We left the Golden Mermaid in silence, the last traces of '80s trivia music fading behind us like it knew better than to follow. After her “fuck it,” I hadn’t given Pam a chance to think. I’d pulled her out before the guilt could creep in, before she found a way to forgive Steve like she always had.

We didn’t speak. The shift had already happened, and words would have only slowed it down.

The elevator bank was just outside the bar, and beyond it, the open spine of Grand Central, the ship’s three-story atrium stretching from deck six to eight. 

Just twenty-four hours earlier, we’d boarded below, yet it felt like another cruise entirely. I barely recognized the moment in that memory.

I pressed the down button, its glow coming to life beneath my fingertip.

Beside me, Pam’s breath caught; quiet, but unmistakable. That small circle of light made everything real. No longer a half-drunk “maybe.” No longer a stern “fuck it” tossed out after the chug of her fifth Dark Ship. This was momentum. A decision in motion. A line crossed.

All six elevators took their time, stalling somewhere between decks, leaving us stranded just long enough to look down. It felt intentional, like the ship itself was offering a moment of reflection.

We paused at the railing, looking down at Grand Central. The exact spot we’d stood yesterday, fresh off embarkation, carry-ons on our shoulders, two smiling couples soaking in the ship’s scale. That was before the pool. Before trivia. Before Steve lost $7,000 at the blackjack table. Before he peeled back the last layer and exposed what had been festering all along.

Racism. Misogyny. Control.

The elevator dinged, cutting through the silence like a signal neither of us could ignore. Pam and I exchanged a look, brief but heavy. There was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes; one last sliver of doubt clinging to the edge, but it was no match for what was driving her now. Anger. Resentment. Need. All of it was still smoldering from the fire Steve had lit and walked away from.

We stepped in without a word. The elevator was empty, mercifully, like it had been reserved solely to carry Pam to her new reality. Just the two of us, held in a brief, weightless pause before our descent.

The doors slid shut behind us with a soft chime, and for a few seconds, we just stood there. Long enough for the air to thicken. Long enough for second thoughts to try and crawl their way in.

I glanced at Pam, waiting. She didn’t move.

“Go ahead,” I said softly, letting my eyes flick to the control panel. Her hand hovered, hesitant, before she finally pressed the “4” like it might burn her. A faint, uncertain push, as if she didn’t press too hard, maybe none of it would count.

The elevator hummed to life, the glass walls giving us one last glimpse of Grand Central before it slid out of view. Light faded. Voices disappeared. We were sinking into the ship's bowels now, away from the action, into the practical decks where the real cabins lived, where people like us stayed, where Jamal stayed.

Then the elevator slowed, gave a gentle lurch, and stopped. The doors slid open, revealing the carpeted foyer of deck four.

We stepped out, and I felt it the moment Pam’s foot hit the floor, the shift. The boldness she’d carried upstairs slipped, almost audibly, like a mask coming loose. She stopped short, glanced down at herself, and began tugging at her shorts, fussing with her tank top like it was the first time she’d noticed what she was wearing.

“Oh God,” she whispered, almost to herself. “I look like shit.”

The self-consciousness that had vanished upstairs came rushing back all at once. Her arms folded in, shoulders curling just slightly, like she wanted to sink into the carpet and disappear before we even took another step.

I moved in front of her, cutting off the spiral before it could take root. 

“Pam,” I said, catching her eyes. “Stop.”

She hesitated, gaze low, not quite meeting mine.

“You look amazing,” I said, slower now, firmer.

Her lips pressed together, unsure, but something in her eyes softened. She gave a small nod, not quite confident, but no longer paralyzed.

Before either of us could say anything else, the elevator behind us dinged again. A family stepped into the foyer: a mom, a dad, and a little girl who couldn’t have been more than three, the same age as Lily.

Pam’s eyes caught on the child, just for a second, then darted away like she’d touched something hot.

The timing felt almost cruel, like the universe had staged one last ambush. A living reminder of everything she was about to risk. One last guilt trip, perfectly placed. One final shove back toward the life she was so close to stepping away from.

“Seven grand,” I said, my voice low, almost cruel in how casually I threw it out. Pam didn’t look at me, but I saw the way her spine stiffened. “Lily’s college fund,” I added, twisting the knife just a little.

The words didn’t just hang; they stuck, coating the air between us like tar.

I wasn’t saying them to hurt her. I was saying them to keep her moving. To remind her why we were here. To keep playing the devil on her shoulder, drowning out every last second thought the universe tried to throw at her.

We stood in the corridor just beyond the elevator, between two identical hallways stretching out in opposite directions. At each entrance, brushed metal plaques listed the cabin numbers, dull in color but impossible to miss. Even numbers to our left. Odds to the right.

Our eyes landed on the plaque to the left.

4406 – 4222

4222 jumped out. Jamal’s room. The last cabin at the end of the corridor. It may as well have been highlighted, flashing, impossible to ignore.

I led the way, and Pam followed, shoulders tight, fingers fidgeting, breath caught in her throat. The corridor stretched long and narrow, cabin doors lining both sides like a gauntlet. The elevator from the Golden Mermaid had left us at the farthest end, each yard drawing out her hesitation, giving her all the time in the world to reconsider, as if the ship had engineered it for this moment.

The door numbers dropped in twos, each like a mile marker on a road with only one possible end: 4406, 4408, 4410.... We moved in silence, step by step, each number pulling us closer to the inevitable.

Other guests passed in the opposite direction, not looking twice, arms full of towels and frozen cocktails, heading to the pools, bars, or wherever normal vacationers spent this time of day.

We walked in silence, the corridor stretching ahead like it had no end, just one long, quiet descent into consequence. It was the Green Mile, repackaged in Carnival carpet. And Pam, clad in a tank top and shorts instead of an orange jumpsuit, walked it like an inmate on her final stretch. Only, there would be no execution at the end, just the inevitable, irreversible death of her marriage.

The door numbers began to fall faster now, ticking down on either side of us as the end of the hallway came into view. They blurred past in metal flashes, one after another, like the ship itself had decided to pick up the pace.

There it was: 4222. The last cabin at the far end of deck four, an inside room tucked into the secluded corner. It didn’t feel like chance but strategy, a space chosen to contain whatever happened within, built to swallow the screams of women like Pam as they came undone.

As we stopped, Jamal’s scent lingered at the dead end of the hall, somehow stronger here, as if it had nowhere else to go.

I could feel Pam’s breath hitch beside me, like her body had finally caught up to her mind. Like the full weight of what lurked behind that door had just settled on her chest.

She didn’t speak. Just stood there, frozen, caught between panic and inevitability. I didn’t look at her. I didn’t have to. I kept my eyes locked on the door, as if willing it to drag her across the last inch.

Her eyes told the story, her whole life flashing in quick, merciless cuts, sharper than anything I could have provoked with the hidden pictures of Amir. She didn’t need them. Her mind was already driving her forward.

The venom still burning from Steve’s texts.

Seven thousand dollars gone in a single day.

The racist digs at me.

The rebel flag tattoo she’d been tricked into.

Three years of a body left untouched.

All of it stacked, boiling over, spilling past the point of return. I’d seen that look before. Nothing short of the ship hitting an iceberg in the middle of the Caribbean was going to stop Jamal from filling the void Steve had left.

Her arm lifted, hesitant at first, as if it no longer belonged to her. Slow, uncertain, hanging mid-air. One last breath. One last chance to turn back.

She didn’t.

Her knuckles hovered beneath the door plaque, a silent marker of everything about to change.

Then came three knocks. Firm. Clear. Final.

The air felt carved out, suspended in a pause that seemed to stretch. My heart pounded, loud in my ears, even though this wasn’t my moment. I had no part in what came next, not really. But it didn’t matter. The weight of it pressed on both of us.

After a few seconds, the aluminum door swung open with a low, weighted creak, the kind of solid, heavy door synonymous with cruise ships.

And there he was.

Jamal filled the doorway, shirtless, book still in hand, his fingers lazily marking his place, untouched by the half hour of chaos that had unraveled Pam. That same lazy, devastating grin tugged at his mouth, the kind that told you he already knew exactly what you were thinking. Everything we’d soaked up by the pool came rushing back, only now it was sharper, heavier, more dangerous in the narrow confines of the hall.

His skin was deep black, flawless, almost luminous under the lights, each hard ridge of muscle catching the glow. A wide, brutal chest moved with slow, steady breaths, shifting like something alive beneath the surface.

Dreadlocks framed his face, the heavy coils brushing the broad rise of his traps, muscles that climbed high between shoulder and neck, built like armor.

Below, his torso carved into a ruthless waistline, eight brutal ridges stacked tight and flexing with every slow breath, like he barely noticed the raw power simmering just beneath his skin.

All of it poured into the same black gym shorts he’d worn at trivia, slung low on his hips, the fabric pulled tight over the obscene weight resting against his thigh.

She stared without breathing, utterly oblivious to the monster it would soon become.

"Pam," he said first, his voice low and easy, his eyes dragging over her in a slow, deliberate sweep,  snapping her out of the daze she'd fallen into the moment the door opened.

Not leering, not crude; just taking her in with the kind of raw appreciation she hadn’t felt in years.

Then his gaze shifted to me.

"Amy," he added, his smile stretching wider. "Didn’t expect to see you."

I gave a small, breathy laugh, trying to cut the tension thickening in the narrow space between us.

“Just escort duty,” I said, shrugging with a laugh that tried to carry the same swagger I’d used on those SpaceX puns in the Golden Mermaid.

Jamal wasted no time. He gave a low chuckle, that same effortless grin we’d both fallen for during trivia, then stepped back and opened the door wider, clearing the way like the outcome had already been decided.

“Come on in,” he said, his eyes still locked on her; no urgency, no pressure, just that calm confidence of a man who knew exactly how this was going to end.

Pam didn’t move right away. Her breath caught, fingers twitching slightly at her side, her gaze fixed on the outline in Jamal’s shorts like her body had stopped asking permission. Then, slowly, her eyes shifted to mine.

And that look…

The same woman who couldn’t bring herself to change into a swimsuit in front of me yesterday was now radiating something raw and feral. Three years of being ignored, worn thin by Steve’s indifference, pushed to the edge by the weight of his gambling losses and a mortgage they’d be lucky to cover when they got home, it had all cracked her open.

What spilled out wasn’t measured or cautious. It was horny, breathless, and unreasoning. The look of a woman right on the edge of something irreversible, prepared to throw everything away and risk it all, a side of womanhood most men never saw.

She hesitated, only for a second.

Then her body moved before her mind could stop it; one step, then another, like hormones had hijacked the wheel and left reason behind.

But just as she stepped over the metal threshold, she turned back to me. There was a flicker in her eyes, the quiet, dawning realization that she was crossing into something permanent.

From here on, she was on her own. Not forever, but enough to change everything. The woman who walked back out would be wrecked in every sense of the word, exhausted, undone, and finally, gloriously free of the small-town Mississippi cage Steve had kept her in, its racism and resentment no longer clinging to her like a second skin.

“Your phone,” I said, voice low as I held out my hand, one last item on the mental checklist I’d created back at the Golden Mermaid, in that reckless fantasy where I left her at Jamal’s door and walked away.

She hesitated for the briefest moment, maybe weighing the risk of being unreachable, wondering if she'd need me, but whatever concern flashed across her face was quickly swallowed by something deeper.

She passed it over without a word. Not out of trust. Not even gratitude. Just necessity. An unspoken acknowledgment that someone had to keep Steve off her back while Jamal rearranged everything inside her.

He stayed quiet as Pam passed, letting her slip into the room without a word. The moment hung between us, two friends parting without needing to say it out loud. Then his eyes found mine, and that knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, like he understood exactly what this was, and maybe even appreciated the part I’d played in it.

“See you later, Amy,” he said, voice steady and sure.

The metallic thud echoed as the door slammed in my face. I froze, staring at the plaque, inches away.

I was supposed to be gone by now. At least that was the plan: hand her off like a package, guilt-free, then slip away. Head back to the Golden Mermaid for a couple more Dark Ships, maybe wander the gift shop, killing time while every poisonous lie Steve had planted was stripped out of her, one orgasm at a time.

But I couldn’t move.

Pam’s phone was still warm, her clammy nerves lingering on the case. I hadn’t touched it since she’d handed it over without a word, counting on me to intercept Steve’s eventual limp apology, the kind he’d pass off as remorse after a string of vile texts.

Somewhere between knocking on that door and hearing it close, I’d stopped being her wing woman and became something else entirely. A voyeur. A creep. A seedy little spy planted outside the cabin, chasing a hunger I’d kept buried beneath the comfort of a happy marriage and family life, until barely a day ago.

I pressed my ear to the door, the cold metal flush against my skin, desperate to hear anything. The claustrophobic hallway around me was still, the kind of silence where even a pin drop could be heard. 

On the other side, muted laughter and soft conversation filtered through, dulled into a low, indistinct murmur. 

Whatever nerves Pam had carried in with her were already fading, unraveled by a volatile mix of alcohol and hormones.

My mind told me to walk away, but my body refused to move. It needed to hear what came after the small talk faded, anything to confirm that Pam’s transformation had officially begun.

I glanced down at her phone, still unlocked in my hand. No passcode, no biometrics. Probably one of Steve’s unspoken rules, just another manipulative way to stay in control, to keep Pam on a leash. I fidgeted with it, using the screen as a distraction, something to focus on.

Steve’s latest message still sat there: I couldn’t help myself. I kept scrolling, nosy now, flipping through the texts that had gradually broken Pam down over the past day.

I paused, fighting the guilt as I kept going, past the cruise, past the moment they landed in Orlando, deeper into Pam’s life back in Mississippi, when nobody else was around.

There were photos of Lily, dinner plans, and small talk that read like two roommates sharing a house, not a bed. It was the dull rhythm of a marriage that had lost its spark years ago. 

Then came the rest. Racist comments from Steve, met with laughing emojis from Pam. A side of her I didn’t recognize. Proof she’d gone along with it, whether out of agreement, avoidance, or a need to keep the peace. But beneath it all was something harder to ignore, clear evidence she had been enabling his behavior the entire time.

The thought of her behind that door, in Jamal’s room, clashed with the persona that had laughed at Steve’s vile texts. It was desire overruling belief, undeniable proof that a single day of thinking about Jamal, and listening to her best friend pine for Amir like she’d give anything for one more chance, had finally cracked something inside her.

A few minutes passed, muted voices drifting through the door in the easy rhythm of small talk. Then they dimmed to a low murmur and, finally, vanished altogether. For a moment, nothing remained; not even the faint hum of conversation that had lingered before. Only silence.

Then Pam’s voice tore through, shouted and unmistakable.

“Good golly Miss Molly!”

It was the clearest thing I’d heard through the door yet. A phrase straight out of her Mississippi upbringing, something she’d said since we were kids, always reserved for those rare moments when words failed and shock took over. It wasn’t the same thing I’d said when I first saw Amir, but it came from the same place. That raw, instinctive reaction. The kind that slips out before your mind catches up. The kind that only happens when a woman comes face-to-face with undeniable proof that Black men were simply built differently.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist, pun intended, to figure out what had just happened. I could picture Pam laying eyes on it for the first time. He probably wasn’t even fully hard. More likely, his gym shorts had dropped to the floor as he stood there, hands on his hips, that all-too-familiar grin on his face as she took it in. She must have been in shock. Even limp, it would have dwarfed Steve by inches, even at his most excited. Impossible to ignore. Impossible to prepare for.

I leaned closer again, straining to hear. Whatever conversation had been happening inside was gone now, replaced by a stillness I could feel outside the cabin. The kind that signaled a shift, subtle but absolute. I pictured Pam, her life flashing before her eyes as she took in the real-life version of something she’d been trained to pretend didn’t exist. The end of small talk. The beginning of something she wouldn’t be able to undo.

Then came Jamal’s voice, low and muffled, just a few words I couldn’t quite make out. Calm. Controlled. Probably an instruction, spoken softly and close.

Seconds later, it happened. A sharper sound, clearer than anything that had come before.

“Fuuuck…”

Jamal’s voice.

That was the moment things turned carnal, the universal reaction of a man whose cock had just been engulfed. Part reflex, mostly performative. A sound dragged from somewhere deep but still deliberate, meant for her to hear. Meant to encourage. Meant to reward.

Then the room fell still again. Not the electric pause of something about to erupt, but something slower. Steadier. A lull between moments, between choices.

I leaned in, straining to catch anything, and heard faint murmurs; Jamal’s voice, low and muffled. Not moans. Not gasps. Not the sounds of oral sex. A conversation. Calm. Intentional. Like he was guiding her through something, or anchoring her to it.

Then his voice came again, clearer now, closer to the door.

A second later, the lock clicked.

Panic surged through me, too fast to act on. I was busted. There was no slipping away now, no disappearing down the hallway like I’d intended after dropping Pam off. I was frozen, caught in place, heart pounding as the door began to ease open. Too late to run.

And there he was. Reappearing like he’d known I’d still be there all along.

His shorts were gone. His body glistened, muscles tense and carved, each one flexing with effortless control. Beads of sweat slid down his torso, tracing the deep grooves of his eight-pack like a slow-motion game of Plinko on The Price Is Right, each drop tumbling toward the sharp V of his pelvis. 

The heat from the room poured out as the door opened, hitting me full in the face. It was hotter than it should’ve been, clearly intentional. Like the temperature had been turned up to soften resistance, to make surrender feel not just likely, but expected.

Between his legs, it hung heavy, nearly nine inches, maybe more. Not fully hard, but weighted, the kind of swollen slackness that left no doubt it had just been inside Pam’s mouth a minute earlier. The head caught the light from the foyer, glistening with a slick sheen of saliva. It swayed with each subtle shift of his body as he stood there, calm and assured, like a man who knew my past, knew my weakness, and understood exactly what it was doing to me.

He looked at me with that same knowing grin, the kind that didn’t need to speak. The kind that said I knew you’d still be here.

The doorway was full of him, a wall of muscle and heat, blocking out the room behind him like a gatekeeper. Then came a subtle shift, not an invitation to enter, but a reveal. An intentional move to expose what lay beyond him… to let me see exactly what I wasn’t meant to.

And there she was. Pam. Kneeling at the foot of the bed, still in her jean shorts and tank top, her arms covered in a thin sheen of sweat just like his. Her hair frizzed slightly from the humidity that clung to the air, the room clearly warmer than it should have been.

She looked up at me, and for a second our eyes locked. Then she turned away, her face shifting just enough to betray the swirl of emotion behind it, nerves, and maybe even shame.

He had moved just enough to reveal her, my best friend, exposed and breathless in one of the most vulnerable positions I’d ever seen her. And he knew exactly what that would do to me.

My eyes dropped, locked on him, still glistening. Heavy, shameless, and just hard enough to make my breath catch. I couldn’t look away.

“Come on in,” he said, not a question, but an order. Calm, direct, certain I’d obey.

What the hell was I doing?

Guilt surged. Mike didn’t deserve this. The father of our perfect twin girls. The man who made lunches, folded laundry without being asked, kissed my forehead when he thought I was asleep. Who hadn’t unapologetically gambled away seven thousand dollars. Who wasn’t a bigot. Who never made love feel like a transaction.

He was the kind of husband most women would kill for.

A few decks above, he babysat Steve, doing whatever it took to take him off Pam’s hands so I could be the one to console her, calm her down, and salvage whatever was left of her vacation. He’d done it without complaint, without being asked, without hesitation. Completely oblivious to what was unfolding just beneath his feet.

But in that moment, I felt like scum. Like I wasn’t even in control of myself.

All of Mike’s good deeds felt meaningless, eclipsed by what stood in front of me.

A man who had only learned my name an hour ago. Who’d never taken me to dinner, changed a diaper, brought me flowers, or whispered that I looked beautiful when I didn’t feel it. He hadn’t earned me in any of the ways Mike had.

He had done nothing… except exist.

And now he stood there, holding the door open, waiting for me to make an inevitable decision. Still off to the side, just enough to keep Pam in view: obedient, desperate, eyes flicking between us like she already knew what came next.

I took a deep breath, one last pull of cool hallway air before crossing the threshold. As I stepped past Jamal, the heat of the room wrapped around me instantly, thick, humid, almost suffocating. It felt like a sauna, heavy with body warmth and lingering sweat.

My sundress clung to me within seconds, the thin fabric dampening and sticking to my back and thighs. My panties were no better, already wet before I entered, now sealed to my skin by heat, arousal, and everything in between.

The door slammed shut behind me, and I flinched, suddenly hyper-aware of Jamal’s presence at my back as I stepped farther into the room.

My eyes went straight to Pam. She was still kneeling at the foot of the bed, skin flushed, breath coming shallow, her gaze flicking up to meet mine for only a second.

The room mirrored ours in layout; same bland carpet, same built-in desk, same lifeless art on the walls, but this was an inside cabin. No balcony. No sunlight. Just recycled air and the low, artificial glow of overhead lights.

On the floor near the desk sat a SpaceX duffel bag, probably swag from his new job, with the spandex he’d worn yesterday draped over the top, kicked off and forgotten like he’d stripped down and never looked back. On the desk, his book lay upside down, pages spread to hold his place, abandoned to answer Pam’s knock.

He didn’t speak, lingering behind me while I took it all in, my eyes finally finding Pam’s. This time we didn’t look away. Our gaze held, longer than before, something unspoken passing between us in the stillness. Her eyes were glazed, dulled by too many Dark Ships, her shame softened, her judgment blurred.

But beneath the haze, I saw something real. A flicker of awareness. A silent understanding of what this had turned into. And in that look was a clear message: I wasn’t just watching anymore. I had skin in the game now. Something to lose, just like she did.

Just yesterday, she had been too guarded to change in front of me. Now she knelt on the carpet, traces of the blowjob she’d started still glistening faintly on her lips, the silence between us saying more than words ever could.

The look we shared felt hauntingly familiar, like those nights in college when we’d hook up in the same room, not quite a threesome, but never pretending the other wasn’t there.

Back then, it was reckless fun. Just something to laugh about the next morning over Waffle House hangover food. But this wasn’t college anymore. We were older. Married. This wasn’t some harmless thrill you walked away from. This was the kind of risk that came with real consequences.

Still, the difference was impossible to ignore. The boys we used to fool around with didn’t even exist in the same universe as the man now standing behind me. His cock alone nearly matched the combined size of both those college flings, and that was only what I’d seen barely hard.

He stepped forward, brushing past me with unhurried ease as he moved back into the room. He rubbed against my arm as he passed, leaving a slick trail, the contact point already shiny from the transfer.

Towering over me, heat poured off him like a furnace, his body carved and glistening under the overhead light. He returned to the exact spot he’d stood just minutes earlier, before he had pulled away from Pam to answer the door and find me there, ear pressed to it, caught in the act.

She hesitated for only a breath, her gaze dragging slowly along his length. Her lips parted in a silent “fuck,” another involuntary reaction she couldn’t contain. Hormones overran her, leaving no room for judgment, hers or mine or anyone else’s.

She moved on instinct, both hands lifting to wrap around the base of his anaconda. Not fully hard but nowhere near soft, it was a slab of flesh so massive it demanded two hands just to manage its weight.

It was perfect. A living, breathing version of Amir, the one that had lived rent-free in my head through every year of my marriage to Mike. Only this one was real. And bigger.

There was a worshipful obedience in her eyes as she lifted it, guiding the weight upward, steadying it with both hands. She angled it toward her mouth and leaned in, lips parting wide and willing, inch by inch closing in on what looked like the flesh-and-blood version of a Darth Vader helmet.

She was centimeters from engulfing him when her phone buzzed in my hand. The vibration splintered the moment, harsh and jarring, reality clawing its way back in. I clutched it tighter, trying to smother the sound before Pam noticed, before it could break the spell she was under. But it was already too late; we both knew what it was, who it was.

My eyes dropped to the screen, still open on the thread I’d been scrolling, eavesdropping on her life, on a version of my best friend I’d never fully seen. And at the bottom, waiting like it had always been inevitable, was a new message from Steve: “You there?”

A smug little follow-up to the venom he’d spewed at the Golden Mermaid. The message that blamed her, blamed me, blamed the ship. Blamed “my people” for his bad luck.

That was it. Just two words. But it wouldn’t have mattered if Steve had typed I’m sorry, begged forgiveness, or even walked through that door himself; nothing could have stopped what was happening. The outcome was already sealed.

Pam was gone, though not in body. What knelt before Jamal was the sexual equivalent of a crack addict chasing her next fix. Her hand still moved on him, her head still turned toward me, but the woman I’d boarded the ship with had vanished; replaced by someone raw, hungry, undone.

We locked eyes, and I smiled; not smug, not cruel, giving nothing away about whether Steve’s message had been an apology or venom. It didn’t matter. Jamal’s gaze found mine next, his smirk not an invitation but a display: calm, assured, proud of what he’d already claimed. There was no guilt in him; her husband, her child, her old life; all of it had vanished the moment her knees hit the floor.

She turned her attention back to Jamal, who had already swelled to his full, staggering size under her touch while she’d been distracted by Steve’s text. It was fucking huge; twelve inches, maybe more; and thick, like a summer sausage brought to life.

She leaned in, jaw straining like a snake attempting to devour prey too large for its body, then finally wrapped her lips around him again like it was a lifeline.

The sound that followed was raw and unmistakable; a deep, wet slurp, the distinct sound of pre-cum being sucked out of him with urgent need, like she could draw strength from it.

“Oh, fuck!” Jamal groaned, loud and raw, the same sound I’d heard through the door minutes earlier, the one that had signaled the beginning of Pam’s transformation.

Her moans vibrated against him as if she were the one being pleasured. She was insatiable now. What had started as hunger had evolved into something more profound, almost reverent. She poured three years of untouched frustration into every movement, her desperation showing in the way her lips strained and her hands worked in tandem.

Pam was gone, lost in him completely, her body moving like nothing else in the world existed. Both hands worked in a steady rhythm, milking him with a desperate, almost practiced coordination. Even with both fists working his length, several inches still jutted free, the same impossible girth she struggled to wrap her lips around.

I watched her throat move as she swallowed his pre-cum without hesitation, her body running on instinct. It had to taste like the kind of fluid that came from a body treated like a machine, disciplined and untouched by anything toxic. It wasn’t bitter. It was potent, almost electric. With Steve, the very idea would have revolted her, something she would have pushed away in disgust. With Jamal, it was different. She welcomed it, savoring every drop as if it were a reward for her surrender.

One of her hands slipped lower, cupping the sheer weight beneath him with a kind of worshipful awe. Her fingers curled around his balls, two massive black orbs hanging heavy and slick with a mix of sweat and her spit. They shifted with each stroke, dense and swollen, like ripe, dark fruit on the verge of splitting.

Her mouth couldn’t handle all of him, but her hands never stopped, working with relentless focus as if nothing else in her life mattered. The oral onslaught built to a point that felt impossible to sustain, and then something shifted in the air, subtle but undeniable. Pam’s jaw began to tremble with fatigue, her body finally betraying the first signs of surrender.

Her rhythm slowed, no longer frantic but steadier, more restrained, like she knew what was coming and was bracing for it.

A hush fell over the room, the kind of stillness when everyone senses the inevitable. It wrapped around the three of us like a held breath, waiting to be broken.

Jamal stepped back with a smirk, his cock slipping from her lips with a wet pop as she gasped for breath, the strain easing from the corners of her stretched mouth.

Without a word, he took her arm and drew her to her feet, ready to strip years of buried bigotry from her body, one orgasm at a time.