Chapter 3: Jealousy
The deep, animal quiet of the aftermath didn’t last. Sleep was a black, dreamless pit, but Leah surfaced from it slowly, her consciousness returning piece by painful piece. First was the ache—a full-body throb that had settled into her bones overnight, a dull, persistent echo of the violence. Then came the warmth; she was still curled on the couch, the blanket heavy over her, but the solid heat at her back was gone. Luke had moved.
Morning light, harsh and clean, streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the city skyline in sharp relief. The whiteboard on the far wall glowed, her own confident script detailing chores, grocery lists, and a doodle of a dubious-looking motorcycle next to “L’s midterm (don’t forget! The normalcy of it was a slap.
She shifted, wincing as the movement pulled at the welts on her ass and thighs. The soft sweatpants were a kindness, but they couldn’t mute the reality of the damage beneath. She heard voices from the kitchen nook—Luke’s low rumble, Mark’s calmer tone. The smell of bacon cut through the lingering scent of eucalyptus from her bath.
And then she saw her.
Loraine was perched on a stool at the kitchen island, her back to Leah. But the back was almost entirely bare. She wore a bathing suit, if it could be called that. It was a confection of emerald green strings. A triangle of fabric the size of a postage stamp covered her ass, the strings diving into the cleft and tying at her hips. The top was two precarious knots and narrow bands that formed a bra of string, covering only the very tips of her nipples, leaving the full, pale swell of her breasts exposed to the air and the morning light. Her blonde hair was piled high, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
Leah felt a jolt that had nothing to do with pain. It was a crackle of pure, competitive voltage.
Lori was laughing at something Mark said, leaning forward to emphasize her cleavage. Mark was at the stove, flipping bacon. He glanced at Lori, a faint, appreciative smile on his face. It wasn’t the hungry, possessive look he gave Leah in the dark. It was lighter, amused. It cut deeper.
Leah pushed herself up, the blanket falling away. She was covered neck to ankle in soft grey cotton, her hair a tangled damp mess, her face clean but pale. She felt formless, shrouded. Next to Lori’s brazen exhibition, she was a ghost.
“Look who’s up,” Luke said, sipping coffee from a chipped mug. His eyes scanned her, but his expression was unreadable, tucked behind the steam.
“Morning,” Leah rasped. Her throat was still rough.
Loraine turned, a bright, plastic smile on her face. “Leah! You look… cozy.” Her gaze swept over the hoodie, a tiny, triumphant arch to her eyebrow. “Sleep okay?”
“Fine,” Leah said, walking stiffly to the coffee pot. Every step was a reminder.
“We’re thinking rooftop pool later,” Lori chirped, stretching, making the strings dig into her flesh. “Sun’s out. Could use some color.” She looked directly at Mark. “You should come. You look tense.”
Mark didn’t turn from the stove. “Might.”
The word was casual, but it landed in the quiet kitchen like a gauntlet. Leah poured coffee, her hand steady despite the fire igniting in her gut. This was a different game. A sunlit game of proximity and suggestion, and Lori was playing in her arena, in a costume Leah wouldn’t—couldn’t—wear. Not with the map of bruises hidden beneath her clothes.
She took a sip of scalding coffee. The pain centered her.
“You’d need sunscreen,” Leah said, her voice finding its edge. “All that… exposed skin. You’d burn in minutes.”
Loraine’s smile tightened. “I’m careful. Some of us don’t mind a little risk.”
“Some of us have better things to do than preen,” Leah shot back, leaning against the counter, facing her. The ache in her body fused with the sharpening focus of rivalry.
Lori slid off the stool. The movement was fluid, calculated. She walked to Mark, hips swaying, and plucked a piece of bacon from the plate beside him. She took a small bite, her eyes on his profile. “You always make it just right, Mark. Not too crispy. You pay attention to the details.”
Mark finally turned his head, looking down at her. The morning light caught the green of his eyes. He said nothing, just looked. It was enough.
Leah saw red. A pure, uncomplicated blaze of it. The careful aftercare of the night before, the silent understanding, felt threatened by this chirping, string-clad interloper.
“He pays attention to a lot of things,” Leah said, putting her mug down with a sharp click. “Like discipline. He’s very detail-oriented with that, too. Isn’t that right, Mark?”
The kitchen air went static. Luke slowly set his mug down. Mark’s gaze slid from Lori to Leah. The faint smile was gone.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lori asked, a flicker of uncertainty beneath her bravado.
“It means,” Leah said, pushing off the counter and walking towards them, the space narrowing, “you’re playing dress-up. This is our house. Our dynamic. You don’t just waltz in here and try to claim his attention with a few pieces of string.”
“I’m not claiming anything,” Lori scoffed, but she took a half-step back, toward Mark, as if for protection.
“You’re hovering. You’re performing.” Leah stopped a foot away. She could smell Lori’s coconut sunscreen. “You want his attention? You have to earn it. You have to know what to do with it.”
“And you do, I suppose?” Lori’s laugh was brittle. “You, hiding in a sack?”
“Leah.” Mark’s voice was quiet. A warning.
She ignored it. The ember was a wildfire now, fanned by jealousy and possessiveness and the deep, ingrained need to prove her place. “I know that he doesn’t want a pretty thing to look at on a rooftop. He wants a girl who knows how to kneel. Who knows how to open her mouth and take what she’s given. Who begs for the bite of a belt on her tits because the pain is the only thing that makes her feel real.”
Lori’s mouth fell open slightly. Color flushed her chest.
“You want to compete?” Leah whispered, the words filthy and intimate. “Then let’s compete. Let’s see who he really wants. Let’s see who can serve him better. Right here. Right now.”
The challenge hung in the sunlit air. The bacon sizzled pointlessly. Luke was utterly still, a spectator now.
Mark looked from Leah’s fierce, pale face to Lori’s shocked, excited one. The tension was a live wire. He reached behind himself and turned off the burner. The silence was profound.
“Both of you,” he said, his tone devoid of all amusement. It was the flat, commanding voice from the night before. “Living room. Now. On your knees in front of the couch.”
It was a victory and a sentence all at once. A thrill shot through Leah, hot and sharp. Lori’s eyes were wide, but she followed as Mark walked past them, his posture radiating controlled authority.
Leah didn’t look at her rival. She walked to the center of the room, where the sun pooled on the rug, and lowered herself to her knees. The ache flared, a familiar companion. She heard the rustle of string as Lori knelt beside her, a few feet apart. The city stretched behind them, indifferent.
Mark stood before them. He was still in his sleep pants and a thin t-shirt. He looked down, his gaze impartial, assessing.
“You both want my attention?” he said. “You’re both acting like needy, bratty children. Competing. Squabbling. In my home.” He let the words sink in. “If you want to behave like pets, you’ll be treated like them. You’ll take what I give you together. You’ll learn to share.”
He unbuttoned his sleep pants, pushed them down just enough. His cock was already half-hard, thickening rapidly under their combined gazes. Leah’s mouth watered. Lori made a small, eager sound.
“Suck it,” Mark said, his hand wrapping around the base. “Together. Show me you can work as a team. Show me you know your place.”
Leah didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward, but so did Lori. They bumped heads for a second, a clumsy, electric clash, before finding an awkward rhythm. Leah took the head, her lips stretching around the width, her tongue flattening against the slick ridge. She tasted salt and sleep. Lori, after a second’s pause, pressed her mouth to the shaft, kissing and licking her way down.
It was chaos. Uncoordinated. Leah focused on the crown, sucking firmly, hollowing her cheeks, using her tongue the way she knew he liked. Lori was more tentative, her mouth a fluttering, nervous heat on his skin. Their breaths mingled, hot and quick. Leah heard a soft moan—Lori’s—and it fueled her. She took him deeper, until the tip hit the back of her tender throat, making her eyes water. She pulled off with a wet pop.
“The balls, Lori,” Leah gasped, her voice rough. “Don’t just lick it. Take them in your mouth.”
Lori flinched at the instruction but obeyed, shifting lower. She nuzzled his scrotum, then opened her mouth, taking one testicle gently between her lips. Mark let out a sharp hiss.
“Yeah,” he grunted. “Like that. Both of you. Work.”
Leah went back to the cock, swallowing him deeper now, her jaw aching. She reached out a hand, not to touch Mark, but to grasp the back of Lori’s head, guiding her, pushing her face more firmly into his groin. Lori gasped around a mouthful of flesh but didn’t resist. She began to suckle and lick in earnest, her free hand coming up to cradle his sac.
It was a lewd, explicit tableau. Two women on their knees, servicing the same man, their motions gradually synchronizing out of sheer, desperate need to please. Leah worked the length, her lips a tight, slick seal, her head bobbing. Lori worshiped his balls, laving them with her tongue, taking first one then the other into the warm wetness of her mouth.
“Fuck,” Mark breathed, his hand tangling in Leah’s hair, then in Lori’s. He controlled their pace now, setting a slow, deep rhythm. “That’s it. Use your tongues. Show me you’re good for something other than bitching.”
Spit dripped, shiny strands connecting their mouths to his skin. The sounds were obscene: wet sucks, guttural breaths, muffled moans. Leah’s bruised body was forgotten, lost in the single-minded focus of the act. She glanced sideways, saw Lori’s eyes were closed in concentration, a deep blush staining her chest above her ridiculous strings. She was into it. They both were.
Mark’s hips began to pump slightly, fucking into Leah’s mouth, then stilling for Lori’s ministrations. His breath shortened. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice tight. “In your mouths. You’re going to swallow every drop. You’re going to fight over it if you have to.”
The command sent a jolt through Leah. She redoubled her efforts, sucking him hard, her throat working. Lori whimpered, her mouth working feverishly on his balls.
With a ragged groan, Mark came. The first hot, salty spurt hit the back of Leah’s throat. She swallowed instinctively, eagerly. He pulled his cock from her lips and aimed the next pulses directly at Lori’s face. She gasped as the warm streaks splashed across her cheek, her chin, into her open mouth. She licked her lips, catching what she could, her eyes wide and dazed.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their panting. Mark stepped back, his cock glistening, softening. Leah sat back on her heels, licking her own lips clean, tasting him and triumph. Lori wiped at her face with the back of her hand, breathing heavily.
Mark looked down at them, his expression no longer heated, but cool and evaluative. “You’re both still misbehaving. That was a reward, not a resolution.” He walked to the cabinet, the same one from the night before. This time, he pulled out a shorter, stiff leather flogger with narrow, biting falls.
“You fought over my attention. You used your bodies to try and one-up each other.” He returned, flexing the handle. “So I’m going to mark those bodies. Your tits. Since you’re both so proud of them.”
Lori paled. “Mark, I—”
“Quiet,” he said, the word cracking through the room. “You wanted in. You’re in. Leah, hoodie off. Lori, lose the top. Now.”
Leah pulled the hoodie over her head, exposing the shocking landscape of her torso. The purple and yellow bruises from the belt, the dark, tender welts across her breasts and belly. Lori, with trembling fingers, untied the knot at her neck and the one at her back. The green strings fell away. Her breasts were full, pale, unmarked.
Mark pointed to the floor in front of him. “On your backs. Side by side. Hands above your heads.”
They complied, lying down on the sun-warmed rug. Leah’s battered body screamed in protest. The ceiling was far above, the whiteboard a blur of schedules and dreams.
Mark knelt between them. He didn’t speak. He simply raised the flogger and brought it down in a swift, crisp arc.
Thwack.
The sound was sharp, precise. It landed across the upper swell of Leah’s right breast, bisecting a yellowing bruise. She cried out, her back arching off the floor. The pain was a bright, clean line of fire.
Thwack.
The same stroke fell on Lori’s pristine left breast. She shrieked, a sound of pure, shocked agony. A vivid red line instantly blossomed on the white skin.
He worked methodically, alternating between them. Strike. Scream. Strike. Sob. The flogger wasn’t about thudding impact; it was about slicing, stinging pain. It lit up the nerve endings, leaving behind raised, angry welts. Leah’s already ruined flesh was a canvas of overlapping agonies, new lines cutting across old bruises. Lori’s perfect tits were being systematically defaced, turned into a mirror of Leah’s punishment.
“This is what you earned!” Mark bit out between strokes, his arm moving with grim efficiency. “You want to be seen? You want to be noticed? Now everyone will see these marks and know you needed to be corrected. Know you’re both undisciplined, greedy little things.”
Thwack. Thwack.
Leah’s world narrowed to the searing pain and the sound of Lori weeping beside her. It wasn’t humiliation she felt; it was a bizarre, savage kinship. They were in it together now, united under the same brutal teaching.
Finally, he stopped. Both their chests were a mess of criss-crossing red lines, pulsing with heat. Leah’s were layered over deeper colors. Lori’s were a stark, shocking masterpiece of pain. They were breathing in ragged, matching hitches.
Mark dropped the flogger. It landed on the rug with a soft thud. He looked at his work, his own breath slightly elevated. “Now,” he said, his voice quieter. “You will lie there until the sting fades. You will think about why you’re here. Then you will get up, clean up, and make breakfast for everyone. Without another word.”
He stood and walked away, leaving them lying side-by-side under the vast, indifferent skyline, their chests on fire, their competition finally, brutally, settled.
From the kitchen island, Luke took a slow sip of his now-cold coffee. His eyes met Leah’s across the room. He gave her a barely perceptible nod. It wasn’t approval. It was acknowledgment. She had defended her territory, and she had paid the price for it. They all had.
On the whiteboard, next to “L’s midterm,” in different handwriting, someone had scribbled, “Remember the rules.”
The twin sets of breath began to even out, the sharpest scream of the welts subsiding into a throbbing, heated burn. The city outside continued its silent, gleaming progress. Leah turned her head on the rug; the movement pulled at the skin over her ribs. Lori was staring at the ceiling, tears cutting clean tracks through the remnants of Mark’s come on her cheeks. Their eyes met. No triumph. Just a hollowed-out recognition in the shared afterglow of pain.
“Up,” Mark’s voice came from the kitchen, flat, brooking no delay. “You have a job.”
Moving was a fresh ordeal. Every muscle protested, each new welt announcing itself as fabric brushed or air touched it. Leah pushed herself to her knees, then to her feet, a slow, grim process. Lori copied her, movements clumsy, her hands fluttering uselessly over her marked chest before she crossed her arms in a feeble attempt at modesty.
“Clothes are a privilege you haven’t earned back,” Mark said, not looking at them as he scrolled through his phone at the island. “The kitchen is cold. You’ll feel it. Now move.”
They walked naked to the kitchen, the cool air raising goosebumps on their ravaged skin. Luke was already there, leaning against the refrigerator with a fresh coffee. His gaze was an impartial sweep, taking inventory of the damage. He nodded toward the counter where eggs, butter, and a loaf of bread sat waiting. “Bacon’s in the fridge. Don’t fuck it up.”
The next twenty minutes were a study in silent, painful cooperation. Leah cracked eggs into a bowl, her fingers stiff. Lori stood beside her at the stove, trembling as she laid strips of bacon in a cold pan. Their elbows bumped. They didn’t speak. The only sounds were the crackle of fat, the whisk against glass, the hiss of the kettle Luke filled for tea. The scent of cooking food, normally comforting, felt like a mockery.
Leah buttered slices of bread, her mind a numb blank. She could feel the weight of the men’s attention on her back, on Lori’s ass. It wasn’t sexual now. It was supervisory. They were appliances being checked for proper function.
When the food was plated—scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, toast—Mark finally stood. He took his plate and his coffee and walked back into the living room. He didn’t sit on the couch. He stopped in the center of the room, in a pool of sunlight.
“Leah,” he said.
She knew. A cold, heavy stone settled in her gut. She set the last plate down and walked to him, her bare feet silent on the wood floor.
“Chair,” he said, the word simple and absolute.
She got onto her hands and knees, then lowered her torso, presenting her back as she had for Luke. The position stretched the new welts across her shoulders. Mark studied her for a moment, then sat. His full weight drove the air from her lungs in a soft oof. He adjusted, getting comfortable, then set his plate on her lower back, using her spine as a table. The heat of the porcelain seeped into her skin.
He snapped his fingers, a sharp, dismissive sound. “Lori. Here.”
Lori crept over, her eyes wide and wet.
“Leg rest,” Mark instructed, pointing to the floor in front of the couch where his feet would naturally fall.
A choked sob escaped Lori’s throat, but she obeyed. She curled herself on the floor, knees to chest, making her body into a small, living ottoman. Mark lifted his feet and planted them firmly on the soft curve of her side. He dug his heels in slightly, making her whimper, then settled.
“Better,” he murmured, and took a bite of toast.
The humiliation was a colder, deeper cut than the flogger. Leah was furniture, bearing the weight of his body and his breakfast. Lori was a footstool, compressed under his soles. They were rendered utterly utilitarian, their pain and their presence existing only for his minor comfort. He ate methodically, discussing the upcoming week’s work schedule with Luke, who had settled into an armchair with his own plate.
“The Henderson account needs the proposal by Wednesday,” Luke said, forking eggs.
“It’ll be done. Larson is breathing down my neck about the Q3 projections, though.” Mark took a sip of coffee, the mug resting on Leah’s shoulder blade. His casual discourse about spreadsheets and meetings, layered over their complete objectification, was the final, perfect degradation.
Leah focused on the grain of the wood floor beneath her cheek. She could smell the bacon from his plate, her own hunger a distant, irrelevant ghost. Her body trembled under the sustained weight, her muscles quivering with fatigue. Each slight shift he made sent a jolt through her. She could hear Lori’s ragged, stifled crying, the soft, pathetic sound of it only underscoring their utter smallness.
Mark finished his last strip of bacon. He swiped a finger through a smear of egg yolk on the plate and held it down beside Leah’s face.
“Clean it.”
She turned her head and took his finger into her mouth, sucking the greasy salt clean. He then extended the same finger toward Lori. “You too.”
Lori uncurled slightly, lifting her head to lick the digit with a kittenish, submissive swipe of her tongue. The act was so deliberately petty, so reducing. They were dogs cleaning a master’s hand.
He stood up, the weight lifting suddenly, leaving Leah cold and strangely buoyant. He picked up his plate and mug. “You can eat now,” he said. “From the floor. Use your hands. Then clean this place until it shines.”
He and Luke left the room, their conversation trailing behind them about clutch repairs and gym times. The normalcy of their exit was the final twist of the knife.
Leah rolled onto her side, gasping. Lori unfurled herself, her side marked with the impression of his shoes. They looked at the plates of now-cold food on the kitchen counter. Without a word, Leah crawled to them, pulled one down, and set it on the floor between them. She scooped a handful of cold eggs and brought it to her mouth. Lori, after a moment’s hesitation, did the same. They ate in silence, kneeling on the hard floor, their naked, beaten bodies close together in the sunlit room, as small as they would ever be.