Chapter 2: The Phone Call and a Promise
The days before the proposal
The click of the bedroom door shutting felt like a guillotine blade dropping. Georgia lay sprawled on the ruin of Ava’s sheets, her skin cooling, the smell of their sex thick and cloying in the air. From the living room, Ava’s voice was a melodic murmur, sweet and light. “Yeah, I miss you too… No, just hanging out.Thinking about you.”
Each word was a precise, surgical cut. Georgia stared at the ceiling, the pristine white now a witness to her debasement.She was a secret.A diversion. A dirty afternoon experiment.The realization should have hollowed her out. Instead, a treacherous thrill sparked in her gut.She lied for me.She’s lying to him right now. The skill of it, the easy betrayal, was horribly alluring.
She heard the soft pad of bare feet returning.Georgia didn’t move. Ava appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, already draped in a silken robe. She looked untouched, serene, whereas Georgia felt flayed open and left to dry.“You should probably go,” Ava said, her voice neutral, almost kind. “Before someone sees your car.”
Georgia sat up slowly, the sheet pooling at her waist. Her body ached in new, profound ways. “What was this?” she asked, her own voice rough, foreign.Ava sighed, a faint hint of impatience crossing her perfect features. She walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to let their skin touch. “It was what it was.You wanted something.I was… curious. It can’t happen again.”
The finality in her tone was an icy plunge. Georgia’s heart, which had been thrumming with a wild, erratic hope, clenched into a hard, painful knot. No.The thought was immediate, primal.She couldn’t go back to before. Back to Mike’s predictable touch, to her quiet life, now forever stained with the memory of this. Of her.“I can’t,” Georgia whispered, the confession dragged from her soul.
“You can.You will.” Ava’s gaze was unyielding. “It was a mistake. A hot, fucking amazing mistake,” she added with a cruel, small smile, “but a mistake.I have a boyfriend.You have a husband. This isn’t who I am.”
Desperation, sharp and sour, rose in Georgia’s throat. Her hand moved of its own volition, her fingers stretching out to brush the smooth skin of Ava’s thigh where the robe had fallen open.The contact was electric, a live wire reconnected. Ava didn’t pull away.She watched Georgia’s hand, her expression unreadable.
“I need more,” Georgia breathed, her voice breaking.“Please. I’ll do anything.”
Ava’s eyes darkened.The placid mask slipped, revealing something predatory and hungry beneath. She leaned in, her mouth hovering a breath from Georgia’s. Her scent, now mixed with Georgia’s own, was dizzying.
“Then you’ll beg for it,” Ava said, the words a soft, deadly promise. “Every single time.”
She stood up, the robe swishing closed, severing the connection.“Get dressed.Leave out the back gate.”
The drive home was a blur. Georgia showered until her skin was raw, scrubbing at the smell of jasmine and sex. She cooked dinner—lasagna, Mike’s favorite—and set the table with trembling hands. When Mike came home, smelling of sawdust and hard work, she kissed him with a fervor that felt like a lie.He grinned, pleased. “Missed me that much, huh?”
That night, in their marital bed, she closed her eyes as he moved inside her. She tried to be present, to feel her husband’s love.But her body was a deadened thing. Her mind, however, was a riot. The guilt and shame returned with a vengeance, hot and nauseating.Adulterer.Dyke.Liar. The words hissed in the dark.She was a monster in a floral apron.But now the shame was accompanied by the memories. Those wonderful, devastating memories.The crushing heat of Ava’s mouth on hers. The taste of her, tangy and deep. The unbelievable softness of her breasts, the hard peaks of her nipples against Georgia’s tongue. The muffled, broken sounds Ava made when Georgia ate her out, the way her thighs had trembled, the violent, pulsing clasp of her orgasm. Georgia had never cum like that.She had never had sex like that, almost feral. It wasn’t love.It was consumption.It was exhilarating.It was extraordinary.A week passed. A week of hollow smiles and silent screams. Then, her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter while she was folding laundry.A text from Ava.A fabulous afternoon. If I were a lesbian I would be yours.But I’m not gay.Georgia stared at the words.They weren’t an apology. They were a boast.A reminder of power.A delineation of boundaries. Far from feeling wounded, Georgia felt a slow, fierce smile stretch her lips. Her thumbs flew over the screen, her heartbeat loud in her ears.I know.But you’re not straight either.
She put the phone down, a strange, cold calm settling over her. The ball was in Ava’s court.The waiting was a new kind of torment.Three days later, the answer came. Not a text.A sighting. Georgia was in her backyard, pruning rose bushes, sweat sticking her t-shirt to her back.She felt a prickle on her neck and looked up.
Ava was on her own second-floor balcony, leaning against the railing, a glass of iced tea in her hand.She was wearing tiny, black silk shorts and a cropped tank top. She wasn’t looking at Georgia.She was sunbathing, eyes closed, a picture of oblivious luxury.
But her balcony faced Georgia’s yard directly.It was a stage.
Georgia stood, clippers dangling from her hand.She watched. Ava shifted, arching her back slightly, the movement making the thin fabric of her top strain. She ran a hand lazily over her stomach, down to the waistband of her shorts.A performance.A silent, lewd call.
Georgia’s mouth went dry.Her clippers dropped into the grass.
She turned and walked into her house, through the clean, quiet kitchen, up the stairs to her own bedroom.Mike was at work. The house was empty. She stood at her window, which had a clear, direct view to Ava’s balcony.Ava’s eyes were open now.She was watching Georgia’s window. She picked up her phone.Georgia’s phone buzzed in her pocket.Come over. He’s gone until tomorrow.Beg, Georgia texted back, the word sending a shock of power through her.
The reply was immediate.Please.Georgia crossed the two backyards like a ghost. The back gate to Ava’s property was unlocked. She slipped inside, up the external staircase to the second-floor balcony.Ava was waiting, her earlier laziness gone, replaced by a tense, eager energy.
No words. Ava grabbed the front of Georgia’s t-shirt and pulled her inside the dim, cool bedroom, kicking the balcony door shut. She backed Georgia against the wall, her body plastered against her, and kissed her with a bruising, possessive force.
“You win,” Ava growled against her lips, her hands already yanking Georgia’s shorts and panties down her hips. “You fucking win. Now give me what I want.”
It was even more raw than the first time, stripped of any pretense of curiosity.It was pure, desperate need. Ava spun Georgia around, pressing her face against the wall. Georgia heard the rustle of the silk shorts being pushed aside, then felt Ava’s wet, hot cunt press against the cleft of her ass, grinding urgently.
“I dreamed about this,” Ava hissed in her ear, one hand snaking around to cup Georgia’s breast, pinching her nipple hard through the cotton bra. “I dreamed about fucking you like this.” Her other hand slid down Georgia’s stomach, fingers plunging into her without ceremony. Georgia cried out, the stretch and invasion blinding. Ava’s fingers worked her with a ruthless, knowing rhythm, her own hips rocking, her slickness smearing against Georgia’s skin.
“Tell me you want it,” Ava demanded, her teeth grazing Georgia’s shoulder.
“I want it,” Georgia gasped, the wall cool against her cheek.
“Beg for it.”
“Please, Ava.Please fuck me.”
Ava withdrew her fingers, leaving Georgia empty and aching. She shoved Georgia forward, onto the bed.She followed, climbing over her, a dark angel of deliverance. She didn’t kiss her. She stared down at her, those hypnotic eyes blazing with a fever that mirrored Georgia’s own.
“Open your legs,” Ava commanded, her voice low and rough.Georgia obeyed, spreading herself shamelessly. Ava positioned herself between them, lowering herself slowly, guiding Georgia’s thighs around her waist. Then she sank down, taking Georgia inside her in one slow, devastating slide. The feeling was beyond anything—the incredible, silken heat, the tight, clasping pressure.Ava began to move, a slow, deep roll of her hips. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” she breathed, her own breath catching. “To be inside me. To feel how fucking wet I get for you.”
Georgia could only moan, her hands clutching at Ava’s back, her hips lifting to meet every thrust. The pace quickened, turned frantic.Ava’s movements lost their rhythm, became a pounding, driving need. Her perfect features were twisted in a snarl of pleasure, a sheen of sweat making her skin glow. She was using Georgia, fucking herself on her, and Georgia reveled in every second of it, in the sheer, wanton filth of it.
“Come for me,” Ava ordered, her voice guttural.“Come inside me. Now.”
The command, the possession, shattered Georgia’s last restraint. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and deep, milking Ava around her as she screamed into the quiet room. The convulsions triggered Ava’s own climax; she stiffened, her head thrown back, a silent, open-mouthed cry as she rode out the waves, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around Georgia.
When it was over, Ava collapsed beside her, both of them gasping, staring at the ceiling. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and sex and triumph.After a long while, Ava spoke, her voice flat. “He proposes next weekend.In Napa.”
Georgia turned her head.The cold finality was back. The experiment was over.The game had a deadline.
“So this is it?” Georgia asked, her heart already beginning its slow, crushing freeze.
Ava looked at her, and for a fleeting second, Georgia saw something vulnerable, almost sad, in the depths of those gold-flecked eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by the polished, impenetrable facade.
“This is it,” Ava confirmed, sitting up.She looked at the clock.“You should go. He might call.”
Georgia dressed in silence, each piece of clothing a layer of armor returning to a corpse. She walked to the bedroom door, her limbs heavy.“Georgia.”
She turned. Ava was still naked on the bed, a vision of devastating beauty.“You were right,” Ava said quietly. “I’m not straight.” She paused, then delivered the final, gentle blow. “But I’m not yours, either.”
Georgia left, the words echoing in the hollow places the memories had burned inside her.She had begged. She had won. And she had never lost anything more completely in her life.
The days before the proposal followed the same pattern.
A text would arrive, a silent detonation in the monotony of Georgia’s afternoon. Now. She would go, her body humming with a dreadful anticipation. She would stand in Ava’s pristine living room, or kitchen, or once, brazenly, in her sunlit entryway, and she would beg. “Please, Ava. I need you. Let me taste you.” The words, once scalding with shame, became a familiar, filthy liturgy.
Ava would watch, a queen accepting tribute, her eyes dark and hungry. Then she would take. Their fucking grew longer, more intricate, a devouring exploration. The second day, Ava tied Georgia’s wrists to the bedpost with a silk scarf and ate her out until she sobbed, then made Georgia return the favor for what felt like hours, her hands fisted in Georgia’s hair, controlling the pace, the pressure. “You’re my cunt,” Ava had groaned, grinding down on Georgia’s tongue. “You’re just a fucking hole I use to get off.” Georgia had come violently from the words alone.
The third day, Ava pushed her face-down into the sofa, mounted her from behind, and fucked herself on Georgia with a brutal, sobbing urgency that lasted the entire afternoon. Sunlight tracked across the floor. They were both slick with sweat, raw, exhausted. Ava came three times, her screams muffled by the leather cushions. Georgia lost count of her own orgasms; they blurred into one sustained state of shattering pleasure.
Afterward, Ava would always pull back. She would untie the scarf, or slide off her, or simply roll away. The cold distance would return, sharper each time. She would look at Georgia’s spent, glowing body with something close to contempt. “You should go.” The finality was a splash of ice water. Georgia would dress under that dismissive gaze, the phantom pulses of her climax still echoing in her empty cunt as she was exiled back to her own life.
The weekend came. The fucking stopped. Georgia watched from her kitchen window as a sleek black car collected Ava on Friday evening. She returned on Sunday, a solitaire diamond glinting like ice on her left hand. Georgia didn’t receive a text. The silence was absolute, and it was her answer.
Months passed.
The wedding invitation arrived on heavy, cream-colored paper. Mike was thrilled. “Nice crowd. Good for networking.” Georgia held the paper, feeling the elegant script beneath her thumb. She didn’t scream. She didn’t weep. She folded the betrayal neatly and placed it in a drawer of her mind, locking it away.
She managed. She focused on cooking elaborate meals, on replanting the garden, on listening to Mike’s stories with a semblance of warmth. The memories of Ava, however, were a banked fire she visited in the dark. In the shower, or late at night beside Mike’s sleeping form, she would close her eyes and replay the sensations. The crushing heat of Ava’s mouth. The specific sound of her gasp when Georgia’s teeth grazed her nipple. The vivid, salty-tang taste of her climax. She used these recollections with surgical precision, bringing herself to swift, silent orgasms that left her empty and calm. The memories were enough. They had to be.
The wedding day was a spectacle of white orchids and champagne flutes. Ava was a vision in sleek, architectural silk, her beauty so sharp it hurt to look at. Her new husband, David, was handsome, possessive, his hand a constant claim on the small of her back. Georgia watched, a ghost in a navy-blue dress. She sipped her champagne. She smiled at the right moments. She felt nothing but a dull, hollow peace. She had survived.
During the bride’s dance, Ava’s gaze found hers across the crowded floor. Georgia offered a small, polite smile, the kind one neighbor gives another. She saw a crack in Ava’s flawless composure, a fleeting panic in those gold-flecked eyes before David spun her away.
An hour later, in the opulent hotel bathroom lined with mirrors, Georgia was fixing her lipstick. The door burst open. Ava stood there, her wedding dress a crush of silk, her breath coming in short, ragged pants. The aura of serene beauty was gone, replaced by something wild and frayed.
“Georgia.” Her voice was a strained whisper.
“Congratulations. You look beautiful,” Georgia said, her tone pleasant, distant. She turned back to the mirror.
Ava crossed the room in two strides, grabbing Georgia’s arm and spinning her around. The scent of her perfume and nervous sweat was overwhelming. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking do that.” Her eyes were desperate, pupils blown wide. “You see me. You always saw me.”
Georgia gently pried Ava’s fingers from her arm. “I saw a fantasy. It’s over. Go enjoy your party, Ava.”
“I can’t breathe in this room,” Ava hissed, her composure shattering. “He’s touching me and all I can think about is your mouth on me. I can’t.” A tear, genuine and furious, tracked through her perfect makeup. “Please.”
That word. The power shift was dizzying.
Georgia said nothing. She studied the raw need on the bride’s face, the tremor in her hands.
“The honeymoon suite,” Ava choked out, the begging now frantic, humiliating. “Top floor. Keycard is in my bouquet on the table. Please, Georgia. I need you to fuck me. I need you to ruin this dress.”
Georgia took a slow breath, the hollow peace inside her cracking open, revealing the hungry, waiting thing beneath. She nodded, once. “Go back to your husband. Smile. I’ll be there.”
Twenty minutes later, Georgia slid the keycard into the lock. The suite was a cavern of luxury, all soft light and roses. Ava stood in the center of the room, already out of her dress, wearing only a white lace garter and sheer stockings. Her eyes were black with need.
No words. Georgia pushed her backward onto the lavish bed, following her down. This time, her kiss wasn’t desperate. It was slow, deliberate, punishing. She bit Ava’s lower lip, hard enough to make her gasp. “You begged,” Georgia murmured against her mouth, her hand sliding between Ava’s thighs. She was soaking, her swollen cunt already pulsing. “On your wedding day.”
“Yes,” Ava moaned, arching, trying to grind against Georgia’s hand.
Georgia held her hips down. “No.” She repositioned herself, kneeling between Ava’s spread legs. She leaned forward, her breath hot on Ava’s inner thigh. “You get what I give you.” She didn’t use her tongue. She used her fingers, pushing two inside the desperate, clutching heat, curling them relentlessly against that spot that made Ava’s entire body jolt.
“Fuck! Fuck, right there, please!” Ava babbled, her hands scrabbling at the duvet.
“You don’t come until I say,” Georgia commanded, her voice low and steady. She worked her fingers in and out, a harsh, rhythmic fucking, while her thumb circled Ava’s clit with torturous pressure. She watched Ava unravel, watched her thighs shake, watched her beautiful face contort with the struggle to hold back. “This is what you needed, isn’t it?” Georgia drove her fingers deeper, feeling Ava’s internal muscles fluttering in a prelude to collapse. “To be absolutely fucking ruined on your wedding night? By me?”
Ava could only nod, a broken, sobbing sound tearing from her throat.
“Now,” Georgia said.
Ava’s climax hit her like a seizure. Her back arched off the bed, a raw, screaming cry echoing in the suite as she gushed around Georgia’s fingers, the waves violent and endless. Georgia fucked her through it, until Ava collapsed, whimpering, tears streaking her face.
Georgia slowly withdrew her glistening fingers. She brought them to her own mouth, her eyes locked on Ava’s shattered form, and sucked them clean. The taste was victory, and salt, and finality.
She stood up, smoothing her dress. Ava lay spent amidst the ruin of white linens, her stockings torn, her body glistening with sweat.
“Goodbye, Ava,” Georgia said, her voice calm, final.
She walked out, leaving the bride in the wreckage of her honeymoon suite. The door clicked shut with a sound of profound peace.
The door clicked shut with a sound of profound peace. The ornate hallway carpet swallowed Georgia’s footsteps as she walked away, the taste of Ava still sharp on her tongue. Down in the ballroom, a cheer erupted; the cake was being cut. She collected her coat, smiled at the valet, and drove home through the neon-washed night. Her hands were steady on the wheel. Inside her, where there had been a screaming vortex, now lay a calm, dark lake.
Mike was asleep on the couch, a football game flickering on mute. She draped a blanket over him and went upstairs. In the shower, she scrubbed until her skin was pink, but the phantom sensation of Ava’s climax pulsing around her fingers lingered like a tattoo. She slept deeply, dreamlessly. The hollowness was not emptiness; it was resolution.
Weeks bled into a month. Fall painted the neighborhood in fiery hues. Georgia joined a book club. She planted tulip bulbs. She initiated sex with Mike on a Tuesday afternoon, and for a few minutes, she was almost present. The memory of the hotel suite was a polished stone she kept in her pocket, smooth and cool to the touch.
Then, on a rainy Thursday, her phone buzzed. An unknown number. The message was stark: I can’t stop thinking about your mouth.
Georgia deleted it. Her pulse was a distant drum. She chopped vegetables for a stew, the knife hitting the board with solid, satisfying thunks. Another buzz. Please. Then another. I’m alone. He’s traveling. I’m so wet and all I can see is you over me. Georgia turned her phone face down. She ate dinner with Mike, discussing gutter repairs. She went to bed early.
The texts came in sporadic, desperate waves. Sometimes late at night: I’m touching myself and it’s not enough. Sometimes in the brittle afternoon: Just come over. Just to talk. Georgia never replied. The silence was her answer, her vengeance, her sanity. She pictured Ava in her modern house, staring at her phone, that beautiful face twisted in frustration. The image fed her.
Then, on a night Mike was at a buddy’s, a new message arrived. It was a video. Georgia’s thumb hovered. She pressed play.
It was Ava, in the same bedroom. The camera was propped up, framing her on the bed. She was naked, her skin glowing in the lamplight. She didn’t speak. She simply looked at the lens, her eyes burning with a defiant need, and slowly spread her legs. Her fingers trailed through the dark thatch of curls, then dipped inside herself. She let out a shaky sigh, her head falling back. She brought her glistening fingers to her mouth, sucking them clean, her gaze never leaving the camera.
The video ended. Georgia’s breath was ragged. The dark lake inside her stirred, a heat rising from its depths. She waited twenty-seven minutes. Then she typed: No.
The immediate reply was instantaneous: Why?
Georgia responded with cold precision: You don’t get to summon me. You had your wedding. You made your choice.
Ava wrote back: It was a mistake. A beautiful, fucking catastrophic mistake. I need you.
Georgia powered off her phone. She poured a glass of wine, her hand trembling slightly. The power was a potent, heady thing. She slept with the phone silent in a drawer.
The begging evolved. It became more creative, more specific. I bought the silk scarf. The one from the second day. It’s on my bed. Another time: I’m on the balcony. I’m not wearing anything under this robe. The neighbors could see. Do you want them to see? Georgia would read them, feel the corresponding pull low in her belly, and go weed the garden or reorganize a closet. The urge to go, to conquer her again, was a beast she fed with denial. It grew stronger on starvation.
Winter arrived, sharp and clear. The texts slowed, then stopped for a full two weeks. Georgia felt the absence like a missing tooth, her tongue constantly probing the gap. Had she won? The thought felt like loss.
Then, a Tuesday. Mike was at work. The sky was the color of lead. Her phone buzzed. Not a text. A picture. It was Ava’s bedroom, but different. The scarf was indeed tied to the bedpost. On the nightstand sat a small, vibrating device beside a bottle of lube. The message read: The tools are here. The canvas is here. The artist is absent.
Something in Georgia snapped. Not with a cry, but with a quiet, definitive click. She put on her coat. She drove the familiar route, her mind eerily calm. She didn’t knock. She used the keycode Ava had texted her months ago, during a different life.
The house was silent, warm. Georgia walked up the stairs. Ava lay on the bed, exactly as in the picture, wearing only a black lace bra. Her eyes were wide, wary, hopeful.
“Get up,” Georgia said, her voice flat.
Ava rose, a question on her lips. Georgia closed the distance, grabbed a handful of that luxurious black hair, and pulled her in for a kiss that was all teeth and possession. Ava moaned into her mouth, her body melting instantly.
“No,” Georgia said, breaking the kiss. “On your knees.”
Ava sank down, her eyes locked on Georgia’s. Georgia unbuttoned her own jeans, pushed them and her underwear down just enough. “You want my mouth? You beg for my cunt.”
Understanding, and a fierce gratitude, flashed in Ava’s eyes. She leaned forward, her nose nuzzling through Georgia’s curls, her tongue licking a broad, slow stripe. Georgia tangled her hands in Ava’s hair, not guiding, just holding. “You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you?” Georgia murmured, looking down at the stunning woman between her legs. “All this,” she said, gripping her hair tighter, “just to get eaten out by a housewife.”
Ava responded by diving deeper, her tongue spearing inside, her mouth sucking at Georgia’s clit with a frantic, practiced hunger. Georgia let her head fall back, her hips rocking slightly. She came quickly, a sharp, bright release, her thighs tightening around Ava’s head. Ava lapped at her through the tremors, desperate for every drop.
When Georgia stepped back, pulling her jeans up, Ava was panting on her knees, her chin wet, her eyes glazed.
“On the bed. On your back,” Georgia instructed. She picked up the vibrator, a sleek, wicked thing. She coated it with lube, the sound obscene in the quiet room. Ava watched, her legs falling open in invitation.
Georgia didn’t enter her immediately. She traced the buzzing tip through Ava’s soaked folds, around her clit, down to her entrance and back. Ava whimpered, her back arching. “Please. God, Georgia, please.”
“Since you asked so nicely,” Georgia said, and pushed it into her, deep and slow. Ava cried out, a sound of pure relief. Georgia turned the setting up, watching the vibrations make Ava’s stomach muscles jump. She leaned over, her mouth close to Ava’s ear. “This is what you are now. You’re my booty call. You understand? You don’t get to have me. You get to be used by me, when I decide I want to.”
She began to move the toy, fucking Ava with it in a relentless, rhythmic pace. With her other hand, she pinched and rolled Ava’s nipple through the lace. “You come when I say. Not before.”
Ava nodded frantically, her hands fisting the sheets, her heels digging into the mattress. Her body was a taut bowstring, trembling on the edge. Georgia watched her face, the beautiful agony there. She slowed the toy, drawing it almost all the way out. “Who do you belong to?”
“You,” Ava gasped. “Fuck, I belong to you.”
“Wrong.” Georgia thrust the toy back in hard. “You belong to this. To the need. And I control the supply.” She set a brutal, punishing rhythm. Ava’s cries became choked sobs. Her thighs shook violently. “Now,” Georgia commanded.
Ava shattered. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent scream tearing from her throat as her body convulsed, clamping down on the invading toy. Georgia held it there, letting the vibrations milk the last waves from her until Ava went limp, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.
Georgia withdrew the toy, turned it off, and dropped it on the nightstand. She looked at the spent, glorious creature on the bed. She felt nothing akin to love, only a deep, satiated ownership.
“Clean yourself up,” she said, her voice devoid of warmth. “I’ll text you.”
She walked out, leaving Ava trembling in the aftermath. As she drove home, the first snow of the season began to fall, silent and clean, covering everything.