Chapter 21: The New Routine
The following Wednesday, at 4:58 PM, the office was a stage awaiting its players. Aidan sat at his desk, pretending to review a structural report. The numbers blurred into grey streaks. His knee bounced under the mahogany. Two feet away, on the corner of the desk, the camera sat on its tripod, a silent, expectant sentry.
He’d spent the week in a suspended state. Catriona had been… normal. Warm even. She’d discussed fabric swatches over dinner, asked about his work, kissed him goodbye each morning with the same casual affection. It was more unnerving than anger. The memory cards were never mentioned. The chaise had been professionally cleaned; the only evidence was a slight, lingering smell of leather conditioner beneath the vanilla.
The door opened at 5:00 exactly. Jenny walked in, but it wasn’t the Jenny from before. She wore a simple, knee-length black dress, nothing overtly provocative, but it clung to her curves in a way her cleaning clothes never did. Her hair was down, a dark cascade over her shoulders. She carried a leather satchel—her medical textbooks inside, Aidan knew. The juxtaposition was dizzying.
She didn’t look at the camera. She looked at him. “Hi.”
“Hey.” His voice was rough. He cleared his throat.
Before he could say more, Catriona entered. She was all business in a cream-colored linen suit, a tablet in her hand. She’d come from a client meeting. “Light’s perfect,” she said, setting the tablet down and approaching the camera. She powered it on, the low hum joining the quiet. “Aidan, lose the tie. Unbutton the top three. Jenny, the dress is good. Leave it on for now.”
It was the calm efficiency that got to him. This wasn’t a fever dream; it was a project plan. He tugged his tie loose, fingers fumbling with the buttons.
“We’re refining last week’s concept,” Catriona continued, peering through the viewfinder. “More focus on connection. On expression. Jenny, sit on the edge of the chaise. Aidan, stand in front of her. Let’s establish the dynamic before we escalate.”
They moved like chess pieces. Jenny perched on the leather, her hands in her lap. Aidan stood before her, feeling oversized, awkward. The camera whirred, focusing.
“Jenny, look up at him. Not at his face, at his mouth. Think about what you’re about to do. Aidan, put your hand in her hair. Don’t pull, just cradle her skull. Own the moment.”
He did. Her hair was impossibly soft. He saw the pulse fluttering in her throat. Her dark eyes fixed on his lips, and her own parted slightly. The raw want in her gaze, completely unguarded for the lens, hit him in the gut.
“Beautiful,” Catriona murmured, the shutter clicking rapidly. “Now, Jenny. Show me how much you want him. Use your mouth. Slow. Make it last.”
Jenny’s hands came up to his belt, her movements assured now. She freed him, the air cool on his heated skin. Then she leaned forward, and took him into her mouth with a reverence that was entirely new. It wasn’t just technique; it was worship. Her eyes slid closed, her whole being focused on the act. Catriona moved in, the lens hovering just beside them, capturing the intimate gloss of lips, the tightness of Aidan’s stomach, the faint tremor in his thighs.
“Aidan, watch her,” Catriona instructed, her voice a low thrum in the sun-dappled room. “Let me see what it does to you to watch this.”
He looked down. The visual was devastating. His own control, the easy-going demeanour he wore like a suit, was stripped bare. His breath came in short gasps. He was laid open, and the camera was capturing every raw, unvarnished second of it.
After an eternity, Catriona spoke again. “Enough. Aidan, lay back on the chaise. Jenny, now you take what you want. Ride him. Look at me while you do it.”
The transition was fluid, a practiced dance. Aidan lay back, the leather sighing beneath him. Jenny hitched the black dress up around her waist, straddled him, and sank down in one slow, relentless motion. A sharp, gratified breath hissed from between her teeth. Then she looked over her shoulder, directly into the camera, her eyes holding Catriona’s through the lens. She began to move, a rolling, hypnotic rhythm.
Aidan was lost in sensation, in the view of her body moving above him, in the shocking directness of her gaze at his wife. Catriona was everywhere and nowhere, her presence reduced to the click of the shutter and the occasional, soft direction. “Arch your back more, Jenny. Yes. Aidan, your hands on her hips. Mark her.”
He gripped, his fingers pressing into her soft flesh. The climb was quicker this time, amplified by the week of tension, by the sheer theatricality of it. He felt the coil tightening, unstoppable.
“He’s close, Cat,” Jenny gasped, her rhythm faltering, becoming urgent.
“Inside,” Catriona said, the word absolute. No negotiation. “I want the finish. I want to see it claim her.”
It was the permission, the command, that shattered him. He thrust up, burying himself deep as the climax tore through him. Jenny cried out, her inner muscles clamping around him in concentric waves, milking every pulse. She collapsed forward onto his chest, shuddering.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Catriona finally lowered the camera. She walked over, her heels silent on the rug. She didn’t reach for her finger this time. Instead, she gently pushed Jenny’s shoulder, guiding her off Aidan. She then knelt, her eyes fixed on the slick, joining evidence.
She leaned in, not touching, just observing from inches away. “The light catches the texture perfectly,” she said, her tone analytical, thrilled. Then she did something different. She placed a soft kiss on Jenny’s inner thigh, then looked up at Aidan, her green eyes blazing with a complex, terrifying victory. “Even better than last week. The narrative is clearer.”
She stood, brushing her knees. “I’ve booked a dinner reservation for us. All three of us. At Le Marais. Seven-thirty.” She said it like scheduling a dentist appointment. “We’ll go over the footage on the large monitor after we eat. I have some ideas for next Wednesday.” She picked up the camera, cradling it. “I was thinking… maybe audio next time. The sounds are half the story.”
She left them there, tangled and exposed. Jenny rested her head on Aidan’s shoulder, her breath cooling on his damp skin. He stared at the ceiling, the geometric shadows from the blinds painting bars across the plaster.
“She’s good at this,” Jenny whispered, her voice filled with a kind of awe.
Aidan said nothing. He just held her, the scent of her, of them, of Catriona’s perfume, and the faint, metallic tang of the camera lens mixing in the golden air. The routine was now a fact of his life. And the most terrifying part was the part of him that had already accepted it, that was already, secretly, looking forward to what she would think of next.