Chapter 115: After
The hushed cadence of waves against the cliffs below Jasmine’s suite was the only sound breaking the heavy silence. Bruce stood just outside the door, leaning against the cool teak wall, Camille facing him. The ghost of their frantic coupling minutes ago still clung to them – Camille’s blouse hastily re-buttoned over torn lace, Bruce’s hair damp with sweat, the faint scent of sex mingling with the tropical air. The raw desperation had ebbed, leaving a hollow thrum of exhaustion and unresolved fear.
"Camille," Bruce murmured, his voice rough, eyes fixed on the closed door. "What are we gonna do? I have to take care of her, obviously. But what then? When the bandages come off… when the shrink digs deeper…" He ran a hand through his hair, the swirls in his hazel eyes turbulent, mostly storm-grey and deep, troubled blue. "That kind of poison… that level of wanting out… it doesn’t just vanish."
Camille reached up, her fingers tracing the faint red mark her teeth had left on his shoulder. "One day at a time, mi amor," she said, her voice steady despite the exhaustion lining her own features. She met his gaze, her dark eyes anchoring him. "Right now? We make sure she gets better. We give her safety. We give her the best fucking care money and love can buy. We’ll worry about 'later' when she’s stronger. When we’re all stronger." Her thumb brushed his cheekbone. "Focus on healing the wound first. Then we’ll figure out the scar."
Bruce leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a beat. When he opened them, a flicker of the familiar gold warmed the hazel depths. "Gracias, honey," he breathed, pulling her into a tight embrace, burying his face in her hair. "I love you. Don’t know what the fuck I’d do without you holding this circus together."
"Love you more, you impossible man," she whispered back, holding him just as fiercely. "Now, go wash up. Dr. Singh will be here soon for her session. I’ll hold the fort."
Inside Jasmine’s sun-drenched sanctuary, the atmosphere was thick with a different kind of tension. Dr. Singh, a petite woman with kind eyes and an unflappable calm, sat beside the bed. Jasmine lay propped up, the stark white bandage a glaring reminder against her dark skin. Her gaze darted nervously around the room, avoiding direct eye contact with the psychiatrist… and with Lena, who sat quietly in an armchair near the window, sketching absently in a notebook. Erika perched on the edge of the bed, holding Jasmine’s unbandaged hand. Sophia and Ketut sat together on a small sofa, their presence a silent show of support. Mystique stood near the door, her statuesque frame a watchful silhouette against the light.
"...and you felt overwhelmed by these feelings of… inadequacy? Before the… incident?" Dr. Singh asked gently, her pen poised over her notepad.
Jasmine swallowed hard, her fingers twisting the sheet. "Inadequate? Yeah. Like… like I was the fucking spare part. The new girl everyone was waiting to see fuck up." Her voice cracked. "Bruce… he loves everyone so… intensely. But Lena…" Her eyes flickered towards the window, then away, shame flooding her face. "She’s his shadow. He looks at her… fuck. He looks at her like she hung the goddamn moon." She took a shuddering breath. "And then Sophia… she’s sculpting all of them… making Lena’s ass even more fucking legendary… making Camille tighter… and I’m just… there. Wild Jasmine. The party girl. The one who fucks strangers for the thrill." Tears welled, spilling over. "But it wasn’t just a thrill! I loved it! Loved feeling wanted like that… loved Bruce watching… loved being part of… this crazy, beautiful mess." She choked on a sob. "But then it started feeling… hollow. Like I was just the entertainment. Easily replaced. And the jealousy… it ate me alive. Festered. Seeing Lena with him… seeing how he adores her… I just… snapped. Said vile shit. Then…" Her hand instinctively covered the bandage. "I didn’t want… this. Not really. I just wanted the fucking noise to stop."
A heavy silence fell. Lena had stopped sketching. She stared down at her notebook, her jaw tight, knuckles white around her pencil. Erika squeezed Jasmine’s hand, her own eyes bright. Sophia looked stricken. Ketut leaned forward, her expression soft with empathy. Mystique remained still, her gaze fixed on Jasmine with fierce concentration.
Dr. Singh nodded slowly. "The noise. The internal storm of pain and fear and perceived rejection. It can feel unbearable. Thank you for sharing that, Jasmine. That took immense courage." She glanced at Lena. "Lena? Would you like to share how you experienced that moment? The argument? The… physicality of it?"
Lena looked up. Her dark eyes met Jasmine’s for the first time since entering the room. Hurt warred with something else – perhaps the echo of Bruce’s plea in the dawn. She took a slow breath. "It hurt," she said simply, her voice low but clear. "The things you said… they were knives. Meant to wound. And the slap…" She touched her cheek almost unconsciously. "That wasn’t just hurt. That was betrayal. We’re supposed to be sisters. Sisters fight, yeah. But we don’t… destroy each other." She paused, gathering herself. "But… I see the storm in you now. I felt it before, the jealousy, simmering. I didn’t know it was eating you alive. I should have… maybe…" She shook her head sharply. "No. That’s not on me. Your pain isn’t an excuse to lash out. But… seeing you like this?" She gestured at the bandage, the hospital bed. "This isn’t winning, Jazz. This is just… loss. For all of us."
Jasmine flinched as if struck again, fresh tears flowing. "I know," she whispered, the sound barely audible. "I’m so sorry, Lena. So fucking sorry. It wasn’t you… it was the monster in my head."
Bruce entered quietly then, clean and changed, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes scanning the room, taking in the raw emotion. He moved to stand behind Camille, who had slipped in moments before, her hand subtly finding his. Dr. Singh acknowledged him with a small nod.
"The physical healing is progressing very well," Dr. Singh stated, shifting gears slightly, her tone becoming more clinical. "No signs of infection. Nerve response in the hand is excellent, better than we hoped. The sutures can likely come out in a few days. Neurologically, all signs are clear. Jasmine is alert, oriented, cognitively intact. The primary work now is here." She tapped her temple gently. "Processing the trauma, building healthier coping mechanisms, and," she added, looking around the circle of women, "rebuilding trust within the family structure. That will take time and commitment from everyone."
Bruce let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. "Good. That’s… really good news about the hand. Thank you, Doctor."
As the session wound down and Dr. Singh departed with promises to return tomorrow, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The intense emotional exposure left a kind of fragile calm. Camille organized a light lunch, the wives moving with quiet efficiency, their usual vibrant energy muted but present. Jasmine picked at her food, exhaustion etched deep. Bruce watched her, the relief about her physical state warring with the daunting reality of the psychological mountain they all now faced.
Later, the afternoon sun slanted long across the open-plan living area downstairs. Bruce stood by the vast window wall, staring out at the infinity pool merging with the ocean horizon, a crystal glass of whiskey untouched in his hand. The weight of it all pressed down – Jasmine’s fragility, the fractured trust, the sheer responsibility of holding seven hearts, seven lives, together. He felt the familiar, dangerous pull of the void, the need to feel something solid, something real to counter the emotional quicksand.
A presence materialized beside him. Mystique. She didn’t speak, just leaned her hip against the glass, following his gaze out to sea. Her tall, stunning form was draped in simple silk, the fabric clinging to her full curves. The silence stretched, comfortable yet charged. He could feel the heat radiating from her.
"Rough day," she finally rumbled, her voice a deep, smooth contralto.
"The roughest," Bruce replied, taking a sip of the whiskey, its burn doing little to warm the cold knot in his gut.
"She’s strong," Mystique said, meaning Jasmine. "Stubborn. Like me. She’ll climb out of this hole." She turned her head, her dark eyes studying his profile. "But you? You look like you’re about to fall into one yourself, mon mari."
Bruce met her gaze. The storm in his eyes had calmed to a turbulent sea-green. "Holding it together, Mystique. Gotta hold it together."
"For who?" she challenged softly, taking a step closer. The scent of her – something warm, spicy, utterly intoxicating – enveloped him. "Sometimes, the strong need to be held too." Her hand came up, not to his face, but to his chest, resting flat over his heart. He could feel the heat of her palm through his thin shirt, the steady, powerful beat beneath. "Let go, Bruce. Just for a minute. Let me hold you up."
Her words, low and resonant, bypassed his thoughts and went straight to his core. The need flared, hot and urgent. He set the glass down with a sharp clink. His hand covered hers on his chest, holding it there. "How?" he asked, his voice dropping to a growl.
A slow, knowing smile curved Mystique’s full lips. She stepped into him, eliminating the last inches between them. Her other hand slid around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. "However you need," she breathed, her lips brushing his ear. "Take what you need from me. Fuck the weight away. Use my body. Remind yourself you’re alive."
That was all the permission, all the provocation he needed. The careful control snapped. His arm banded around her waist, crushing her against him. His mouth crashed down on hers, not a kiss but a conquest. His tongue plunged deep, tasting the heat and spice, claiming her with savage intensity. Mystique moaned into his mouth, a deep, hungry sound, meeting his aggression with her own fierce passion. Her hands dropped, fingers fumbling urgently with his belt buckle, then the button and zip of his trousers.
He backed her roughly against the cool glass wall. The panoramic view of the ocean was just a blur beyond her shoulder. Her silk dress was shoved up around her hips with impatient hands, his fingers tearing aside the flimsy barrier of her thong. She was already wet, hot silk against his probing fingers. He groaned, grinding the heel of his hand against her clit. "Fuck, you're dripping," he snarled against her mouth.
"Been thinking about you all damn day," Mystique gasped, arching against him, her fingers closing around the thick, hard length of his cock springing free from his open trousers. She spat into her palm, then wrapped her hand around him, pumping roughly, her fist slicking his shaft. "Thinking about this fat cock splitting me open. Do it, Bruce. Fuck me hard against this window. Show me I’m real. Show yourself."
He needed no further urging. He hooked his hands under her powerful thighs, lifting her effortlessly. Her legs locked around his waist. He guided the swollen, purplish head of his cock to her glistening slit, pressed against her tight, fluttering entrance, and slammed home with one brutal, deep thrust that pinned her hard to the glass.
"OH FUCK! YES! BRUCE!" Mystique threw her head back with a cry that echoed in the spacious room, the sound raw and primal. Her inner walls clenched like a vise around his invading girth, impossibly tight and scorching hot. "So fucking BIG! Stretching me wide! GOD!"
Bruce set a relentless, driving rhythm immediately, pounding into her with powerful strokes that jolted her body against the glass with every impact. The wet, rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh was loud, obscene. He buried himself to the hilt on every plunge, his balls slapping against her ass, the thick root of his cock grinding against her clit. "This perfect black cunt," he growled, his voice guttural, eyes locked on her face. "So goddamn tight and wet. Taking my cock like a fucking champion. Squeeze me, baby. Milk me dry."
"FUCK YES! YOURS!" Mystique gasped, her own hips bucking, meeting his thrusts with fierce abandon. Her nails raked down his back, drawing involuntary hisses of pleasure-pain from him. "Breed me! Fill this pussy! Remind me who owns this ass! Remind us both!" She leaned down, biting his earlobe hard, then licking the sting. "Harder! Fuck me harder, mon mari! Show me how alive you are!"
Her words, filthy and demanding, fueled the fire. He shifted his grip, hoisting her higher, changing the angle. The next deep plunge hit a spot that made her shriek, her back arching violently. "RIGHT FUCKING THERE! DON'T STOP! DON'T YOU FUCKING STOP!"
Bruce obeyed, hammering into that sweet spot with brutal precision. Mystique’s cries became desperate wails, her body tensing like a drawn bowstring. Her inner muscles began to flutter wildly, gripping his cock in frantic pulses. "I'm coming! OH FUCK, BRUCE! I'M COMING! I'M COMING ON YOUR COCK!"
Her orgasm tore through her, a powerful convulsion that made her clamp down on him like a velvet fist. The sensation pushed him instantly over the edge. With a roar that was ripped from his soul, Bruce buried himself to the root and erupted. Hot, thick ropes of cum blasted deep into her convulsing channel, pulsing with each powerful jet. He held her pinned, grinding against her as he pumped his seed into her depths, his body shuddering violently.
He slumped forward, his forehead resting against the cool glass beside her head, breathing harsh, ragged gasps. Mystique clung to him, her legs still locked around his waist, her own body trembling, her cunt still rhythmically milking his softening cock. Sweat slicked their bodies where they pressed together. The frantic energy, the crushing weight, had momentarily shattered, replaced by the hollow thrum of exertion and the salty tang of her skin on his lips.
He slowly lowered her legs, letting her feet find the floor. She leaned back against the glass for support, her chest heaving, a satisfied, slightly dazed smile on her face as she adjusted her dress. Bruce clumsily fastened his trousers, his hands shaking slightly. He reached out, tucking a damp curl behind her ear. "Merci, ma belle," he murmured, his voice hoarse.
"Anytime, Bruce," she replied, her voice thick with spent passion. "We all carry the weight. Just… maybe let someone else hold it next time before you break." She pushed off the glass, her usual regal composure settling back into place, though her eyes still held a warm, sated glow. She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and walked away, hips swaying, leaving him leaning against the window, the ocean vista slowly coming back into focus, his body humming, the void momentarily held at bay.
Later, as dusk painted the sky in fiery oranges and purples, Bruce found Sophia in the gym. She was alone, finishing a punishing set of squats, the muscles in her powerful legs and sculpted glutes flexing with each controlled movement. Sweat gleamed on her pale skin. She saw him and paused, racking the barbell. Her striking face was serious, her startling blue eyes assessing.
"Hey," Bruce said, leaning against the doorframe.