Heather’s apartment always smelled like vanilla candles and whatever takeout they’d murdered the night before. Tonight it was Thai, and the empty containers were still scattered across the coffee table like casualties. One of her socks had a hole in the toe; the burgundy polish on that foot was chipped to hell. She had her legs kicked up on the table, heel nudging the last inch of Casa Dragones so hard the bottle wobbled.

“Steph. Real question. When was the last time Mike got legitimately, stupidly hard without you doing that sad little begging voice? Like, full mast. Not the scared half-chub he keeps poking at you like it owes him money.”

Stephani made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a death rattle, then just let herself slide sideways until her head was dangling off the couch, red hair spilling onto the rug like someone had dumped paint. “Last Wednesday I walked in on him in the shower, and the man turned around. Full spin. I saw his asshole before I saw his face, Heather. His asshole.”

Heather barked so loudly she actually snorted. “I’m deceased. No wonder you’ve been walking around like a vibrator with one bar left.”

Stephani tried to sit up, got dizzy, gave up and stayed half-upside-down. “I’m serious. I miss dick like it’s an ex who ghosted me. I miss the weight of it, the way it jumps right before—fuck, I’m wet right now and it’s tragic.”

“You’re not tragic, you’re married to a limp pool noodle,” Heather said, already pouring more tequila straight into their glasses even though the ice had melted into sad water twenty minutes ago. “Remember sophomore year when you edged Trevor from Sigma Chi for forty-five minutes and he cried actual tears? You were a terrorist. Now you’re out here giving birthday pity-blowjobs like you’re trying to earn a good-wife sticker.”

Stephani wheezed so hard she had to clutch her stomach. “Stop, I’m gonna pee, I swear to God.”

They were quiet for a second, just breathing like they’d run a mile.

Then Stephani said, real small, “I keep thinking about Afterlife.”

Heather froze with the glass halfway to her mouth. “You sneaky, sneaky bitch.”

“I know. It’s insane.”

“I went three weeks ago,” Heather said, like she was telling her what she had for lunch. “Nine guys. One of them came back for seconds because apparently I ruined regular blowjobs for his wife forever. He literally said that while I was still wiping my chin.”

Stephani’s mouth actually fell open.

“It’s not even sketchy,” Heather kept going. “You walk down this velvet hallway that smells like money and bad decisions. Little black doors, red lights above them like we’re in some horny church. Inside there’s a padded kneeler—like, they stole it from a cathedral and nobody noticed—and a hole in the wall with smoked glass. Green button means go, red means next, there’s a tiny sink for when things get… projectile. They thought of everything.”

Stephani was hiding behind her glass now, cheeks burning. “I want to be disgusting. I want mascara down my face and my throat raw for three days straight. I want to kiss Mike goodnight still tasting someone else’s kids.”

Heather stared at her for one heartbeat, then lunged across the couch and snatched Stephani’s phone.

“No—no, wait—”

“Too late, bitch.” Her thumbs were flying. “Texting Damien right now. ‘Stephani plus-one Saturday booth seven. Tell the boys no micro-peens, no thirty-second wonders. She swallows like a champ and she’s greedy as fuck. Line forms on the right.’”

Stephani tried to grab the phone, missed, face-planted into a throw pillow that smelled faintly of weed and dog. “I hate you so much.”

“You love me and you’re doing this.” Heather hit send like she was slapping someone’s ass, then tossed the phone back. “Saturday night your jaw is getting absolutely demolished and I’m next door collecting loads like they’re goddamn baseball cards.”

Stephani stared at the ceiling, breathing hard, thighs pressed together under her skirt. “If Mike asks, we’re getting manicures.”

“Tell him we’re getting our throats refinished, same difference.” Heather lifted her glass, tequila sloshing over the rim and running down her wrist. “To sore jaws and ruined marriages.”

Stephani clinked so hard she almost broke the glass. “To actual dick. Finally.”

Saturday came too fast and not fast enough.

They pregamed at Heather’s—two shots each, then Ubered downtown so nobody had to drive. The club didn’t even have a sign, just a black door between a closed vape shop and a 24-hour laundromat. A guy the size of a refrigerator checked names on an iPad, then waved them through.

Inside smelled like cedar and something darker. The bass was low enough you felt it in your teeth. Heather squeezed her hand once, hard, then let go.

“Six for you, seven for me,” she whispered. “Don’t chicken out on me, babe.”

Stephani’s booth was smaller than she expected. Amber light, plush walls, a little bench if your knees gave out. The kneeler looked almost sweet, like someone had tried to make sin comfortable. The oval hole in the wall was at the perfect height. Smoked glass. A row of buttons glowing soft green and red.

She locked the door. Heart going so fast she was scared the guy on the other side could hear it.

Green light.

First cock slid through—average, eager, already leaking at the tip. She started slow, licking up the underside like she had all night. He groaned the second her tongue touched him. Came in under a minute, hot and salty across her tongue. She swallowed, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, hit red.

They blurred together after that.

One was so thick her jaw popped when she tried to take him deep. One curved hard left and kept bumping the back of her throat in this perfect, filthy spot. One tasted like he’d chewed spearmint gum five minutes ago—she could still smell it when he came. Another had a piercing, cold metal dragging across her tongue every time she pulled back. She lost track somewhere around six or seven. Her knees ached, her thong was soaked through, her nipples were so hard the lace of her bra felt like sandpaper.

Then the shadow changed.

Broader shoulders. Slower breathing.

The cock that came through was heavy—long, thick, one fat vein running along the top like a secret. He didn’t thrust, didn’t grab, just waited. She actually drooled before she touched it. Started slow, almost reverent, lips stretched wide. Had to relax her throat twice before the head popped past the ring of muscle. When she finally swallowed around him he made this low, animal sound that went straight between her legs.

She worked him like she was trying to win something—both hands twisting, tongue flat against the underside, cheeks hollow. When he came it felt endless. Thick, hot ropes that coated her tongue, slid down her throat like warm cream. She swallowed again and again, chasing the last drops with her lips even after he started to soften.

Glass never cleared. No request. Just the slow pull back, the soft chime, gone.

She stayed on her knees a long time, tasting him on the back of her tongue, thighs shaking.

Heather found her twenty minutes later, both of them flushed and wrecked and grinning like idiots.

“I need number six again,” Stephani croaked, voice already hoarse.

Heather just laughed, soft, and tugged her up. “That’s the whole game, babe. You don’t get to keep them.”

Across the club, in the private lounge with the crimson lights, David set his empty scotch glass down real slow.

He’d seen the freckles on his daughter’s chest when the glass flickered clear for half a second—just long enough. Recognized them instantly. Tapped no before she ever noticed.

She’d never know.

He was already hard again, thinking about next weekend, and the weekend after that, and the one after that.

He raised one finger. The bartender poured another.