Chapter 14: Remote Control
The door to Don’s loft clicked shut behind her, a sound of finality that echoed in the cavernous space. The air was cooler up here, smelling of lemon polish and new leather, undercut by that same clean cologne. City light poured in through towering windows, painting geometric shadows across polished concrete floors. The view was a sprawl of electric dots and moving headlights, a diorama of anonymous lives.
“Can I take your coat?” Don asked, his voice echoing slightly.
“I didn’t wear one,” Kelly said. It was all she could manage. Her mind was a radio between stations, all static and fleeting fragments of hymns.
He nodded, moving past her to a low-slung kitchen island of dark granite. “Drink? Something stronger than wine?”
“Water, please.” Her throat was parched.
He filled a heavy crystal glass from a filter tap and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed. The contact was a small, electric shock that traveled straight up her arm. She drank the water too fast, the cold a jolt to her system.
Don leaned against the island, watching her. He’d shed his own jacket. The sleeves of his dark shirt were rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with tendon, a simple, expensive watch. He was utterly at ease in this minimalist cell of his own creation.
“It’s quiet up here,” she said, just to say something.
“I like quiet,” he replied. “The world’s loud enough.”
She set the glass down, the clink too sharp. The silence between them expanded, filled not with emptiness but with a thick, humming potential. Every second that ticked by was a choice point, a branch in the road. Back to the elevator, or deeper into this curated wilderness.
“Dave is…,” she started, then faltered.
“He’s your husband,” Don finished for her, his tone devoid of judgment. “He’s not here. But he’s not not here. I understand the rules of the game, Kelly.” He pushed off the island and walked slowly toward the living area, a vast space dominated by a large, plush black sofa facing the windows. “The question is, do you want to play?”
She followed, her heels sinking into a thick, charcoal-colored rug. “It doesn’t feel like a game.”
“Good.” He sat on the sofa, not in the middle, but to one side, leaving space. An invitation, not a demand. “It shouldn’t. This is real. You’re real. That,” he gestured vaguely in the direction of the city, “is noise. This is the signal.”
His phrasing, so analytical and yet so intimate, disarmed her. She perched on the edge of the sofa cushion, a foot of cool leather between them. The city glittered, indifferent. Her phone was a hard rectangle in her clutch purse. She felt its silence like a physical pull.
“I need a minute,” she blurted out.
“The bathroom’s through there, to the left,” he said, gesturing down a short, dark hallway. “Take all the time you need.”
She stood, legs only slightly unsteady, and walked toward the hall. The bathroom was sleek and sterile, all white marble and chrome. She locked the door and the click was deafening. She stood with her back against it, eyes closed, breathing in the clean, scentless air.
Her reflection in the massive mirror above the twin sinks was a stranger. Flushed cheeks, eyes too wide, the black dress a slash of night against the white room. The good girl from the church parking lot was gone, erased by the woman who had knelt in an SUV and now sat in a near-stranger’s loft.
You’re still my number one.
Dave’s words in the car were a lifeline. This wasn’t betrayal. It was an expedition, and he held the map. She needed to tell him. Needed to anchor herself in his voice, in his gaze, even if it was through a screen.
She fumbled her phone out. Her thumbs trembled as she typed.
I can still taste you.
She sent it. The three dots appeared immediately, pulsating. Then her phone vibrated, the screen flashing with his video call request.
She accepted, her heart hammering against her ribs.
His face filled the screen, pixels rendering the familiar planes and angles in the dim light of their bedroom. He was shirtless, propped against his headboard. His expression was intense, focused.
“Show me,” he said, his voice a low rasp through the speaker.
“Show you what?” she whispered, though she knew.
“The room. Him. You.”
She flipped the camera, panning slowly around the cold, beautiful bathroom. “I’m in the bathroom. He’s… in the other room.”
“Flip it back.” She did. His eyes were dark holes. “Your lips are pale.”
Her free hand went to her mouth. She’d bitten off her lipstick. “I know.”
“Put on more. The red one. The one I like.”
Her clutch was on the counter. She dug through it with clumsy fingers, finding the tube of crimson. She unscrewed it, her eyes locked on his on the screen. She dragged the color over her bottom lip, then her top, the ritual calm and obscene. Her hand was shaking. She smudged the corner and used her thumb to wipe it, leaving a faint red streak on her skin.
“Better,” he said. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Now put the phone down. Prop it up. I want to see you.”
She looked around, then placed the phone against a mirrored tray, angling it so her torso and face were framed. The marble counter was cold through her dress.
“Stand up,” Dave commanded.
She stood.
“Look at yourself.”
She raised her eyes to her own reflection in the mirror above the sinks. She saw the woman Dave saw, the woman Don wanted. The disconnect was dizzying.
“Now lift your dress.”
A shiver ripped through her. She glanced at the phone screen, at his expectant face. This was the threshold. The door was locked, but he was with her. His will was the current she moved in.
She gathered the hem of the black dress in both hands, slowly drawing it up her thighs, past her hips. The air in the sterile room kissed her bare skin. She held it there, at her waist.
“All the way,” Dave said, his voice tighter now.
She pulled it over her head, the fabric catching briefly on her earring. She let the dress fall in a heap on the marble floor. She stood in only her heels and a simple black lace thong, her skin glowing against the clinical white.
“Take it off.”
Her thumbs hooked into the sides of the thong. She bent, stepping out of it, feeling a flush of heat that had nothing to do with warmth. She was completely exposed to the eye of the phone, to her own reflection.
“Look at yourself,” he repeated. “Are you wet for him?”
Her eyes dropped from her reflected face to the junction of her thighs. She could see the faint gleam in the mirror.
“Tell me.”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Prove it. Show me how wet you are for him.”
Her breath hitched. She brought a hand down, fingers skirting the skin of her inner thigh. She watched herself in the mirror, watched the stranger’s face contort with shame and arousal as her fingertips finally made contact. She was slick, swollen. The proof was undeniable.
“Let me see,” Dave growled.
She turned from the mirror to face the phone directly, spreading her stance. She let her fingers part her, giving the camera a blunt, intimate view. A low groan came from the speaker.
“That’s my girl,” he said, the words thick. “That’s because of me. Because I sent you there. Remember that.”
“I remember,” she whispered, her fingers trembling against her own flesh.
“Now go out there. And don’t forget to smile.”
The call ended. The screen went black, reflecting the stark white room and her own naked, glistening form.
She stood there for a full minute, the cold marble seeping into the soles of her feet. His words echoed, layering over her father’s sermons, a new and powerful commandment. That’s because of me.
She bent, picking up the discarded thong but leaving the dress in a pool on the floor. She didn’t put it back on. Instead, she wiped her fingers clean on a hand towel, straightened her shoulders, and looked at her reflection one last time. The red lips were a violent shock of color on her pale face. Her eyes held a dark, knowing light.
She unlocked the door and walked back down the dim hall, the whisper of her heels on concrete the only sound. She turned the corner into the living area.
Don hadn’t moved from the sofa. He held a glass of amber liquid, swirling it slowly. His gaze tracked her as she emerged from the hallway, a slow, comprehensive sweep that took in her nudity, her smudged lipstick, the defiant set of her shoulders. His expression didn’t change, but a new heat kindled in his eyes.
She didn’t speak. She crossed the room, the city lights painting her body in shifting colors. She stopped in front of him.
Don set his glass down on a side table. It made a soft, definitive click. He reached out, not for her breast or her hip, but gently took her wrist. His skin was warm, his grip firm. He turned her hand over and brought her fingertips to his nose. He inhaled, just once, a deep, deliberate breath, taking in the scent she had just shown to her husband.
He looked up at her, his dark eyes holding hers. “Now,” he said quietly. “Now we have the same conversation.”
His fingers remained locked around her wrist, a warm, possessive cuff. The scent on her skin hung between them, a stark, intimate confession. He pulled her gently, inexorably, off balance.
She stumbled forward, her bare knee sinking into the soft leather cushion beside his thigh. The city’s glow etched the hard line of his jaw, the focused dark of his eyes. He released her wrist only to let his hands settle on the curve of her hips.
“Good girl,” Don observed, his voice low. He traced one with a blunt fingertip. “Good.”
The approval, the acknowledgement of her husband’s prior claim, unspooled something tight in her belly. It wasn’t a dismissal of Dave; it was an incorporation of him into this new space. Don’s hands were firmer, his touch investigative where Dave’s was familiar. He guided her, turning her so her back was to the window, the endless skyline a tapestry behind her.
Then he pulled her down.
Kelly sat on Don’s lap, the hard muscles of his thighs solid beneath her. The soft wool of his trousers scratched against her bare ass. He was still fully dressed, the contrast itself a form of domination. She was exposed, laid bare against the fabric covering him.
One of his arms wrapped around her lower back, holding her firmly in place. The other hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her bottom lip, smearing the red she’d applied for Dave.
“This mouth,” he said, almost to himself. His eyes watched his thumb’s movement. “Talks smart. Says ‘pinot noir’ and ‘Willamette Valley.’” His gaze lifted to hers. “What’s it going to say now?”
She was silent, breath caught. The hand on her back slid lower, cupping the full swell of her ass, squeezing. It was a frank, assessing grip. He groaned, a low sound of pure appreciation.
“Fucking spectacular,” he muttered, his voice rough. His fingers dug into her soft flesh, pulling her tighter against him. She could feel the rigid line of his erection through his pants, pressed against the seam of her body. A bolt of pure, sharp desire shot through her, drying her throat.
He shifted beneath her, adjusting his position, and the movement ground his cock more deliberately against her. The friction, even through the layers of cloth, was maddening. A small, choked sound escaped her lips.
“There it is,” he whispered, his lips now close to her ear. His breath was warm, smelling of whiskey. “No more words from the preacher’s daughter. Just this. Just feeling.”
His hand left her face and joined the other on her hips, lifting her slightly. He held her suspended for a moment, then guided her down again, dragging her slick, naked core along the thick bulge in his slacks. The sensation was obscenely good, a rough, indirect stimulation that made her hips jerk of their own accord.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he said, the observation clinical and filthy at once. “Dripping for a man you just met. Does that make you a slut, Kelly?”
The word, in his calm, measured tone, detonated in her brain. It wasn’t shouted from a pulpit. It was laid before her like a fact. Her body answered before her mind could, a fresh pulse of heat spilling onto the fabric beneath her.
“Yes,” she breathed, the admission torn from her.
“Good girl,” he said, rewarding the truth. He repeated the motion, lifting and lowering her, using her own weight to rub her against him. The leather sighed beneath them. Her hands fluttered, unsure, then landed on his broad shoulders, gripping the fine cotton of his shirt.
Her head fell back, a curtain of brunette hair brushing her spine. The neon lights from the windows painted her throat, her chest. She was panting now, each controlled drag along his cock sending sparks through her nerves. It was a slow, deliberate torture, building a coil of tension low in her stomach.
He shifted again, one hand slipping between their bodies. His fingers pushed the rough material of his trousers aside, and then found her, skin to skin. He wasn’t gentle. Two fingers plunged into her, curling upward, stretching her. She cried out, the sound echoing in the vast room.
“So tight,” he grunted, his composure cracking for the first time. He worked his fingers in and out, the sound obscenely wet. “But so ready. So fucking eager.” He added a third finger, and the stretch burned beautifully. “You’re gonna take all of me, aren’t you? Gonna be a good slut and take this cock?”
“Yes,” she gasped, her world narrowing to the punishing rhythm of his hand. Her hips pumped against his invasion, seeking more, seeking him. The intellectual facade had vaporized. There was only this demanding friction, this filthy praise.
He withdrew his fingers, glistening in the dim light. He brought them to her lips. “Taste,” he commanded.
Her eyes opened, glazed. She obeyed, taking his fingers into her mouth, tasting her own sharp, musky arousal. The depravity of it, the raw animal submission, sent a final shockwave through her. She sucked his fingers clean, her tongue swirling between them.
Don watched, his control visibly fraying. With a swift, powerful movement, he fumbled with his belt and fly. He freed himself, his cock springing out, thick and erect. He positioned her, his hands vice-like on her hips.
“Now,” he said, the word a guttural command. “Take it. All of it.”
He guided the broad head of his cock to her soaked opening. He didn’t thrust up. He pulled her down, his strength overwhelming her, forcing her onto him.
She sank, a slow, inexorable impalement. The stretch was immense, burning, fuller than anything she’d ever known. A strangled scream caught in her throat as he filled her, inch by brutal inch, until she was fully seated, his hips flush against her ass.
He was buried to the hilt inside her. She was stretched, split, utterly speared on his lap. The feeling of fullness was beyond comprehension. She trembled, every muscle clenched around the foreign, invading thickness.
“Fuck,” Don hissed, his head tilting back, eyes closed. He held her there, immobile, letting her feel every vein, every pulse. “That perfect cunt. Oh god, it’s strangling my cock.”
He began to move her. His hands gripped her ass, lifting her almost off him, then dragging her back down, forcing her to ride his length. Each descent was a shock, a breathtaking invasion. She braced her hands on his chest, her nails digging into the fabric, her body jolting with every deep, plunging stroke.
The pace was relentless, a brutal piston motion dictated entirely by his hands. She was just a vessel, a warm, wet sheath for his use. The sounds were crude and loud: the slap of skin on skin, their ragged breathing, the squeak of leather under their combined weight.
“Look at you,” he snarled, his eyes blazing up at her. “Fucking yourself on a stranger’s cock. Your husband know you can get this wet? Know you can take it this deep?”
She couldn’t speak. Her orgasm was building, a terrifying wave cresting from the very depths he was pounding. It wasn’t sweet or gentle. It was a raw, clawing thing born from the sheer brutality of the act, from the filthy words, from the ultimate transgression.
“Come on,” he goaded, his thrusts becoming jerky, frantic. “Come on this dick. Show me what a dirty little wife you are.”
The wave broke. Her body convulsed, a silent, seizing climax that locked her muscles and tore a raw, broken sound from her lips. She milked him, pulsating around his shaft, her vision spotting.
It triggered his own end. With a final, grinding pull of her hips onto his, he erupted onto her flat stomach. He held her down, his own groan a harsh, gratified sound as he pumped his release onto her trembling body. She felt the hot, spurting pulses, a final, claiming violation.
They collapsed together, a tangled, sweating heap on the leather. His softening cock still nestled inside her. His breath was hot against her neck. The city lights continued their indifferent dance beyond the glass.
After a long moment, he shifted, slipping out of her. A rush of wetness followed, a stark reminder on her inner thighs. He didn’t move to clean it. He simply held her, one hand absently stroking her damp hair.
Her body hummed, wrecked and glowing. The taste of herself was still on her tongue. Dave’s command echoed in the hollows of her mind.
Remember that.
The heat between them began to cool, becoming a sticky, intimate film on their skin. Don’s breathing evened out first, his hand still moving slowly through her hair. Kelly’s mind, which had been a white noise of sensation, began to clear. The first coherent thought was of Dave, and the second was a shock of cold clarity about what had just been done to her body.
“Water?” Don asked, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath her ear.
She nodded, a small movement. He shifted, disentangling himself, and walked naked to the kitchen. She watched the muscles play in his back, the casual ownership he had of his own space and now, seemingly, of her. He returned with two glasses, handing her one.
She drank, the water a salvation. She felt exposed and used in a way that was neither cruel nor gentle, but simply factual. Her thighs were slick with a mixture of them both.
“You’re quiet,” he observed, sitting on the edge of the sofa near her hips. He didn’t touch her.
“Thinking,” she said.
“About him.”
“About me.” It was true. She was mapping the new internal geography, the fault lines created by this man’s cock. The sermon verses were silent. Only a profound, humming emptiness echoed where they used to be.
Don finished his water and set the glass down with a soft click. He looked at her, his gaze analytical. “You’re different from what I expected.”
“How?”
“The pole dancing, the southern belle thing, the husband who shares. I expected performance. Hysteria, maybe.” He reached out and traced a line from her sternum to her navel with a single, dry fingertip. “But you’re just… present. You take the feeling. You don’t fake the soundtrack.”
It was the most perceptive thing anyone had said to her in years. She had faked the soundtrack her whole life—the happy daughter, the dutiful wife. Here, there was no script. Just raw input and shocking, unfiltered output.
“What now?” she asked, echoing her question from the SUV.
“Now,” he said, standing. He looked down at her, his erection gone, but a different kind of authority in his posture. “You show me what else that mouth is for.”
Her eyes flicked to his softening cock, then back to his face. The command was clear. It wasn’t a question. It was the next logical step in this language they were speaking. Dave’s voice whispered, Remember that. This, too, was part of the remembering. This submission was for Dave as much as for Don, a token brought back from the frontier.
She moved.
Sliding off the leather couch, her knees met the rough texture of the rug. The city lights cast her in silhouette, a pale shape lowering itself before him. The position was one of ancient, blunt symbolism. It felt more vulnerable than being penetrated. This was active worship.
She looked up at him from the floor. His expression was unreadable, a dark mask against the bright windows.
Her hands, trembling only slightly, reached for him. He was soft in her palms, a vulnerable weight. She bent her head, and her hair fell forward, a curtain closing off the world. She took him into her mouth, not with the frantic devotion she’d shown Dave in the car, but with a slow, exploratory focus.
She tasted the stark, salty evidence of their sex, mixed with the clean, soapy scent of his skin. It was profoundly intimate, more so than the fucking had been. He grew firm again under her attention, a silent testament to her skill or his will, she didn’t know which.
Her tongue worked the length of him, circling the head, delving along the thick vein underneath. She used her hand in tandem, establishing a rhythm that was all about rediscovery. One of his hands came to rest on the crown of her head, not pushing, just resting. A connection.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice tight.
She lifted her gaze, her lips stretched around his girth. The eye contact was devastating, a window into the core of the act. He watched himself disappear into the mouth of the preacher’s daughter, and she watched him watching.
“Yeah,” he breathed, a hiss of approval. “Just like that. Take it deeper.”
She obeyed, relaxing her throat, letting him push gently past the point of resistance. Her eyes watered. He held there, throbbing against the tight clench of her esophagus.
“You’re a natural fucking cocksucker,” he grunted, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary thrust.
The crude praise, delivered in that calm, measured tone, lit her up inside. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking harder, her hand pumping what her mouth couldn’t accommodate. The sounds were obscenely wet, loud in the quiet loft. She lost herself in the mechanics of it, in the weight on her tongue, the scent of him, the building tension in his thighs.
His fingers tangled in her hair, tightening. “I’m gonna come,” he warned, a strain in his voice. “Where do you want it?”
She didn’t stop. She didn’t pull away. She just took him deeper, her answer clear. A guttural sound ripped from his chest. The first pulse hit the back of her throat, hot and bitter. She swallowed convulsively, taking the next, and the next, until he was spent and softening again.
She released him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She remained on her knees, waiting, her whole body humming with a strange, powerful serenity.
Don looked down at her, his chest rising and falling. He leaned down, his hands gripping her under the arms, and lifted her to her feet as if she weighed nothing. He didn’t kiss her. He just held her there, looking at her swollen lips, her glazed eyes.
“Get dressed,” he said, his voice rough but calm. “Your husband’s waiting.”
The spell broke. The real world, with its rules and its consequences, rushed back in. She gathered her clothes from the bathroom floor, each movement deliberate. She didn’t wash. She wanted to carry the feel of it, the smell of it, back to Dave. She dressed silently, the black fabric feeling alien against her sensitized skin.
Don was by the door, already in his trousers and shirt, his feet bare. He handed her clutch to her.
“Thank you,” she said, the words absurd yet necessary.
“Don’t thank me,” he replied. “This was a transaction. A good one.” He opened the door for her. “Tell Dave… he has exquisite taste.”
She stepped into the hallway, the elevator beckoning like a portal. She did not look back. The descent was silent, her reflection in the polished metal doors a smudge of red lips and dark, knowing eyes. She walked to her car, the night air a chill slap after the loft’s insulation.
Inside her sedan, she sat for a full five minutes, hands on the wheel. Then she picked up her phone. No calls. No texts. Just the unwavering faith of his silence.
She started the engine and drove, not home, but toward the park-and-ride. The roads were empty. Her body ached in specific, glorious ways. The taste of him was still a phantom on her tongue, layered over the memory of Dave.
She saw the SUV before she fully entered the lot. The driver’s door was open, a rectangle of dull interior light spilling onto the asphalt. Dave was leaning against the hood, arms crossed, waiting. He watched her park, watched her get out.
She walked toward him, the click of her heels the only sound in the vast, quiet dark. She stopped a few feet away. The distance felt charged, a canyon of the unknown.
She saw him scan her, taking in the repaired lipstick, the tousled hair, the slight, unsteady sway in her stance. His expression was unreadable.
“Well?” he said, his voice flat.
Kelly took a deep, shaking breath. Then she smiled, the same sweet, bubbly smile she’d given him across a crowded room a lifetime ago. It was genuine. It was fractured. It was entirely new.
“I think,” she said, her southern accent soft as silk, “you’d better take me home and ask me properly.”