Chapter 11: The D&D Game
The shower shut off. Down the hall, the bathroom door clicked open, releasing a plume of steam that carried the clean, floral scent of Becca’s body wash into the conflict of smells already hanging in the house—cold pizza, male sweat, and the lingering, animal musk of sex.
In the living room, Doug unfolded the DM screen with a soft thump, the painted dragon on its front facing his friends. Greg was already unwrapping the second pizza, his fingers greasy. Ben, a quiet, bearish man, was meticulously arranging painted miniatures on the gridded battle map: a hulking stone giant, a cluster of goblin archers. Mark, lanky and nursing a beer, stared at his character sheet with intense, uncharacteristic focus. He hadn’t looked directly at Doug since arriving.
“You okay, man?” Greg asked Mark around a mouthful of pepperoni. “You’re quieter than a rogue in shadow.”
Mark shrugged, his ears pink. “Just thinking about tactics. That giant’s gonna wreck us.”
Doug knew the real tactic occupying Mark’s mind. He’d seen the way Mark’s eyes had darted toward the hallway when Becca, wrapped in a towel, her hair damp and skin glowing, had padded past the living room archway ten minutes prior. She’d given a small, wifely wave. “Have fun, boys.” Her eyes had lingered on Mark for a half-second too long. A silent, loaded transaction.
Now, Becca emerged. She wore a simple, tight black tank top and jeans that hugged her hips. Her hair was down, sleek and blonde. She looked like any pretty woman heading out for a casual drink, but Doug saw the calculation in her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands as she gathered her purse from the hall table. She was a coiled spring, vibrating with purpose.
“Heading out,” she called, not entering the room.
“Where to?” Greg asked, oblivious.
“Just meeting some girls from the gym. Might catch a drink.” The lie was smooth, effortless. She blew a kiss toward Doug. “Don’t let the ogres kill them all, honey.”
As she turned toward the front door, she paused. “Oh, Mark? Could you give me a hand with the recycling bin for a sec? It’s stuck in the cabinet under the sink. Doug’s useless with his bad back.”
Mark froze, his beer bottle halted halfway to his lips. His eyes shot to Doug, wide with a panic that was also brimming with eager complicity.
Doug felt a thick, dark thrill surge through him. This was it. The collaboration was moving from fantasy to concrete, shared sin. He met Mark’s gaze and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “Yeah, Mark, you’re the handyman. Help her out.”
“Uh. Sure.” Mark set his beer down too carefully and stood, his limbs moving with stiff, marionette-like awkwardness. He followed Becca’s swaying form down the short hall and into the kitchen, out of direct sight.
The kitchen light was bright, clinical. The hum of the refrigerator was loud. Becca didn’t go to the sink. She turned to face him, leaning back against the edge of the counter. Her expression was no longer wifely. It was flat, hungry, direct.
“You’ve been staring at my tits all night, Mark,” she said, her voice low. No pretense.
Mark flushed a deep, splotchy red. “I—I didn’t—“
“It’s okay.” She took a step forward, closing the distance. She was shorter than him, but she seemed to dominate the space. “I saw you looking at me when I came out of the shower. You like what you saw?”
He nodded, dumbly, his throat working.
“Doug says you’re recently single.” Her hand came up, and she traced a single finger down the center of his chest, over his thin t-shirt. “Bet you’re frustrated. Bet you’re dying to feel a warm mouth on your cock.”
“Becca, Jesus, we can’t—“ His protest was weak, hollow. His body was already betraying him, a visible swell growing in his jeans.
“We can.” Her hand drifted lower, palming him through the denim. He was already half-hard, thickening rapidly under her touch. “And you will. Because you want to. And because I’m going to send a video of it to my husband while he’s sitting twenty feet away.”
Mark’s breath hitched. The audacity of it, the sheer risk, seemed to short-circuit his remaining resistance. He looked toward the living room, where the murmur of Greg and Ben debating spell ranges filtered in. He was trapped between two worlds, and the darker one was pulling him in with velvet claws.
Becca sank to her knees on the linoleum floor. The sound of her jeans rasping was obscenely loud. She made quick work of his belt buckle, the clink of metal like a starting pistol. She unbuttoned his jeans, pulled down the zipper with a slow, deliberate hiss. She didn’t pull them down. She simply reached in and fished out his cock.
It was decently sized, uncut, and fully erect now, bobbing heavily in the cool kitchen air. A single drop of pre-come beaded at the slit. Becca studied it for a moment, then looked up at him, her blue eyes wide and innocent. “Pretty,” she whispered. Then she opened her mouth.
She didn’t start slow. She took him in deep, her lips stretching to accommodate his girth, her head bobbing forward until the tip nudged the back of her throat. Mark gasped, his hands flying out to grip the counter’s edge behind him for support. A low, guttural moan escaped him.
In the living room, Doug heard it. A muffled, choked sound from the kitchen. Greg and Ben didn’t seem to notice, locked in their tactical debate. Doug’s phone, face-down on the table beside his DM notes, vibrated once. A notification.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He kept his eyes on the battle map. “The giant lumbers forward, its footsteps shaking the very foundations of the canyon,” he narrated, his voice surprisingly steady. “It raises its massive stone club. Greg, you’re in range. What do you do?”
“Shield spell!” Greg barked. “I’m not taking that hit.”
Doug’s phone vibrated again. And again. Short, sequential bursts. Videos. Pictures. He couldn’t look. Not yet. The agony of waiting was its own exquisite pleasure.
In the kitchen, Becca worked with brutal, efficient artistry. She used her hand at the base of his shaft, twisting in rhythm with the suction of her mouth. Her other hand was down her own jeans, her fingers working in a frantic, hidden cadence. She glanced up at Mark’s face, his eyes screwed shut, his mouth slack with pleasure. She pulled off with a wet, slurping sound.
“Look at me,” she commanded, her voice husky.
Mark’s eyes fluttered open. She held his gaze, her lips slick and swollen, as she brought her phone up with her free hand. She switched it to front-facing camera, the screen showing her face, his cock poised at her lips. She hit record.
“Tell Doug what you’re about to do,” she murmured, then took him back into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the head.
On the video, Mark stared directly into the lens, his expression a rictus of overwhelmed lust. “Oh god… Doug… I’m… your wife’s mouth is so fucking good…” His words dissolved into incoherence as Becca deep-throated him, her nose pressing into his pubic hair. The camera shook slightly, capturing the intimate, degrading details: the stretch of her lips, the flush on her cheeks, the way her throat convulsed around him.
She felt his rhythm stutter, his balls tightening against her chin. She pulled back until just the head remained, her tongue flicking rapidly over the frenulum. “You gonna come, Mark?” she slurred for the camera, her eyes glazing over. “You gonna feed me? Do it. Paint my fucking throat.”
With a broken cry that was unmistakably not about a recycling bin, Mark came. His hips jerked forward. The first pulse shot straight down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, milking him with tight sucks. The second and third pulses filled her mouth, salty and warm. She made a show of it for the camera, pulling back slightly to let the final spurts coat her tongue, pooling in her mouth before she closed her lips and swallowed with an exaggerated gulp.
She kept filming as she licked him clean, softening and spent, then tucked him gently back into his jeans. She ended the recording and sent it to Doug in one fluid motion.
She stood up, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb. She smiled at Mark, who was leaning against the counter, pale and trembling, looking utterly ruined. “Thanks for the help with the bin,” she said brightly, her voice normal again. She turned and walked out of the kitchen, through the living room, giving a casual wave. “Bye, guys!”
The front door opened and closed.
Silence descended, thick and electric. Mark stumbled back into the living room a moment later. He wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He grabbed his beer and drained it.
“Everything okay?” Ben asked, frowning.
“Fine,” Mark croaked. “Bin was… really stuck.”
Doug’s phone glowed on the table. He finally allowed himself to look. A series of images loaded. A close-up of Mark’s cock, slick with saliva. A selfie of Becca, a glistening strand connecting her lips to the tip. And finally, the video. He didn’t watch it with sound. He didn’t need to. The twenty-second clip of his wife’s expert mouth devouring his friend was enough. His own cock hardened painfully against his zipper.
“Mark,” Doug said, his voice cutting through the awkward quiet. “Your turn. The giant is distracted by Greg’s shield. What does your ranger do?”
Mark fumbled for his dice, his hands shaking. “I… I fire my longbow.”
The game limped forward, a hollow pantomime. Doug’s mind was miles away, orbiting the GPS dot of Becca’s car. His phone lit up again, fifteen minutes later.
A picture. A blurry, neon-lit patio. A pitcher of beer and several glasses. Four men in contractor’s t-shirts and dusty jeans sat around the table. The message read: Found a thirsty crew. They’re buying.
Doug described a goblin ambush, his words automatic. He rolled dice without seeing the numbers.
Another notification. A video, ten seconds. Taken under the table. Becca’s hand was on a thick, denim-clad thigh, her fingers tracing the outline of a formidable erection. The man’s hand, rough and calloused, covered hers, pressing it down harder. Low, male laughter rumbled in the audio.
Greg rolled a critical hit. “Yes! Take that, you little green bastard!”
Doug barely acknowledged it. “He’s dead. Next.”
The next video came as Ben was calculating fireball damage. It was darker, shakier. A dimly lit corridor lined with kegs—a bar’s storage room. Becca was on her knees again. This man was bigger, older, with a grizzled beard. His cock was thick and curved, and Becca was taking it with a sloppy, desperate hunger that was different from her controlled work on Mark. This was raw need. She gagged slightly, tears in the corners of her eyes, but she pushed herself deeper, her fingers digging into the man’s flannel-covered hips. The audio was a gritty duet of her choked gags and his guttural curses. “Yeah, suck it, you blonde bitch. Take that fucking dick.”
The video ended just as the man’s fist tangled in her hair.
Doug felt lightheaded. The living room, his friends, the fantasy battle—all of it receded to a distant, dull hum. He was inside that video, inside that grimy storage room. He was the one guiding her head, hearing those sounds.
“Doug? Earth to Doug?” Greg waved a hand. “The giant’s turn. What’s it do?”
Doug blinked. He looked at the map, at the miniature figures representing his friends’ heroic avatars. It all seemed so absurdly small. He picked up the stone giant miniature and with a calm, deliberate motion, swept it across the board, scattering the player characters like pins.
“It rages,” Doug said, his voice distant. “It swings its club in a wild, uncontrollable arc. Everyone. Make a Dexterity saving throw.”
Groans erupted. Dice clattered.
Doug’s phone buzzed once more. It was Becca in the back seat of a car. She was bent over, mouth around a long thin cock, buried in her throat. A man was kneeling on the seat behind her, buried in her pussy, her tits were pulled out of her shirt dangling free as the man behind her slammed into her.
The video was a chaotic, jerking close-up of beige upholstery and her own splayed fingers, the audio a brutal symphony of slapping skin, guttural grunts, and Becca’s high, sharp cries being fucked out of her. “Take it, you filthy slut,” a voice growled, followed by the wet, rhythmic sound of penetration. The frame lurched, showing the dashboard, then focused on the cock in her mouth, pulsing violently before a flood of white shot over her tongue and dripped from her chin. The video ended.
Doug’s vision tunneled. The dice on the table, the painted miniatures, Greg’s open mouth debating the giant’s attack radius—all of it muted into a dull roar beneath the pounding of his own blood. He shifted in his chair, his erection a demanding, painful throb against his jeans.
“Your save, Doug,” Ben said, tapping the table. “You got a plus four, right?”
Doug rolled without looking. “Thirteen.”
“You’re hit.” Ben moved Doug’s paladin miniature, toppling it on its side. “That’s… a lot of damage.”
“Okay.” Doug’s phone buzzed again on his thigh. A new image loaded: a close-up of a different, darker cock, slick with her saliva, poised at her swollen lips. The text read: This one tasted like cigars and Coors. He came so fast. The timestamp was two minutes ago. She was moving quickly, efficiently.
“Dude, you’re pale,” Greg said, crunching a crust. “You getting that bug?”
“Just… focused.” Doug drained his warm beer, the taste bitter and flat. He could smell the ghost of her perfume, the musk from the kitchen, the cheap pizza grease. They coalesced into the scent of his own complicity. He imagined her moving through the neon-dark bars, a hunter in a black tank top, her innocent face a perfect lure. The videos were trophies, but they were also a trail of breadcrumbs leading her back here, to the final two.
The front door opened. The sound was a gunshot in the room.
All three men jumped. Becca stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. She looked… used. Her hair was slightly mussed, her lipstick was gone, and there was a faint red mark on her neck. But her eyes were incandescent, a fever-bright blue that swept across the living room. She smiled, a slow, tired, utterly satisfied thing.
“Hey,” she said, her voice slightly raspy. “You monsters still at it?”
“Just about done,” Greg said, grinning. “Your husband’s giant just pasted us. We’re licking our wounds.”
“I bet you are.” Her gaze lingered on Greg, then slid to Ben, who quickly looked back at his character sheet. Finally, she looked at Doug. A current of understanding, hot and filthy, arced between them. She had fed, but she was still hungry. The promise hung in the air, unspoken.
She drifted into the room, not sitting, but perching on the arm of Doug’s chair. Her hip pressed against his shoulder. He could feel the heat radiating from her body through her jeans. She smelled of night air, stale beer, and sex.
“Who won?” she asked, leaning forward to peer at the map. Her tank top gaped, offering Ben and Greg a clear view of the tops of her breasts, the subtle shadows between them.
“The giant, mostly,” Ben mumbled, his ears turning red.
“Shame.” Becca sighed, a performance of wifely disappointment. She placed a hand on Doug’s shoulder, her fingers squeezing. “Well, I’m beat. Gonna go wash up.” She stood, stretching, a deliberate arch of her back that pulled the fabric of her shirt taut across her chest. “Don’t stay up too late, boys.”
She walked down the hall. The bathroom door closed. The lock didn’t click.
A heavy silence descended, thicker than before. Greg cleared his throat, attempting to rally. “So, we rez Doug’s paladin and try to—”
The bathroom fan whirred to life, a distant, white noise hum. Then, barely audible beneath it, came the sound of water. Not the shower. The sink. A faucet running. Then it stopped.
Doug knew. He knew with a certainty that tightened his gut. She wasn’t washing up. She was staging. She was waiting. The final, unclaimed pieces of his old life sat six feet away, pretending to care about hit points.
“I’m gonna grab another beer,” Ben said abruptly, standing up. “Anybody want one?”
“Yeah, sure,” Greg said.
Ben walked toward the kitchen, then hesitated at the mouth of the hallway. The bathroom door was right there, ajar by a deliberate, tantalizing inch. A sliver of yellow light cut across the darkened hall floor.
From within, Becca’s voice, soft and melodic, floated out. “Ben? Could you… hand me the towel from the linen closet? I forgot it.”
Ben froze. Doug watched the man’s back go rigid. He saw the internal war play out in the hunch of his shoulders. Ben was the quiet one, the thoughtful one, a married man with two kids pictured on his phone’s lock screen. He glanced back toward the living room, his expression a mask of pure, panicked guilt.
Doug gave him nothing. He simply stared, his face a neutral blank.
Ben vanished into the hallway. The bathroom door opened wider, then shut with a soft, definitive click. The lock engaged this time.
For a long moment, there was only the hum of the fan. Greg stared at the map, frowning. “Where’d he go? The beer’s in the fridge.”
Then a sound cut through the hum. A muffled, feminine moan, low and encouraging. Then a man’s voice, strained and desperate, though the words were unclear. A thump against the wall.
Greg’s head snapped up. His eyes widened, darting from Doug to the hallway and back. “What the hell was that?”
Doug leaned back in his chair, the worn leather creaking beneath him. He felt preternaturally calm, the director watching his play reach its final act. “Sounded like the linen closet door,” he said, his voice even. “Sticks sometimes.”
Another sound. Unmistakable now. The rhythmic, solid knocking of a body against a hollow-core door. A gasp. Becca’s voice, clearer this time, pierced the barrier. “Yes… right there… god, your cock is so thick…”
Greg’s jaw went slack. He looked like a man whose foundational reality had just cracked open. He stared at Doug, searching for anger, for betrayal, for anything. He found only a placid, waiting acknowledgement.
The noises from the bathroom intensified. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin. Ben’s voice, a broken chant. “Oh fuck, Becca, I’m gonna—I can’t—” A high, keening cry from Becca, raw and real, followed by a guttural roar from Ben that was half-agony, half-triumph.
Then silence. The fan whirred on.
Greg stood up so quickly his chair scraped the floor. He was flushed, breathing hard. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
The bathroom door unlocked. It opened. Ben emerged, his shirt misbuttoned, his hair wild. He wouldn’t look at anyone. He walked on unsteady legs past the living room archway, straight out the front door into the night, leaving it gaping open behind him.
Becca appeared in the hallway. She wore only a towel, knotted loosely above her breasts. Her skin was flushed, her lips bee-stung and full. Damp tendrils of blonde hair stuck to her neck and temples. She leaned against the doorframe, her body languid, sated. She looked at Greg, then at Doug.
Her voice was a husky whisper in the quiet house. “One left.”
Greg took a step back, bumping into the coffee table. He was a big man, but he looked diminished, cornered by a truth he couldn’t process. His eyes were fixed on Becca, on the damp skin above her towel, on the knowing, hungry look in her eyes.
Doug finally moved. He stood, picking up his phone from the table. "Go on Greg, the lady gets what she wants. I'm getting another beer. Ben, Mark, feel free to help yourself to more, beer or... " He nodded his head towards Becca who was smiling as she walked towards Greg.