Chapter 1: The Showhome

The slab baked like a skillet. Radios fought, nail guns spat, scaffold rattled. Eazy wandered the site slow, hands in pockets, eyes checking lines the boys would’ve missed.

“Brace is off,” he said. The apprentice scrambled, fixed it.

The foreman leaned out from the frame. “You hanging 'round?”

“Nah. Gotta head to the Sumner job.”

No questions. No one doubted him. Supplies showed up, clients shut up, invoices cleared. He earned his freedom.

By ten he was in the ute, mullet flicking in the Nor’wester, cigarette hanging between his lips. Fifteen minutes latee he pulled into a drive that wasn’t his.

The showhome. Empty. Perfect.

Key from under the deck. Door shut soft. The aircon hummed, carpets still chemical-clean, beds made tighter than hospital corners. No life. Just space.

He kicked his boots off and dropped into the sofa. The kind of couch that had never been fucked on. Phone out. Snap open.

The inbox lit up. But not because they hunted him. Because he hunted them, half his nights spent quick-adding randoms, casting wide, seeing who bit. Most did.

Aria — Christchurch hospo girl. Bathroom mirror at work, tits squeezed up, tongue out. Caption: wreck me on my break.

Renee — Palmy MILF, always day-drunk, tits spilling over wine glass. wish you were here to fuck me.

Jess — local, Riccarton flat. Car selfies between classes. Half the time flashing pink just long enough to screenshot.

Talia — Auckland, 19. Bad lighting, sloppy selfies, calling him a wannabe pornstar while begging for streaks.

Mia — Hamilton, too needy, flooding him with voice notes about dreaming he bent her over.

Eazy scrolled, half-grinning. Fired back when he felt like it. A bulge shot, hand resting on his cock. A sweaty smirk. They lapped it up.

Then a new add. Mikayla.

Plain handle. Hoodie up in the profile, sharp jawline. First snap: a library table, her face half hidden, caption: bored.

He typed: Bet I could fix that.

Her reply popped fast. You always this cocky?

He flipped to the front cam and took a clean selfie—sweaty chest, rough jaw, blue eyes set hard. Sent it with: Want more?

Dots paused, then: You’re hot. Annoyingly hot. And yeah… I’ve got a boyfriend, so don’t.

He smirked. Cool. Don’t reply then.

…fuck you, she wrote. You’re unfair.

He set the phone low on the island, pulled his work shorts tight so the outline bulged heavy. Three seconds of his cock flexing thick against the fabric. Sent it.

Her answer stacked. Christ. That’s a weapon. Pause. If he saw this, I’d be fucked.

You’re fucked already, he wrote. Want to see it harder?

Dots blinked. No. Then: …yeah. Fuck. One more.

He tugged his shorts down a notch, showed the base, thick vein pushing skin. Snapped it just as a bead of precum leaked dark. Sent.

She replied instantly. Holy shit. That’s not fair. You’re massive.

He gripped himself, filmed a live video—stroking once, rough, the head flushing dark, precum dripping down his fist. Sent that too.

Her reply came in all caps: STOP. FUCK. I’M IN THE LIBRARY. Then: You’re actually gonna make me wet here. Asshole.

Eazy laughed low. Send me something back. Be fair.

You’re not getting nudes, she wrote.

Didn’t say nudes. Something pretty. Just for me.

Long pause. Dots on, off, on again.

Snap came through—jeans unbuttoned under the desk, hoodie lifted to show her stomach and a black lace bra. Caption: that’s all you get.

He stroked once more through his shorts, groaned at the screen. Good girl. Knew you’d crack.

Her reply was flustered. Don’t call me that. I’m literally shaking. You’re the worst.

He typed: I’m the best. Admit it.

Fine, she wrote. You’re fucking hot. Happy?

Not yet, he sent. But you’ll get me there.

He let her cool and scrolled the rest.

Aria: tits bouncing, moaning his name in the bathroom.

Renee: full nipple, lipstick on her teeth, typing ride me.

Jess: fingering herself in the driver’s seat.

Talia: voice note begging to be spat on.

Mia: essay-long message about how he was “meant for her.”

All orbiting. All begging.

His thumb drifted back to Mikayla, anyway.

Another snap lit: close-up of her face this time, hair tugged out from under the hoodie, eyes wide. Caption: You’re stuck in my head and I hate it.

He stared at it, let his cock swell, and didn’t reply. Left it open, knowing she’d stew.

He got up, wandered the fake-perfect house. Adjusted a pantry hinge. Took a piss in a toilet no one had sat on. Swigged the water he’d stashed in the fridge. The emptiness pressed close. The ache in his shorts made it feel alive.

By late arvo he was back on site, dust smeared on his calves like he’d never left. Checked a line, nodded at the foreman, muttered about soffits. No one blinked.

Five o’clock. Knock-off pint at the pub. Place reeked of sweat and beer. He dropped into a booth, phone face-up on his thigh.

The boys argued league. One apprentice bragged about a Tinder slut who gagged until she puked. Eazy half-listened, half-watched his screen.

Buzz after buzz.

Aria: Come split me open.

Renee: My bed’s empty. Fill it.

Jess: Pull up at uni, I’ll hop in.

Talia: Bet you won’t choke me like you say you would.

Mia: Please answer, I’m dripping for you.

He scrolled past. Opened Mikayla. Nothing. He checked twice, hoping for dots.

Finally, her text came: I put my phone down. Then picked it up again. You’re fucked up.

You want me, he wrote.

I hate that I do, she answered. If I cave again you’re sending flowers to my funeral.

Black roses, he sent. To match your bra.

Her reply: Smartass.

Then the buzz changed. Different tone. Text.

When are you coming home. Kid’s already asleep.

His chest tightened. His wife. The quiet house. The ring on her finger that matched his. Dinner under foil.

He typed: On my way. Sent.

He drained the pint, tapped glasses with the boys, and left.

Outside, the air was cool. He leaned against the ute bonnet, letting the ache sit heavy in his jeans. The phone trembled again. Snap.

Mikayla.

Half-face in shadow, eyes wide. Caption: fuck you. I’m soaked now. And it’s your fault.

Eazy grinned into the dark, slid behind the wheel. “I’m going home,” he said aloud, meaning it.

But the burn in his pocket stayed hot the whole drive.

Chapter 2: Home Life

The driveway was dark. Curtains pulled, hall light left on like always. Eazy killed the ute, flicked his smoke into the gutter, and sat with the engine ticking down.

Inside smelled of soap and reheated food. Jake’s little shoes were tipped sideways in the hall, a toy truck nose-down against the skirting. The quiet told him enough: kid asleep, wife in the bath.

Dinner sat on the bench under cling wrap. He peeled it back, slid the plate into the microwave, and leaned on the counter while the hum filled the kitchen.

Meredith’s voice carried down the hall. “You missed him again.”

He leaned on the bathroom doorframe. Steam fogged the mirror, candle stub burning low. Meredith lay in the tub with her hair piled up, phone facedown on a towel.

“He wanted you to read the monster one,” she said.

Eazy crouched, kissed her cheek. “Tomorrow night. We’ll build the fort too. Big one in the lounge.”

She held her mouth tight, then it curved. “He’ll make you do the voices.”

“I’ll do the voices.”

The microwave beeped. He kissed her shoulder, left her smiling despite herself. He knew how to pull her back.

He ate at the counter, one hand on the fork, the other scrolling under the bench light.

Aria: panties soaked, rubbing hard. Wish I was on my knees for you right now.

Jess: backseat of her Corolla, two fingers inside. Park up. Five minutes.

Renee: tits spilling over a glass of sauv. Come make me swallow you instead.

Talia: voice note, breathless: “Choke me out and make me beg.”

Mia: bathroom mirror, tits out. Can’t stop thinking about you.

He smirked, flicked a bulge shot to Aria, a smirk selfie to Jess, ignored the rest. Kept them desperate.

Then Mikayla lit.

You still up?

Yeah. Thinking about you, he wrote.

I shouldn’t reply. I’ve got a boyfriend right here.

And still, you’re typing, he sent.

You’re impossible, she answered. And too fucking hot.

He stroked himself once through his shorts, tucked the phone face down when Meredith padded in with damp hair and a robe. She poured herself tea, sat opposite.

“How was site?”

“Framer late, painter useless. Same shit.” He reached across, touched her wrist, kissed her smile back into place.

The phone buzzed again under his palm.

Later, the house dimmed. Jake’s nightlight threw a circle on the hall carpet. Meredith kissed him slow, pulled him down into bed.

They started missionary, like always. Her moans soft, her hands warm. Eazy stayed with it—kept the rhythm, kissed her neck, gave her what she wanted. No Glow, just habit.

Then she rolled over, lifted onto hands and knees, hair spilling forward. “Finish like this,” she murmured.

Her face buried in the pillow. Perfect.

Eazy gripped her hips and slid in deep. With his free hand he snatched the phone from the nightstand, angled it low. His cock driving into her, the slap of skin, Meredith’s muffled sounds. He sent it live.

Caption: Fucking my wife, thinking about you.

Replies hit like sparks.

Aria: panties pushed aside, fingers sliding in. Fill me instead.

Jess: pussy flash in her car, typing Pull out of her and drive here.

Renee: tits out, glass tipped. Breed me next time. Make her clean you off.

Mikayla froze the thread with one line. Wait—wife? You’re actually married?

He shoved deeper, thumbed a reply: Yeah. Turn you on, doesn’t it.

Dots blinked. That’s so fucked. Another pause. Why does it make me wetter?

Because you want what you shouldn’t, he wrote.

He filmed again—doggy angle, cock hammering her, balls kissing wet.

Caption: She moans my name. I’d rather hear you choke.

Talia: gagging on a dildo in a shaky vid. Like this? Louder than her.

Mia: frantic text: Don’t waste it there. Fill me instead.

Mikayla: You’re insane. I’m touching myself knowing she’s full of you right now.

He groaned, hips smacking faster. Sent one last clip, close and slick, Meredith’s moans muffled under the pillow.

Caption: Every thrust, your pussy in my head.

Mikayla: You’re ruining me. If he saw this—fuck—I still want it.

That tipped him. He spilled inside Meredith, grunted against her back, and dropped the phone to the mattress.

She sighed, kissed his knuckles. “That was nice,” she murmured, rolling to her side. She was asleep within minutes.

Eazy lay back, chest heaving, phone glowing in his hand. Snaps stacked from the others—Aria begging, Jess demanding, Renee promising—but he skimmed past them.

Mikayla sat at the top. Hoodie rucked to her ribs, thighs bare, black lace pulled wide enough to tease. Caption: You make me want to risk everything.

He typed: Say it.

Her dots flickered. Maybe we should just do it.

He grinned into the dark. Name the place.

Meredith shifted against him, asleep already. Jake breathed quiet down the hall.

The phone trembled once more. Mikayla again: Tomorrow. Somewhere no one knows me.

He turned the screen face down, shut his eyes, and let the ache smoulder.

Tomorrow had just changed shape.

Chapter 3: The Showhome Root

The site thumped and rattled, but Eazy’s focus stayed on his phone. He leaned on the ute tray, thumbed the screen.

Mikayla: I’m losing my mind.

Eazy: Fixable.

Her: He hasn’t touched me in weeks.

Eazy: Meredith’s the same.

Her: So what are we doing?

Eazy: You’re gonna drive here.

Her: Where?

Eazy: Subdivision. End of the street. Showhome. Key’s under the deck.

Her: …I’m on my way.

Eazy pocketed the phone, told the foreman he was chasing a supplier, and walked. Nobody blinked.

The showhome sat smug at the end of the cul-de-sac. Eazy pulled the key from under the deck and stepped inside. Aircon hummed. Carpet still chemical-clean. Fake lemons shining under lights. Too perfect. Too empty.

He shut the blinds, kicked his boots off, sprawled on the sofa, and waited.

Headlights swept the window, cut. A knock.

He opened it.

Mikayla stood in her hoodie, jeans tight, hair tied back. Her cheeks were already flushed. “God, this is insane,” she said, slipping inside.

“Yeah,” he said, locking the door. “That’s the point.”

She laughed once, nervous, then pulled him into a kiss that erased it.

They hit the kitchen first. She braced against the island; he stepped between her thighs. The kiss went teeth and heat. Her hands dragged his shirt up. His palms slid under her hoodie, catching bare skin.

“Fuck me,” she said against his mouth. “Don’t talk. Just fuck me.”

He spun her, shoved her jeans down. Black lace clung, already wet. He pressed his hand there and she trembled, spreading wider.

“Say it again,” he muttered.

“Fuck me, Eazy. I need your cock.”

He tore the lace aside and slid in slow, thick. Her gasp broke into a moan.

“Yes. Oh fuck—yes. Harder. Deeper. Wreck me.”

He gripped her hips and gave it to her. The slap of skin echoed in the staged quiet.

The sofa took her weight next. He hauled her down, cock still inside her, driving deep. She clawed his back, hoodie rucked high, tits bouncing under cotton.

“God, I knew you’d fuck like this,” she panted. “Big cock, fucking me stupid.”

“Say it louder,” he growled.

“You’re fucking me stupid,” she cried, pushing back into him. “Harder. Don’t stop. Smack me.”

He cracked her thigh; she yelped, then begged, “Again—please.”

He did. She went louder, filthier. “Yes—fuck—ruin this pussy—make it yours—”

The couch squealed on the carpet. The fake lemons gleamed like witnesses.

“On your knees,” he ordered.

She dropped willingly, cheek to the cushion, arse up, legs wide. “Fuck me harder. Fuck me till I can’t walk.”

He drove into her from behind, rhythm brutal. She shoved back, moaning ragged.

“This is ours now,” he muttered.

“All of it,” she gasped. “My pussy’s yours. Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

Her body shook, orgasm climbing.

“I’m close,” she cried. “Eazy—I’m gonna—fuck—I’m cumming—”

“Give it to me,” he snapped, pounding harder.

She broke.

Her body locked, then sprayed—squirt soaking the cushion, hot and messy. She screamed, hands clawing fabric, whole frame trembling.

The Glow erupted with it.

Light ran under her skin, shimmering sweat bright, veins lit like stars, hair sparking with static shine. Each jerk of her body flared brighter.

Eazy felt it burn through him too—his chest pulsing light, arms lit faint, every thrust glowing hotter.

“You’re glowing for me,” he grunted.

“So are you,” she gasped, still grinding back on his cock. “Don’t stop—keep going—fuck—”

He hammered harder, chasing the heat, until his own orgasm ripped loose. He buried deep, groaning as his body flared bright. The room sharpened, edges haloed. Then the blaze faded, leaving only their panting, wet bodies tangled on the ruined couch.

Mikayla collapsed forward, laughing once, wrecked. “Holy shit. You’ve killed me.”

“Not yet,” he said, kissing her glowing shoulder.

She turned, hair wild, hoodie half-off. “Again. Not now—I need to breathe. But again.”

“Count on it.”

She tugged her jeans up with shaky hands, stuffed torn lace into her pocket. Her phone buzzed. She ignored it.

At the door she looked back, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. “Text me. Soon.”

“Soon.”

She slipped out. Headlights cut the blinds, then vanished.

Eazy sprawled on the couch, chest still humming faint light, sweat cooling. He stared at the stain spreading across the perfect cushion and laughed.

The showhome didn’t smell new anymore. It smelled like them.

He stood, laced his boots without tying them, and reached for the door. The air shifted, the quiet thickened. His phone buzzed, screen black, words in white:

You have been seen.

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