Chapter 1 — Hollow Routine
Emily Harper awoke with a sense of taste, a combination of stale coffee and toothpaste mixed with last night’s half-hearted fuck.
Moving through the kitchen, she counted the steps, toeing off her socks onto the cold tile. Her auburn hair was tied back into a knot, but several pieces slipped loose in wisps that smelled faintly of citrus shampoo—and faintly, dissatisfyingly, of the half-dry pussy crease between her thighs from where Mark had rutted into her missionary-style last night.
She and Mark had been married for twelve years now, and things were comfortable in their suburban home. They had two kids now: a rambunctious eight-year-old boy named Tyler and a five-year-old girl named Lily, both of them sandy-haired and freckled like Mark and Emily herself. He worked downtown as an accountant, with long hours and a stable income that provided a house, a minivan, and some rare family vacations to the beach.
Emily was involved in the PTA, and they had friends that they met up with for the occasional weekend barbecue or double date, where conversation usually devolved to the kids’ soccer schedules or the latest home renovation project.
Sex? Ha, That was more like a twice-or-once-a-week occurrence—quick and furtive, in bed and hidden under the covers, like a chore to be checked off. Mark was the one who came first and foremost, so Emily bit back a moan and scrambled up afterwards to come alone in the shower, her head full of ideas that she kept private.
He was tall and solid in his starched shirt, staring absently at his phone at the kitchen counter while his thumb made the phone screen buzz with tiny little taps like a metronome, keeping time with the silence between them. He kissed her cheek—warm but not attentive—before a ghost of aftershave dissipated in the air as quickly as it appeared.
“Don’t forget to pick up Tyler from practice,” he said over his shoulder, his voice smooth and bored, and didn’t look back as he swept his briefcase off the hook and grabbed the door handle. The front door thudded shut, and the house went suddenly quiet.
Emily rinsed a bowl and listened to the thin hiss of water, and her belly ached in a familiar way. Not lonely exactly, more like hungry in a way that hunger didn’t describe, a throbbing hole with nowhere to pour that made her press the insides of her thighs together like she might fill it somehow.
The kids were all at school, and the day yawned empty in front of her, a blank slate of housework and errands that wouldn’t quiet the growing tension in her stomach, the low burn that gathered between her legs.
Chapter 2 — The Neighbor
She first saw Rachel Cole, Rachel with her name tag still pinched to her shirt, in the yard between their properties.
Emily was kneeling by the side of her garden bed, working to pry a struggling shrub from its current pot and into a larger container when the outline of Rachel first appeared in her periphery and made Emily pause, brain processing an attractive woman with a short haircut and tan legs in tight jeans that made Emily’s gaze linger several beats too long.
Emily Harper was the poster child for prim and proper matron: a born and raised midwesterner, she had gone to college for education but given up on her teaching dreams after her first child, Tyler, had been born. She had kept busy instead with volunteer work in the library where she’d worked on the children’s shelves a few days a week and with the PTA, keeping a polite distance from the neighbors but only just, and when she and Mark had their second child, Lily, she had given up on the idea of a career entirely, settling into her home life and two yoga classes a week (perk of endorphin rushes, not vanity) instead.
Her body had filled out in satisfying curves after her pregnancies, and her breasts were still full and rounded enough to strain the fabric of her tops and make her hips sway just enough when she walked. The “neighborhood mom” was how Emily was described by friends and other parents on her block, always home when children needed playdates or organizing fundraisers like bake sales or used book sales to keep a hand in her kids’ lives but not too much, and she adored her children more than anything in the world.
But beneath it, Emily wanted something more, and her sex drive had only become stronger with age, unsated by Mark’s vanilla performance that made Emily choke back a moan in bed and scramble up to come on her own afterwards in the shower. Her vibrator was the thing that filled the silence in her life and filled her imagination with things that she never would have said aloud to anyone, things that would make her breathless and bruised and panting in need of more.
Emily was well-liked in her social circles but remained isolated, spending most weekends with other women her age but only discussing gossip about their favorite celebrities or new fad diets; these were friends who had known each other since college and had, in all the intervening time, never once broached the conversations that Emily sometimes found herself thinking in secret.
She had never been a bold or gregarious person, and Emily had only ever been with Mark, her high school sweetheart who had become her husband and, as of now, her ex-lover. She was a virgin at thirty-six, only due to the circumstantial fact that she had never met anyone other than her husband but also because of her own innate shyness and naivety; her sexual experiences had been strictly limited to missionary-position sex with Mark, and it made her demure and reticent in bed, rarely engaging in flirtations or other intimacies and usually blushing when she heard the slightest innuendo in movies or books or from friends.
“New to the neighborhood?” Emily called, the sun warming the skin of her freckled forearms, her nipples pricked against the thin material of her tank top by either the early spring breeze or, quite possibly, Rachel’s t-shirt stretched across her sweat-dampened back.
Rachel looked up, her dark hair pinned untidily in a knot with a stray strand that fell across her face to tuck behind one ear. She smiled—easy and languid and unhurried in a way that Emily hadn’t expected, a full smile that curved her lips and made her think of secrets—and held her gaze a moment too long as she worked, the edge of a knee between Emily and the fence that Emily had to actively ignore.
“Guilty. I’m Rachel.” The low baritone of her voice was warm, slightly breathy, deep in a way that made it rumble in Emily’s chest like the purr of an engine idling, starting a slow but distinct vibration in her belly that sank straight to her clit.
Rachel’s body moved with a graceful economy that made Emily’s breath catch in her chest, a contained and deliberate type of athleticism that made mundane movements—pushing hair back from her neck, adjusting the strap of her watch—feel like exhibitionism, like she knew exactly how the swish of her skirt, the press of her breasts against her top, the suggestion of something just under her jeans, just out of Emily’s line of sight, was working.
Outside, the grass was damp with the smell of a recent mowing, and a faint rain still clung to the earth that Rachel was kneeling on, like dirt that clung to pale skin. Emily noticed it all.
Chapter 3 — First Impressions
They met again next to the bins as Emily struggled with a recycling bag with a lid that she had underestimated and tugged a little too hard at, cursing under her breath as it came loose, her face heating as it finally gave and swung free.
Then by the mailbox, she picked and chose her flyers as Rachel watched from her own front door, amused by Emily’s selectiveness as she pulled out pizza coupons and lawn services and other promotional flyers that collected like trash on a snowdrift over the span of weeks before Emily drove to the curb and dropped them out of her window as a short-lived sacrifice to her local junk mail addiction.
Then by the curb on a breezy spring night, when the wrappers skittered across the blacktop like autumn leaves, and Emily tussled after one in her dress skirt, chasing it on her knees with the wind whipping up the hem enough to reveal the smooth pale skin of her thighs and force her to smooth her hands absently over the rise and fall of them in an unconscious attempt to cover herself.
Rachel joked about living in a snow globe full of coupon insertions; Emily laughed harder than she thought was warranted, nervous and wanting to cover the sound with her cupped hands because her laugh had escaped before she could grab it and her face had heated with it, aware as Rachel’s gaze flicked down to her cleavage and back up again just for a moment.
Laughter has texture, Emily suddenly noticed; Rachel’s set her nerves buzzing like soda bubbles across her skin, made her clit tingle slightly through her jeans as she pulled herself together.
“Coffee sometime?” Rachel asked, easy and breezy like a warm front displacing a cold one but her eyes trailing Emily’s own as she spoke, lingering on her as she nodded and flushed without meaning to because her mind had gone back, immediately, to Mark’s half-awake fucks in bed that he said were fine because her role was to please him even if Emily never mentioned in response that he never came in her and how she’d always been too timid to voice the fact that she wanted more.
“I’d like that.”
The sound of it had a smell, Emily discovered later, a complex aroma of dark roast and cinnamon and something warm that she couldn’t get out of her head and that made her flush, mortified, when she slid a finger under her panties later that night to take care of herself and think, of all things, about the curve of Rachel’s lips and the heat between her thighs.
Chapter 4 — The Spark
The low drone of the espresso machines, the ringing of milk steamers, and the voice of the barista calling out orders provided a good masking field to the Café around the corner as Emily sat and nervously twisted the hem of her blouse between her fingers and watched as steam coiled like a ghost from Rachel’s cup, curling in the air with the predictability of how Emily’s eyes moved toward her own cup, slowly at first and then more desperately as she fidgeted with her napkin, folding and unfolding it and tucking and unfolding it over and over as she considered how to start the conversation and find some common ground.
Rachel, in the meantime, listened like an art. She leaned in, her forearms on the table and crumbs of coffee grounds dotting the lightwood finish, her nose wrinkling like a perceptive dog’s when she commented on something and the clean-dry-muscled odor of laundry that clung to her jacket and her thick cotton shirt beneath it.
Emily was surprised to find that she was talking fast and loudly, launching into a description of the volunteer night at the library last weekend where she had shelved kids’ books in the stacks in near-total silence but the occasional friendly passing of other librarians and the camaraderie of their shared dismissal.
Mark’s work hours that had filled in the gap when the kids were young and kept him out long past their bedtime before both Tyler and Lily were in school and Emily was left to the solitary company of storybooks and bedtime routines. That only prepared her for the bland expanse of routine years afterward and the way repetition and comfort could grind your edges down until you were dull and were still untouched by anything other than the functional performances in bed with Mark, which Emily didn’t really bother to mention at all beyond a brusque, “fine” and went on, how she was feeling a little unfulfilled in ways that left her pussy prurient and stretched tight with longing for something more but was polite enough in the face of real-life conversation to phrase more decorously instead.
As she spoke, Rachel ran a thumb over the ring of condensation on her cup, following the thick, wet line of it with the lazy, glacial movements of a man in orbit, small, patient circles that Emily swirled her own cup in response to, her cheeks heating even as she closed her eyes to take a sip. She imagined instead that thumb on her clit, a quick pass to make her arch her back and whimper against her cup and startle herself out of her own head and into embarrassment.
When they left, a gust blew up, the air smelling of wet concrete and scattered napkins from other tables. Rachel caught one of Emily’s flyaway hairs and tucked it behind her ear with the lightest of touches, her fingers brushing Emily’s skin, her hand lingering just long enough to start a shiver down Emily’s spine.
Emily’s cheek burned until she got home, a red handprint that stayed all the way through her night of not being able to stop thinking about it as she masturbated and imagined her fingertips replacing Rachel’s and the sensation of her fingers inside of her, moist and hot and sinfully good.
Chapter 5 — The First Slip
Emily texted to check on the neighbor while a storm flickered across the sky that night, forked bolts of lightning ripping the horizon like stitches through cloth.
The thunder that followed made the windows in the house rattle, the three small rooms seeming like an adrift ship in storm-tossed seas. The porch light clicked on and flickered off, and Emily slipped through the rain, her hair sticking to her shoulders and her breath visible in the frigid air as the barometric shift chilled the world around her; her nipples perked beneath her t-shirt, petal-soft pebbles.
The little bungalow reeked of cedar with undercurrents of smokiness; the air felt damp and resinous, smelling alive and ready to catch flame as the indoor-outdoor carpeting dampened Emily’s steps as she moved down the short hall to the living room where the rain was drumming on the roof like a heartbeat and the kettle had started to sing in the small kitchen nearby.
Rachel held up her own mug, her arm braced against the counter in casual posture with her elbow jutting out from her body at a calculated and balanced angle like she was posing for a painting that Emily found herself staring at, trying to memorize, impossibly attracted to Rachel from the first time they’d met and now caught up in her own thoughts and her own arousal without being able to say what she wanted and wanting to say it all at once.
She took the proffered cup and it was warm, and Emily inhaled its perfume, its steam curling up in billowing ghostlike whispers, down to its tongue, floral and delicate but spiked with an undertaste of strength and potency.
The honey, the lemon, the powdered sugar, the kick of ginger warmth hit Emily’s tongue. Emily was so lost in thought as Rachel leaned in that Emily barely noticed until Emily felt her breast brush against the other woman’s hand, cupping her own breast as Rachel’s eyes darkened and fell away, smiling as if to say, I know what you’re thinking and I want to do it right here, right now if you will let me. The instant contact of those two realities made her mouth feel dry, her knees suddenly unsteady.
“I shouldn’t,” Emily finally managed, but her hand stayed open, palm exposed and offered, even as her shyness tried to tell her to retreat.
Rachel’s eyes flickered back, bright and green in the shadow, smoldering beneath her eyelashes in the way a fire does with sparks ready to catch before she spoke again.
“But you want to, don’t you? Look how wet you already are.”
Her hand found the back of Emily’s knee and hooked there, fingers brushing her panty-covered pussy and making Emily gasp and thrust up against her own hand as her embarrassment took over at her own body’s betrayal.
Chapter 6 — Temptation in Plain Sight
They made up excuses. A borrowed tool. A recipe trade. A broken hinge that didn’t need oiling.
The air between them thickened and slowed, like a room after dinner, heavy with unspoken lust. Rachel would bend over to point at a paint chip; Emily would brush the hair back from her face and find the faint scar at her wrist, the ridge of a knuckle, the smooth strength of her hand—and the way Rachel’s nipples jutted through her work shirt, teasing.
“You look… happy lately,” Mark said one night, only half looking up from his phone. Pasta tasted like cardboard on Emily’s tongue, and she salted it twice, mind drifting from the dish to Rachel’s fingers.
She met Rachel in the garage the next afternoon, sawdust turning the sun honey. Rachel pressed the palm of her hand to Emily’s lower back lightly, redirecting her around a cluttered workbench. Heat spread through cloth and skin; Emily sucked in air, sharp at the edges.
“Careful,” Rachel whispered against her ear, close enough to make Emily tremble, “or I might have to bend you over this bench right now.”
Emily caught herself not moving away; caught herself already wet with the image, cunt leaking shame through her panties, and looked away shyly.
Chapter 7 — Seduction
Seduction was attention. Rachel made a practice of it, like a second language. She wove coercion into everything she said.
“You change your hair when you’re nervous,” she said once, quiet laughter against Emily’s lips, her hand sliding up Emily’s thigh under the table. “And you get so wet when I touch you like this.”
Once: “You have this line here when you’re trying not to cry,” and she cupped it in her palm so gently Emily almost did, her body arcing towards Rachel in wordless, reluctant worship of her need and ability.
They watched a movie together, sound turned too low; shared a blanket on the couch while lightning snapped like a camera shutter. Rachel offered a corner of chocolate, which Emily accepted from her fingers and licked, almond and something else darker, her tongue brushing Rachel’s skin, shy.
“Good?” Rachel teased, just a question in her voice, but her hand had slipped between Emily’s legs, and her fingers were circling her clit through her panties.
Emily hummed in response, lips still sticky; a quiet moan pulled through her teeth when Rachel murmured, “You can’t say no to me, can you? Spread your legs open for me, Emily.”
Emily did, blush of her reserve rushing through her face. The movie forgot itself. The blanket, the chocolate, the dark—it was like a hand at a dimmer switch, easing down slowly, Rachel’s fingers pushing inside her, frantic, until she was whimpering and whining and turning the sound into a game, whispering help me, please, no even as she begged, her virginity a thin line of resistance against each push.
Chapter 8 — The Breaking of Restraint
It happened in the light—reckless and blatant. Emily was slicing limes in the kitchen, tapping knife in rhythmic, polished drops against the board. Her hips rocked, hips moving without thought, and Rachel was behind her, her breath a cool patch at the base of Emily’s neck, a flicker of goosebumps.
“You always pause before the last slice,” Rachel said. “Like you don’t want to finish… like you’re waiting for me to take over.”
Emily put the knife down. Her hands shook. Sun glowed gold on the counter, warm as skin. Rachel’s fingers stroked Emily’s wrist, stroked higher and higher. Emily’s vision went to tunnel. Her throat throbbed with a pulse. Ears buzzed.
The first kiss was hard and certain; the second slower, a door prising open and leading her into a room with no windows. Lime oil thickened in the air, making their mouths taste of it, Rachel’s tongue loud and insistent.
Emily swayed back against the counter when she finally pushed herself away, a gasp still in her throat. The room seemed rearranged, though everything was exactly the same as before.
“We can’t,” Emily said, shy, her eyes cast down.
Rachel gripped her wrist and pulled her forward. “You say that, but your body’s saying yes. You know what it feels like? Your nipples are hard—Emily, hard. You’re mine now, and you’re going to like it. You’re going to like it, Emily, and let me show you.”
Rachel pushed her against the counter, hands wandering, pinching, playing over her until Emily was a mess of noises, whining and whimpering, her reluctance dissolving into please and oh god and fuck until Rachel picked her up, turned her over, and rutted into her up against the counter until Emily felt she would split apart at the seams, her virginity a thin line of protest under Rachel’s heavy attentions.
Chapter 9 — The Unraveling
They slipped; tiny fissures in their decision-making that felt like gravity, not choice, but were whispered to them by Rachel.
Emily lost her keys; she remembered instead the slope of Rachel’s shoulder beneath her sweater, and how Rachel would pin her down at the shoulders and force her face into her breasts, fingers choking at her throat just as her cunt would be forced down, hard.
A mug went missing; Emily found it on her own shelf in the cupboard days later, still faintly scented with Rachel’s tea. She pressed her nose to the lip before washing it, heat springing to her chest and frightening her a little, but not enough to prevent her fingering herself to memory, tentative and shy.
Mark looked at her. He did this newly, with a quiet that was confused and lost. He asked her about bills; she answered. Both of them heard the unspoken words. When he came to bed with her at night, his hands were cautious and practiced, his cock sliding inside her with soft familiarity. She tried not to flinch at the scent of his cologne, sharper and spicier than the things she was used to, Rachel’s skin and the salt of her own arousal.
Rachel’s own touch became more confident, more demanding, more coercive. “You don’t want Mark anymore, do you? Tell me the truth—you need me to fuck you senseless.”
Emily loved the way she said her name, how steady her hands were, how her own body answered like a struck bell, even when Rachel shushed her and called her weak and said no and then did it anyway, rolling each no into a game of refusal that made Emily flush with equal parts shame and pleasure, her primness eroded by a desire she was only now exploring.
Emily took notice of small things: Rachel’s disquiet at certain subjects, her turning away from the shower curtain when changing, the tiny flicker of shadow that crossed her face when Emily asked about old photos, the cut of her lips. Questions bubbled like steam and resolved into air, insignificant in the shadow of the force that made Rachel coax her onto her knees, thighs open for her;
“If you don’t strip for me now, I’ll make you regret it… but you want that, don’t you?”
Emily had to admit it; she did, her inexperience making her less capable of fight and more willing to chase the thrill.
Chapter 10 — The Reveal and The Taking
It was late. The house had settled into a rhythm of ticks. A floorboard creaked once in the hall, then fell quiet.
In the living room, lamplight made everything gold: the throw blanket draped across the couch, the glass of water sweating on the coffee table, Rachel’s dark hair loose and fanned across her shoulders.
Emily moved towards her, heart hammering as if she’d run two flights of stairs, her pussy already slick and aching, though her shyness made her steps uncertain. Rachel’s hands met her halfway—warm, solid, reassuring. The first touch sent a shiver through Emily that made her remember music, Rachel’s fingers gripping her hips so hard they would bruise.
Then Rachel stepped back, breath rough. Her eyes swept Emily, searching.
“I want you to know me,” she said. She paused, like turning the page of a book to the first chapter. She pulled away a layer of herself that had been folded close and safe and kept private, simple and straightforward and earnest.
Her words sat between them with the quiet weight of a stone dropped in clear water: “I’m a woman. I’ve crossed a long, unkind distance to be Rachel, and my body is a map of that journey.” (Including the thick, hard cock springing against her pants.)
The world did not tilt. It deepened. Emily felt the knowledge sink into her body, surprise yes, but tangled with something fiercer, something unexpectedly tender that made her eyes sting and her cunt contract with pure, wordless desire.
So much in her body snapped into sense: the caution, the patience, the way Rachel’s eyes would sometimes hold the memory and the hope of something at once, and the bulge that she’d noticed. Emily reached for her, not out of a need to confirm but out of recognition, her voice a shy whisper.
“Thank you,” she said, and it tasted like something earned.
They approached each other, no longer strangers, quiet reverence muting the room so that even the house seemed to listen.
Reverence. It did not last long.
Rachel’s voice dropped to a growl. “You can’t stop now, Emily. You’ve played with me too long. Get on your knees.”
Emily hesitated. Whispered “No, we shouldn’t” despite the burning of her cheeks, and Rachel’s hand tangled in her hair and guided her down with firm insistence, digging into her scalp, that sent Emily’s pulse racing.
“That’s it, good girl. Suck it like you mean it.”
Emily opened her lips around Rachel’s cock, thick and veined, pulsing against the back of her tongue. She gagged at first, her inexperience obvious, but Rachel’s hips thrust slowly and teasingly, coercing her further.
“You love this, don’t you? Pretending you don’t want it, but your mouth is so eager.”
Emily moaned around the shaft, her own hand already sliding between her legs, rubbing her clit roughly, overwhelmed.
Rachel pulled her up to her feet, turned her around. “Bend over the arm of the couch. Now.”
Emily murmured a weak “No, Rachel, please, not like this, not here.” Her cheeks were aflame in embarrassment, but her body was obedient: ass up, pussy open and dripping, her reserve making her tremble.
Rachel’s fingers traced her entrance, coercive whispers in her ear: “Say no all you want, but you’re going to take every inch. This is consensual, remember? You begged for it with your eyes.”
She pushed in, slow, Rachel’s cock stretching her like Mark never had, Emily crying out with the mixture of pain and ecstasy, her hips bucking back in reflex despite her protests, her primness erased in a moment by the full force of her need.
Rachel pounded into her hard, one hand at her throat, the other pinching her nipples, coercing groans and gasps from her lips.
“Tell me you need this. Tell me you’re my slut.”
“Yes… use me, yes,” Emily breathed, her orgasm building as Rachel drove deeper, the slap of wet skin loud in the room, her limited experience reeling from overload.
Chapter 11 — The Exposure
The front door clicked open, normal, everyday. But Emily’s stomach dropped at the splitting of the floorboards just as Rachel groaned, her cock twitching, flooding Emily’s pussy with hot, thick cum.
Mark stepped into lamplight, his keys still in his hand, his tie loosened, his aftershave sharp and distinct on his skin.
“Em?” he called, casual. Then he saw.
Emily bent doggy style over the arm of the couch, ass in the air, pussy open and dripping, face flushed with orgasmic pleasure, Rachel’s hips slamming one final thrust home as her cock emptied inside of his wife, cum slicking across Emily’s thighs and leaking down her legs.
Mark’s face fell, his eyes widening in utter disbelief, staccato and rapid, blinking once, twice.
“What the fuck is this?” he choked out, his voice breaking not just with betrayal but utter confusion.
Rachel. The new neighbor woman… had a cock?
He’d met her a few times, friendly chats over the back fence, but she had always seemed so… normal, so feminine, so female. How?
His mind reeled back through every interaction, trying to find the missing clues: her voice was low and gravel, her stride was confident and direct, but he could find nothing that made sense with the truth that was splashed across the living room before him.
Was she… trans? The word pinged in his brain, and yet it didn’t compute. Not here. Not thrusting into his wife like that. He rubbed at his eyes, his vision still fuzzy, not sure if he was awake or if it was a dream from the hell of his day at work, the shape of his cock twitching unfaithful in his pants as the truth of it sunk in, fangs of betrayal sinking through his gut.
Emily lurched forward, palms up, trembling with aftershocks. “Mark—please. Just listen.”
“Listen?” He laughed, harsh and jagged, stung by hysteria. “I came home to you—with her—with you getting fucked like a whore! And she has a… a cock? She’s a… she’s not the woman I thought she was. I can’t believe this shit.”
“It’s not what you think.” Tears stung her eyes. Her pussy was still contracting around aftershocks. “It wasn’t cheating. It wasn’t about betrayal.”
His gaze scorched, flicking down to Rachel’s cock oozing out of Emily, cum glistening on both of their thighs, disbelief bleeding into a storm of emotions.
“It’s not cheating, Mark? Emily, what else do you call getting fucked by the neighbor’s dick? I thought she was some normal woman next door! How long have you known? Did you… was this a plan?”
Emily’s lip trembled. “It wasn’t about leaving you. It wasn’t about someone else. It was about me—about waking up. Rachel showed me a part of me I thought was dead. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
Mark was still. His eyes churned with a confusion that morphed into a million other things: hurt, anger, self-pity. His cock twitched again, undeniable, traitorous against his pants, his hard cock hissing with the unfaithful truth of it.
“So you want me to believe this isn’t shitting in our marriage? I don’t even know what the fuck I’m looking at!”
Emily’s breath came in great gasps. “I know it’s bad. I know it’s bad. I know it looks like cheating, but in my heart—it wasn’t cheating. It was like breathing after drowning. It wasn’t about you. It wasn’t about me being with someone else. It was about me—about me knowing who I was. Finding me, Mark. You could have been with us. Emily could have had both of you.”
The silence stretched, taut as a snapped thread. The clock ticked. The curtain stirred in a breeze. Mark’s keys jingled a little in his fist. His lips parted.
Then nothing.
Confusion and disbelief flickered across his face; grief, anger, self-pity, none of them landing long enough to make a home. His eyes flicked to Emily’s bare body; to the cum dripping from her; and a dark curiosity took root in the chaos of his betrayal.
Rachel was still, quiet, watching, her cock still semi-hard. Emily kept her hands up, still trembling.
Mark blinked once. Blinked twice.
And still the room was quiet.
He said nothing. His eyes never moved from Emily’s body, fucking open and bare in front of him, and the reader is left there as Emily was: at a precipice, waiting for a response that might never come… or that might push her to something even filthier.
