Chapter 36: Beautiful Day, Isn’t it?
The steam still clung to the tiles, the scent of jasmine body wash hanging heavy in the humid air, when the bathroom door creaked open. Alexey, towel slung low on his hips, was vigorously rubbing another towel over his damp hair. Sharon, wrapped in a plush white robe, was brushing her teeth at the sink, humming softly. The peaceful afterglow shattered.
"Well, someone was having a very enthusiastic morning," Katya declared, leaning against the doorframe. She wore tiny silk shorts and a camisole, her long blonde hair draped over one shoulder, bright blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Sounded like a walrus convention mixed with a dying pterodactyl in here earlier. And the thumping. Impressive cardio, cousin." She winked at Alexey, who instantly flushed a deep crimson, his towel-rubbing faltering.
Sharon spat into the sink, rinsing her mouth, her cheeks pinkening but her eyes laughing. "Mind your own business, Katyusha," she retorted, her voice muffled slightly by the towel she used to dab her face. "Some of us actually enjoy waking up properly."
"Properly?" Katya feigned shock, pressing a hand to her chest. "That sounded like Olympic-level 'waking up'. Seriously, Lesha," she turned her teasing fully on Alexey, who was now staring fixedly at the floor tiles, "I thought the ceiling was coming down. Good for you. Keeping your girl...satisfied." The suggestive lilt in her voice was impossible to miss.
Alexey grunted, a sound that could have meant anything. He avoided eye contact, focusing on drying his neck with unnecessary intensity. The raw intimacy of the shower, Sharon's laughter echoing off the tiles, felt suddenly exposed under Katya's knowing gaze. It twisted something familiar and uncomfortable inside him – the secret thrill tangled with a sharp spike of embarrassment.
Sharon swatted Katya’s arm playfully as she pushed past her out of the bathroom. "Enough. Coffee. Now. Or someone will be late." She shot Alexey a warm, reassuring look that softened the edge of his discomfort.
The awkwardness lingered during the rushed breakfast, Katya humming suggestively whenever there was a lull in conversation. Alexey ate his toast mechanically, the image of Sharon's flushed, laughing face under the shower spray warring with the memory of Katya's teasing words. He focused on the strong, bitter coffee.
Getting dressed became a silent ballet. Alexey pulled on dark jeans and a grey Henley, his movements economical. Sharon emerged from the bedroom in a fitted, knee-length pencil skirt in deep emerald green and a cream silk blouse, her hair pinned up in a sleek knot. Alexey’s gaze lingered on the curve of her hips, the line of her legs in sheer stockings. He automatically reached for his work boots.
Then Katya appeared. She’d chosen a surprisingly short, flirty red skirt paired with a tight black turtleneck sweater, her blonde hair cascading freely. Her long, slender legs were bare. She did a little twirl. "Office chic, no?" she asked brightly, her blue eyes sweeping over both of them, lingering on Alexey. "Do I look suitably... professional?"
Sharon laughed. "For a graphic design intern? Absolutely. You'll stop traffic, Katenka." She nudged Alexey. "Ready, spaceman?"
Alexey cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from the startling contrast of Katya’s bare legs against the vibrant red skirt. "Da. Ready." His voice was rough. Seeing both women in skirts, Sharon radiating sophisticated allure and Katya exuding a bold, youthful sensuality, sent a confusing pulse through him. He grabbed his keys, the anticipation of escaping the charged atmosphere warring with a strange reluctance to leave the view.
They parted ways on the sidewalk – Sharon heading towards the subway, Katya towards a bus stop downtown for her third day at the design firm. Alexey walked the few blocks to his engineering office, the cool autumn air doing little to clear his head. The phantom sounds Katya had described – Sharon's cries, the thudding headboard – replayed in his mind, intercut with the sight of her powerful thighs trembling around him at dawn. His cock stirred insistently against his jeans.
The industrial engineering office was a world of humming servers, blueprints pinned to boards, and the sharp scent of solder and ozone. Alexey’s desk, usually a bastion of methodical calm amidst the controlled chaos, became his anchor. He booted up his CAD software, the familiar interface a welcome distraction. The swirling confusion of the morning – Sharon's warmth, Katya's teasing, the lingering sensory overload – seemed to funnel into a laser focus on the problem before him: optimizing the stress points in a new conveyor belt assembly line schematic.
His fingers flew over the keyboard, adjusting tolerances, running simulations. He sketched alternatives on his tablet, his brow furrowed in concentration. The usual background noise of colleague chatter and ringing phones faded into a distant hum. He solved a persistent vibration issue that had stumped him for two days before lunch, earning a surprised nod from Liam, his cubicle neighbor.
"Damn, Volkov," Liam remarked, peering over the partition. "You're on fire today. Found a stash of rocket fuel in your coffee?"
Alexey just grunted, saving his work, a rare flicker of satisfaction warming him despite his usual reserve. The intensity of his focus felt purging, a channel for the restless energy buzzing beneath his skin.
His phone buzzed on the desk. A text notification lit up the screen: Sharon 💖.
He tapped it. A selfie filled the screen. Sharon, sitting in what looked like a therapy session break room, holding a mug. She’d made a silly, scrunched-up face, her dimples deep, her hair escaping its knot in messy tendrils. The caption read: Client just compared their mother to a malfunctioning toaster. Send coffee reinforcements... or vodka? 😜
A genuine smile, small but real, touched Alexey’s lips. He quickly texted back: Only coffee. Vodka bad for professional. Malfunctioning toaster... accurate sometimes.
Another buzz. Another photo. This one was slightly more daring. Sharon had subtly unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, leaning forward just enough to hint at the swell of her F-cup breasts beneath the cream silk. Her head was tilted, a playful, knowing look in her dark eyes, biting her lower lip. The caption: Distraction successful? 😉 Missing my human pillow already.
Heat bloomed in Alexey’s chest and lower. He shifted in his chair, adjusting himself discreetly. He typed: Very distracting. Pillow also missing its... occupant. He hesitated, then added: Looking delicious. As always.
He locked his phone, placing it face down, absorbing the surge of possessiveness and affection Sharon’s texts evoked. It grounded him, pushing Katya’s earlier teasing further back.
A shadow fell across his desk. Brenda, his boss, a sharp woman in her late forties with a no-nonsense bob, stood there holding a printout. "Volkov," she said, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp. "That revised schematic for the Henderson project. You cracked it? Ahead of schedule?"
"Da," Alexey nodded, turning his monitor slightly so she could see the clean simulation results. "Redesigned the mounting brackets. Reduced vibration by 42%."
Brenda scanned the screen, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then a small, approving smile touched her lips. "Huh. Efficient. Very efficient." She looked directly at him, her gaze perceptive. "You seem... unusually energized today. Everything alright? Good weekend?"
Alexey felt the familiar heat creeping up his neck again. He kept his gaze steady on the monitor."Da. Weekend was...good." He paused, searching for the right words that weren't a lie but maintained his privacy. "Sharon. She is... very good for me." The simple statement felt monumental, carrying the weight of the shared shower, the explosive dawn, the profound comfort of her presence.
Brenda raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Right. Well," she tapped the printout on his desk, "keep channeling whatever that is. It's working." She walked away, leaving Alexey feeling both slightly flustered and oddly validated.
His phone buzzed again. Not Sharon this time.
Katya 🌸
He opened it. A selfie of Katya leaning against a sleek, modern desk in what looked like a trendy open-plan office. She was pouting playfully at the camera, her blue eyes wide, one hand lightly touching her collarbone. She wore the red skirt and black turtleneck. The caption: Third day! Boss is scary today but hot. Office is full of pretty people. 😉 How's my favourite engineer? Surviving without us?
He stared at the photo. She looked vibrant, confident, undeniably alluring. The "pretty people" comment, the flirty wink emoji, the casual intimacy of "favourite engineer"... it was quintessential Katya. It stirred something complicated – a flicker of familial affection laced with that undeniable, confusing pull, sharpened by her offhand confession about Pavel back in St. Petersburg. He remembered her laughing description: He loved watching me flirt, loved knowing others wanted me... loved it even more when I came home to them.
He typed a short, neutral reply: Busy. Good. Office looks nice. Good luck.
He put the phone down, deliberately turning his attention back to a stress analysis report. But the image lingered: Katya’s bright eyes, the bold red skirt, the hint of a world outside where she would inevitably attract attention. He ran a hand through his light brown hair, the disquiet returning, a low hum beneath the surface of his productive calm. The schematic on his screen blurred momentarily, replaced by a phantom vision: Sharon’s intense, loving gaze from her selfie, and superimposed over it, the playful, challenging spark in Katya’s blue eyes. His knuckles tightened slightly on the edge of his keyboard. The productive buzz now felt like a thin veneer over a simmering, unnameable anticipation. The silence of the office pressed in, heavy with the unspoken tension humming along his nerves and the unanswered question hanging in the air: what ripple would Katya’s presence truly cause? His phone screen, dark now, felt like a dormant source of potential chaos. He stared at the complex stress gradients on his monitor, the lines and colors suddenly seeming less like an engineering problem and more like a map of his own tangled emotions. The workday wasn't over. The real challenge, he sensed, was just beginning.
The sterile hum of servers and the sharp scent of ozone vanished as Alexey's phone buzzed with Sharon’s distinctive chime. He glanced at the clock: 5:03 PM. The end of the slog. Relief warred with a strange, low thrum of anticipation he couldn't name. He swiped open the message.
Sharon 💖: Sooo... Mark texted. 😅
Sharon 💖: Said he 'really enjoyed our connection' (his words, not mine, ew) and wanted to know if my 'BF is cool' with continuing sometime. Super respectful, surprisingly?
Sharon 💖: Then... sigh... he sent a couple selfies. Guess what kind? 🤦♀️
Alexey’s thumb hovered. His knuckles tightened on the phone’s edge. He knew. He knew. The image from their video call flashed – Mark’s thick shaft filling Sharon’s mouth, her lips stretched wide. Heat pricked his neck.
Sharon 💖: One face pic. And then... yeah. Dickpic central. Big time. Like, comically huge? 🙈
Sharon 💖: Wanna see? 😏 Half-joking... mostly. Or am I? 🤔 Tell your pillow if it’s weird.
His breath hitched. The office air felt thick, suddenly stale. Brenda’s earlier comment – "You seem... unusually energized today." – echoed mockingly. The schematics blurred again. Did he want to see? Could he see? The forbidden thrill, the sharp sting of jealousy, the possessive fury – they tangled into a knot low in his gut, pulling tight. He typed, his fingers sluggish:
Alexey: Send it.
The reply was immediate. No text. Just a notification: Image Received.
His thumb tapped the notification. The screen filled.
It wasn't just a dickpic. It was a statement. Mark leaned against what looked like a gym locker, shirtless, a cocky smirk on his face, one hand casually gripping his erection. The angle was deliberate, flaunting. The sheer scale of it was almost absurd. Even having seen it once before, the reality punched Alexey in the solar plexus. Long. Thick. Substantially thicker than his own respectable 6.5 inches. Veins stood out like thick cords. The head was large, ruddy.
Alexey’s vision tunnelled. The office sounds – Liam’s keyboard clatter, the distant printer whine – faded into white noise. Dry mouth. Racing heart. A cold sweat prickled his spine even as heat surged south, traitorous and undeniable. His own cock stiffened fiercely against the rough fabric of his jeans, a betrayal of his conscious disgust.
Pig. The word roared in his head, aimed at Mark, at himself. Disgusting.
But his body didn't care. It reacted to the raw display of dominance, the sheer physicality of what Mark possessed and had shared with Sharon. The image of her kneeling, taking that monstrous thing willingly, flooded back with sickening clarity. The memory of her moans, the sight of her stretched lips, the desperate possessiveness that had driven him to reclaim her so fiercely hours later – it all collided with the obscene picture on his screen. He felt small. Inadequate. Horrifyingly aroused. His erection throbbed, painfully confined.
He fumbled the phone, nearly dropping it. His chair scraped loudly on the floor as he stood up abruptly, bumping his desk. Liam looked over the partition, startled.
"Alright there, Volkov? You look like you saw a ghost."
Alexey shoved the phone deep into his pocket, the screen burning against his thigh. He couldn't meet Liam's eyes. "Da. Fine. Just... headache. Leaving." His voice was gravel.
He grabbed his jacket, movements jerky, ignoring Brenda’s questioning look from her office doorway. He needed air. He needed out. He needed to not feel his treacherous body reacting to the image of another man’s cock – the cock that had been inside his girlfriend. The shame was a hot coal in his chest, warring with the persistent, unwelcome throb below. The challenge Katya represented felt distant, irrelevant. This was the vortex. He practically fled the office, the door swinging shut too loudly behind him, the phantom image of Mark’s huge, arrogant erection imprinted on the back of his eyelids. He had to move. He had to get home. Because Sharon was there, waiting, having asked the question that had cracked something open. He walked fast, the city sounds muffled, his mind a storm of revulsion, arousal, and profound, unsettling confusion. He had to move.
The city blocks blurred past, a smear of grey concrete and rushing strangers. Alexey walked faster than he ever did leaving work, his long strides eating up the sidewalk, the phantom image of Mark’s thick, veined cock burning behind his eyelids. Each step jolted through him, a counterpoint to the low, persistent throb in his jeans – equal parts shame and undeniable, sickening arousal. He needed the sanctuary of their apartment, needed Sharon’s warmth against the cold knot of confusion tightening in his gut. The familiar scents of jasmine and sex were long gone, replaced by exhaust fumes and the metallic tang of his own anxiety.
He fumbled the keys, hands unsteady, finally unlocking the door. Pushing it open, the warm, quiet familiarity of home hit him – the soft glow of a lamp Sharon had left on, the faint, lingering scent of her jasmine candle. He kicked off his boots, the thud loud in the stillness.
Sharon emerged from the kitchen, holding a steaming mug, surprise widening her dark eyes. "Alex?" She set the mug down quickly on the small entry table. "You're home early! Everything okay?" Her smile faltered as she took in his expression – the tight set of his jaw, the unnatural pallor beneath his stubble, the way he avoided her gaze. "Hey," she moved towards him, voice soft with concern, her hand reaching out to touch his arm. "What's wrong?"
Alexey flinched almost imperceptibly. He couldn’t look at her. The image of her lips stretched around Mark’s thickness superimposed itself over her worried face. His throat felt impossibly tight. "Sharon," he started, his voice a rough scrape. He swallowed hard, forcing the words past the rock lodged in his throat. "The picture. Mark's... picture."
He finally met her eyes, the confusion and raw fear stark in his grey-blue gaze. "I saw it. I... looked. And..." He faltered, shame washing over him in a hot wave. "My body... it reacted, Sharon. Like... like it wanted to see." He dragged a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated. "I feel... I feel like maybe... fuck, I don't understand myself. What if... what if I'm..." He couldn't say it. The word felt like acid on his tongue. "What if I'm not... straight? Is that... possible? Does that disgust you?" His voice cracked on the last word, vulnerability laid bare, stripped of his usual stoic reserve. The fear wasn't just about the picture; it was about the terrifying, unfamiliar territory his own desires seemed to be charting.
Sharon didn't hesitate. She stepped fully into his space, her strong arms wrapping around him in a fierce embrace. She buried her face in his chest, her warmth instantly radiating through his Henley. "Alexey Volkov," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion against his shirt. "Listen to me. Look at me." She pulled back slightly, hands framing his face, forcing his gaze to lock with hers. Her dark eyes held nothing but fierce, unwavering love. "I could never be disgusted by you. Ever. Do you hear me? Never." Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones. "Your body reacted? Okay. So what? Bodies react to things. To images. To sensations. It doesn't define you, and it certainly doesn't disgust me."
She took a deep breath, her gaze steady, unflinching. "Your fantasies, your desires... they're yours. They're part of you. And they are okay. All of them." Her voice softened, holding his gaze with profound sincerity. "Even if... even if one day, some part of you wanted to explore something completely different, Lesha. Even if the fantasy wasn't just me with another man, but... maybe flipped. Even if you suddenly found yourself wanting... needing..." She paused, choosing her words carefully, her eyes searching his. "...wanting to be with someone else yourself? A guy? Some big, hung guy?" She said it plainly, without judgment, her voice gentle. "It would still be okay. It would still be you. And I would love you exactly the same."
Alexey stared at her, stunned. The sheer openness, the radical acceptance in her words, momentarily short-circuited his shame. His mouth opened, a torrent of confusion and questions threatening to spill out – about Katya’s influence, about Pavel, about the bizarre, frightening allure of Mark’s sheer dominance. "Sharon, I..."
"Hush, kotik," she whispered, placing a finger gently against his lips. Her other hand slid down his chest, down the hard plane of his stomach, her touch feather-light but unerringly finding the rigid bulge straining against the front of his jeans. A small, knowing smile touched her lips, deepening those adorable dimples. "Look at you," she murmured, her voice dropping to a husky purr. Her fingers traced the impressive outline through the denim, the touch sending jolts of electricity straight to his core. "Already hard as a rock again. Just from talking about it?" She tilted her head, her dark eyes gleaming with affectionate mischief. "See? Totally normal reaction. Your body knows what it likes. Bigger... thicker... juicier..." She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. "...better cock gets you going, hmm? And why wouldn't it? It's just... biology, my love. Pure, delicious, undeniable biology." She gave the hard length beneath her hand a firm, deliberate squeeze.
Alexey’s mind blanked. All the shame, the confusion, the terrifying possibilities Sharon had just laid bare – they vanished under the immediate, overwhelming surge of pure, visceral sensation. His breath caught in a harsh gasp. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, pressing into her hand. He could only stare down at her, wide-eyed, the blush burning across his cheekbones, the pulse hammering wildly in his throat. Words failed him utterly. There was only heat, pressure, and the devastatingly simple truth her touch revealed.
A single, dry gulp was all he could manage.