Chapter 2: Walk of Shame
The elevator doors slid shut, sealing Ethan in a tomb of polished brass and his own silence. The numbers above the door climbed. Twelve.Fourteen. Sixteen. Each soft chime was a hammer blow to his temple. He could still smell them on his skin—the chlorine, her coconut sunscreen, the musky, aggressive tang of Chad’s cologne. It clung to his clothes, the fabric of his life.
He held the room key card, a slim, cold piece of plastic. Tiffany had pressed it into his palm after they’d finally climbed out of the pool. Her fingers were still damp. “Be a darling and take my bag up? Suite 2212. Chad and I will be up in a minute. We’re just going to… dry off.” Her wink had been a razor cut.
He found the suite door. The hallway was deserted, lit by the sickly glow of sconces. From behind the heavy door of 2210, he heard a woman’s sharp laugh, the clink of glasses. Life, happening elsewhere.
He let himself into the dark suite. It was vast, all sleek surfaces and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city’s electric grid. A bottle of champagne stood sweating in a silver bucket. Two glasses, one smudged with lipstick. He set Tiffany’s bag down on a chaise lounge as if it were made of glass.
He didn’t turn on the lights. He stood in the dark, watching the tiny moving lights of cars far below. His new shoes were ruined, water-stained. He thought of his quiet apartment, his books, the life that seemed like someone else’s memory.
The door clicked open.
Light from the hallway silhouetted them. Chad, his arm slung heavily around Tiffany’s shoulders. She was laughing, stumbling on her heels. “Shh, you’ll wake the whole floor,” she giggled, though her voice was loud, unconcerned.
Chad flicked the switch. The room exploded in light. Ethan blinked, exposed.
“The fuck are you doing standing in the dark, creep?” Chad snorted, kicking the door shut. He marched to the champagne, popped the cork with a practiced twist. It foamed over his hand. He didn’t bother with a glass, drinking straight from the bottle.
Tiffany sashayed further into the room. Her dress, a slinky black thing she’d pulled on over her wet bikini, was twisted, the zipper half-down her back. Her hair was a wild, damp tangle. She looked used. Beautifully, triumphantly used.
She spotted Ethan and her smile widened, but it didn’t reach her eyes. They were sharp, assessing. “Ethan. You’re still here.”
He nodded, his voice a trapped thing in his throat. “Your bag.”
“Such a good bestie,” she cooed. She walked to the window, looking out. Then she turned, leaning back against the glass. She hitched one leg up, planting her foot flat against the window frame. The movement pulled her dress high up her thigh.
Chad watched from the sofa, a predator amused by his mate’s game.
“God, I’m a mess,” Tiffany sighed, looking down at herself. She ran a hand over her inner thigh. When she brought her fingers up, they glistened in the room’s light. “Chad, you animal. You got it everywhere.”
Chad laughed, a wet, chesty sound. “You asked for it, baby. You begged for it.”
“I did,” she said, her gaze sliding to Ethan. He was frozen, a rabbit in the lethally bright room. She studied his face, the pain etched there, and something in her seemed to sharpen, to hunger for it. “Ethan, sweetie?”
He swallowed. “Yeah?”
“Come here.”
His feet moved before his brain could refuse. They carried him across the acres of expensive carpet until he stood before her, close enough to smell the sex on her, the champagne on her breath.
“Look,” she whispered, her voice theatrical, for Chad’s benefit. She used two fingers to part the soaked fabric of her bikini bottom, peeking out from under her dress. There, on her inner thighs, creamy and stark against her tan, were thick, dripping streaks of Chad’s release. Some was already drying. Some was fresh, slowly tracing a path down toward her knee.
Ethan’s stomach lurched. A hot, shameful bolt of arousal shot through him, so violent it made his vision tunnel.
“Clean me up, bestie,” she said, her voice a sugary, venomous command. She giggled, a brittle sound. “You’re always helping me out of jams.”
Chad’s laughter boomed across the room. “Oh, fuck yeah. Do it, loser. Earn your keep.”
Time cracked. Ethan’s mind screamed, a white noise of humiliation. But his body, traitorous and wired to her every whim, was already responding. A pathetic twitch in his trousers hardened into a full, aching erection, pressing unbearably against his zipper. The contradiction was a psychic torture—his soul recoiled while his blood sang for her.
“Tiffany, I…” he choked.
Her playfulness vanished. Her eyes turned flat, cold. “Do it,” she said, no longer a request. A test.An execution.
Her hand snaked out, fingers tangling in his hair.They were surprisingly strong. She yanked him forward, off balance.
He stumbled, his knees hitting the floor with a dull thud. The plush carpet scraped his skin through his pants. His face was level with her groin. The smell was overwhelming—sex, sweat, salt, a primal musk that belonged to Chad.
“Go on,” she breathed, hiking her dress higher, exposing everything. The ruined bikini bottom, the glistening evidence smeared across her skin, the dark curls beneath the fabric.
A low, wounded sound escaped him. He closed his eyes, but it was worse. The darkness amplified the scent, the sound of Chad’s heavy breathing from the couch. He felt her other hand guide his head, not gently.
He opened his mouth. A gasp first, then his tongue, tentative as a ghost, touched her skin.
The taste was metallic, salty, profoundly alien. It was the taste of his own annihilation. He flinched, but her grip in his hair tightened, holding him in place.
“That’s it,” she murmured, her voice taking on a strange, detached quality. She shifted her hips, pressing herself closer to his face. “Lick it clean. All of it.”
He obeyed. A sickening devotion propelled his tongue. He lapped at the streaks on her inner thigh, his movements clumsy, desperate. He tasted the distinct, bitter tang of another man’s climax, mixed with the familiar scent of her own arousal. The combination was horrifying. It was electrifying. His cock throbbed, a savage, independent pulse of need that drowned out the weeping in his mind.
He heard the rustle of clothing, Chad moving on the sofa. “Look at him go. Like a fuckin’ dog.”
Tiffany moaned, not from his touch, but from the spectacle. From the power. She ground herself against his mouth, using him. The fabric of her bikini rubbed against his nose. “Use your tongue, Ethan. Don’t be shy.”
He pushed the fabric aside with his nose, his actions becoming less hesitant, driven by a dark, compulsive hunger. His tongue found her folds, slick with a mixture of her own wetness and Chad’s spend. He dove deeper, lapping, sucking, cleaning her with a fervor that felt like madness. He was both worshipper and sacrifice.
Her moans escalated, becoming sharper, more real. Her fingers clenched in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. She was riding his face now, her hips rocking in a crude, rhythmic simulation of sex. “Yeah… oh, fuck, just like that…”
Chad appeared in his peripheral vision. He’d stripped naked. His erection, thick and flushed, bobbed before him. He stood beside Tiffany, one hand braced against the window, watching.
“Switch,” Chad grunted.
Tiffany pushed Ethan’s head away with a wet sound. She was panting. “On your back,” she ordered Ethan, her voice husky.
Dazed, swimming in shame and adrenaline, Ethan scrambled onto his back on the carpet. He looked up at her, his lips and chin glistening. Tiffany hiked her dress up around her waist and straddled his face again, lowering herself onto his mouth without ceremony. “Don’t stop.”
Chad knelt between Ethan’s legs. He fumbled with Ethan’s belt, his zipper. Cold air hit Ethan’s skin, then the rough, calloused grip of Chad’s hand wrapping around his exposed, leaking erection.
Ethan cried out, the vibration against Tiffany’s core making her shudder.
“Shut up,” Chad muttered. He spat into his own hand, a crude lubricant, and began to jerk Ethan off with rough, efficient strokes. “You like that, you little cuck? You like tasting my cum while I jerk your pathetic dick?”
Ethan couldn’t speak. His world had narrowed to two points of contact: the wet, suffocating heat of Tiffany on his mouth, and the brutal, rhythmic friction of Chad’s hand on his cock. It was a violation so complete it bordered on transcendence. His body arched off the carpet, a silent scream trapped in his lungs. Pleasure, filthy and degrading, coiled tight in his gut.
Tiffany’s movements became frantic. “I’m gonna… Ethan, don’t you dare stop…” Her climax hit her, a series of tight, pulsing shudders that he felt against his tongue. She ground down hard, her thighs clamping around his head, milking the sensation.
The sight of her coming, the feel of it, the sound of Chad’s relentless jacking, the overwhelming cocktail of tastes and smells—it was too much. The coil snapped.
Ethan’s own orgasm tore through him, a wave of searing humiliation so intense it was indistinguishable from ecstasy. He came in hot, helpless stripes across his own stomach and shirt, his body seizing under their combined ministrations.
Chad released him with a sound of disgust, wiping his hand on Ethan’s pant leg. “Pathetic. Two pumps and he’s done.”
Tiffany climbed off him, smoothing her dress down. She was breathing heavily, her makeup smeared. She looked down at Ethan, lying spent and soiled on the floor. For a flickering second, something unreadable passed over her face—a hollow blankness. Then it was gone, replaced by a cool, satisfied smile.
She stepped over him, as if he were a piece of furniture. “Bathroom’s all yours, Chad. I need a shower.”
Ethan lay there, staring at the ceiling. The taste of them was a film in his mouth. The smell was in his nose, his hair, his skin. He heard the shower turn on, heard Chad humming to himself.
Slowly, mechanically, he buttoned his pants. He sat up. His body felt hollowed out, a discarded shell. He stood on shaky legs, avoiding the mess on his shirt, the stain on the carpet.
Without looking toward the bathroom, without a word, he walked to the suite door. He opened it and stepped back into the hallway.
The door clicked shut behind him, muffling the sound of the shower, the sound of their world.
He walked down the endless, silent corridor. The elevator ride down was a descent into a deeper, quieter void. When the doors opened in the glittering, indifferent lobby, he walked out, past the smiling concierge, into the neon-lit night. The city air did nothing to cleanse him. He could still taste it. He knew, with a certainty that froze his blood, that he always would.
The taste was a ghost in his mouth for days. It lingered behind his teeth, in the back of his throat, a faint metallic reminder every time he swallowed. He drank coffee to scour it away, brushed his teeth until his gums bled, but the memory of the flavor—hers, Chad’s, the bitter combination—clung like a stain on his consciousness. His phone stayed dark and silent on his bedside table, a brick of obsidian. He both dreaded and craved its vibration.
On the third morning, it finally lit up. Not a call, but a photo. Tiffany. In a bathroom he didn’t recognize, her face close to the mirror, a smear of red lipstick on her cheek. The text followed a second later. Chad missed a spot. LOL. You free? I’m bored.
He stared at the message. The casual cruelty of it, the assumption. His fingers hovered over the screen. He typed No, then deleted it. He typed Leave me alone, deleted that too. His chest ached. He saw her leaning against that window, her dress hiked, her command hanging in the air. Clean me up, bestie.
His thumb pressed send on a single word: When?
Her reply was instantaneous. Now. 1455 Linden. Penthouse B. Chad’s at the gym. An address, not a request. A summons.
The building was a sharp, glass dagger in a trendy neighborhood. The lobby was all cool marble and silent elevators. His reflection in the brushed metal doors was a pale ghost. He smoothed his shirt, the one she’d once said made him look “sort of approachable.” The elevator ascended without a sound.
The door to Penthouse B was slightly ajar. He pushed it open. “Tiffany?”
“In here!” Her voice floated from down a hallway lined with abstract art. The air smelled of clean linen and sex.
He found her in a sprawling master bedroom. She was sprawled on an unmade king-size bed, wrapped in a silk robe that had fallen open to the waist. She was scrolling on her phone. She didn’t look up. “You took forever. Close the door.”
He did. The click of the latch was final. “What did you need?”
She finally glanced at him, a flicker of appraisal. “I’m sore. Chad fucking wrecked me this morning before he left.” She said it with a perverse pride. “I need a massage. My shoulders are knots.”
He stood frozen, his mind flashing to the pool, to the hotel carpet. “Tiffany, I don’t think…”
“The oil’s on the nightstand.” She tossed her phone aside and rolled onto her stomach, shrugging the robe completely off her shoulders. It pooled around her hips, revealing the smooth, expanse of her back. A fresh, purpling bruise marked the base of her spine. “Stop being weird and just rub my back, Ethan. Jesus. It’s not a big deal.”
It was always a big deal. Every touch was a transaction, a deposit into an account of owed favors he could never collect. He picked up the small bottle of jasmine-scented oil. His hands were trembling. He poured a slick pool between her shoulder blades.
The first contact of his palms on her skin sent a jolt through him. She was warm, softer than he’d imagined. He pressed his thumbs into the tight muscles flanking her spine. She groaned, a low, genuine sound of relief that seemed to vibrate through his own bones.
“Yeah, right there,” she mumbled into the pillow. “Harder.”
He worked in silence, his fingers learning the topography of her. The ridge of a vertebrae, the delicate wings of her shoulder blades, the faint constellation of a mole. The robe had slipped lower, revealing the twin dimples at the small of her back. His thumbs strayed there, pressing circles into the firm muscle.
She shifted under his hands, a subtle undulation. “Lower,” she murmured.
His hands slid down, past the robe’s border, onto the bare swell of her hips. The oil made his glide effortless. He kneaded the tense flesh, his fingertips skirting the very top curve of her ass. His breath hitched.
“Relax, Ethan,” she said, her voice muffled but clear. “You’re so tense. It’s just a massage.” She wriggled, and the silken robe slipped another inch, exposing the full, perfect hemispheres of her ass. She made no move to cover herself.
His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. His thumbs worked the lush curve where her ass met her thigh. He was hard, painfully so, trapped in the stiff fabric of his chinos. He tried to focus on the pressure points, the technique, anything but the naked reality under his hands.
She rolled over.
It was so sudden he stumbled back. She lay on her back now, the robe fallen completely open. She was utterly naked, glistening with oil, her body a displayed offering. Her eyes were half-lidded, watching his reaction with a cool, detached curiosity.
“You stopped,” she said. Her hand wandered down her own stomach, past her navel, through the dark patch of curls. She didn’t look away from his face. “I’m not done.”
“Tiffany…” His voice was a broken thing.
“Shhh.” Her fingers parted herself, glistening. “You liked tasting it, didn’t you? The other night. You came harder than Chad did.” Her other hand reached out, not for him, but for his belt buckle. The click of its release was deafening. “You want to feel it for yourself? Not just taste his leftovers?”
He was paralyzed. Her fingers worked his zipper down. The cool air on his strained erection was a shock. She wrapped her hand around him, her grip firm, knowing. A bolt of pure, undiluted pleasure seared through his shame.
“On the bed,” she commanded, her voice low. “Now.”
He obeyed. He climbed onto the bed, looming over her. She guided him between her legs, her other hand still busy between her own, stroking, preparing. “Look at me,” she said. He met her gaze. There was no warmth there, only a hungry, calculating thrill. “This doesn’t mean anything. You know that, right?”
He nodded, a frantic bob of his head.
“It just means you’re useful.” She lined him up with her entrance. She was soaking wet, the evidence slick on his tip. “Now fuck me, Ethan. Since you want it so bad.”
She didn’t help him. She just watched as he, trembling, pushed forward. The first inch was a blinding, tight heat. He gasped. Her eyes narrowed, savoring his struggle.
He sank deeper, enveloped by a wet, clenching warmth that had haunted his dreams. It was nothing like his fumbling fantasies. It was raw, real, overwhelming. She felt used, loose from Chad’s earlier invasion, and the knowledge was a twist of the knife even as his body screamed in ecstasy.
“Is that it?” she taunted, her hips rocking up to take him fully. “That’s all you’ve got?”
It spurred him. A desperate, furious energy took over. He drove into her, his rhythm awkward at first, then settling into a hard, punishing pace. The bed frame slammed against the wall. Each thrust was a wordless scream, a release of every humiliation, every silent moment of worship.
She matched him, arching her back, her hands fisting in the sheets. Her facade cracked. Moans, real and uncalculated, escaped her lips. “Fuck… yeah… like that…”
He was losing himself in the sensation, the sounds, the smell of jasmine and sex. He was inside her. The thought was a dizzying triumph. He leaned down, wanting to kiss her, to claim some part of this for himself.
She turned her head away. “Don’t,” she panted. “Just fuck me. Don’t kiss me.”
The rejection was a physical slap. It sharpened his movements, turned his passion into something darker, angrier. He pounded into her, using her, just as she was using him. Her legs locked around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper with each thrust. Her moans escalated, becoming sharp, fractured cries.
“You’re gonna… you’re gonna make me come…” she gasped, her eyes wide, fixed on the ceiling. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He was hurtling toward his own edge, a tumult of shame and physical need. The room dissolved into the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, her ragged breathing. Her body suddenly tightened around him, a series of violent, convulsive clenches. She cried out, a sharp, broken sound that was nothing like her performative giggles.
The sight of her genuine climax, the feel of her pulsing around him, shattered his last shred of control. With three final, brutal thrusts, he spilled into her, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. He collapsed on top of her, spent, the smell of her hair in his nostrils.
She didn’t push him off immediately. She lay beneath him, breathing heavily. Her fingers traced idle patterns on his sweaty back. The silence stretched, thick and strange.
Then, the sharp buzz of her phone on the nightstand. She shifted, reaching for it. He rolled off her, feeling suddenly cold, exposed.
He watched her face as she read the message. A slow, sly smile spread across her lips. She held the phone out for him to see.
It was a text from Chad. Done early. Heading back in 10. You better be naked.
Her eyes flicked from the screen to Ethan’s horrified face. The moment of quiet intimacy shattered, replaced by her familiar, glittering cruelty. “You should probably go,” she said, her voice light. “The service elevator’s down the hall. Less… obvious.”
He scrambled off the bed, fumbling with his clothes. His legs felt like wet paper. She watched him dress, not bothering to cover herself, a living monument to his degradation.
As he reached the bedroom door, she called out, sweetly. “Ethan?”
He stopped, hand on the doorframe, unable to look back.
“You were better than I thought you’d be.” A pause. “Still not as good as Chad, though.”
He fled down the hall, found the plain metal door, and stumbled into the sterile, concrete service elevator. As the doors closed, he heard the main elevator in the foyer ding. Chad’s voice, loud and confident, called out, “Babe? You home?”
The service elevator descended into the building’s belly. He leaned his head against the cold steel wall, the smell of jasmine and sex clinging to his skin, the phantom feeling of her still wrapped around him. He knew, with a certainty that froze his blood, that he always would. And he knew, with a newer, more terrifying certainty, that he would be back.