Chapter 17: The First Day
The suitcase looked absurdly small sitting on the plush, cream-colored rug in the middle of the guest suite. Jenny stood beside it, hands on her hips, trying to reconcile the sum total of her previous life with the expansive, sun-washed room that was now hers. Catriona had been efficient; the space was no longer a sterile guest room. It felt curated. Fresh lilies in a vase on the dresser, a stack of expensive-looking towels in the ensuite, and a new, strikingly modern reading lamp by the bed. The bed itself was a vast sea of linen, the sheets crisp and untouched.
The permanence of it was a physical pressure in her chest. This wasn't a sleepover. This was a relocation.
The door clicked open behind her. Catriona entered, carrying a hanger draped in silk the color of midnight. “I thought you might need this,” she said, her voice echoing softly in the spacious room. She laid the garment on the bed. It was a robe, cut long and sleek, with a subtle pattern woven into the fabric that caught the light.
“For me?” Jenny asked, reaching out to touch the cool, slippery material.
“Consider it part of the uniform,” Catriona said, a playful edge to her words. She walked to the window, adjusting the blind to filter the late afternoon sun. “The rules are simple. When you’re in this part of the house, especially after say, seven PM, you wear this. And nothing underneath. It’s about ease of access. And aesthetics.”
Jenny’s fingers stilled on the silk. The clinical phrasing—’ease of access’—should have felt degrading. Instead, it sent a sharp, liquid heat straight to her core. It was a command, but one that spoke directly to the part of her that had fantasized about being chosen, being wanted without apology.
“Okay,” she breathed.
“Good.” Catriona turned, leaning against the windowsill. She was still in her robe from the morning, but she looked composed, in control. “Now, we should probably christen the space. Properly. Before the novelty of the new sheets wears off.”
As if on cue, a shadow filled the doorway. Aidan stood there, having showered and changed into jeans and a soft grey t-shirt. He looked more himself, and yet completely unfamiliar. His eyes went from Catriona to Jenny, then to the dark silk robe on the bed. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“There you are,” Catriona said, smiling. “We were just discussing the sleeping arrangements. Or rather, the non-sleeping ones.”
Aidan stepped into the room. It felt suddenly smaller. “Cat…”
“Don’t ‘Cat’ me.” She pushed off the sill and walked towards him, placing a hand flat on his chest. “You heard the terms. This is her first night. We need to establish the routine.” Her eyes glinted. “I want you to break in the new bed. Right now. While I watch.”
The air thickened. The distant hum of the vacuum cleaner from downstairs had stopped, leaving a ringing silence. Aidan looked past his wife to Jenny. She was staring at him, her dark eyes wide, her bottom lip caught slightly between her teeth. He saw the nervous flutter in her throat, but also the way her posture had straightened, a silent acceptance.
Catriona’s hand slid down his chest, lower, palming him through his jeans. He was already hard. “See?” she murmured. “No arguments from the committee.” She gave him a gentle push towards the bed. “Jenny. The robe.”
Jenny’s hands trembled only slightly as she unbuttoned her simple cotton dress. It pooled at her feet. The afternoon light gilded her skin, highlighting the gentle curve of her waist, the swell of her hips. She didn’t look at either of them as she picked up the silk robe and slid her arms into it. The fabric whispered over her skin, cool and impossibly smooth. She tied the belt, the loose knot sitting just below her navel.
Catriona had settled into the deep armchair in the corner, tucking her legs beneath her. She looked like a patron at a very private theatre. “On the bed, Jenny. On your knees, facing me.”
Jenny obeyed, climbing onto the vast mattress. The new sheets smelled of lavender and sunshine. She knelt, the silk robe falling open to reveal the shadow between her thighs. Aidan stood at the edge of the bed, watching her, the control he was known for fraying at the edges.
“Now him,” Catriona instructed, her voice a low, clear directive.
Jenny reached for the button of his jeans, her fingers more confident than they had any right to be. She freed him, her small hands struggling slightly with the sheer size of him. He hissed out a breath as she took him in hand. She leaned forward, her tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path from root to tip before taking him into her mouth.
“Look at that,” Catriona mused from the chair, a hitch in her own breath. “She’s a quick study. Don’t stop, Jenny. Get him nice and ready for you.”
Aidan’s hands fisted in the silk at Jenny’s shoulders. The feel of her mouth, the visual of his wife watching intently from a few feet away, the forbidden, purchased nature of it all—it unraveled him. His hips gave a shallow thrust. Jenny took it, her throat working.
“Enough,” Catriona said after a long, taut minute. “I want to see him fuck you. Bend her over, Aidan. I want to watch it happen.”
Aidan pulled back, his skin slick from her mouth. He guided Jenny with hands that weren’t entirely steady, turning her, pressing her down so her cheek was against the cool linen, her round hips raised. The silk robe was a dark puddle around her waist. He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing against her entrance. She was already wet, her body welcoming him with a familiar, hot clench.
“Go on,” Catriona urged, her voice barely above a whisper now. One of her own hands had disappeared beneath the fold of her robe. “Claim your new bed, Jenny.”
Aidan pushed inside.
The stretch was still breathtaking, a glorious, burning fullness that made Jenny cry out, the sound muffled by the sheets. He set a punishing rhythm from the start, no gentle acclimation, each drive a raw assertion of the new reality. The bed frame, solid as it was, began a soft, persistent knock against the wall.
“That’s it,” Catriona breathed, her eyes glued to the place where they joined. “Look how she takes him. All of him. God, Aidan, look at her.”
Aidan’s gaze was locked on Jenny’s back, on the contrast of his hands gripping her hips, on the silk tangled around them. He was lost in the sensation, the tight, willing heat, the complete abdication of responsibility. This was ordered. Sanctioned. His wife’s permission was a catalyst, turning guilt into a fiercer, more reckless kind of hunger.
“Come for him, Jenny,” Catriona commanded, her own breathing becoming ragged. “Let me see you come on his cock.”
Jenny’s body shuddered, a tight, rippling wave that clenched around him, pulling a guttural groan from Aidan’s chest. He felt his own control snap. He drove into her once, twice more, his release hitting him like a seismic shock, pumping deep into her with a force that made her gasp. He stayed there, buried, his forehead dropped between her shoulder blades, as the world slowly reassembled itself.
The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the faint, slick sound of their separation as he finally pulled out. Jenny collapsed onto her side, the ruined silk robe clinging to her damp skin. Aidan sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his back to them both.
Catriona rose from the chair. Her cheeks were flushed, her green eyes dark and satisfied. She walked to the bed, ran a hand through Aidan’s sweat-damp hair, then leaned over to kiss Jenny’s temple. “Perfect,” she murmured. “See? Efficient.”
She straightened, retying the belt of her own robe with deliberate calm. “I’ll let you two clean up. Dinner’s at eight. We’ll have it in the dining room.” A faint, wicked smile touched her lips. “At the table. For old times’ sake.”
She glided from the room, leaving the scent of her perfume and the heavy, spent silence in her wake.
Jenny curled onto her side, facing Aidan’s back. She reached out, her fingers hesitating before they brushed the tense line of his shoulder. He flinched, then covered her hand with his own, squeezing it once—a silent, complicated communication of gratitude, shame, and connection.
Down the hall, in the master bedroom, Catriona closed the door and leaned against it. She let out a long, trembling breath, her knees finally going weak. The cool, composed director had vanished. In the privacy of her room, she pressed her own hands between her thighs, a sharp, desperate moan escaping her as she relived every second, already planning the next scene.