Chapter 3: Toasty
You woke to the smell of burning butter and the low, steady sizzle of bacon. For a few disoriented seconds, you didn’t know where you were. The ceiling was wrong. The light was wrong. Then the ache in your neck from the couch cushion snapped everything into a cruel, clear focus.
The sounds from the kitchen weren’t the usual quiet clatter of Ami making coffee. These were confident, assertive noises. A pan being jerked on the burner. A cabinet closing with a firm click.
You pushed yourself up, the leather sticking to your bare skin. You’d never gotten dressed last night. The towel was a damp, crumpled pile on the floor. You grabbed your jeans from the day before, pulling them on stiffly. The denim felt like sandpaper.
You stood in the archway between the living room and the kitchen, a spectator in your own home.
Megan stood at your stove, her back to you. She wore only one of your old, faded band t-shirts. It stretched tight across her broad shoulders and barely reached the tops of her thighs. The muscles in her calves shifted as she moved. Ami was pressed against her from behind, arms wrapped around Megan’s waist, her face buried between Megan’s shoulder blades. She was in just a pair of your boxer shorts and a thin camisole. Her black hair was a wild, beautiful mess.
The scene was so domestic it made your teeth hurt.
“I’m surprised your legs are still working after last night,” Megan said, her voice rough with morning and a sly amusement. She used a fork to flip an egg in the pan. The yolk held, wobbling.
“Shut up,” Ami murmured into her back, but there was a smile in her voice, a sleepy, sated thing. She nuzzled closer, her hips making a slight, unconscious rolling motion against Megan’s ass.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The gentle rhythm was unmistakable.
Megan went still. She tilted her head. “Are you… humping me?” She chuckled, a low, warm sound that seemed to vibrate through the kitchen. She didn’t turn around. “Are you trying to stir something up this early in the day?”
Ami froze. You saw the tips of her ears turn pink. “…No,” she hushed, but she didn’t let go.
“No?” Megan prompted, her tone shifting just a fraction. It was the same tone from last night—the one that expected a specific answer.
A brief pause. A slight tightening of Ami’s arms around Megan’s waist. “No, Mistress,” she corrected, her voice so soft it was almost lost in the bacon’s crackle.
“Good girl.” Megan’s satisfaction was a tangible thing. She tilted her head back and to the side, and Ami lifted hers to meet her. The kiss wasn’t long, but it was slow. A lazy, possessive claiming. It was the kind of kiss that belonged to a shared bed and a slow morning, full of unspoken, mutual knowledge.
It was then that Ami’s eyes, fluttering open, landed on you.
She gasped, recoiling from Megan as if shocked. “Fred!”
Megan turned, casual as anything, the fork still in her hand. Her gaze swept over you—your bare chest, your disheveled hair, your stance in the doorway like a stranger. A slow, easy smile spread across her face. It wasn’t the sharp, dominant grin from last night. This was something else. Comfortable. Proprietary.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said. “Sleep okay on that thing? Sounded like a torture device every time you rolled over.”
You couldn’t formulate a response. Your eyes were stuck on Ami, who was now pulling at the hem of her camisole, a flicker of something—guilt? shame?—crossing her face before it smoothed into a careful, gentle concern.
“Honey, you’re up,” she said, her voice too bright. “Megan’s making breakfast. There’s coffee.”
“I made coffee,” Megan corrected, nodding to the full pot. “You, my dear, were busy being a barnacle.” She reached back and patted Ami’s hip without looking. The gesture was effortless, intimate. “Sit down, Fred. Eggs are almost done.”
You moved to the small kitchen table like an automaton, the chair legs scraping loudly on the tile. You watched as Megan served up two plates with a practiced efficiency that spoke of many mornings in her own kitchen. She plated the eggs, the bacon, toast she must have made while you were dead to the world.
She set one plate in front of Ami’s usual seat. The other, she carried around the table and placed in front of you. Then she leaned down, her free hand on the back of your chair, her other arm braced on the table. She boxed you in. The scent of her—sleep, sex, and now bacon—enveloped you.
“You look wrecked,” she observed, her voice a confidential murmur meant only for you. Her eyes traced the bags under yours. “Little too much reality with your fantasy last night?”
You just stared at the perfectly cooked egg, the yolk like a jaundiced eye.
She straightened up, taking her own plate—she’d made one for herself—and did the unthinkable. She didn’t take the third chair. She pulled out Ami’s chair, sat down, and then guided Ami onto her lap as if it were the most natural seating arrangement in the world. Ami went easily, curling into her, one arm looping around Megan’s neck.
They ate like that. Megan with one arm around Ami’s waist, using her free hand to eat. Ami picked at her food, taking small bites, her body a relaxed curve against Megan’s chest.
You picked up your fork. The metal felt alien in your hand.
“So,” Megan said around a bite of toast, addressing you as if conducting a casual business meeting. “We need to talk logistics.”
Ami stilled on her lap.
“Logistics,” you repeated, the word tasting like ash.
“Mmm,” Megan nodded, swallowing. “Ami’s schedule’s tight. Rehearsals most evenings. My library shifts are afternoons and some nights. We need to find the windows.” She squeezed Ami’s hip. “This one’s needs are… considerable. Now that the seal’s broken, I don’t think weekly is gonna cut it.”
Ami hid her face in Megan’s neck, but you saw the blush creeping down her chest.
“We agreed to this,” you said, your voice sounding hollow. “You can… figure it out.”
“We did agree,” Megan said, her tone agreeable. “But the terms have changed. Last night wasn’t just a fuck, Fred. It was an introduction.” She fed Ami a piece of bacon from her own fingers. Ami took it with her lips, her eyes closing. “She’s under my care now. That means I manage her satisfaction. Her maintenance. Which means I need access. Reliable, scheduled access.”
Maintenance. The word hung in the air like a chemical smell.
“What are you saying?” you asked.
“I’m saying Tuesday and Thursday nights are good for me. Saturdays, if her rehearsals end early. She stays over at my place on those nights. Less… disruption for you.” Her eyes flicked to the living room, to the couch. “And it’s more comfortable. My bed is bigger. My walls are thicker.”
The plan was delivered with the calm logic of a therapist outlining a treatment schedule. It was happening so fast. The fantasy had been a door cracked open; Megan was now installing a new archway and charging a toll.
Ami finally spoke, her voice small. “Fred… if that’s too much…”
Megan’s hand on her hip tightened, just a little. A silent reminder. Ami fell quiet.
You looked at your girlfriend, curled on another woman’s lap, negotiating the nights she’d spend in another woman’s bed. The arousal you expected, the twisted thrill you were supposed to feel, was a cold, dead lump in your stomach. This wasn’t watching through a keyhole anymore. This was being presented with the blueprints for your own replacement.
“It’s fine,” you heard yourself say. The words were automatic, a vestige of the script you were supposed to be following. “Whatever works.”
“Good,” Megan said, a final, decisive note. She kissed Ami’s temple. “See? Easy. He just wants you happy.”
She shifted Ami off her lap, standing up in one fluid motion. “I’m gonna grab a shower. My clothes are still in your room, yeah?” she asked Ami.
Ami nodded, looking up at her with an expression you realized you hadn’t seen in months: sheer, uncomplicated adoration.
Megan walked out of the kitchen. She didn’t go to the bathroom. She went straight to your bedroom, closing the door behind her.
The silence she left in her wake was immense. You and Ami sat at the table, the empty chair between you suddenly a vast canyon. The ghost of Megan’s warmth seemed to still cling to the air.
Ami looked at you, her brown eyes searching your face. “Are you… okay with that? Really?”
You pushed your eggs around the plate. The yolk broke, bleeding yellow across the white. “Do you want it?” you asked, not looking at her.
She was quiet for a long time. “I need it,” she said finally, the admission soft and devastating. “Last night, Fred… I’ve never felt that… complete. It’s like a part of me was asleep and she woke it up. And it’s hungry.” She reached a hand across the table, but stopped short of touching you. “It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. You know that, right? This is what you wanted, too.”
Was it? The question screamed inside your skull. You’d wanted the thrill, the taboo, the visual. You hadn’t wanted this quiet kitchen takeover, this scheduling of your obsolescence.
From down the hall, the shower turned on. The pipes groaned in the walls. Megan was in your shower. Again. Using your water. Washing your girlfriend’s scent off her skin in your bathroom.
You stood up, your chair screeching. “I’ve got to get ready for work,” you said, your voice flat.
“Okay,” Ami said, pulling her hand back into her lap. She looked small and unsure again, the confident creature from Megan’s lap gone. “I love you.”
You couldn’t say it back. The words were stuck, glued down by the image of her whispering yes, Mistress against Megan’s skin. You just nodded and walked away, leaving your full plate on the table, the congealing eggs a monument to the new, terrible normal. The shower ran, a steady, indifferent roar, drowning out everything else.