Chapter 7: The Weekend Begins
The next forty-eight hours passed in a strange, suspended tension. Christelle moved through the house like a ghost, avoiding Abdou’s eyes, the memory of the sofa, of Sébastien’s oblivious kiss, staining every quiet moment. She washed the cushion cover in a panic, scrubbing until her hands were raw. Abdou said nothing, resuming his mask of polite, quiet lodger. The silence between them was a live wire.
Then, the day of the away match arrived.
Sébastien bustled around the kitchen, double-checking his kit bag. “Two nights, maybe three if the traffic is bad coming back,” he said, planting a dry kiss on Christelle’s forehead. “You boys behave for your mother,” he called to his sons, who were already absorbed in a game. He nodded at Abdou. “You keep an eye on things, eh?”
“Of course, Coach,” Abdou said, his smile easy, sincere.
They followed him to the front door, a surreal parody of a family seeing off the patriarch. The morning sun was bright. Sébastien threw his bag into the passenger seat of his estate car, gave a final wave, and reversed out of the driveway.
Christelle stood on the step, arms crossed, watching the car grow smaller down the quiet suburban street. A strange emptiness opened inside her. Relief, or dread, she couldn’t tell.
As the taillights disappeared around the distant corner, a hand, warm and possessive, closed over the curve of her right buttock, fingers digging into the soft flesh through her linen trousers. She gasped. Abdou’s lips were at her ear, his breath hot.
“Now,” he murmured, the polite veneer dissolving into gravel, “I am going to fuck you until he comes back home.”
He pushed her inside and slammed the front door. The sound echoed through the empty house. Before she could speak, before she could think, he had her by the wrist, his grip iron, and was pulling her up the stairs. She stumbled, her free hand catching the banister.
“Abdou, the boys—”
“Are at school for six more hours. We have time.”
He shouldered open the door to the master bedroom, her bedroom, Sébastien’s bedroom, and dragged her inside. The room smelled of lavender laundry detergent and the faint, familiar scent of her husband’s cologne. It felt like a profound desecration.
“Take it off. All of it.” He released her and stood by the bed, already pulling his shirt over his head.
Her fingers trembled on the buttons of her blouse. Under his unblinking gaze, she undressed, letting each garment fall to the polished floor until she stood naked in the center of the room, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin. She felt exposed, more so than on the sofa. This was the inner sanctum.
Abdou was already naked, his body a sculpture of taut, impatient muscle. His cock, long and thick and dark, stood rigid against his stomach. He sat on the edge of the cream-colored comforter, the bed dipping beneath his weight.
“Come here. You know what I want.”
She approached, the silence broken only by the frantic hammering of her own heart. She dropped to her knees on the carpet between his spread thighs. The proximity of him, the musky, masculine smell, made her head swim. She hesitated, looking up at him.
He tangled a hand in her hair, not gently. “Suck it. Get it wet for that tight little cunt of yours.”
Leaning forward, she opened her mouth and took the head of him inside. She swirled her tongue around the smooth crown, tasting the sharp, clean salt of his skin. A low groan rumbled in his chest. He guided her, pushing deeper, until her nose was pressed against his pubic bone. She relaxed her throat, focusing on the rhythm, on the heavy weight on her tongue, the way his balls tightened against her chin.
“Yeah, just like that,” he muttered, his hips lifting off the bed to meet her strokes. “Such a good mouth for a married woman. You must be starving for a real cock.”
The crudeness sent a fresh jolt of shameful heat to her core. She sucked harder, bobbing her head, one hand coming up to cradle the heavy sac below. He let her work for a few minutes, his breaths becoming ragged, then pulled her off with a wet schlick.
“Enough. On the bed. On your back.”
She crawled onto the vast mattress, the cool cotton sheets against her back. He moved over her, caging her with his arms. No spit this time. He positioned himself and drove into her in one long, relentless thrust.
Christelle cried out, her back arching. He was even bigger, harder, more demanding than she remembered. The fullness was staggering. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a brutal, deep pace from the start, each pump a claim staked in her husband’s bed. The headboard began a soft, rhythmic thud against the wall.
“Whose bed is this?” he grunted, his eyes locked on hers.
“Sébastien’s,” she whimpered.
“Wrong.” He slammed into her, making her gasp. “It’s mine. For two days, this bed, this cunt, is mine. Tell me.”
“It’s yours,” she sobbed, the words torn from her.
“Louder.”
“It’s yours! The bed is yours!”
He fucked her like that, a relentless possession, until the coil in her belly snapped without warning. An orgasm ripped through her, violent and convulsing, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around his shaft. He didn’t stop, riding her through the pulses until they subsided into trembling aftershocks.
Then he withdrew, slick and gleaming. “Turn over. On your knees.”
Drenched in sweat, she obeyed, getting onto all fours. He knelt behind her, his hands gripping her hips. The new angle was more profound, more animal. He entered her again, and the gasp she let out was one of pure, overwhelming penetration. He fucked her with deep, measured strokes, each one pushing a choked sound from her lips.
“Look at you,” he breathed, one hand snaking around to rub circles on her clit. “A proper little bitch in heat. Taking this black cock in your marriage bed. You love it. I can feel your cunt squeezing me.”
She did. God help her, she did. The stimulation was too much, the filthy talk fueling the fire. A second climax built, faster, more intense than the first. It exploded through her with blinding force, her vision speckling, her thighs shaking so violently she almost collapsed. A thin, ragged scream was torn from her throat.
Abdou’s rhythm faltered, then regained its punishing pace. “One more,” he growled. “I’m not done with you.”
He pulled out, lay on his back, and dragged her on top of him. “Ride it. Ride me until I fill you up.”
Weak-limbed, she straddled him, guiding him back inside her well-used, sensitive flesh. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, and began to move. It was a slower, grinding rhythm, controlled by her.
She rose and fell, taking him to the hilt each time, the stretch a sweet, familiar agony now. From this angle, she could see his face, the tension in his jaw, the dark, possessive satisfaction in his eyes as he watched her use his body for her pleasure. Her own pleasure built again, a slow, deep swell.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his hands gripping her ass, kneading the flesh. “Fuck yourself on me. Make yourself come on my dick.”
Her movements became more frantic, desperate. The friction was exquisite, overwhelming. A third, seismic orgasm detonated, rolling through her in endless, washing waves. As she clenched and cried out above him, Abdou’s control finally shattered.
With a final, guttural shout, he thrust up hard, burying himself as deep as possible, and she felt the hot, pulsing flood of his release filling her. It went on and on, a seemingly endless cascade that overflowed as he finally softened inside her. A warm trickle escaped down her inner thigh, onto his skin and the sheets beneath.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. The room smelled of sex and sweat. Christelle slumped forward, her head resting on his stomach, utterly spent, a hollowed-out vessel.
Abdou shifted, sliding out of her. A fresh gush of his cum followed, pooling between her legs. He patted her hip, a casual, almost dismissive gesture.
“I’m going to let you rest for a bit,” he said, his voice now calm, almost conversational. He slid out from under her and stood, looking down at her wrecked form on the stained comforter. “I’m going to the kitchen to get something to eat. You’ll need your strength.”
He pulled on his sweatpants and left the room, whistling a tuneless note. Christelle lay perfectly still, feeling the warm, sticky evidence of him seep into the matrimonial sheets, listening to his footsteps fade down the stairs.