The stadium seats swallowed bodies like hungry mouths, plastic groaning under shifting weight. Ben adjusted his cufflinks, gold catching the harsh fluorescent lights as he pushed through the VIP entrance. Sweat and expensive perfume hit him first, a clash of desperation and privilege. "Ben! Over here!" called Marcus Thorne, waving a crystal tumbler from a leather sofa cluster. Three other industry titans nodded, their eyes already tracking the track-and-field athletes warming up below.

Ben sank into the sofa beside Marcus. The massive overhead screen flickered to life, zooming in on athletes stretching near the starting line. Among the lean, sinewed figures was a woman standing apart, Powli Wilson. A robust, stunning 29 year old Brit, her curves straining against her sponsor-branded athletic gear. She bounced nervously on her toes, looking more like she belonged in a cabaret than a championship sprint. Margaret, Ben's sharp-tongued marketing manager, leaned over his shoulder, her perfume sharp as vinegar. "That's our lady, sir," she whispered, tapping the screen. "She doesn't look like a runner, does she? Ben said. "She was a topper in college sports, sprinted like a cheetah! She’ll make us proud today!" Margaret insisted. Ben chuckled softly, swirling his gin. "A cheetah years ago, Margaret. Look at the others." He gestured towards the chiseled athletes beside Powli. "That," he murmured, "is what a cheetah looks like now."

The starting gun cracked like a whip. Bodies surged forward, all except Powli. Her start was ponderous, more frantic shuffle than explosive burst. Within seconds, a yawning gap opened. Marcus snorted into his whiskey, nudging Ben's elbow. "Better luck next time, mate," he smirked, gesturing at Powli’s distant, straining form. "Looks like she’s hauling anchors." Ben ignored him, transfixed. There was a raw, unexpected grace in her struggle. Her powerful hips swung deliberately, thighs pumping with surprising strength beneath the softness. Her face, contorted with effort, shone with fierce determination, not the sleek efficiency of an athlete, but the captivating grit of someone refusing to quit. Her body wasn't sleek; it was lush, powerful curves working with her motion, not against it. Ben loved the way her body moved, unapologetically real, defiantly unathletic yet somehow compellingly functional. She wasn't fast, but she was mesmerizing. His company brand logo stretched taut across her chest with every stride, drawing his eye to the rise and fall of her breathing, a hypnotic rhythm amidst the blur of competitors pulling impossibly far ahead.

Margaret’s face went chalk-white as Powli finally lumbered across the finish line, dead last, minutes behind the pack. She stormed down the VIP stairs, heels clicking like angry castanets on the concrete. Powli hunched over, hands on her knees, gasping, sweat plastering dark strands to her flushed neck. Margaret descended upon her, voice a venomous hiss cutting through the stadium's fading cheers. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" she spat. "That wasn't just a race, that was a branding catastrophe!" her eyes raked over Powli’s trembling form, "...whatever this is. You humiliated us. Utterly." Tears welled in Powli’s eyes, tracking clean lines through the grime on her cheeks. "I... I'm so sorry," she choked out, the apology thick with shame. Ben watched silently from the lounge entrance, then pushed through the glass doors, his steps unhurried on the sun-warmed track. Margret whirled, flustered. "Sorry, sir," she stammered, "I'll handle the damage control." Ben gave a curt nod, and Margret scurried away, leaving Powli standing alone under his gaze.

Powli straightened slowly, wiping her face with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge. "Mr. Ben," she whispered, voice raw and ragged. She sucked in another desperate breath, her chest rising and falling dramatically beneath the damp, clinging fabric. "I... I know I ruined everything." Her words dissolved into shaky inhalations. Ben didn't speak. Instead, he let his eyes travel slowly, deliberately. He took in the way her damp jersey clung to the swell of her breasts, the powerful curve of her hips straining the sponsor logo, the sheen of sweat making her skin glow under the harsh stadium lights. He noted the faint tremor in her thighs, the ragged rhythm of her breathing, the sheer exhaustion radiating from her like heat. A small, enigmatic smile touched his lips.

"It's alright," he finally said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the fading adrenaline buzz. He pulled a crisp, white handkerchief from his breast pocket – absurdly pristine – and offered it to her. "Dry those tears, Powli. They don't suit you." She took it hesitantly, dabbing at her eyes. "Meet me," he continued smoothly, "at the sponsor office. North side. Thirty minutes." He didn't wait for confirmation, turning on his heel and walking away, leaving her standing frozen on the track, clutching the handkerchief that smelled faintly of expensive gin and sandalwood.

In the cramped locker room, Powli peeled off the sweat-soaked jersey and racing shorts. The fluorescent lights felt merciless against her flushed skin. She scrubbed herself briskly, the cheap soap failing to mask the lingering scent of defeat and stadium grime. She slipped into a soft, oversized white cotton top and snug blue jeans that hugged her hips like a second skin, feeling oddly vulnerable yet defiantly comfortable. Her damp hair, hastily towel-dried, tumbled messily around her shoulders as she headed towards the sponsor's office. She opened the door to the small, plush room dominated by a sleek desk. Ben stood silhouetted against the large window overlooking the deserted track below, phone pressed to his ear. "Ok..I have another meeting," he murmured into the receiver, his tone clipped. As Powli entered, he ended the call abruptly, turning with a deliberate slowness that made her breath hitch. He looked her up and down, a silent appraisal that traced the subtle swell of her chest beneath the loose top and the powerful lines of her thighs defined by the tight denim. A flicker of something appreciative replaced the detached businessman's gaze.

"Sit," he gestured towards a deep leather chair opposite the desk, his voice low and inviting. He leaned back against the windowsill, crossing his arms. "That jersey didn't do you justice," he remarked, a hint of amusement touching his lips. "This... suits you far better." Powli sank into the chair, the leather cool against her skin. He walked to his desk, opening a drawer with practiced ease and took an envelope and placed it on the table. Then he took a ribbon-tied gift hamper bag from the couch, placing them deliberately on the polished surface of the table. "This," he slid the envelope forward, "is a gesture of appreciation. For the effort." He tapped the hamper bag. "And this... a token." Powli's fingers trembled slightly as she picked up the envelope, peeking inside. It is a cheque. The amount made her breath catch – more than she'd seen in months. The hamper bag felt luxurious, promising unseen treasures inside. "Mr. Ben," she stammered, "this is... too much. After today..."

Shame washed over her again, hot and prickly. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, her gaze fixed on the cheque. "You believed in me... and I finished dead last." Her knuckles whitened around the envelope. Back at uni... I was quick." A faint, nostalgic smile touched her lips. "Used to win sprints." The smile vanished, replaced by a weary slump. "Then... life. Couple of relationships went sideways. Bad ones. Left me feeling..." she trailed off, gesturing vaguely at herself, "...like this. Now I'm sharing a shoebox flat with my mate Chloe, barely scraping by kneading dough at the bakery down Peckham High Street." She looked Ben straight in the eye, a flicker of defiance cutting through the humiliation. "I saw the prize money for this race – it was huge! Enough to clear rent for months, maybe even start saving. Figured... maybe I could pull off one last miracle, y'know?" A bitter chuckle escaped her. "Guess miracles need training. Haven't run properly in... ages. Couldn't prepare in time. Just... froze at the start."

Ben remained silent, leaning against the desk, absorbing her confession. Then he just nodded slowly. "Sometimes life knocks the sprint out of you." Powli tucked the cheque and hamper bag protectively under her arm, the weight of the unexpected generosity settling warmly in her chest. A genuine smile broke through her lingering shame as she pulled out the embossed business card Ben had offered earlier. Both stood, the leather chair sighing softly. "Important meetings call," Ben said crisply, extending his hand. Her fingers slid into his grip – firm, warm, surprisingly soft despite the lines of age. Powli felt a sudden, unexpected jolt, a fizzy warmth spreading up her arm. It wasn't just gratitude; it was the startling thrill of touching power, privilege, and charm embodied in one man. Holding Ben's hand felt like stepping onto a plush carpet in a world she'd only glimpsed through shop windows on Peckham High Street. She lingered a fraction longer than necessary, savoring the solid warmth, the faint scent of gin and sandalwood clinging to his skin, the sheer presence of him. Reluctantly, she pulled away, the ghost of his touch buzzing on her palm.

After reaching her apartment, Powli practically flew past the overflowing laundry basket in the hallway, ignoring Chloe's muffled shout of "Oi! How'd it go?" from behind her bedroom door. She slammed her own door shut, leaning against it. Fumbling in her bag, she found the envelope. The crisp paper whispered secrets as she unfolded it. The printed numbers gleamed under her cheap ceiling bulb. £5000. Five Thousand Pounds. She traced the zeros with a trembling fingertip, whispering the amount aloud again and again, each repetition fueling a giddy wave of disbelief. Pride bloomed fierce and bright within her. "I was dead last," she murmured, "but I got this ." She pressed the cheque flat against her chest, feeling its power seep into her tired bones.His face keep flashing again and again in her mind. Then she grabbed the hamper bag, tearing at the elegant ribbon. Beneath layers of crinkly gold tissue paper, her fingers closed around smooth, cool plastic – a compact case embossed with a name she recognized instantly from glossy magazine ads. A celebrity makeup kit. Powli gasped, flipping open the lid. Rows of perfect powders, creams shimmering like jewels nestled in velvet. "Wow," she breathed, stroking the pristine blush brush. At the bottom, tucked beneath the kit, lay a thick cardstock coupon. Helen's Intimate Designs , it proclaimed in elegant script. Check at our store near Knightsbridge . Powli frowned. "Helen's Lingerie?" she murmured aloud, turning the coupon over. Never heard of it. "Let's see...Helen's..." She pulled out her phone, fingers flying across the screen. A quick search later, her eyes widened. Helen's Intimate Designs: Exclusive luxury lingerie for the discerning woman . Photos loaded: silk, lace, daring cuts on impossibly chic mannequins. Prices started where her monthly rent ended. Powli stared at the coupon clutched in her hand. Redeem something special . Her cheeks flushed warm. "Designer lingerie? For me?" The thought felt alien, almost scandalous. Holding that coupon felt like holding a forbidden key.

The next day crawled by at the bakery, flour dusting her eyelashes like ghostly snow. Images flickered relentlessly behind her tired eyes: Ben's assessing gaze in the sponsor office, the soft leather chair sighing beneath her, the lingering warmth of his handshake that fizzed unexpectedly up her arm. Every knead of dough felt heavy, slow. When her shift finally ended, dusk painting the London streets bruised purple and gold, she navigated the Tube maze towards Knightsbridge. Helen's Intimate Designs nestled discreetly between a bespoke tailor and an art gallery. Powli stopped dead on the pavement. It wasn't a shop; it was an emerald jewel box. Sleek green marble framed the entrance, glowing softly under recessed lighting. Inside, deep emerald velvet drapes hugged the walls, reflecting the soft, intimate glow of crystal chandeliers. It felt less like a lingerie store and more like stepping into a hushed, exclusive nightclub lounge. Soft jazz drifted through the air. Powli hesitated, acutely aware of her flour-dusted jeans and worn sneakers. She saw two impeccably dressed women inside, effortlessly elegant, examining delicate lace slips draped over velvet mannequins. Powli took a deep breath, pushing the heavy, cool glass door open. The scent hit her instantly – expensive perfume and new silk, a world away from yeast and sweat. She felt like an imposter trespassing in a palace.

A young saleswoman glided over, her smile polished but warm. Her sleek black dress whispered against her calves. "Welcome to Helen's," she murmured, her voice smooth as the silk surrounding them. "Can I assist you with something special?" Powli fumbled in her bag, her fingers clumsy, pulling out the crisp coupon. "I... uh... have this," she stammered, thrusting it forward. The saleswoman took it, her perfectly manicured fingers tracing the embossed Helen's logo. Recognition flashed instantly in her eyes. "Ah," she said, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She glanced pointedly at Powli’s bare left hand. "The Ben's Real Estate coupon. We see these occasionally. Do you work for Mr. Ben?" Powli shook her head mutely, cheeks flushing hot. "No," she managed. The saleswoman’s smile widened slightly. "Lucky you. This coupon unlocks our signature Designer Collection," she gestured towards the far corner, bathed in a spotlight’s golden glow. "Please, browse freely. It’s our most exclusive range."

Powli drifted towards the illuminated rack as if in a dream. The air shimmered with the scent of bergamot and vanilla. Hanging there weren't mere garments; they were whispered promises rendered in silk, lace, and straps thinner than spiderwebs. Deep plum corsets dripped crystal embellishments, emerald-green bodysuits plunged daringly low, and champagne-colored negligees floated like wisps of smoke. Each piece seemed engineered for seduction, a stark contrast to the sensible cotton bras she usually wore. Her fingers hovered nervously, finally landing on a black set. It wasn't the flashiest, but its simplicity held power: a demi-cup bra with intricate scalloped lace edging the cups, hinting at fullness, paired with high-waisted briefs adorned with the same delicate pattern. It looked like it would embrace her curves, not constrict them. It was the scattered constellation of tiny, genuine amethysts stitched along the lace borders that made her gasp – subtle, expensive sparks catching the light.

"I shall take this," Powli murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she clutched the black lingerie set. The delicate amethysts winked knowingly under the boutique's soft lighting. The saleswoman's polished smile widened fractionally as she retrieved the coupon. With precise taps on her tablet, she entered the coupon details. "All settled," she announced smoothly. "This exquisite piece is entirely complimentary. Absolutely no charge." Her gaze flickered pointedly to Powli's bare ring finger. "I must say," she added, her tone conspiratorially low, "your boyfriend, or whoever the fortunate gentleman might be... he will find this utterly irresistible." Powli felt heat flare across her cheeks, a visceral blush spreading from her collarbones to her temples, as vivid as the deep plum silk on the nearby mannequin.

The saleswoman packaged the lingerie with practiced reverence. Each piece nestled into tissue paper softer than clouds, placed inside a matte black box embossed with a discreet silver 'H'. This box slid into a thick, charcoal grey cotton bag with sturdy woven handles and the Helen's logo stamped in subtle silver. Powli accepted the bag, its substantial weight surprising her – heavy with luxury and implication. It felt like carrying a seductive secret onto the crowded Knightsbridge pavement. On her bus ride back to Peckham, the branded bag rested conspicuously on her lap, drawing occasional glances from weary commuters. She kept her hands protectively over it, her mind adrift. The cool, slippery feel of the silk through the tissue paper seemed to imprint itself on her fingertips. She replayed the race: the agonizing slowness, the gasps turning to murmurs, Margaret's sharp fury, the crushing weight of last place. Then, Ben’s calm appraisal cut through the memory – not disappointment, but something far more intriguing, almost appreciative. Her fingers tightened on the bag handles. The cheque. £5000. The sheer impossibility of it warmed her chest again. It wasn’t prize money; it was a gift. A gift from him . Her thumb rubbed unconsciously over the Helen's logo on the bag. Why lingerie? Why that specific coupon? The saleswoman’s knowing look, the pointed glance at her bare ring finger… "Utterly irresistible." The words echoed in the bus’s rumble, sending a thrilling shiver down her spine.

The bus lurched to her stop. Walking the familiar, slightly grubby streets towards her flat, the Helen's bag swung against her leg, its elegant charcoal grey stark against the peeling paintwork of corner shops and fried chicken outlets. A stray thought flickered through her exhaustion: Am I still young enough for this? Thirty-two isn't old. She touched her belly, solid beneath her jacket. Not athletic-sleek, but strong. Healthy. She remembered the raw power in her thighs pumping on the track, the fierce determination that had captivated Ben despite the result. And she felt a sudden, fierce pang of want. For ease. For luxury. For feeling desired in a way Peckham High Street bakeries never offered. The feeling swelled inside her. Soon, she pushed open the familiar scuffed front door. Chloe was thankfully ensconced in her room, music thumping softly. Powli hurried down the hall to her own sanctuary. She tossed the Helen's bag reverently onto her narrow bed, the matte black box a stark promise against her faded duvet. A quick, scalding shower followed. She scrubbed fiercely, washing away the grime of the day and the lingering shame of the race, letting the hot water pound against her shoulders. Emerging pink-skinned and steaming into her chilly room, she wrapped herself in her thin, worn terrycloth robe, tying it loosely. Her damp hair dripped onto her shoulders. Her gaze fixed on the bed. The Helen's box lay waiting, a sleek, silent invitation. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the starting gun from yesterday. This wasn't just trying on underwear; it felt like stepping onto a different kind of starting line altogether. She reached out, fingers trembling slightly as they touched the cool, smooth surface of the box. Inside, nestled in clouds of impossibly soft tissue paper, lay the black lace. The delicate scalloped edges, the promise of the demi-cup, the scatter of tiny, dark amethysts catching the weak light from her overhead bulb. It looked impossibly fragile, impossibly expensive. She carefully lifted the bra, the lace whispering against her skin. The silk straps felt cool and impossibly smooth. Holding it up, she stared at her reflection in the small mirror tacked to the back of her door. The robe gaped slightly. Ben’s face flashed again in her mind – that assessing look, the curve of his lips as he'd said 'This suits you far better' , the lingering warmth of his handshake.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Powli dropped the robe and wrapped the bra around her. She stretched her hand backwards and pressed the little buckle that clicked and her bra locked in with comfort. The cool silk slid against her flushed skin, and she gasped. It wasn't just that it fit, it molded itself. The lace cups didn't bite; they embraced her full breasts, lifting them perfectly without pinching. The scalloped edges framed her cleavage like an artist’s signature, while the thin straps settled effortlessly onto her shoulders. She traced the delicate path of amethysts along the edge, sparkling like forbidden stars against her skin. Then came the high-waisted briefs. The lace climbed her hips, hugging every generous curve without digging in. The silk felt like liquid against her thighs, smoothing over her stomach with a gentle, flattering hold. She stood frozen, staring at the door mirror. The reflection wasn't just flattering, it was transformative. Her softness was now luxuriously defined; her curves weren't hidden but showcased with the bold elegance of a Renaissance painting. Looking at the mirror, she saw a seductress. She imagined walking into a dimly lit club, the hungry stares, the choked whispers, the certainty that every man there would forget his drink mid-sip. A slow, disbelieving smile spread across her face.

With a determined bite on her lower lip, Powli twisted her arms behind her back, straining to unhook the clasp. Her fingers slipped on the tiny hooks and eyes, slick with sweat. She grunted, trying again. Nothing. She twisted sideways, almost wrenching her shoulder, fingertips blindly seeking the mechanism. Still trapped. "Bloody hell," she muttered, frustration mounting. After five failed attempts, her skin flushed and damp, she snatched her phone. "Chloe?" she yelled over the thumping bass bleeding through the wall. "Need your hands!" Minutes later, Chloe barged in, clutching a half-eaten biscuit. Her eyes flew wide, jaw dropping. "Fucking hell, Pow!" she gasped, crumbs spraying. "Did you land a night shift servicing Saudi princes?" Powli rolled her eyes, turning her back. "Help me get this damn thing off." Chloe whistled low, tracing a finger along the intricate lace band. "Tell me, honey," she breathed, her amusement palpable, "who dropped a fortune on Helen's silk for you? No way it's some Peckham lad. Bet he's old... and bold." Powli flushed crimson as Chloe fumbled behind her. "Can't find the bloody clasp! It's like Fort Knox back here!" Chloe hissed, fingers scrabbling uselessly against Powli's skin.

Chloe dropped to her knees, rummaging through the discarded Helen's box. She pulled out the thick cardstock coupon - and beneath it, a small laminated instruction card folded in half. "Gotcha!" Chloe unfolded it, revealing a glossy diagram. Both women leaned in. Three hands were depicted: two pressing small buttons hidden beneath the lace band at either end, while a third pulled the central clasp outward simultaneously. "Fuck me sideways," Chloe breathed, staring at the triangle formation. "You need three hands? Two presses and a pull? Can't be done solo!" Powli groaned, slumping against the bedpost. Chloe's eyes sparkled mischievously as she studied Powli's reflection. "Right," she declared, propping the card against Powli's cheap lamp. "Press here," she instructed, guiding Powli's left hand to a concealed button near her spine. Chloe pressed the opposite button herself. "Now... pull!" Powli yanked the clasp outward. With a soft snick , the bra sprang open. Chloe snatched it triumphantly. "See? Teamwork." She draped the lace over Powli's shoulder, tracing an amethyst. "If you ever ditch this mysterious sugar daddy..." she murmured, her gaze locked on Powli's in the mirror, "...promise you'll share him. Or," she added, winking, "take me along. Anyone who gifts Helen's and needs a threesome just to remove it? Sounds dangerously alluring." Powli stared at her friend, the absurdity mingling with a thrilling rush of possibility. Her fingers brushed the cool silk still draped on her skin.

Powli sank onto the edge of the bed, clutching the loose robe around her naked waist. The cool silk bra lay beside her like a fallen star. "It's not like that, Chloe," she stammered, cheeks still flushed. "Honestly! It was... weird." She launched into a tangled explanation: the disastrous race, Margaret's fury, Ben's unexpected calmness cutting through the storm. She described the sponsor's office – his assessing gaze as she entered in jeans, the cool envelope with the cheque, the luxurious hamper. "He just... gave it to me. Said 'appreciation for the effort'. And then..." she gestured helplessly at the Helen's bag, "... this . A coupon for designer lingerie. Said it was a 'token'. But why lingerie? Why Helen's ?" She picked up the intricate bra, her thumb tracing the hidden clasp mechanism Chloe had found. "And look at this clasp! It's... bizarre." She sighed, running a hand through her damp hair. "I don't know what I'm doing. I feel like I'm dreaming something mad. She looked up at Chloe, confusion etched on her face. "He's sixty! I got lucky once, met a decent bloke who helped out. That's it. Probably feels sorry for the lumbering loser who came last." She dropped the bra back onto the bed, a flicker of shame returning. "Just aimless dreaming. Getting carried away."

Chloe snorted, plopping down beside her and snagging the discarded biscuit. "Powli Davies," she declared, crumbs spraying, "you absolute doughhead ." She leaned in, eyes gleaming with the certainty of a veteran battlefield commander surveying fresh recruits. "Sixteen relationships, Pow. Sixteen! From skint musicians to flashy bankers who promised the moon and delivered damp squibs. I've seen 'decent blokes'. They give you a tenner for a cab when it rains, not five grand and a key to Fort Knox knickers!" She tapped the Helen's bag emphatically. "This," she hissed, pointing at the lingerie, "isn't 'help'. This is target acquisition! That clasp needing three hands?" A wicked grin spread across her face. "That's a hint . A bloody neon sign flashing 'sugar daddy incoming'! He didn't pick a sensible jumper voucher, did he? He picked designer collection set where all the set comes with a 3-way clasp. He wants the fantasy, Pow.

"Right," Chloe continued, adopting a mock-serious tone, "Look Pow. Option A: Slump back to kneading sourdough tomorrow, dreaming of silk while smelling of yeast… forever wondering 'what if?'" She paused dramatically. "Option B: You text that silver fox thank you . You mention the lingerie fits… perfectly . See what signal flares he sends back." Powli stared, a cocktail of disbelief and burgeoning excitement bubbling in her stomach. Chloe nudged her shoulder. "He’s sixty, not dead! Probably got more game in his pinky finger than your last three boyfriends combined. And Pow?" Chloe’s voice dropped, low and conspiratorial. "He saw you dead last and saw potential . Not pity. Potential."

Powli blinked slowly, Chloe’s words landing like stones in a still pond. Her gaze drifted towards the Helen's bra – its intricate clasp, its impossible luxury. She pictured Ben’s calm certainty amidst the chaos of her failure, the cheque burning a hole in her purse, the lingerie coupon… not random, not accidental. It felt deliberate. Targeted. A tremor ran through her, part fear, part exhilaration. "You think…" she started, voice thick. "Look, he's rich. He might be hanging out with glamorous girls constantly, models maybe…but he got an eye on you," Chloe cut in firmly, her finger jabbing the air. Powli’s eyes widened. Chloe leaned closer, her whisper urgent. "If you would like to take this opportunity Pow, you could have some great fuck nights, champagne dinners…and your bakery job? Keep it part-time. No more six-hour shifts smelling of burnt croissants. Make him your main focus." She grinned. "Pleasing him properly . That’s your full-time job now."

Chloe bounced up, snagging her biscuit wrapper. "Right. Think on it. Don't overthink it! My shift starts soon." She paused at the door, throwing Powli a final, knowing look. "Text him, Davies. Text him now . Before the sensible part of your brain kicks in and talks you out of the best bloody idea you've ever had." The door clicked shut, plunging Powli into sudden silence, broken only by the muffled thump of Chloe’s music next door. The Helen's bra lay beside her, a sleek, dark promise against the faded floral duvet. She stared at it, then at her reflection in the cheap mirror tacked to the door. The thin terrycloth robe gaped open, revealing the curve of her hip, the soft swell of her belly Chloe had just called "healthy." With a sharp intake of breath, Powli snatched her iPhone off the bedside table, her fingers trembling against the cool glass.

Looking at his business card still resting beside the Helen's bag, Powli opened WhatsApp and typed Ben's number with clumsy fingers. Her thumb hovered over the send button before she impulsively added: "Thank you for the gift." She grabbed the crisp coupon from the bed, held it up in her other hand, and snapped a quick, photo of the coupon, with the Helen's bag discarded in a blurred view. She hit send before courage fled and slammed the phone face-down onto the duvet. With a groan, she buried her face in her hands, hot skin pressing into cool palms. What if he ignored it? The silence stretched, thick and claustrophobic. Seconds crawled by. Then – a sharp buzz . Her heart hammered against her ribs as she flipped the phone over. A single notification blinked: Ben's name, a thumbs-up emoji, followed by a chillingly simple word: "Enjoy.." Her breath caught. Enjoy? Enjoy what ? The lingerie? The ambiguity was maddening. Was it a polite dismissal? An invitation? Her thumb trembled over the keyboard, mind blanking on how to escalate this tantalizing, terrifying thread.

Across London, nestled in his townhouse study, Ben leaned back in his leather chair, swirling a tumbler of apple concentrate from his farm. His iPhone lay open on the mahogany desk, displaying Helen's WhatsApp message. A slow, appreciative smile touched his lips as he reread her words: "Hey we redeemed a coupon from your office today. My staff said it was a gorgeous woman. Planning something this weekend? Or you are already on schedule? Either way ping me Boss, I miss you." He chuckled softly; Helen always had impeccable timing and an eye for potential. Before he could formulate a reply, his phone buzzed again – a separate notification popped up: Powli Davies. Without opening the phone, he saw her message previewed on the screen: "I don't have any special occasion to wear this. If you have any, let me know. Powli." Ben’s smile deepened into a grin. The innocence wrapped in invitation was delicious. He tapped open Helen’s chat swiftly. "On schedule!" he typed, his fingers moving with decisive speed. "Will meet this weekend." He hit send.

Ben didn't open Powli's message yet. He enjoyed the anticipation simmering in his fingertips as he swiped back to Helen's chat. Her reply popped up instantly: Wow, enjoy Boss 😉 I am sure she might give you a good week of fun. Lucky woman she got the best silver fox in town 😉 Looking forward to having fun with you this weekend 🍌💦 . The banana and water droplet emojis pulsed suggestively on his screen. He sipped his apple concentrate, and typed a final See you soon . At this time Powli was biting her nails raw on her narrow bed, staring at the phone screen. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she chanted silently. Why mention "special occasion"? It sounded desperate. She pictured Ben scrolling past her message with a weary sigh, deleting it like spam. He probably gifted Helen's coupons to dozens of women, glamorous ones who knew how to play this game without blurting out awkward invitations. Her thumb hovered over the delete button, ready to vanish the evidence of her embarrassing leap. Then, buzz . The notification banner sliced across her screen: Ben: Wearing that piece is a special occasion all by itself. Powli gasped. The phone clattered onto her lap. Heat exploded in her cheeks, rushed down her neck, pooled low in her belly. Her tongue instinctively flicked against the sharp edge of her wisdom tooth, a physical jolt echoing the electric thrill sparking through her veins. He saw it. He understood . And he’d flirted back. Boldly. She picked up the phone, and typed: I wish I could wear it for you. She paused, her thumb trembling above the send button. She deleted it. Too forward? Too crude? She swallowed hard. Her fingers flew again, softer, hesitant: I'll take a day off... whenever you're free. She hit send before she could second-guess the quiet submission woven into those words. The screen pulsed with the Delivered notification. Powli pressed the phone flat against her chest, feeling her frantic heartbeat sync with the muffled bass bleeding through Chloe’s wall. She closed her eyes, imagining Ben reading her offer. The silence stretched, thick and sweet as honey.

Ben leaned forward in his leather chair, the soft glow of his desk lamp highlighting the amusement dancing in his eyes. Powli’s tentative reply shimmered on his screen: I'll take a day off... whenever you're free. He tapped a finger thoughtfully against the polished mahogany. He knew her world, the cramped Peckham flat, the bakery shifts, the worn-out clothes Chloe had likely teased her about. Expecting designer dresses or salon-fresh hair would be absurd, a pressure she couldn't afford and he didn't desire. Her raw authenticity was the allure. He pictured her anxiety twisting over what to wear, the frantic rummaging through limited options. No. He wanted her relaxed. Vulnerable. Unburdened. His thumbs moved decisively, crafting a lifeline wrapped in velvet reassurance: Don't think too much on what to wear. My place is quiet. I'm staying alone. Feel free and casual. He paused, then added the final brushstroke, transforming permission into an irresistible pull: Come tomorrow. Afternoon. I shall come and pick you up.

Powli stared at Ben’s message. Casual clothes. His place. Tomorrow. The words blurred momentarily, then snapped into sharp, terrifying focus. It was real. It was happening. A choked gasp escaped her, followed immediately by a giddy, disbelieving laugh that echoed off the thin walls. Her fingers flew to her mouth, pressing hard against the grin threatening to split her face. Joy, pure and effervescent, fizzed through her veins like shaken champagne. He wanted her! Not a glamorous facade, not a performance, but her – in her own clothes! The relief was dizzying, washing away the frantic worries about borrowed heels or unaffordable dresses. She scrambled off the bed, the phone clutched like a winning lottery ticket, and burst into Chloe’s room without knocking.

"Chloe!" Powli burst through the door without knocking, waving her phone wildly. Her friend sat perched on her unmade bed, painting chipped toenails electric blue. "Look!" Powli thrust the screen under Chloe’s nose, her voice trembling with exhilaration. "He replied! He wants me tomorrow! His place! And he said…" she paused, breathless, "... casual clothes ! Anything I want!" Chloe squinted at the message, her lips curling into a slow, knowing grin that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Well, butter my biscuit," she murmured, capping her nail polish with a soft click . "Casual? That's practically a royal decree to wear your comfiest knickers, Pow. Smart man." She patted the bed beside her. "Told you he saw potential, not pity. Welcome to the fast lane, honey."

Powli sank onto the mattress, the adrenaline making her jittery. A nervous giggle bubbled up, sharp and sudden. "Okay, genius," she blurted out, clutching Chloe's arm, her eyes wide with sudden panic, "What do I do now ? Do I bring wine? Chocolate? Should I practice... things ?" Chloe stared at her for a beat, utterly baffled. Then she threw back her head and laughed, a rich, throaty sound that filled the small room. "Practice what , exactly?" she snorted, wiping an imaginary tear. "Knitting patterns? Synchronised breathing? Powli Davies, you beautiful, clueless doughball!" She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a stage whisper thick with amusement. "You've got seductive designer lingerie burning a hole in your drawer, and a silver fox driving here tomorrow to whisk you away. And your job?" Chloe pressed her sharply pointed index finger firmly against Powli's chestbone, giving a deliberate, meaningful nudge. " Go and fuck him senselessly . Then," she finished, tapping Powli's chest twice for emphasis, "you report back to me. Wednesday."

Powli felt a sudden, fierce surge of affection and gratitude for her friend’s unfiltered wisdom. Without another word, Powli surged forward, wrapping Chloe in a tight, impulsive hug that smelled faintly of blue nail polish and biscuit crumbs. She planted a quick, smacking kiss on Chloe’s cheekbone before pulling back, a fierce blush blooming across her face. "Right," Powli breathed, scrambling off the bed with renewed, slightly manic energy. "Report Wednesday. Got it." She practically sprinted back to her own room, the cheap laminate floor creaking under her bare feet, Chloe's lingering laughter chasing her down the hallway.

The next afternoon crawled by in a haze of nervous anticipation. Powli chose her oversized cotton-blend white top – soft, unassuming, slightly worn around the cuffs – paired with her best-fitting black jeans, the ones that hugged her hips without constricting. She brushed her dark hair until it fell in a clean, then she tied her hair like a ponytail, pulled back high and tight at the crown, revealing the elegant slope of her neck. The simple style, combined with minimal makeup – just a swipe of mascara and a touch of balm – gave her an unexpected aura: a mature seductress cloaked in casual homeliness, a stark contrast to the Helen's silk whispering promises from her drawer. Her thumb constantly swiped across her phone screen, cycling between the time and Ben’s WhatsApp chat, fixated on the Peckham address she’d sent him earlier. Doorbell’s dodgy , best to text when you’re outside . Every creak of the old building’s plumbing, every slam of a distant door, made her jump. It had been years since she’d felt this fluttery dread mixed with exhilarating possibility. Powli slowly ran her palms over her mounds till tummy feeling the new bra underneath. The luxurious black lace, unseen beneath the thick cotton, felt like a secret surprise, its subtle rasp against her skin a constant reminder of Ben’s deliberate choice and Chloe’s audacious advice.

Suddenly, a low, resonant honk cut through the street noise filtering through her window – a sound rich and unique, like a bassoon played through a vintage speaker. It vibrated through the floorboards beneath her bare feet. Almost simultaneously, her phone buzzed violently in her palm. She fumbled, nearly dropping it, her heart leaping into her throat. The screen flashed: Reached here . She scrambled to the grimy window, peeling back the faded curtain just enough to peek down. Below, gleaming like a misplaced jewel among the parked hatchbacks and delivery vans, sat a sleek, midnight-blue Bentley – impossibly long, impossibly luxurious. The tinted rear passenger window slid down silently, revealing Ben’s profile. He wasn’t looking up; he was checking something on his phone, calm and composed amidst the urban grit.

Powli snatched her worn canvas handbag, slung it over her shoulder with trembling hands, and fumbled with the keys. The cheap lock clicked stubbornly twice before finally turning. She yanked the door shut, the slam echoing too loudly in the narrow hallway. The Bentley’s imposing presence felt surreal against the backdrop of peeling paint and overflowing bins. Her breath hitched as she approached the lowered window, catching the faint, expensive scent of leather polish and Ben’s subtle cologne drifting out. She leaned down slightly, her ponytail swinging forward. "Hi," she breathed, the word catching in her dry throat, sounding more like a gasp than a greeting.

Ben turned his head fully, his eyes crinkling at the corners as a slow, appreciative smile spread across his face. Hello, Powli," he murmured, his voice a warm rumble that vibrated through the Bentley’s hushed interior. His gaze traveled deliberately from her nervously clasped hands up to her simple white top and neat ponytail, lingering for a heartbeat on the exposed curve of her neck before meeting her eyes. Powli flushed, acutely aware of the hidden silk beneath her cotton, and the sheer, unexpected intimacy of his quiet appraisal right here on her grimy Peckham street. She clambered inside, the deep leather sighing beneath her weight, swallowing her whole in its cool, butter-soft embrace. The door closed with a thick, muted thud, sealing out the outside world instantly.

The Bentley glided away from the curb as smoothly as silk unraveling. Ben’s hands rested lightly on the wheel, confident and relaxed. He glanced over again, his expression softening further. "You look refreshingly lovely today, Powli," he said, his tone gentle, devoid of any trace of patronizing charm. Powli felt the heat bloom fiercely across her cheeks again. She instinctively lifted a hand, tucking a non-existent stray wisp of hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing the sensitive skin there. "Thank you," she managed, the words barely a whisper above the purring engine. She focused on the blurring streets outside, the sudden shift from her cluttered reality into this cocoon of luxury and his unnerving, direct attention making her feel both exhilarated and profoundly vulnerable.

She kept her gaze fixed on the rain-streaked window, but her peripheral vision traced the landscape of Ben. His hands, broad, veined, weathered from decades of work yet impeccably groomed, rested easily on the steering wheel. Her eyes flickered downward, catching the sturdy line of his thighs beneath tailored trousers, the subtle swell of his chest under a cashmere jumper, the sharp angle of his jaw dusted with silver stubble. Each unnoticed detail, the strength in his knuckles, the calm rise and fall of his breathing, sent a fresh jolt through her, tightening the secret lace against her skin. Her pulse drummed in her ears, louder than the Bentley’s whisper-quiet engine. She rehearsed phrases silently: That’s a beautiful car , or Thank you again for picking me up . But each felt stiff, inadequate.

Ah, Chloe would have him chuckling by now , she cursed inwardly, clenching her fingers into fists in her lap. Manners mattered in his world; she hadn’t even complimented the Bentley properly. Ben broke the silence first. "So," he asked, his tone warm and conversational, "you stay with.." She jumped slightly at the sound of his voice. "Chloe," she rushed out, clutching her worn canvas bag tighter. "She’s my flatmate. Works shifts at the bakery." Powli paused, adding softly, "It keeps us... floating. Barely." Ben nodded slowly, his gaze fixed ahead on the slick London streets. "Solitude suits me," he admitted after a stretch of quiet. "My wife passed a long while back." The words were matter-of-fact, unsentimental. "Learned to savour the quiet chaos." Powli nodded mutely, stealing a sideways glance at his profile, strong, solitary, unburdened by apology. She chewed her lip. How did one respond to such intimate loneliness? "I’m sorry," she whispered, the words escaping before she could weigh them. Ben gave a small shake of his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Don’t be. Life unfolds."

The Bentley hummed onwards, gliding down unfamiliar streets until Ben smoothly guided the car off the main road and into the shadowed entryway of a multi-storey car park. Powli blinked, confused. Outside, gleaming shopfronts shimmered through the grey drizzle – Selfridges. Her brow furrowed. With a confused tone she said "I thought we were going to your place?" He turned off the ignition, the sudden quiet amplifying the drumming rain on the roof. He swivelled towards her, his expression thoughtful. "We will," he assured her gently. "But first..." His gaze travelled slowly over her oversized top and faded jeans, not critically, but appraisingly. "You should have something... finer," he murmured. "For wherever life takes you next." He gestured towards the imposing department store. "Pick anything you like," he added, his voice firm. "Consider it... essential. Don't concern yourself with price tags." Powli's heart hammered against her ribs. Essential? This unexpected detour felt overwhelming, terrifyingly generous. Before she could protest, Ben leaned closer, his scent – leather and cedar – filling her senses. A flicker of hesitation crossed his features. "Just," he began, his voice dropping to a low murmur that vibrated through the stillness, "act as if we belong together here." She froze, stunned by the sudden offer and intimacy of the request. Acting belonged to Chloe. Yet, a surge of fierce gratitude pushed her past paralysis. Her trembling hand slid across the cool leather seat and found his. Her fingers curled tightly around his weathered knuckles, the contact surprisingly warm. "Thank you," she breathed, the whisper barely audible above the rain, thick with emotion and unspoken promise.

Powli stepped out onto the polished concrete floor of Selfridges, the Bentley's deep purr fading behind her. The air smelled faintly of expensive perfume and new leather. She drifted towards the formal wear section in the shop, her fingers grazing cool silks and crisp linens. Focusing on the racks, pulling out a sleek navy shift dress, then a tailored cream pantsuit, pretending deep deliberation. "Formal... practical," she murmured aloud, more for her own nerves than his ears. She glanced sideways; Ben remained a silent, reassuring presence beside her, his expression unreadable but patient. She selected the navy shift dress, its clean lines appealing, and draped it over her arm.

She’d been so engrossed in choosing her finery, justifying the expense in her head, she’d forgotten him . The sheer selfishness of it crashed over her like ice water. She felt a flush of shame crawl up her neck. She saw him standing near a rack of men’s silk scarves, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in low, clipped tones – "...ensure the Singapore figures align before Thursday..." – his brow slightly furrowed. He looked utterly separate, a world away from her dress reverie. The navy shift dress suddenly felt heavy, foolish, in her hands. She dropped it hastily onto a nearby velvet chair, not caring if it wrinkled, and hurried towards him, her worn trainers squeaking softly on the polished marble floor. "Ben!" she whispered urgently, interrupting his call as she reached him, her breath catching. "I'm so sorry! Terribly sorry!" Her eyes were wide, genuinely distressed. "I... I got carried away. I never asked... what you need? Is there anything...you want me to wear? Something... else?"

Ben ended his call abruptly, sliding the phone into his pocket. He studied her flushed face for a moment, the genuine panic in her eyes. Then, a slow, warm smile spread across his face, melting the businesslike tension instantly. "Powli," he chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Relax." He gestured dismissively towards the acres of designer wear surrounding them. "My townhouse closets are already overflowing with different clothes." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "When we get there, you'll find anything you could possibly want." His gaze swept meaningfully over her simple white top and jeans. "Choose something purely for you today. Something that makes Powli Davies feel extraordinary – now . Not just for..." he paused, letting the implication hang delicately in the perfumed air, "...this afternoon." His eyes held hers firmly, emphasizing his point. "Pick what delights you . Indulge yourself. Powli’s heart skipped several beats. A wardrobe waiting? Closets overflowing? Her mind raced past the immediate afternoon rendezvous, picturing shelves stacked with silks and fine knits, drawers filled with lingerie far more intricate than Helen's single set. This shopping trip wasn't causal generosity; it was an investment in her desirability, priming her for pleasures she'd only begun to imagine. Her face lit up, a radiant smile blooming. "Okay," she breathed, sounding almost shy. "Okay, Ben." She turned back towards the racks, her posture suddenly taller, a newfound confidence warming her spine beneath the hidden silk.

Powli vanished back into the glittering maze of Selfridges, leaving Ben momentarily alone. He finished the brief call with his Singapore team. The moment he slid his phone back into his pocket, he turned his head. And stopped breathing. Powli stood a few paces away, bathed in the soft glow of recessed lighting. She wore a tea-dress – black, short, impossibly simple yet devastatingly cut. Its soft fabric skimmed the generous swell of her hips and hugged the soft curve of her waist before flaring gently just above her knees. It revealed her sturdy, beautiful thighs, smooth and strong. The neckline dipped modestly, yet framed the soft fullness of her bust perfectly, hinting at the luxurious lace beneath. She looked radiantly vulnerable, utterly feminine, and undeniably sensual – a potent blend of homely charm and deliberate allure. Ben smiled, a slow, appreciative curve of his lips that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Powli," he murmured, his voice husky. "Magnificent." She flushed crimson, smoothing the dress nervously over her thighs and slowly walking towards him. "Should... should I take this?" she whispered, her voice trembling slightly with hopeful uncertainty. She paused inches from him, her eyes wide and searching. "And... Ben? Is... is it alright if I call you Ben?" She bit her plump lower lip, awaiting his verdict.

Ben closed the small distance with a single step. His broad, weathered left hand moved with deliberate slowness, settling possessively on the swell of her hipbone beneath the soft black fabric. His thumb pressed gently against the dip of her waist. The contact sent a visible jolt through her; her breath hitched audibly. He leaned infinitesimally closer, his cedar scent enveloping her. "Ben...is perfectly fine." His intense grey-blue eyes held hers for a long, charged moment, absorbing her flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips. "What else," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrated deep in his chest, "have you got in mind?" A subtle smirk played at the corner of his mouth. She smiled coyly, tilting her head back slightly to meet his steady gaze, feeling the heat radiating from his palm through the dress. "Well," she breathed, her voice huskier than intended, "that rather depends... on what surprises you've got hidden away in that townhouse wardrobe." A playful challenge flickered in her dark eyes.

Ben smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips as his gaze lingered on Powli’s playful challenge. They stood surrounded by racks of untouched finery, yet neither needed words. Shared warmth bloomed between them – a silent understanding of what awaited beyond this glittering facade. Powli’s coy smile widened into genuine delight as Ben murmured, "Then let’s go home." Her heart hammered against the soft silk of her new dress. Without hesitation, she turned gracefully, her hips swaying slightly beneath the black fabric. She walked towards the trial room area, not hurriedly, but with a knowing stroll. She knows Ben is watching. Her ponytail bounced softly with each step, her shoulders back, the curve of her waist accentuated by the dress’s fit.

She emerged moments later, clutching the Selfridges bag containing the dress like a promise, her gaze finding Ben instantly across the polished floor. He waited patiently, his expression unreadable yet intensely present. Together, they walked through the hushed luxury of Selfridges, past indifferent shop assistants, towards the exit. She bent slightly to place the bag gently in the Bentley’s backseat, the drizzle outside made her blouse slightly translucent. Ben watched the subtle outline of the black Helen’s lace beneath the thin white cotton – a deliberate whisper, a confirmation of her readiness. A slow smile touched his lips.

The Bentley’s door closed with its muffled thud, plunging them into the intimate silence of leather and cedar. Powli inhaled sharply, the confined air suddenly thick with unsaid intentions. Her breath quickened, shallow and rapid, making her chest rise and fall beneath the damp fabric. Ben’s gaze tracked the movement of her breasts shifting against the thin white blouse, lingering on the outline of Helen’s dark lace beneath. Powli caught his stare, her cheeks flushing crimson. Her voice trembled with boldness: "Ben... should we... park somewhere? A park? Somewhere quiet?" He shifted towards her, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. "My house," he murmured, fingertips grazing her trembling knee, "is not so far." Powli’s lips curved into a matching smile, and she whispered steadfastly, "Whatever you say... Sir."

The Bentley glided away from the bustling city centre, weaving through quieter streets lined with stately Victorian townhouses. Finally, Ben turned into a narrow, cobbled lane flanked by imposing wrought-iron gates. He pressed a button on his key fob; the gates swung open silently. Powli gasped, pressing her palm against the cool glass. Beyond lay a stunning Georgian mansion. Immaculate lawns rolled out like velvet carpets, dotted with ancient oaks and sculpted topiaries. "Oh, Ben," she breathed, her voice hushed with awe. "This... this is your home ?" He chuckled softly, navigating the long, winding driveway. "It is," he confirmed, parking smoothly before the grand portico. Powli stared, wide-eyed, at the elegant symmetry, the vast sash windows, the sheer scale of it all. Her Peckham flat could fit into the entrance hall alone. Rovi, his gardner, raking leaves near the fountain, nodded politely.

As Ben led her up the wide stone steps towards the gleaming black front door, Powli noticed the gardener again. His movements were methodical, efficient. She leaned closer to Ben, her shoulder brushing his arm. "Who's that?" she whispered, nodding towards the man. Ben slid a heavy brass key into the lock. "That's Rovi," he answered casually, swinging the door open to reveal a breathtaking marble foyer. "He tends the gardens until five sharp." He ushered her inside, adding with a low chuckle that vibrated in the sudden stillness, "After that, it's just me rattling around this echo chamber... unless," he paused, locking eyes with her as the door clicked shut behind them, "there are visitors. Like you." Powli smiled, stepping onto cool marble, her gaze sweeping upwards towards a crystal chandelier sparkling like frozen stars. "How often," she asked, her voice honeyed with a coy smile, "are there visitors?" Ben turned fully towards her, a slow, appreciative grin spreading across his face. He mirrored her coyness perfectly. "How often," he countered, his eyes dancing over the curves hinted at beneath her damp blouse, "can you run a race?" saying that Ben closed the door. Powli's smile widened into something daring as she placed the Selfridges bag gently onto the polished floor. She moved very close to him, the scent of rain and cedar mingling. "If you're watching?" she breathed, her voice dropping to a husky whisper thick with promise. "Did you like my last run?" Ben’s gaze travelled slowly down her body, lingering meaningfully on her hips, her thighs, her breasts outlined beneath the wet fabric.

"Powli," he murmured, his voice a warm rumble that echoed softly in the vast hall. "You were the most beautiful one out there that day. Utterly captivating." The sincerity in his tone, devoid of mockery for her last-place finish, sent a thrill through her. Powli’s blush deepened, but confidence surged beneath it. Her fingers drifted up nervously, adjusting a phantom strand of hair behind her ear. "Then..." she began, her gaze locking intensely with his, "...I can run again. Just for you." She took half a step back, creating a small space between them, her posture poised. Her eyes held a challenging sparkle. "Just tell me where to start..." She paused, letting the anticipation build, her lips curving into a provocative smile. "...and..." Another pause, deliberate and breathless. "...what to wear." Her gaze flickered meaningfully towards the staircase. Ben’s eyes darkened. He moved then, closing the distance she’d created with a single stride. Ben slid his hands firmly onto Powli's hips, the heat of his touch searing through the damp cotton of her blouse, anchoring her firmly against him. Powli inhaled sharply, a gasp catching in her throat. Without hesitation, her arms snaked up, wrapping tightly around Ben's strong neck, fingers tangling slightly in the silvered hair at his nape.

She tilted her head back, eyes fluttering shut, and pressed her lips firmly against his. It wasn't a tentative kiss. It was urgent, deep, and hungry – the culmination of hidden lingerie, whispered promises across Bentley seats, and the sheer magnetic pull of his unexpected generosity. She kissed him like she'd been starving for this precise moment since the rain-soaked Peckham street corner, pouring every ounce of her pent-up longing into the fierce connection. Her body melted against his, the hidden Helen's silk a forgotten barrier beneath the pressure of his embrace. Ben responded instantly, his arms encircling her waist, pulling her impossibly closer. His kiss deepened, matching her intensity, tasting the sweetness of her mouth, exploring the contours of her lips. The vast, echoing hall dissolved around them. Powli felt the solid warmth of his chest against her breasts, the slight scratch of his cashmere jumper against her cheek, the powerful thud of his heartbeat syncing with her own frantic rhythm. His hands moved lower, gripping her soft hips possessively, pulling her flush against the undeniable strength of him. A low groan vibrated deep in her throat as she finally broke the kiss, but only just enough to breathe raggedly against his lips.

Eyes locked intensely, breaths mingling in the charged silence, Powli’s trembling fingers found the hem of her damp white blouse. She tugged upwards urgently, breaking their gaze momentarily as the fabric snagged over her head. Simultaneously, Ben’s strong, weathered hands slid beneath his own jumper, pulling it swiftly off, revealing the firm expanse of his chest beneath a crisp white shirt. Neither paused. Soon, both stood facing each other in the echoing grandeur of the marble foyer clad only in their undergarments, Powli in the intricate black designer lace from Helen’s store, Ben in simple, pristine cotton briefs. He stepped close, his palms sliding possessively over the curve of her hips, then smoothing upwards to trace the waistband of her lingerie before descending with deliberate pressure to cradle the full, heavy swell of her buttocks. His hands settled firmly there, kneading her soft flesh through the delicate silk. His breath hitched against the shell of her ear as he murmured thickly, “Damn, Powli… these cheeks. They’re massive.” Before she could react, his mouth captured hers in a deep, claiming kiss. Powli smirked against his lips, her own hands tightening around his neck as she pressed herself closer, silently answering his admiration with fierce possession of her own.

Their kisses grew deeper, hungrier, a messy tangle of tongues and shared breath. Between desperate pulls at Ben’s mouth, Powli’s voice emerged, thick and muffled against his lips: "Ben... Oh Ben..." She gasped, pulling back slightly, her dark eyes glittering with mischief. "There's... more to explore… than… just… these cheeks, you know..." Her words were punctuated by another urgent kiss, her fingers tangling in his silver hair as she pressed her soft belly firmly against the hard ridge straining against his cotton briefs. Ben groaned into her mouth, his hands tightening possessively on her hips. Her fingers, slick with nervous sweat, fumbled backwards, blindly seeking the central clasp nestled between her shoulder blades, the intricate heart-shaped clasp of Helen’s finest silk. She tugged frantically, twisting her wrists awkwardly. Once. Twice. Her brow furrowed in frustration against Ben’s lips. A small, annoyed whimper escaped her throat as the clasp remained stubbornly fastened. Then she remembered: the elegant impossibility she and Chloe had giggled over, this wasn't lingerie designed for solitude. It demanded partnership. "Ben," she breathed, breaking their kiss completely this time. Her chest heaved beneath the dark lace. "How is… the gift you gave me?" Slowly, deliberately, she took one step back, putting a small, tantalizing distance between their bodies. Her dark eyes held his, heavy-lidded and smoldering. She rolled her shoulders back with deliberate grace. The soft swell of her breasts shifted subtly beneath the sheer black silk, catching the chandelier's light, a slow, mesmerizing jiggle that drew Ben’s gaze downward like a magnet. "...on me?" she finished softly, a husky challenge in her voice. Ben’s breath caught. His eyes travelled hungrily over the exquisite lace framing her generous curves, the delicate straps hugging her shoulders. A slow, appreciative smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Powli," he murmured, his voice thick with admiration. "It fits... perfectly." Powli grinned, biting her plump lower lip. "Good," she breathed, her voice trembling slightly, not with fear now, but with thrilling anticipation. "Because… I need your help." She turned gracefully, her broad hips swaying beneath the silk. Her back presented itself like a delicate secret: smooth skin stretched taut over powerful shoulders, interrupted only by the intricate criss-crossing black straps, and the stubborn clasp nestled just above her spine. "This," she murmured over her shoulder, her voice low and teasing, "...needs three hands." Ben chuckled softly, stepping forward. His weathered knuckles brushed the sensitive skin beside the clasp as he gently traced the silk strap. "Only three?" he murmured, his breath warm against her neck. Ben’s gaze lingered on the strap fastening nestled beside her spine. He leaned closer, his chest pressing warmly against her silk-clad back. Gently, deliberately, he pressed the two tiny metal buttons flanking the clasp’s heart-shaped core. Powli's hand slid backwards, instinctively and pulled the clasp, a whisper of silk parting. She gasped softly as the intricate straps loosened instantly. She stepped lightly forward, letting the exquisite silk slip completely from her body and pool silently onto the cool marble floor at her feet. She stood revealed, utterly, gloriously bare, bathed in the chandelier's glittering light.

Powli didn't hurry. She paused for a beat, utterly still in the vast silence. Then, slowly, deliberately, she turned her head over her shoulder. A smile bloomed across her face, pure, unadulterated invitation. Her dark eyes met Ben's, sparkling with playful triumph. She held his gaze, letting him drink in the view: the elegant line of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, the soft cascade of her ponytail brushing her naked spine... and lower, the breathtaking swell of her hips, the round, heavy fullness of her buttocks, a landscape Ben's eyes traced with possessive hunger. Only the thin strip of black lace clinging low on her hips remained. With effortless grace, Powli hooked her thumbs casually into the waistband of her panties. Slowly, teasingly, she began to slide them downward, millimeter by agonizing millimeter, revealing the smooth, dimpled swell just below her waistline. Her thumbs paused deliberately. She arched her back ever-so-slightly, pushing her hips backwards towards him, a silent, provocative dare. She glanced over her shoulder again, her smile widening into something wicked. "Ben?" she breathed, her voice thick with promise. "Tell me... do these cheeks... meet your standards?" Ben stepped closer, his hands settling instantly on the soft, bare flesh she presented, large, warm palms claiming the generous curves. His thumbs pressed firmly into the sweet hollows at the base of her spine. "Powli," he murmured, his voice rough with admiration against her shoulder blade. "They exceed them... massively." With a soft giggle she said "Good...Keep looking." Her thumbs resumed their slow descent, pulling the silk lower still.

The final strip of Helen’s silk slid down past her hips, catching momentarily on the magnificent swell of her cheeks. She paused again, letting Ben’s gaze linger on the silk clinging stubbornly to the fullest curve. Then she straightened sharply. The silk surrendered, whispering its way down her sturdy thighs, over her smooth knees, and finally pooling softly around her bare ankles on the cool marble. Powli kept her back to him. Only the soft, steady rise and fall of her shoulders betrayed the thrill racing through her. She lifted one foot carefully, ankle flexed, and nudged the crumpled silk aside with her toes. It lay discarded, a whisper against the polished stone. Slowly, achingly slowly, she stepped backwards, barefoot now, towards Ben. She felt the heat radiating from his body first. Then the soft brush of his cotton briefs against her bare skin. Finally, she pressed backwards completely, letting the magnificent, warm curve of her naked buttocks cradle the thick ridge straining beneath Ben’s thin underwear. He groaned, a deep, involuntary rumble that vibrated through her skin. She closed her eyes, savoring the solidity, the heat, the sheer power radiating from him into her. She bit her plump lower lip, trapping a whimper. "How..." she breathed, her voice trembling against the silence, "...how do you do it, Ben? How do you have... this ... charm?" She felt his hands slide possessively around her waist, pulling her tighter against him, his thumbs tracing circles on her soft belly. His lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath her ear. Ben smiled, a slow, intimate curve she could feel against her hair. "Drinking..." he murmured, his breath warm silk against her neck. "...helps." His fingers tightened on her waist. "Drinking...?" Powli whispered, tilting her head back against his shoulder. "Drinking... wine?" Ben chuckled softly, the sound a low vibration against her spine. "How old?" Powli asked softly, her eyes drifting shut again as she savored the warmth of him. She felt Ben shift slightly, his chin resting atop her head. " Young ," he breathed, a single word thick with appreciation. " Young ... like you." Powli froze for a heartbeat. A slow, delicious warmth blooming low in her belly. She grinned against his forearm. "Naughty Ben," she whispered, a playful accusation laced with pure delight. She twisted suddenly in his arms, a graceful, fluid motion that brought her facing him, fully illuminated in the chandelier's glittering light. Her powerful shoulders rolled back, her spine arched proudly. Her magnificent breasts, heavy, full, crowned with dark nipples, rose proudly before him. Her eyes locked onto his, sparkling with shared mischief.

"So..." Powli breathed, her voice dropping to a husky murmur thick with challenge. "...should I pretend...that I'm a bottle?" Her gaze locked onto Ben's, dark eyes glittering with mischief under the chandelier's sparkle. She arched her back deliberately, pushing her magnificent breasts towards him, heavy, full globes crowned with dusky, puckered nipples glistening faintly in the light. "...Or..." A slow, deliberate lick traced her plump lower lip. "...are you just going to drink....straight...from...me?" Then, her middle finger extended, a deliberate, unhurried descent, tracing a slow, sinuous track down from her deep navel, through the soft dip below, tracing a path directly towards the shadowed promise waiting between her powerful thighs. Her fingertip paused, hovering mere inches above the dark, neatly trimmed curls. Ben’s breath caught audibly in the vast silence, a sharp, involuntary intake. His gaze, fixed intently on the path her finger traced, glazed with pure, raw hunger.

Without warning, Ben moved. His weathered hands closed firmly on Powli's shoulders, not painfully, but with undeniable command, and spun her sharply away from him. He pushed her gently, firmly, against the cool expanse of the marble wall beside the looming grandfather clock. The sudden chill against her naked skin made her gasp. With startling grace, Ben dropped fluidly to one knee on the polished floor, his other foot planted firmly. His left palm slid firmly beneath her thigh, fingers digging possessively into the soft flesh. With a single, powerful pull, he drew her hips forward, closer, until her damp heat hovered mere inches above his face. Powli instinctively reached behind her, palms flat against the cold marble for support, eyes wide. He pressed a single, searingly intimate kiss directly onto the swollen, needy lips hidden within her curls, a kiss that sent a jolt of pure electricity rocketing up her spine. " Ahhh... " escaped her lips in a breathless sigh. Then, his strong hands slid higher, one gripping each thick thigh just below the curve of her massive cheeks, and lifted. Seamlessly, effortlessly, he brought her thighs onto his broad shoulders. Powli gasped again, part shock, part disbelief, as her legs draped over him, her feet dangling behind his back. His head tilted back, eyes fixed on her now-exposed pink folds glistening inches from his mouth. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward and kissed her again, a deep, wet pressure against her already throbbing core, before drawing her swollen outer lips into his mouth with deliberate suction. Powli’s head snapped back against the marble wall with a soft thud. " Ooh... FUCK! " The cry ripped from her throat, raw and surprised. Her hands instantly tangled fiercely into his silvered hair, fingers gripping tight, anchoring herself as much as pulling him closer.

Powli whimpered, bucking her hips instinctively against Ben's mouth, a primal response to the wet heat, the suction, the insistent pressure. Her eyes squeezed shut tight, brow furrowed in intense sensation. " Shit... I... love... this... " she gasped, the words fragmented and breathless. Her head tilted fully back against the cool marble, exposing the elegant line of her throat. " Never... " she choked out, " never had... this much... fun… " Her voice trailed off into a low moan as Ben intensified the suction, his tongue dragging firmly against her swollen bud. Powli’s breathing hitched, sharp, desperate gulps of air. Her left hand suddenly flew upwards, releasing its grip in his hair. Fingers scrambled frantically, tangling in the hairband securing her ponytail. With a sharp, decisive tug, she ripped the band free. " Ah-hah! " A small cry of triumph escaped her. She flung the elastic away blindly, it skittered silently across the polished marble floor towards the discarded lingerie pile. Her dark hair cascaded instantly down around her shoulders and face, wild strands clinging to her damp forehead. " YES! " she hissed, her voice thick with abandon. Both hands plunged back into Ben’s hair, grabbing fistfuls, gripping firmly, pulling hard this time, urging him deeper. She arched her spine, pushing her hips forward, forcing her soft belly against his forehead, grinding herself onto his relentless mouth. " Like THAT! " she commanded, her voice ragged. " Fucking... LIKE THAT! "

Powli felt her knees begin to tremble violently, a deep, uncontrollable tremor radiating upwards through her thighs. Being an experienced lover, Ben sensed the subtle shift in her posture, the slight sagging of her weight against his grip. With deliberate calm, he released his suction with an audible pop, lowered her gently until her feet touched the cool marble, and slowly kneeled back onto his heels. Powli stumbled sideways as her legs nearly buckled, thighs burning fiercely from being suspended. She threw a palm flat against the wall for support, gasping for ragged breaths as aftershocks rippled through her core. Her chest heaved, slick with sweat, dark hair plastered to her temples. Ben watched her with a gentle smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he casually rubbed the back of his hand across his glistening mouth.

Catching her breath at last, Powli managed a tremulous smile, a genuine crinkle of gratitude touching her eyes. She pushed off from the wall, legs still shaky but determined. Taking two unsteady steps towards him, she whispered hoarsely, " Ben... " Her plump lower lip caught between her teeth for a heartbeat. " While I might still have… more young wine for you… " she murmured, her voice thick and teasing as she closed the distance, " I have… developed quite the interest...for some strong… old wine. " Then her right palm slid firmly, possessively, against the unmistakable bulge straining against the thin cotton of his briefs. She felt its heat, its hardness, its insistent pulse beneath her fingertips. Her palm lingered, applying teasing pressure as she watched his reaction, a sharp intake of breath, eyelids fluttering shut, all while her thumb traced lazy circles through the damp fabric.

Her gaze drifted downwards. There it was, a dark, spreading wet patch. Seeing the tangible mark of her effect on him, Powli tightened her lips into a triumphant smirk. Her eyes snapped back up to meet Ben's. She gathered her wild cascade of dark hair, twisting it swiftly into a messy, practical bun atop her head, revealing the flushed skin of her neck and shoulders. Ben feasted his eyes, a full woman standing powerfully naked before him: sweat-slicked shoulders, heavy breasts lifted with each breath, and that defiantly curved posture. His smile deepened, pure, unguarded seduction. Powli breathed huskily, tilting her head, "So you took my young wine..." Her gaze drifted pointedly downward again. "...Don't you want to give me your old wine?" Ben nodded, just once, sharp, unequivocal permission. She moved swiftly, stepping forward to grasp his shoulders firmly. She leaned close, whispering hotly against his ear: " But promise me... promise it's the full bottle. " Pulling back, Powli stood tall, her full breasts rising sharply with a deep intake of breath as she bit her lip again, a gesture now charged with fierce determination. Ben smiled slowly, a silent affirmation in his eyes. Gradually, she sank to her knees onto the cool marble floor.

Powli leaned forward towards the straining bulge in his briefs. As she drew near, a scent washed over her, richly masculine, musky, thickly salted, the unmistakable scent of his wet spot. She inhaled deeply. It had been a long time since she'd been intimate with anyone. Her mind raced, had she ever felt drawn to someone with such raw, primal seduction? This pulled at her like nothing before. Her breath caught. Eyes locked onto the damp stain. Then, her tongue flicked forward, tasting the salt-heavy bead seeping through the thin cotton. Her tongue retreated and tasted the saltiness. She paused for a second, savoring it. Then she leaned back in, lips parted, and gently bit down onto the swollen mound beneath the fabric. Softly. Possessively. A low groan rumbled from Ben above her.

Powli gasped sharply, a breathless intake, as her fingers flew to the waistband of Ben’s cotton briefs. Gripping both sides firmly, she yanked them down in one swift, decisive motion. His thick shaft sprang free, fully erect, flushed deep red, pulsing visibly with each heartbeat. Her eyes widened, genuinely startled by its imposing size and angry vigor. She stared, fascinated, for a long moment before lifting her gaze. Her dark eyes met his, a flash of fierce possessiveness mingling with disbelief. " Bloody hell... Ben, " she breathed, her voice thick. " Now I feel... properly jealous... of those other women. " Ben kicked the crumpled underwear aside with a practiced flick of his right foot. His weathered hand shot forward, fingers catching her chin firmly, tilting her face up. His thumb brushed her swollen lower lip. " Today, " he murmured, voice low, resonant, holding her gaze with unwavering intensity. " Today... those women... will be jealous. "

She leaned in slowly, deliberately, dragging the tip of her nose along his shaft. Starting from the heavy base, she traced upwards, inhaling deeply, savoring the musky scent. Her nose paused, lingering on the swollen, exposed head. She closed her eyes, long lashes brushing her cheeks as her lips parted softly. Then she pressed forward a slow, deliberate kiss directly onto the sensitive glans. " Mmmm... " she groaned a resonant hum her lips lingering against the slick heat. She tilted her head slightly eyes still closed and kissed it again this time deeper, her tongue flicking briefly against its underside. " Gorgeous... " she murmured, her voice muffled against him. Ben inhaled sharply above her. He placed his hands gently on her bun-curled hair fingers spreading wide to cradle her skull. She pulled him closer, angling him perfectly towards her open mouth. Then she took him deep. Her head bobbed down forcefully swallowing him halfway in one smooth motion. Her cheeks hollowed instantly.

Powli gasped suddenly, pulling back sharply, slick lips popping free. Her eyes flew wide. " Fuck! You... you taste... incredible, " she breathed, staring at him. Her chin glistened thickly with his pre-cum. She grinned wiping it slowly with her thumb before sucking it clean. Then she leaned forward again biting softly, teeth grazing along the side of his shaft, a playful, claiming nip. " Soooo... salty... " she murmured against his skin. She tilted her head sideways lips parting wide slurping slowly upward along the pulsing vein. Fresh pre-cum welled instantly from beneath his foreskin. She raised herself higher on her knees eyes locked on the droplet swelling. She leaned forward capturing it with her tongue tip flicking it away greedily. " Ah... " she sighed throatily licking her lips slowly savoring the taste. Then she slowly pushed herself up to stand legs still trembling slightly beneath her nakedness taking a moment to catch her breath. " Do you have... any preferences? Like...Places? " She gestured vaguely around the hall’s gleaming expanse. " Bed... floor... sofa... stairs? " Her gaze drifted pointedly towards the grand staircase curling upwards into shadowed luxury.

Ben smiled slowly fingers trailing down her sweat-slicked arm. " Are you ready... to try all? " He tilted her chin up gently locking his eyes onto hers. Powli’s eyes widened dramatically, a genuine flicker of astonished delight. She paused dramatically letting the word hang thick and heavy between them. "Yes" she said, and her hips swayed deliberately, a slow sensual roll that made her magnificent buttocks shift and gleam under the chandelier light. Her breasts lifted sharply as she inhaled deeply arching her spine pushing them forward towards him. " Now you tell me...Powli" Ben continued softly his thumb tracing her lower lip " Do you have any preferences? Like mouth your pussy or..." He trailed off letting the implication linger. Powli grinned biting her lip hard enough to leave indentations. Her hand slid down his bare chest fingers tracing the wiry silver hair stopping just above his straining shaft. She stepped closer pressing her bare belly against his hardness. " Ready to try all? " she echoed breathlessly shifting her hips seductively side to side " Then I choose... everywhere. "