Chapter 1: The Sunday Roast
Yaa nervously stirred the gravy, the wooden spoon clacking against the pot in a rhythm that matched her jackrabbit heart. The rich, meaty scent usually comforted her. Tonight, it just smelled like stress.
Simon manned the carving knife, his large hands moving with a frightening precision that had nothing to do with poultry. The blade glinted under the kitchen’s harsh light. He didn’t look at her, his voice a low murmur that cut through the hum of the extractor fan. “They’re five minutes out. König just texted.”
The air in the cluttered kitchen was charged, thick with the smells of her curry, his jerk chicken, and something else entirely—the ghost of last night’s conversation, which hung between them like a live wire.
“He needs to stop slouching,” Simon added, a dark chuckle in his tone. “Makes him look more suspicious, not less.”
Yaa didn’t answer. She kept stirring. Last night, over takeout on the paint-smeared couch, he’d asked her what she thought about in the quiet moments. A simple, dangerous question. She’d been tired, the weight of a failed parental visitation case still heavy on her shoulders, and the wine had made her mouth loose. She’d confessed. She’d said she was attracted to women, that she’d been watching lesbian porn lately, that sometimes the thought of soft skin and a different kind of touch unspooled something warm and quiet in her stomach.
Simon had gone very still. Then he’d smiled, a slow, predatory thing that showed his teeth. He’d admitted he’d love to see that. He’d love to see her fucking anyone, but especially a woman. The sheer, crude voyeurism of it had made her face heat, a confusing mix of shock and a treacherous, unwinding thrill.
He hadn’t stopped talking about it since.
“You need to chill out,” Yaa said now, her voice tight. “They’re our guests. It’s a goodbye dinner for Nichole, not your personal… theater.”
Simon set the knife down and turned, leaning his hips against the counter. He’d forgone the balaclava, of course, but the intensity in his blue eyes was its own kind of mask. A network of pale scars across his jaw caught the light. “I’m chilled. Just curious. So, are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Attracted to her. To Nichole.”
The doorbell rang, a shrill electronic bleat that made Yaa jump. The gravy slopped over the rim of the pot, sizzling on the hob. She swore, grabbing a cloth. Simon’s smile widened. He had his answer—her lack of one.
She wiped her hands on her jeans as Simon went to the door. She heard the deep, rumbling greeting, König’s voice a startled bass note, too loud in the hallway. “Hello! We brought wine. It is red. I hope that is acceptable.”
Then Nichole’s laugh, a bright, crackling sound that always reminded Yaa of sparklers. “Move your tree-trunk ass, König, you’re blocking the whole doorway.”
They filed in. König, a mountain of a man in a too-tight cable-knit sweater, seemed to be trying to fold himself in half to appear smaller. He thrust the bottle of wine toward Yaa like a peace offering, his boyish face flushing. Nichole slipped past him, a vision of vibrant chaos. Her curly hair was a magnificent dark halo, her skin the rich brown of mahogany, and she wore a crimson dress that clung to every curve. Firecracker wasn’t just a personality trait; it was her entire aesthetic.
“Yaa! This place smells insane. I’ve been dreaming of your curry for weeks,” Nichole said, pulling her into a quick, warm hug that smelled of coconut oil and perfume.
“It’s just a basic jollof,” Yaa mumbled, but she smiled.
“Lies. It’s divine. And look at you, playing domestic goddess. It suits you.” Nichole’s eyes sparkled with a knowing mischief that made Yaa’s stomach flip.
In the living room, the bad reality show on the TV was muted. Simon was already pouring whisky for himself and König, who sat on the far end of the sofa, looking like he was afraid to break it. The room felt suddenly, intensely small.
Small talk spooled out, fragile and uneven. Simon and König talked about a recent deployment—vague, sanitized references to “logistics” and “terrain” that Yaa knew were code for blood and chaos. She tried to listen, but her attention was pulled to Nichole, who had curled up in the armchair, her legs tucked beneath her.
“So,” Yaa said, too loudly. She cleared her throat. “Congratulations again on the new post. The Islington branch is lucky to have you.”
Nichole waved a hand, her bangles jangling. “Please. I’m terrified. It’s all new systems, new faces. I’m going to miss having my favorite pain-in-the-arse social worker around to make the days interesting.” Her gaze was direct, unflinching. “Seriously. You kept me sane, Yaa.”
It made Yaa feel a certain way. A hot, complicated twist low in her belly. She looked away, toward the kitchen. “I should check on the food. Don’t let Simon poison König with that whisky.”
Back at the hob, the rhythmic clatter of the spoon was no comfort. She was hyper-aware of everything: the murmur of the men’s voices, the quiet rustle of Nichole moving, the thrum of her own pulse. She felt Simon’s eyes on her back before she heard him approach.
He came up behind her, not touching, his presence a wall of heat. He spoke into the space between her neck and shoulder, his breath stirring the tiny hairs there. “She can’t stop looking at you either.”
“Simon,” she warned, her voice a taut thread.
“I’m just observing. Like you do with your clients.” His hand came up, not to touch her, but to point past her, toward the living room. König was leaning forward, explaining something with clumsy, earnest gestures. Nichole was watching him, but as if feeling the weight from the kitchen, her eyes slid slowly, deliberately, to Yaa. She held the look for three long seconds before a slow smile touched her lips and she turned back to König.
Yaa stopped stirring. Her knuckles were white on the spoon’s handle.
“See?” Simon’s voice was pure gravel. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You told me. Now it’s in our living room. What are you going to do about it?”
The question hung in the steamy air. The choice was a door, slightly ajar. She could shut it. Laugh it off, serve dinner, talk about work and movies and nothing real. Or she could push it open.
She turned her head, her cheek almost brushing his lips. “What do you want me to do?”
His eyes darkened. “I want you to stop stirring the fucking gravy and go sit next to her. I want you to see what happens. I’ll watch.”
It was wrong. It was crude. It sent a lightning bolt of pure heat straight to her core. She put the spoon down, the clatter final.
Dinner was a surreal pantomime. They ate off mismatched plates on their laps, the food flavorful but tasteless in Yaa’s mouth. König, encouraged by Nichole and several glasses of wine, grew less shy, his laughter booming. Simon played the host, refilling drinks, his gaze constantly circling back to Yaa like a shark.
Yaa sat next to Nichole on the sofa. Their thighs weren’t touching, but the space between them felt charged, a magnetic field. Every time Nichole leaned over to make a point, her scent washed over Yaa. Every time she laughed, the sound vibrated in the cramped space.
During a lull, Nichole’s hand, resting on the couch cushion, brushed Yaa’s. It was an accident. Probably. But neither of them moved their hand away. The contact was a brand. Yaa’s breath hitched.
Simon saw it. He leaned back in his chair, swirling his whisky. “König,” he said, his tone conversational. “You ever just want to watch?”
König blinked, confused. “Watch… football?”
Simon’s gaze flicked to the two women on the sofa. “Something beautiful.”
König’s booming laugh filled the room, a nervous, startled sound. “What, like a film? I suppose documentaries can be—” He stopped. The laughter died in his throat as he saw Simon’s face. The man wasn’t smiling. He was just watching, blue eyes cool and intent. König’s massive frame seemed to shrink into the sofa. “Oh. You are not joking.”
Yaa was shaking her head, a slow, desperate motion. Worry gnawed a hole straight through her gut. What the fuck was he doing? They hadn’t even discussed shit like this with each other, not really, not the logistics of it, and now he was airing it out in front of their friends like it was a fucking pub quiz topic.
“Simon,” she murmured, the word tight. “Let it go.”
But Nichole was leaning forward now, her eyes alight with a fierce, curious hunger. The wine glass dangled from her fingers. “Wait, hold on. Talk about what? What are we watching?” Her gaze danced from Simon’s stern face to Yaa’s horrified one. “This sounds infinitely more interesting than König’s take on Austrian forestry.”
Simon kept his eyes on Yaa. “Can I be candid?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft.
Yaa buried her face in her hands. The room felt like it was tilting. She prayed, to no god in particular, that this wasn’t going to end with shattered wine glasses and the end of their friendships. A muffled, defeated sound escaped her palms. “Go on then.”
“We were talking last night,” Simon began, conversational, as if discussing the weather. “About fantasies. What gets the gears turning. And I recently learned something about myself. I really like voyeurism. Watching.” He clarified, his gaze sweeping meaningfully across the three of them. “The idea of it. It does something for me.”
Yaa groaned, the sound vibrating in her cupped hands.
Nichole cackled, a sharp, delighted bark. “No shit! The strong, silent type has a kink. I love it.”
König looked like he wanted the couch to swallow him whole. His ears were bright red. He was not sure what to think, his brain clearly short-circuiting between protocol for hostile conversations and the sheer social terror of this one.
Simon shrugged, a roll of his powerful shoulders. “We’re all drunk anyway. Could share. No judgements here.” His eyes pinned Yaa. “You started it, love.”
The pressure was a physical thing. The expectation in Simon’s stare, the curiosity in Nichole’s, the bewildered discomfort in König’s. Not wanting him to be alone on the ledge, stupidly, fiercely loyal even in this, Yaa lowered her hands. Her face was hot. She couldn’t look at anyone. “I just… I said I’d been watching lesbian porn lately. That’s all. The… the porn part. Not… not anything else.” It was a coward’s clarification, and they all knew it.
A slow, brilliant smile spread across Nichole’s face. She took a long, deliberate sip of wine. “Well, fuck me. Small world.” She set the glass down with a click. “I’m the same. Got the experience, though. A few girls at university. One serious-ish thing for a bit.” She said it easily, a simple fact, her eyes never leaving Yaa’s.
The air vanished from the room. Yaa couldn’t breathe.
Simon’s head turned, a predator tracking new movement. “König. You know this?”
König jumped, spilling a little whisky on his thigh. “I… I… yes. She told me. On our third date. She said it was… important. For honesty.” He was staring at his own knees, his voice a mortified rumble.
Nichole reached over and patted his arm. “He took it well. After he picked his jaw up off the floor.” She grinned, her tone shifting to something fond and teasing. “I had to explain the mechanics. He asked if it was like wrestling.”
Simon’s laugh was a short, dark huff. “And what did you tell him?”
Nichole’s eyes locked back on Yaa, a challenge and an invitation. “I told him it wasn’t anything like wrestling. I told him it was soft, and slow, and that eating a woman out was the closest thing to knowing a secret goddamn universe.” She said it plainly, filthily, the crude words weaving a vivid, terrifying picture in the close, warm air of the flat. “I told him that sometimes, a woman’s hands on you just make more sense.”
The words hung in the air, a palpable, sticky heat. Yaa’s mouth went dry. She felt Simon’s gaze like a physical weight, a brand on the side of her face. König was staring at the floor, his ears burning, but when he chanced a glance up, his eyes were wide, darting between Nichole and Yaa with a fascinated, fearful intrigue.
Simon shifted in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. A slow, deliberate adjustment of his stance. The bulge in his jeans was noticeable, a blatant, proud outline. He was hard. The revelation, the crude poetry of Nichole’s description, had bypassed conversation and gone straight to his cock.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word more reverence than curse.
Nichole’s smile was victorious. She turned fully to Yaa, curling one leg beneath her on the couch, closing the distance. The magnetic field between them collapsed. Their knees touched. Yaa jolted.
“So,” Nichole said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that somehow filled the silent room. “What about it, then? What exactly do you like in the porn? The… gentleness? Or is it the bite?”
Yaa’s mind was a white noise of panic and want. She could feel the sweat prickling under her arms, the heavy, aching throb between her legs that betrayed her completely. She tried to form a sentence, but all that came out was a shaky breath. “I… I don’t know. The… the looking. The way they look at each other. Like they’re drowning and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened.”
Nichole’s eyes softened, then darkened. “Yeah,” she whispered. “That’s the good shit.” Her hand, which had been resting on her own thigh, moved. The tip of her finger traced a absent-minded circle on the denim covering Yaa’s knee. “The focused attention. No one’s thinking about football. They’re just… gone. In it.”
Simon watched the finger on Yaa’s knee like it was the most important thing in the world. His own hand drifted to his crotch, palming himself through the fabric in a slow, open stroke. No shame. Just a statement of fact. He was here for this. He was in this.
He tore his eyes away from the women and looked at König. “Your turn.”
König flinched. “My… my turn for what?”
“Fantasy. You just heard two of them. Now you.” Simon’s voice wasn’t unkind. It was tactical. He was gathering intel, building a plan of action. “What gets your giant, Austrian brain off? Since your girlfriend likes women, I’m guessing you’ve got one. Something involving… a show.”
König swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked at Nichole, a silent plea for an exit. She just raised her eyebrows, a slight, encouraging smile on her lips. He was on his own.
“I… I do not know how to say it,” he mumbled, his accent thickening with stress.
“Try,” Simon said. It was an order.
König took a huge gulp of his whisky, coughed, and set the glass down with a clatter. He stared at his own massive hands, clenched in his lap. “It is… like you said. The watching. But… not just watching her.” He dared a glance at Simon. “Watching with someone. A… a friend. Sharing it. The… the secret of it. And then… not just watching.”
The room got even quieter. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen sounded like a roar.
Simon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his focus absolute. “Go on.”
König’s voice dropped to a rough, ashamed whisper. “Then… joining. Together.”
A bolt of pure, undiluted lust shot through Yaa, so sharp it felt like fear. She looked at Simon. His eyes were blazing. The plan had snapped into place in his head, fully formed.
“Right,” Simon said, standing up. He wasn’t a guest anymore. He was the commanding officer. “Get up.”
The command was for everyone. König stood, a tower of nervous tension. Nichole uncurled herself gracefully, her eyes flashing with excited comprehension. Yaa’s legs felt like water, but she pushed herself up, her knees trembling.
Simon walked to the centre of the cramped living room. He pointed at the paint-smudged couch. “You two. Sit.”
Yaa and Nichole looked at each other. The heat between them was no longer a potential; it was a mandate. They moved to the couch and sat, turned slightly towards each other. The space was too small. Their hips and thighs pressed together from knee to waist.
Simon dragged his armchair closer, positioning it directly opposite them. A throne. He sat. He gestured for König to bring the dining chair. König did, placing it beside Simon’s, a nervous spectator in the front row.
The staging was complete. Four players. Two on stage. Two in the dark.
“Now,” Simon said, his voice a low, controlled rasp. He was fully, obviously hard, the thick line of his erection straining against his zipper. “You were talking about attention. About drowning. Show us.”
Nichole didn’t hesitate. She turned to Yaa, cupping her face with both hands. Her thumbs stroked Yaa’s cheekbones. “Is this okay?” she whispered, her breath sweet with wine.
Yaa could only nod, a tiny, desperate movement. Her whole world had shrunk to the warmth of Nichole’s hands, the dark pools of her eyes, the predatory stillness of Simon in her periphery.
“Good,” Nichole murmured. Then she kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It was deep and claiming from the first second, a hungry, open-mouthed slide of lips and tongue. Nichole’s tongue speared into Yaa’s mouth, and Yaa moaned, the sound trapped between them. Her hands came up, fluttering, then clutching at Nichole’s shoulders, the crimson fabric slippery under her fingers.
From the chairs, a sharp, choked inhale. König. A low, approving groan from Simon. “That’s it. Let’s see it.”
Nichole pulled back slightly, biting Yaa’s lower lip before releasing it. She trailed her mouth down Yaa’s jaw, to her throat. Her hands left Yaa’s face, one sliding behind to cradle the back of her head, the other dropping to Yaa’s waist, pulling their bodies tighter together.
“Touch her,” Simon ordered, his voice rough. “Yaa. Don’t just sit there. Touch her back.”
Yaa’s hands, clumsy with nerves, moved. One tangled in Nichole’s magnificent hair, the other slid down the curve of her spine, feeling the knobs of her vertebrae through the thin dress. She arched into Nichole, a silent plea for more.
Nichole’s mouth was hot on her neck, sucking a mark that was going to bruise. Her hand on Yaa’s waist crept higher, fingertips skimming the underside of Yaa’s breast through her thin t-shirt. Yaa gasped, her hips jerking forward.
“Fucking perfect,” Simon hissed. Yaa heard the rustle of fabric, the quiet clink of a belt buckle. She couldn’t look. She was drowning.
Nichole’s hand closed over her breast, kneading it, her thumb circling the nipple that was already a hard peak. Yaa cried out, the sound broken and high.
“You like that?” Nichole whispered against her skin, her own breath coming fast. “You like her watching?”
“He’s… he’s not just watching,” Yaa panted, the realization dawning through the fog of sensation. She could hear it now—the soft, rhythmic, slick sound of Simon stroking his own cock. The visceral, obscene evidence of his enjoyment.
“I know,” Nichole said, and her voice was feral with power. She looked over Yaa’s shoulder, directly at the men. “You like the show, Simon?”
His answer was a grunt. “Get her top off. Now.”
Nichole’s fingers hooked into the hem of Yaa’s t-shirt. She broke the kiss, her eyes locking with Yaa’s. A question. A final permission. Yaa, her chest heaving, her core clenching with empty, desperate need, nodded again.
The shirt was pulled up and over her head, tossed aside. Yaa sat in her plain, practical bra, feeling exposed under the lamplight and the twin gazes from the chairs. But Nichole’s gaze was hotter. She stared at Yaa’s chest, her lips parted.
“Pretty,” she breathed. Her hand came up, tracing the lace edge of the cup before deftly flicking the front clasp open. The bra fell away.
Yaa’s breasts spilled free, full and heavy in the cool air. Nichole didn’t hesitate. She lowered her head and took one peaked nipple into her mouth, sucking hard.
The sensation was electric, a direct line to Yaa’s cunt. She shouted, her back bowing, her fingers clawing into Nichole’s scalp. “Oh God!”
“Yes,” Simon growled from his chair. The stroking sound got faster, wetter. “Suck her tits. Make her scream for it.”
Nichole worshiped one breast, then the other, her mouth and hands greedy and possessive. She bit gently, soothed with her tongue, lavished attention until Yaa was writhing, a continuous, low moan pouring from her lips. Her own hands fumbled for Nichole’s dress, dragging the zipper down the side.
“Help her,” Simon commanded König, his voice strained.
König, who had been frozen, a statue of arousal and anxiety, jerked into motion. He stood on clumsy legs and came behind the couch. With trembling, surprisingly deft fingers for a man his size, he found the zipper at the back of Nichole’s dress and pulled it the rest of the way down.
Nichole shrugged the crimson fabric off her shoulders. It pooled at her waist. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were smaller, high and perfect with large, dark nipples. Yaa stared, hunger overriding every other sense. She reached out, cupping one, feeling the weight, rubbing her thumb over the taut peak.
“Kiss her again,” Simon panted. “Let him see your tongues.”
They crashed together, a messy, desperate clash of mouths and hands. Yaa squeezed Nichole’s breast, pinched her nipple, and Nichole moaned into her mouth, the vibration going straight to Yaa’s core. Their tongues tangled, wet and obscene. Yaa could taste herself and wine and the pure, heady flavour of Nichole.
Behind them, König’s breathing was ragged. Simon’s was a steady, harsh rhythm, punctuated by soft, filthy curses. “Christ, look at them. König, you seeing this? Your girl’s a fucking artist. She’s making my wife come apart with her mouth.”
The word wife did something to Yaa, even here, even now. It anchored her to him in the middle of the freefall. She belonged to this, to him, to this moment he had engineered.
Nichole’s hand, which had been roaming Yaa’s back, slid around her hip. Her fingers dipped, without ceremony, into the waistband of Yaa’s jeans. They popped the button. They dragged