Chapter 13: The Second Session
The doorbell rang at ten the next morning, a clean, familiar chime that now felt like a starter’s pistol. Aidan was already in the kitchen, nursing a coffee he wasn’t tasting. He’d been there since seven, pretending to review project schematics on his laptop, the glow of the screen a poor substitute for sunlight.
Catriona answered the door. He heard the murmur of voices, low and feminine, then the click of heels on hardwood.
They entered the kitchen together. Jenny kept her eyes down, but her posture was different. Less of the shocked deer from yesterday, more a deliberate, surrendered calm. She wore a simple trench coat, belted at the waist. Catriona carried a small gift bag.
“Right on time,” Catriona said, her tone brisk, professional. “I have your new uniform.”
She set the bag on the island. Jenny untied the belt of her coat. It fell open, and she shrugged it off, letting it pool at her feet.
She was naked beneath, save for a pair of simple white sneakers. The morning light from the bay window streamed over her, highlighting the faint bruise on her hip from the table edge the day before. She stood, waiting, her hands loose at her sides.
Catriona reached into the bag and pulled out an apron. It was sheer black polyester, the kind meant for fashion, not function. It had thin spaghetti straps and would cover nothing.
“Arms up,” Catriona instructed.
Jenny obeyed. Catriona slipped the apron over her head, letting the flimsy material settle against Jenny’s skin. She tied the straps behind her neck, then the waist strings in a tight bow at the small of her back. The apron barely reached the tops of her thighs. From the front, it was a dark veil over her nipples and the dark triangle between her legs, turning her nakedness into a lewd suggestion.
“Perfect,” Catriona said, stepping back to admire her work. “Practical, yet transparent. Aidan can now supervise your technique without obstruction. Speaking of which.” She turned to him. “The lower cabinets. They’ve been neglected. Grease splatter, dust. Jenny will clean them. You will instruct her.”
Aidan’s mouth was dry. He set his coffee down. “Okay.”
Jenny moved to the sink. She wet a fresh sponge, applied a dollop of citrus-scented paste cleaner. The familiar, sharp smell cut through the kitchen, a bizarre anchor to normality.
“The technique is important,” Aidan heard himself say, his engineer’s brain grasping for a protocol. “You need to apply even pressure in a circular motion. Don’t just smear it.”
He came up behind her. She was bent slightly at the waist, starting on a cabinet door to the right of the dishwasher. The sheer apron dipped between her buttocks. He placed his hands over hers on the sponge. Her skin was cool, damp.
“Like this,” he said, guiding her hand in a slow, grinding circle. He could feel the tension in her wrists, the fine tremble in her fingers. His own body responded instantly, pressed against the curve of her apron-clad backside.
“Good,” Catriona said from her perch on a stool by the island. She had a mug of tea in her hands, steam curling gently. “Now the lower ones. You’ll need to get right down to it.”
Jenny sank to her knees on the tile floor. Aidan knelt behind her. She leaned forward, stretching to reach the cabinet under the sink. The position was utter submission, her back arched, the apron riding up.
Catriona gave a soft, almost imperceptible hum. A green light.
Aidan’s hands, which had been hovering near Jenny’s to demonstrate the cleaning motion, drifted to her hips. He hooked his fingers under the hem of the apron and lifted. The material pooled at her waist, fully exposing her from behind. She was already slick, glistening.
He fumbled with his sweatpants, freed himself. He was already rigid, aching. He positioned himself, the broad head nudging against her. He didn’t push yet. He looked over his shoulder at his wife.
Catriona had set her tea down. She was leaning forward, elbows on her knees, chin resting on her interlaced fingers. Her gaze was fixed, analytical, hungry. She gave a single, slow nod.
Aidan pushed forward. The entry was smoother than yesterday, her body accepting him with a familiar, tight yield. Jenny gasped, her forehead thumping softly against the cabinet door. Her hands, still clutching the dirty sponge, pressed white-knuckled against the wood.
He set a pace that was slow, deep, and utterly visible. Each withdrawal showed the slick, stretched evidence of him. Each thrust drew a muffled sound from Jenny’s throat. The kitchen filled with the wet, rhythmic slap of skin, the rattle of the cabinet doors with every drive.
Catriona stood. She circled them silently, a shark in elegant loungewear. She stopped to the side, watching the junction of their bodies. She crouched down, her eyes level with the action.
“Look at that,” she murmured, not to them, but to herself. “The way she opens for you. She’s learning the exact angle.”
Her observation was clinical, obscene. Aidan felt a surge of heat so violent it blinded him for a second. His thrusts became harder, less controlled.
“She’s close,” Catriona announced, reading Jenny’s trembling thighs, the high, sharp sounds she was making. “Don’t stop. I want to watch her come while you’re inside her.”
The command tipped Jenny over the edge. Her body seized, a silent scream shaking her frame as she clenched around him in a series of violent, rhythmic pulses. The sensation shattered what was left of Aidan’s control. He drove in one final, brutal time, burying himself as deep as he could go, and emptied into her with a groan that felt ripped from his chest.
He stayed there, lodged inside her, panting. Spent.
Catriona watched, her breath now coming in quick, quiet pants. She watched as he finally pulled out. She watched the immediate, thick spill of his release onto Jenny’s inner thighs and the clean tile below.
Slowly, Catriona got down on her knees on the floor. She ignored the mess. She moved her face close to Jenny’s splayed, glistening flesh. For a long moment, she just looked. Then, with a deliberate slowness that froze both Aidan and Jenny, she extended her tongue.
She licked a slow, clean stripe up Jenny’s thigh, collecting the pooled evidence. She closed her eyes as she did it, savoring the taste. When she opened them, they were glazed, dark with a kind of triumphant hunger.
She stood, smoothing her trousers. She looked at Jenny, who was still trembling on the floor, then at Aidan, who was staring, utterly hollowed out.
“The cleaning technique,” Catriona said, her voice husky but firm, “was satisfactory. You can finish the cabinets now, Jenny. The sponge is right there.”
She picked up her cooling tea, took a sip, and walked out of the kitchen, leaving them in the silent, citrus-scented wreckage of the morning. The only sound was the soft, ragged sound of Jenny trying to remember how to breathe.