Chapter 1: The Anticipation
The apartment sighed around him, the only sound the low hum of the fridge and the occasional sigh of tired pipes behind the walls. Jonas slouched on the worn corduroy couch, its faded blue fabric soft against his forearms. The single standing lamp cast a warm, buttery pool of light over the cluttered coffee table – medical journals stacked haphazardly, a half-empty glass of whiskey sweating onto a coaster, his laptop screen glowing blue-white. He was scrolling through a dense research paper on atypical presentations of appendicitis, the text blurring slightly as fatigue pressed in. His thumb absently traced the smooth curve of his shaved head, a familiar habit. His small, neatly trimmed beard grazed the collar of his worn t-shirt.
A sharp ping sliced through the quiet. His phone, face-down on the table, vibrated against the wood. He flipped it over. Mary.
Would you mind terribly if I didn't sleep at home tonight?
The words seemed to pulse on the screen. Jonas inhaled slowly, the air catching slightly in his chest. A familiar, electric current sparked low in his belly, a warmth spreading outwards. He didn’t mind. He loved it. The freedom. The anticipation. The raw, unfiltered connection to her experience. He picked up the phone, his thumb hovering over the keypad. His glasses slid down his nose; he nudged them back up with a knuckle.
Could you perhaps share some details? He hit send. Simple. Open. An invitation.
He placed the phone back on the table, screen still lit. Leaned his head back against the couch cushion, closing his eyes for a second. The image of Mary, her dark eyes sparkling with that particular mix of confidence and mischief she got when embarking on one of these adventures, flashed behind his lids. Where was she? Who was it? The questions were part of the thrill. His pulse, a steady thud against his ribs now, felt amplified in the quiet room. He took a sip of the whiskey, the smoky burn familiar and grounding.
He didn’t have to wait long. Another ping.
Met someone.
At the conference.
Liam. Architect. Dublin.
Charming. Very direct.
We talked for hours.
Each new notification brought a fresh jolt. Jonas read the texts rapidly, a small, unconscious smile playing on his lips. Liam. Dublin. Architect. He pictured the type – probably sharp-eyed, well-dressed,witty humor. Mary always went for the charming ones. His free hand, resting on his thigh, flexed slightly. The warmth in his stomach intensified, coiling tighter. He shifted on the couch, the fabric whispering beneath him. His focus was entirely on the glowing rectangle now, the research paper forgotten.
Where? he typed, fingers moving quickly, needing the shape of the space.
His hotel room.
The Clifton. Top floor.
Huge windows. City lights.
The Clifton. Expensive. Panoramic views. Jonas could almost see the scene: the low lights, the expansive glass revealing the glittering city grid below, Mary perched on the edge of a plush bed or leaning against the window frame. He swallowed. His breathing felt shallower. The hand on his thigh drifted inward, fingertips brushing the worn denim covering his groin. A light, exploratory touch. The pressure was already building there, a thick, insistent heat responding to the images her texts conjured.
And? he sent. One word, loaded. His knuckles were white where he gripped the phone.
Her reply was swift.
He kissed me against the window.
Could see the whole city behind us.
His hands… firm.
Knew exactly what he wanted.
Jonas made a low sound in his throat. A hum, almost a growl. "Fuck," he whispered into the quiet apartment. His eyes were fixed on the words: against the window... his hands... firm... knew exactly what he wanted. Vivid, visceral. His own hand pressed down more firmly through the denim, palming the swelling hardness. It felt good. Intense. The connection to her, to her pleasure, was dizzying. He loved this part – the knowing. The detailed, unvarnished knowing. It wasn’t jealousy that twisted in him; it was a fierce, possessive arousal. She was his, sharing this with him. He was right there with her.
He typed, fingers trembling slightly now.
Tell me about his hands.
Where did he touch you first?
What was his touch like?
What are you wearing?
Where is he now?
The phone screen pulsed with Mary’s reply, the words stark against the gloom of the apartment.
He was funny and gentle. We laughed a lot. He put on some music.
The whiskey glass felt slippery in Jonas’s hand. He took another gulp, the burn sharpening his focus entirely on the phone screen. Mary’s last text hung in the digital space between them: He put on some music. Jazz, probably. Something smooth, low-fi. She knew he hated techno for this. Jonas could almost hear the faint, sultry saxophone drifting through the imagined hotel room, a counterpoint to the frantic pulse thrumming in his own ears.
He waited, thumb hovering. The silence stretched, thick and expectant. The glow from the laptop screen cast long, distorted shadows of medical journals across the cluttered coffee table. His other hand rested heavily on his thigh, fingers pressing hard against the rough denim, mirroring the firmness he imagined Liam’s hands possessing.
Another ping. Sharper this time. A notification for an image.
His breath hitched. He tapped the message. The screen lit up, filling with the selfie Mary had taken in the hotel bathroom.
The lighting was soft, diffused – probably the overhead vanity lights muted by steam or a dimmer switch. The mirror was large, framed in sleek chrome, reflecting the elegant tile and foggy glass door of a walk-in shower behind her. But the focus was entirely on Mary.
She stood facing the mirror, phone held high enough to capture from just below her collarbones down to her mid-thighs. Her dark hair was slightly mussed, falling over one shoulder. Her expression held a potent mix of anticipation and amusement, lips curved in a knowing half-smile, eyes gleaming directly at the lens, at him.
She wore only underwear. Lingerie, specifically. It was a complex, intricate set in a deep, wine-red lace that seemed to absorb the warm bathroom light. The bra was a balcony style, the lace pattern dense and geometric – tiny, interlocking hexagons forming a sheer, almost architectural cage for her breasts. Narrow bands of a slightly darker, satin-like material edged the cups and formed the straps, drawing the eye to the soft swell spilling just slightly over the structured top edge. The center gore sat snugly against her sternum, a small, delicate bow resting there.
Below, the matching panties were high-waisted, the lace extending up to just below her navel in a flattering V-shape. The same intricate hexagon pattern covered her hips and upper thighs, sheer enough to hint at the shadowed curve beneath, yet opaque enough to maintain a teasing mystery. A thicker band of the satin-like material framed the waistband, emphasizing the smooth plane of her stomach and the dip of her hips. The leg openings were scalloped with the lace, delicate as moth wings against her skin.
The dusky gold tone of her skin glowed against the rich red, the contrast stark and intensely erotic. Jonas’s gaze traced the lines of the lace, the subtle shadows it cast, the way it clung and revealed. His knuckles whitened around the phone. His other hand moved almost unconsciously, pressing harder against the insistent ache beneath his jeans, a low groan escaping his lips, swallowed by the quiet apartment.
A new text bubble appeared beneath the image.
>Just stepped into the bathroom. Needed a sec. Still just kissing and touching. Lots of touching. His hands are… everywhere. But here. For now. Wanted you to see.
Jonas stared at the image, then the words. Still just kissing and touching. The phrase echoed, charged with unspoken potential. Lots of touching. His mind filled in the gaps: Liam’s architect hands tracing the lines of that lace, finding the skin beneath, the pressure, the lingering exploration Mary had hinted at earlier. Wanted you to see. That possessive heat surged again, fierce and undeniable. She was sharing this intimacy, this deliberate, slow burn, with him. He was her confessor, her co-conspirator in this unfolding scene.
He drained the last of the whiskey, the burn a welcome distraction from the tightening in his gut. His fingers flew over the screen, the questions tumbling out, raw and unfiltered.
>The lace looks incredible on you. Like it was made for your skin. Does he appreciate it? Did he say anything? Tell me where his hands are when they touch you over it. Does he feel the pattern? Is he rough or slow? Are you still by the window?
He hit send. The message vanished, joining the chain documenting Mary’s night. Jonas leaned back, head resting against the worn corduroy, the phone a hot weight in his hand. The dim apartment felt cavernous, silent except for the frantic drumming of his own heart against his ribs. He closed his eyes, waiting in the charged stillness, the image of Mary in the wine-red lace burning behind his eyelids, the phantom sensation of architect’s hands ghosting over intricate patterns. The silence stretched, taut as a wire.
The silence stretched, taut as a wire. Jonas stared at the phone screen, willing it to light up again. The image of Mary in the wine-red lace burned behind his eyelids. Against the window… his hands… firm… knew exactly what he wanted. The words echoed, morphing into imagined sounds – a low murmur, a sharp intake of breath, the rustle of expensive hotel sheets.
He pushed himself off the couch, the sudden movement making the whiskey glass wobble dangerously on the cluttered table. He paced the worn rug, the soft pile muffling his steps. Two hours. Two fucking hours since her last text. The silence wasn't just absence; it was a vacuum filled with possibilities, each one more vivid and torturous than the last.
Are they fucking right now? The thought slammed into him, visceral. He pictured Liam pushing Mary back onto the bed, that intricate lace tearing slightly under impatient hands. Or was it slower? Deliberate? Liam tracing the lace pattern with his tongue before finding skin. Jonas’s own hand drifted back to the front of his jeans, pressing hard against the persistent ache. He stopped pacing, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window overlooking the dark street. Condensation bloomed under his breath.
Is she blowing him? The image flashed, unbidden: Mary kneeling, head tilted back, eyes closed or maybe open, looking up at Liam. That knowing half-smile playing on her lips as she took him deep. Jonas groaned, low and frustrated. The pressure in his groin was a physical throb now, insistent and demanding. Did he taste like whiskey? Like coffee? Did she… enjoy it?
Condom. The practical thought sliced through the heat. Did they use one? Mary was meticulous, responsible. Usually. But the hotel room, the wine-red lace, the architect’s ‘direct’ hands… Jonas pictured Liam fumbling with a foil packet, or worse, dismissing it entirely. A cold sliver of something that wasn't jealousy, but sharp concern, pricked his arousal. It mingled uncomfortably with the heat.
"Stop," he muttered aloud, the word harsh in the quiet apartment. He pushed away from the window. Distraction. He needed distraction. He snatched the remote off the armchair and flicked on the large TV mounted on the opposite wall. The screen blazed to life, painfully bright. Some late-night talk show host grinned vacuously, interviewing a starlet about her new perfume. Jonas jabbed buttons, channel surfing. A car chase exploded across the screen, tires screeching, glass shattering. Meaningless noise. A nature documentary showed lions stalking gazelles. The slow-motion pounce felt obscenely suggestive. He landed on a news channel – grim-faced anchors discussing a stock market dip. Dry, sterile words that couldn't penetrate the feverish images replaying in his head.
His hands… everywhere. Mary’s text echoed. Where was ‘everywhere’? Over the lace? Under it? Had he unhooked the bra? Were her breasts bare now, dusky gold against the white hotel sheets? Was Liam’s mouth on them? Jonas sank back onto the couch, remote forgotten on the cushion beside him. The TV droned on, a flickering, irrelevant backdrop. He picked up his whiskey glass, found it empty. He stared into the empty bottom, seeing only reflections of the city lights Mary described, imagined Liam’s silhouette moving against them, pressing her against the glass.
He tried picking up a medical journal. The dense text swam before his eyes. Atypical appendicitis… differential diagnosis… The words dissolved into Liam’s imagined voice, low and commanding in Mary’s ear. Jonas tossed the journal aside. It slid off the couch and landed with a soft thud on the rug. Useless. Everything was useless except the agonizing wait and the relentless thrumming in his veins.
He paced again. Five steps towards the kitchenette. Five steps back. Checked the phone. Nothing. The digital clock on the microwave glowed 1:47 AM. Time crawled. He ran a hand over his smooth scalp, the friction grounding for a fleeting second. His glasses felt heavy on his nose. He took them off, rubbed the bridge, put them back on. The apartment felt smaller, hotter, charged with static anticipation.
Another glance at the phone. Dark screen. He picked it up, unlocked it, stared at the last message chain. Wanted you to see. He reread it. Then the picture. He zoomed in on the lace hexagons, the smooth skin beneath, the knowing look in her eyes. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. Should he text again? Ask? Demand? What’s happening? Are you okay? Are you…? He stopped himself. Pushing might break the spell. Might push her away from sharing. He dropped the phone back onto the coffee table like it was hot. It landed face down.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The TV’s flickering light painted shifting patterns on his back. The hum of the fridge was suddenly deafening. Are they fucking? The question roared back, drowning out everything else. He imagined the rhythm, the sounds Mary wouldn't make over text – the gasps, the moans, the wet slap of skin on skin. Liam’s groans. Was she loud? Was she quiet? Did she come? Had she come already? Was she coming now?
A sharp, distinct ping cut through the suffocating silence.
Jonas froze. His head snapped up. The phone vibrated against the wood, skittering slightly. A notification. Mary. Not a text bubble. A video file icon pulsed beside her name.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum solo. He snatched the phone up, fingers clumsy. He tapped the icon. The screen went black for a heartbeat, then resolved into shaky, intimate footage.
The camera angle was low, looking slightly upwards. Soft, warm light – bedside lamp, maybe. The background was blurred, suggesting expensive upholstery or rumpled sheets. The focus was entirely on Mary.
She was kneeling on what looked like a thick, dark carpet. Her back was straight, posture poised yet relaxed. Her dark hair was tousled, falling forward slightly. She wore only the wine-red lace panties now, the high waistband hugging her hips. The intricate hexagon pattern glowed softly in the lamplight against her skin. Her torso was bare, the smooth planes of her stomach and the soft curve of her waist illuminated.
Her head was tilted down, her gaze focused intently on what was just below the frame. A smile played on her lips – not the earlier half-smile of anticipation, but something fuller, more satisfied. Contented. Knowing. Utterly present. Her lips were slightly parted, glistening.
The camera shifted minutely, rising slightly. For a fraction of a second, the top of a man’s thigh came into view – clad in dark trousers, pushed down just enough. Then the frame settled again, centered on Mary’s face and bare shoulders. Her eyes flicked up. Directly into the lens. Directly at Jonas. That knowing smile deepened, crinkling the corners of her eyes. She held his gaze through the screen for a long, deliberate moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, she lowered her head again, disappearing below the frame.
The sound hit him then. A soft, wet, rhythmic sound. Sucking. Gentle, persistent. And beneath it, a low, muffled groan – masculine, thick with pleasure.
Jonas stopped breathing. The phone trembled in his hand. The image, the sound, the sheer, brazen intimacy of it – Mary on her knees, performing, sharing this moment with him, while simultaneously lost in the act itself – slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. Heat exploded low in his belly, white-hot and urgent, obliterating thought, obliterating the two-hour wait, obliterating everything except the trembling screen and the wet sounds filling his silent apartment. His free hand clenched into a fist on his thigh, knuckles white. A choked sound escaped his throat, barely audible over the video’s audio.
"Jesus," he breathed, the word raw and ragged. His other hand moved, unbidden, fumbling desperately with the button of his jeans.
The phone screen filled Jonas’s vision, a rectangle of raw intimacy cutting through the dim apartment silence. The camera angle remained low, intimate, tilted slightly upwards. Lamplight, warm and diffuse, painted Mary’s bare skin with soft gold. She knelt on what looked like a thick, dark carpet, posture upright yet utterly relaxed, completely absorbed in the task below the frame. The wine-red lace bra was gone. Her breasts were bare, full and heavy, swaying gently with the subtle motion of her head. The dusky gold skin of her décolletage glowed, the soft curve of her stomach smooth and taut above the high waistband of the remaining lace panties. The intricate hexagon pattern seemed even more pronounced against the vulnerable expanse of her nakedness.
Her dark hair, tousled and falling forward in soft waves, partially obscured her profile. But Jonas could see enough. Her eyes, fixed intently downwards, held a deep, focused concentration. Not vacant, but present. Engaged. The earlier amusement was gone, replaced by an almost meditative intensity. Her cheekbones looked sharp in the soft light, her lips – fuller now, slightly swollen and slick with saliva – wrapped tightly around something unseen just below the viewfinder.
The only sounds were profoundly intimate. A slick, rhythmic suck-hiss as she drew back, then a softer, wetter pop as she released, immediately followed by the deep, sliding schlluck as she took him back in, deeper. Underpinning it all was the low, guttural hum of masculine pleasure, a continuous rumble coming from Liam, punctuated only by sharp, involuntary inhalations whenever Mary applied particular pressure or took him especially deep. No words. Just the wet, primal music of her mouth working him.
Jonas’s own hand had finally succeeded; the button of his jeans popped open, the zipper rasped down. He shoved the denim and his boxer briefs roughly below his hips, freeing his aching cock. It sprang up, thick and flushed, already leaking a bead of moisture onto his stomach. He gripped the base hard, almost painfully, trying to contain the surge of heat threatening to erupt. His eyes remained locked on the tiny screen. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, fogging the lenses of his glasses slightly, mirroring the charged heat emanating from the video.
Mary’s head moved with a practiced, mesmerizing rhythm. Jonas watched the muscles in her jaw work, the subtle flexing of her neck tendons. He saw the way her lips stretched tight, forming a perfect seal. He saw the tip of her tongue, briefly visible, swirling deliberately around the head before her mouth engulfed him again. Her eyes never wavered from her task, never looked towards the camera again. She was utterly in it, lost in the sensory feedback loop – the feel of him in her mouth, the sounds he made, the taste, the weight. Her breasts swayed gently with each forward motion, a hypnotic counterpoint to the bobbing of her head.
The intensity on Liam’s end seemed to escalate. His groans grew louder, more fractured. A hand came briefly into view at the very edge of the frame – Liam’s hand, fingers tangling roughly in Mary’s dark hair, not pulling, but gripping, holding her steady as his hips gave an involuntary little thrust upwards. Mary didn’t flinch. She accommodated the small movement, her throat working visibly as she took him deeper still, a low hum vibrating from her chest. The wet sounds grew more frantic, more urgent. The suck-hiss became shorter, sharper. The schlluck sounded almost desperate.
Jonas’s knuckles were white where he gripped his own cock, the precome slicking his strokes now. He mirrored the rhythm on the screen unconsciously, his fist pumping in time with Mary’s bobbing head, the wet sounds from his phone merging with the soft, slick friction of his own hand. He could almost feel the heat of her mouth, the tightness, the rhythmic pressure she exerted. The possessive ache in his gut was white-hot, a furnace stoked by the raw visual and auditory feast, by the knowledge that she was doing this and sharing it with him so deliberately.
On screen, Liam’s breathing hitched, becoming ragged gasps. His groan ripped through the speakers, raw and guttural, completely uncontrolled. "Fuuuuck, Mary—" The name tore from him, half-strangled. His hips jerked upwards once, twice, held taut.
Mary’s eyes squeezed shut for a fraction of a second – a reflexive response. Then they snapped open again, still focused fiercely downward. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she pressed forward, taking him impossibly deep, her nose buried in the wiry hair at the base of his cock. Her throat muscles worked in a convulsive swallow. And again. Hard, deliberate gulps. Jonas could hear it, a thick, wet sound deep in her throat, distinct from the sucking noises.
Her jaw worked subtly, cheeks hollowing slightly more as she swallowed again. Liam’s groan dissolved into a long, shuddering sigh, his grip on her hair loosening, his hips collapsing back onto the carpet. Mary held him there for another moment, her lips still pressed firmly to his softening flesh. Then, slowly, deliberately, she pulled back. Her lips parted with a soft, wet pop. She kept her head tilted down for a second, eyes still lowered, her breathing slightly faster now. A slick strand of saliva, tinged faintly white, connected her lower lip to the tip of Liam’s cock for a fleeting moment before snapping.
Only then did her eyes lift. Slowly. Directly towards the camera. Towards Jonas. Her expression wasn't triumphant. It was… sated. Deeply satisfied. Her lips, glistening and slightly swollen, curved into a small, private smile just for him. A flicker of something ancient and knowing passed through her dark eyes. Holding his gaze through the screen, she ran the back of her hand across her mouth once, a slow, deliberate gesture, smearing the residue. The camera dipped then, the screen jerking towards the carpet as the phone was likely set down or handed off, the feed cutting abruptly to black.
Silence crashed back into Jonas’s apartment, heavy and charged. The abrupt end of the video, the finality of that dark screen, broke the fragile thread holding him back. The image of Mary’s sated smile, the wet sounds still echoing in his skull, the visceral knowledge of what she’d swallowed – it detonated within him. A harsh groan tore from Jonas’s throat, raw and animalistic, as his body bucked violently against the worn corduroy. His hand, slick and frantic, jerked twice more, hard. Hot spurts pulsed over his knuckles, striped his stomach, the sheer force of his release a physical echo of the climax he’d just witnessed second-hand. He slumped back, gasping, the phone slipping from his other hand onto the couch beside him, screen dark, the silence now absolute and deafening save for his own ragged breathing. The apartment smelled of sex and stale whiskey and the lingering, electric shock of voyeuristic connection.