Chapter 6: Dinner and a Show
The afternoon was a tense, waiting wound. Krissy moved through the house like a ghost, arranging flowers she didn’t see, wiping surfaces already clean. Every nerve felt raw, exposed, tuned to a frequency only Marcus could broadcast. The soreness between her legs was a constant, throbbing reminder of the basement, of the weight bench, of the utter depletion that followed his visits. She dressed with a trembling care, choosing a simple, knee-length navy dress. It was modest, something Tim would approve of. She wore no underwear, a secret so blatant it made her face flush in the empty bedroom.At seven, the doorbell chimed. Her heart seized, a cold fist in her chest.Tim, smiling broadly, bounded past her. “He’s here!”
Marcus stood on the threshold, holding a six-pack of craft IPA. He wore dark chinos and a black button-down that stretched across his chest. His eyes found Krissy over Tim’s shoulder, and the look was a physical touch—dismissive, possessive, knowing. “Hey, man.Krissy. Smells amazing.”
“It’s just a stew,” she heard herself say, the words distant.The ritual of dinner began. Tim poured the beers, the hoppy aroma cutting through the smell of garlic and herbs. He talked, animated, about the merger proposal, about his boss’s praise.“It’s all coming together, Marcus. You were right about the Jackson account.”
“Told you,” Marcus said, his voice a warm rumble. He took a long sip, his eyes never leaving Krissy as she brought the bread basket to the table. “Just takes a little… forceful negotiation.”
She sat, her knees touching Tim’s under the small table.Marcus sat opposite, his long legs stretching into the space beneath. The tablecloth was a field of navy blue, a deceptive sea of calm.
“So, the client loved the aggressive repositioning?” Tim asked, cutting his bread.
“He loved being told what he needed,” Marcus corrected, smiling. “Some people just need a firm hand to show them where they fit.”
As Tim launched into another story, a scuff of movement beneath the table. Then, a warm, solid weight settled on Krissy’s bare thigh.She froze, a piece of bread halfway to her mouth. Marcus’s hand was large, his fingers splayed wide over her skin.He squeezed, not gently. His thumb began a slow, casual stroke along her inner seam.
“Krissy, honey, pass the butter?” Tim asked, not looking up from his plate.
She jolted, reaching for the dish with her free hand.Marcus’s fingers crept higher, pushing the hem of her dress up. She could feel the cool air of the dining room on her exposed skin, then the terrifying heat of his palm.His middle finger traced the outer lips of her sex, already slick. She let out a tiny, choked sound.“You okay, babe?” Tim glanced at her.
“Fine,” she breathed. “Just… a little warm.”
Marcus’s finger dipped, just an inch, gathering wetness.He brought it back, painting a slow circle around her clit. The contrast was unbearable: Tim’s cheerful voice discussing office politics, and the silent, deliberate violation happening in the dark beneath the linen.Her hips gave an infinitesimal rock against his hand. He rewarded her with a firmer press.“Anyway,” Tim said, taking a drink, “the presentation is tomorrow at ten. Big day.”
“Very big,” Marcus murmured, his gaze locked on Krissy’s flushed face. Under the table, his finger breached her, slipping inside to the first knuckle. She clenched around him, a helpless spasm.He worked it in and out, a shallow, filthy mimicry. With his thumb now pressing hard circles on her clit, he built a ruthless rhythm. Tim’s words blurred into a meaningless drone. Her world narrowed to the dark space beneath the table, to the rough pad of his thumb and the sly penetration of his finger. She was cresting, a wave of heat and shame tightening her stomach, coiling low in her belly.
“You’re quiet tonight, Kris,” Tim said, touching her arm.
The sudden contact, the kindness in his voice, snapped the last thread.The orgasm ripped through her silently, a violent, internal quake. Her back arched slightly, her free hand gripping the table edge until her knuckles turned white. Her cunt fluttered wildly around Marcus’s invading finger, drenching his hand. She saw the triumph in his eyes as he felt her come, as he slowed his movements, drawing out her spasms until they were faint tremors.He withdrew his hand slowly, leaving her exposed and cooling in the dark. He brought his hand to his own lap, and she heard the faint, wet sound as he wiped her slickness on his chinos. He picked up his beer with the same hand and took a long drink, a vile communion.
“Just tired,” she finally managed to whisper to Tim, forcing a weak smile. “The stew’s good, yeah?”
The rest of the meal was an exercise in agony. Every clink of cutlery, every laugh from Tim, was a needle in her skin. Marcus participated, easy and charismatically, while the scent of her arousal lingered faintly on his fingers, on the air between them.Finally, Tim pushed his chair back. “I almost forgot!I picked up that chocolate tart you love, from Artisan’s. It’s in the fridge. Be right back.”
The moment the kitchen door swung shut behind him, the atmosphere crystallized.Marcus stood, his chair scraping loudly.In two strides he was behind Krissy. His hands clamped down on her shoulders, pulling her up from her seat. He turned her to face him, her back now to the table.“He’s getting dessert,” she gasped.
“And I’m having mine.” He spun her around, bent her over the polished oak, pushing her chest down onto the cool surface.Her dress rode up to her waist. With one hand splayed on her back, holding her down, he used the other to unfasten his belt and jeans. He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against her soaked entrance, still pulsing from her earlier climax.
“No, he’ll see—”
He slammed into her, a single, brutal stroke that drove the air from her lungs and buried him to the root. She cried out, the sound muffled by her arm. He set a punishing pace immediately, each thrust jarring her body against the hard table.The plates rattled. A wine glass tipped over, rolling onto the carpet with a soft thud.
“You came on my fingers like a fucking slut while he talked about spreadsheets,” he grunted, his grip bruising on her hip. “Now take your dessert.”
She could hear Tim moving in the kitchen, the clatter of plates, the opening of the refrigerator door.Panic and a dark, delirious excitement fused in her veins. The risk was the point.The betrayal was the fuel. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, her own need overtaking the fear. It was raw and crude, the wet slap of their skin a frantic drumbeat counting down the seconds.
“Please,” she begged, not even sure what she was begging for—to finish, to be caught, for it to never end.
“Gonna fill this cunt right here,” Marcus growled, his rhythm faltering, becoming erratic. “Gonna mark his fucking table.”
The kitchen door squeaked.Footsteps approached in the hall.
Marcus gave three final, deep plunges and held, his body rigid against hers. She felt the hot, familiar rush, the explosive pulses deep inside her, another claim staked in her already-claimed flesh. He pulled out hastily just as the dining room door began to open.
Krissy stumbled upright, yanking her dress down.Her hair was wild, her face a mask of feverish guilt. Marcus was faster, turning smoothly to lean against the table, his back to the door as he quickly zipped his jeans. He picked up his wine glass, now empty, as Tim walked in carrying the tart.Tim stopped, his cheerful expression flickering. He looked at Krissy, flushed and breathless, straightening the silverware with shaking hands.He saw the overturned wine glass on the floor. He saw Marcus, coolly examining the label on the beer bottle, a faint, smug smile playing on his lips.“Everything okay?” Tim asked, the question hanging in the charged air.
“Fine,” Krissy breathed, too quickly.“I just… knocked over my glass. Clumsy.”
“Yeah,” Marcus drawled, finally looking up.His voice was a low, satisfied hum. “She got a little… overwhelmed. The stew was that good, I guess.”
Tim’s eyes lingered on Krissy. For a terrifying second, she saw a crack in his obliviousness—a flicker of confusion, a hint of something like suspicion in his kind, open face. He blinked, and it was gone, replaced by concern.“You sure you’re feeling alright? You look really warm.”
“I’m fine, honey,” she said, the endearment ash in her mouth. “Let’s have that tart.”
She avoided looking at Marcus as they ate the dessert, its rich chocolate taste like dirt on her tongue. She could feel his seed beginning to leak out of her, a warm trickle down her inner thigh, a secret staining the inside of her modest navy dress. She sat on her husband’s chair, in her husband’s house, utterly and irrevocably ruined, while the two men talked and laughed as if nothing had happened at all. The laughter felt like a key, turning slowly in a lock deep inside her, sealing her fate.