house for a week. They even inspected the interior when the woman called for a cable support. Her cable was cutting in and out. Mostly because Dyson and Rogan messed with the signal.
"From the looks of it this sugar daddy is pretty well set up," admired Rogan. "Must be some expensive jewelry in there."
The woman was named Marcella. She was gorgeous. Incredibly hot with a scrumptious ass that Dyson wanted to bury himself in. Once he saw her stepping out of the pool.
She looked like a water goddess, dripping wet from her luscious curves. Dyson almost lost his concentration when he saw Marcella's nipples poke through her pink bikini top with it's small triangles that lifted her perfect breasts.
The memory made Dyson hard. Damn. He wondered if after this he would give her a call. Maybe seduce her away from her gray sugar daddy. He imagined taking her roughly by the hair, pummeling her caramel flower until she was black and blue and moaning his name.
Dyson and Rogan made their living by stealing from the rich. Mostly from mistresses. They couldn't really go to the police without them connecting her to her rich boyfriend whose wife finds out.
Dyson was an ex-con. He did 3 years for B&E. Because he was good looking jurors went easy on him. If all criminals were hot models then no one would ever do time.
