Chapter 6: Poolside Corruption
The ragged sound of her own sob was a foreign thing in the quiet kitchen, sharp and animal. Vanja clutched the phone, her body coiled tight as a spring, the cool countertop the only solid point in a dissolving world.
“Vanja?” Tilly’s voice was clearer now, laced with sleep and acute alarm. “Talk to me. What’s happening?”
Vanja tried to swallow, but her throat was sealed shut by the pressure of everything unsaid. She heard the rustle of sheets, the distant sound of a door closing softly—Tilly moving, giving her privacy even from an empty room.
“I…” The word was a scrape. “I’m sorry.”
It was inadequate. It was everything.
“Are you hurt?” Tilly asked, and the sheer selflessness of the question—the immediate assumption of physical injury over emotional wreckage—unraveled Vanja further.
“No. I’m not hurt.” Vanja forced air into her lungs. “I’m… I’m so fucking sorry, Tilly. For London. For the video. For everything.”
Silence stretched across the connection, a vast, humming void. Vanja squeezed her eyes shut, awaiting judgment.
“I know,” Tilly said finally, her voice small but steady. “Amanda explained… some of it. About the journalist. That she was trying to hurt you.”
“She hurt you,” Vanja corrected, the guilt a bitter pill. “To get to me. And I… I let her have ammunition. I am so sorry you saw that.”
Another pause. “It was… shocking,” Tilly admitted, and Vanja could hear the faint tremor of renewed distress. “I didn’t understand. It looked… it looked like you hated her. And it was so violent.”
“It was,” Vanja confessed, no defensiveness left. “It’s a part of me. A dark, ugly part. And you never should have been dragged into it.”
“Why did you call?” Tilly whispered.
The directness shattered Vanja’s last shield. “Because Dino said you asked if I was okay. After what I did. After what you saw.” Her voice broke again. “No one’s ever done that. Not after seeing that.”
“I was worried,” Tilly said simply, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.
That simplicity was a lance of light in Vanja’s dark. It cleaved through the rot, leaving a clean, aching wound. She slid down the cabinet to sit on the cold kitchen floor, back against the wood, phone pressed to her ear like a lifeline.
“Can I tell you something?” Tilly asked, after another moment of shared, quiet breathing.
“Anything.”
“After it happened… after I saw it… I was confused for days. Hurt. But then…” She took a steadying breath. “I kept remembering something else. From before.”
Vanja’s heart hammered against her ribs. “What?”
“In Marbella. By the pool. That last morning.”
The memory surged, vivid and heat-soaked, usurping the cool Munich night.
The Spanish sun was a brutal, white coin in a hard blue sky. Vanja had been coiled with a restless energy for days, a prowling tension Tilly’s innocent presence somehow amplified. The Swede was a vision of sun-kissed health in her tiny running shorts and sports bra, stretching her thick, powerful thighs by the water’s edge, her blonde ponytail swinging. Every bend, every laugh, every oblivious glance was a provocation Vanja could no longer ignore.
She moved like the predator she was. One moment Tilly was sipping water, the next Vanja was on her, a hand clamped over her mouth from behind, her powerful body propelling them both into the shadowed alcove behind the pool pump house. Vanja shoved Tilly’s trembling body against the cool, rough tiles, pinning her with a hip.
“Shhh,” Vanja hissed, not a comfort, a command. Tilly’s wide blue eyes stared back over Vanja’s hand, shocked but, fuck, not scared. Excited.
With her free hand, Vanja grabbed the hem of Tilly’s flimsy running shorts and pulled. The fabric gave with a sick, satisfying rip. Cool air hit Tilly’s bared skin, and Vanja’s fingers slid instantly through the shocking, hot wetness she found there. Tilly whimpered against her palm.
“You’ve been teasing me with this fat little ass for weeks,” Vanja growled, her mouth against the shell of Tilly’s ear before her teeth found the tender junction of her neck and shoulder, biting down just shy of breaking skin. Tilly cried out, a muffled sound, her body bucking.
Vanja didn’t wait. She pushed two fingers inside her, cursing at the fierce, clutching tightness. Tilly was a virgin, her cunt an untouched, silken vise. Vanja crammed her fingers in to the knuckle, a brutal, claiming invasion.
“Oh god… Vanja…” Tilly’s plea was a broken thing as Vanja’s hand moved, a rough, shallow fuck with her fingers.
“Look at you,” Vanja snarled, her own breath ragged. “Soaking fucking wet for it. You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted me to ruin you.”
Tilly could only nod, tears of overwhelming sensation leaking from her eyes. The stimulation, the violation, the sheer illicit thrill of it tipped her over an edge she didn’t know existed. Her body convulsed, a gush of release soaking Vanja’s hand and wrist as she squirted for the first time in her life, knees giving way.
Vanja caught her, lowering her to the sun-warmed concrete. She didn’t speak. She shoved Tilly’s thighs apart, buried her face between them, and licked her clean with a focused, savage hunger. She lapped at her soaked folds, sucked her swollen clit into her mouth, drank every drop of her shocked climax. Tilly thrashed, her fingers tangling in Vanja’s dark blonde hair, pulling, her moans now open and desperate in the hidden space.
When Vanja finally lifted her head, her chin glistening, Tilly was a wreck of bliss. “I want you to fuck me,” she moaned, her voice slurry with need. “For real. Please. I want you inside me.”
Vanja hovered over her, panting, her own desire a feral beast. She looked at Tilly’s flushed face, her kiss-swollen lips, her utterly surrendered body. She saw the innocence waiting to be shattered. And something in her, something that wasn’t entirely rotten, flinched.
She leaned down, kissing Tilly deeply, letting her taste herself. “Not yet,” Vanja whispered against her mouth, the words a reluctant vow. “Patience. Next time.”
“You stopped,” Tilly’s voice came down the line, pulling Vanja back to the kitchen floor, to the darkness, to the sound of her own shaky breath. “You could have taken everything. And you stopped. You said ‘next time.’”
Vanja remembered the gargantuan effort it had taken to stand up, to walk away from the offered, eager wreckage of Matilda Nilsen. “There wasn’t a next time.”
“I know,” Tilly said softly. “Because London happened. Because of the video. But that’s what I remembered. That you stopped. That there was… a line. Even then.”
The absolution in those words was a weight Vanja couldn’t bear. It felt like grace bestowed on a ghost. She had no words.
“I have to go to training,” Tilly said after a moment, her voice practical, grounding them both. “But… call again? When you’re not sitting on the floor?”
A weak, wet laugh escaped Vanja. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Goodnight, Vanja.”
The click of the disconnect was deafening. Vanja sat in the silence for a long time, the ghost of Spanish heat on her skin, the taste of Tilly’s arousal still a phantom memory on her tongue. The hollowness was still there, but it was different now. It wasn’t filled, but it was… outlined. Defined by something other than rage.
She stood, her muscles stiff. The apartment was too quiet, too still. The memory of Tilly’s surrender, the sound of her pleas, the smell of chlorinated water and sun-heated skin—it left a resonant ache in her core, a restless itch no amount of noble sentiment could scratch.
She picked up her phone, her thumbs moving with a will of their own, seeking a different kind of oblivion. She found Kofi’s name.
Munich. Now.
His reply was almost instantaneous. Last gig ran late. 3 hours. You’ll be up?
I’ll be up.
He let himself in with the code she sent. It was just past 2 a.m. He smelled of night air, cigarette smoke from the venue, and his own crisp cologne. He took one look at her standing in the living room in just a t-shirt, her eyes likely still red-rimmed, and didn’t ask questions.
“Rough night, champion?” he murmured, stepping into her space.
“Don’t talk,” she said, and kissed him.
This was nothing like the wine-bar seduction. This was a purge. She walked him backward into her bedroom, her hands pulling at his clothes, his belt. He got the message, his own urgency rising to meet hers. There were no pleasantries, no slow undressing. They stripped each other with rough, efficient tugs.
He bent her over the foot of the bed. She braced her hands on the rumpled duvet, presenting herself. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and entered her in one smooth, deep stroke. She gasped, her back arching.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he grunted, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. He set a punishing pace from the start, his cock driving into her with a solid, rhythmic thud. It was purely physical, a battering of sensation designed to overload her nervous system, to erase the haunting tenderness of Tilly’s voice.
“Harder,” she demanded, pushing back against him.
He obliged, his thrusts becoming sharper, deeper, the slap of his pelvis against her ass a brutal percussion. “You’re so fucking tight tonight,” he panted. “What’s got you so wound up?”
“Just fuck me,” she snarled, reaching between her own legs to rub her clit in rough, frantic circles. The pleasure was sharp, clinical, a spike of lightning.
He fucked her like he was trying to break through the bed, his rhythm relentless. Vanja chased her climax with a single-minded fury, her fingers working her swollen nub, her cunt clenching around his invading length. She came with a strangled cry, her vision whiting out at the edges, her internal muscles milking him.
It triggered his own release. He slammed into her one last time, his body locking, a guttural groan torn from his throat as he pulsed deep inside her.
He collapsed over her back for a moment, both of them slick with sweat and breathing in ragged gasps. Then he withdrew, padding to her bathroom. She heard the shower turn on.
They fucked twice more before dawn. Once on the shower tiles, her face pressed against the cool glass as he took her from behind, water sluicing over them. Once on the sofa, her legs hooked over his shoulders as he drove into her with a slower, more grinding intensity, making her come again with his thumb pressed hard against her asshole while he filled her.
It was a lot of fucking. Expert, athletic, draining. As the first grey light filtered through the blinds, Kofi dressed. He kissed her forehead, a strangely gentle gesture amid the night’s carnage.
“Tell Lina I said thanks for the design work,” Vanja said, her voice hoarse.
He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re a piece of work, Kongsgard. Take care of yourself.”
When he was gone, the silence returned, now scented with sex and sweat. The physical exhaustion was total, a leaden weight in her limbs. But as she lay in the wreckage of her bed, the clean, concerned echo of Tilly’s “Are you okay?” cut through the numbness with a clarity that all of Kofi’s skillful pounding couldn’t obscure.
She rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow. The ‘next time’ she’d promised by the pool was gone, sacrificed to her own carelessness. But the memory of it, and the forgiveness she’d just been offered, hung in the air, a possibility so fragile and frightening it made her want to run until her heart exploded.
But the memory of it, and the forgiveness she’d just been offered, hung in the air, a possibility so fragile and frightening it made her want to run until her heart exploded. She didn’t run. She booked a flight. The impulse was a live wire in her chest, bypassing all reason. She texted Amanda a single, blunt question: Where’s Tilly’s flat in London? The reply came with an address and a warning: Be careful.
The London rain was a fine, constant mist, blurring the streetlights into smears of gold. Vanja stood across from a modern brick building in Islington, collar turned up, hands deep in her pockets. She hadn’t called. This was either a grand gesture or stalking. She no longer knew the difference.
She saw her first. Tilly emerged from the building’s glass doors, bundled in a Tottenham hoodie, a gym bag slung over her shoulder. She looked tired, focused, her blonde hair damp from a shower. She stopped short on the pavement, her gaze locking onto Vanja’s shadowed figure. Her expression cycled through surprise, confusion, and a vulnerable, hopeful fear.
Vanja crossed the street, the rain beading on her leather jacket. “Hi.”
“You’re here,” Tilly said, her voice barely audible over the distant traffic. She didn’t ask why. Her blue eyes searched Vanja’s face.
“Can I come up?” Vanja asked, the words feeling ripped from her.
Tilly nodded, wordless, and led her back inside. The flat was small, neat, and blandly furnished. The lingering scent of laundry powder and clean sweat hung in the air. Tilly dropped her bag, turned, and just looked at her. The silence was a physical thing, thick with everything from Marbella, from the phone call, from the video.
“I couldn’t leave it with just a call,” Vanja finally said, her voice rough.
“Okay,” Tilly whispered.
Vanja closed the distance. She didn’t kiss her. She framed Tilly’s face with her hands, her thumbs tracing the arcs of her cheekbones. She studied her, the faint freckles, the earnest worry in her eyes, the soft part of her lips. This was real. This was the clean thing she’d poisoned.
“I need to…” Vanja didn’t finish the sentence. Her need was a formless, hungry beast. She leaned in and kissed Tilly’s throat, just above the pulse. Then lower. Her hands went to the waistband of Tilly’s track pants, pulling them and her underwear down in one rough motion. Tilly gasped, her hands flying to Vanja’s shoulders for balance.
Vanja dropped to her knees on the scratchy hotel carpet. The sight of Tilly’s cunt, bare and glistening already, hit her like a punch. She’d dreamed of this, the fat, pretty lips, the blonde curls. She didn’t tease. She pressed her mouth to her, licking a broad, flat stripe from her perineum up to her clit.
Tilly cried out, her fingers threading into Vanja’s hair, not pushing, just holding on. Vanja licked her again, deeper this time, her tongue spearing into her opening, tasting the sharp, clean salt of her. She was wet, so fucking wet, her hips making small, involuntary circles. Vanja feasted, her nose buried in her, her tongue working her slit with a relentless, worshipping hunger. It was an apology written in flesh.
“Vanja… oh, god…” Tilly chanted, her thighs trembling. Vanja focused on her clit, sucking the hard bud into her mouth, flicking it with the tip of her tongue. Tilly’s moans climbed in pitch, her body tensing. “Please,” she begged, her voice shattered. “Please, fuck me. I need you inside me. Please.”
Vanja pulled back, her chin slick. She looked up at Tilly’s bliss-wrecked face. “Shhh,” she said, her own breath ragged. She pressed a kiss to the inside of Tilly’s quivering thigh. “Not yet. Be patient.”
Tilly whimpered, a sound of pure, desperate frustration. But she nodded, her body slumping back against the wall in surrender. Vanja rose, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The taste of Tilly was on her tongue, in her throat, a permanent marker. She’d licked her again. She’d taken her to the edge. And she’d stopped. The line was still there, drawn not in sand, but in the charged space between their bodies.
She pulled Tilly’s pants back up, the gesture oddly intimate. “I just needed to see you,” Vanja said, the admission costing her.
Tilly reached out, her fingertips brushing Vanja’s still-damp lips. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
Tilly’s whisper hung between them, a fragile bridge over everything unsaid. Vanja’s control, that taut wire she kept strung inside her, snapped. The sight of Tilly against the wall, her taste still on Vanja’s tongue, the aching trust in her voice—it was a catalyst.
Vanja kissed her. It wasn't gentle. It was a claiming, a messy clash of teeth and tongue and need. Tilly met it with a hungry sound, her hands fisting in Vanja’s jacket, pulling her closer. The gym bag tumbled forgotten to the floor.
“Off,” Vanja growled against her mouth, tugging at the Tottenham hoodie. Tilly obeyed, breaking the kiss only to yank it over her head. Her sports bra followed. Vanja’s breath caught at the sight of her perky breasts, the nipples already peaked and tight. She bent her head, taking one into her mouth, sucking hard, her hand kneading the other.
“Fuck, Vanja,” Tilly gasped, her head falling back.
Vanja backed her toward the bedroom, a clumsy, connected shuffle. The small room was dominated by a double bed, neatly made. Vanja pushed her onto it. She stood over her, stripping her own clothes with impatient, jerky movements. Jacket, shirt, jeans. She watched Tilly’s wide blue eyes drink in her naked body—the powerful legs, the swell of her breasts, the cut of her abdomen.
“You’re so beautiful,” Tilly breathed, almost reverent.
“You have no idea,” Vanja muttered, crawling onto the bed. She settled between Tilly’s spread thighs, her skin flushed and hot. “What you do to me.”
She didn’t go down on her again. That earlier act was penance. This was something else. She kissed a trail down Tilly’s stomach, her hands hooking under her knees, pushing them wider, up toward her chest. Exposing her completely. Vanja looked at the glistening, pink flesh, the virgin tightness she’d only touched with her fingers and mouth.
“Look at this pretty, needy cunt,” Vanja said, her voice husky. She spat directly onto her opening, the fluid landing with a soft, wet sound. Tilly jolted. “All this wetness, just for me. You been thinking about this? Thinking about my pussy on yours?”
“Yes,” Tilly moaned, shameless. “Every night.”
Vanja aligned their bodies. She rocked her hips forward, letting her own wet folds slide against Tilly’s, a slow, slippery grind. The sensation was electric, a hot, shared pulse. Tilly cried out, her back arching off the bed.
“Is that what you wanted?” Vanja panted, grinding harder, their clits rubbing together in a fierce, dizzying friction.
“Yes! God, more, please!”
Vanja reached between them, guiding herself. The broad head of her dick n pressed against Tilly’s entrance. Tilly’s eyes flew open, locked on Vanja’s. There was fear there, a bright spark of it, but beneath that, a bottomless, trusting want.
“It’ll hurt,” Vanja warned, her own heart hammering.
“I don’t care. Do it.”
Vanja pushed.
The resistance was profound, a hot, clutching tightness. She watched Tilly’s face contort, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as the cock stretched her, invaded her, breached the final barrier. Vanja held still, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, her own body coiled with the intensity of the act. She was inside her. Finally.
“Okay?” Vanja managed to ask, sweat beading on her brow.
Tilly nodded, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “Move. Please move.”
Vanja withdrew slowly, then thrust back in. Tilly whimpered, the sound morphing into a groan. Vanja set a rhythm, deep, rolling strokes that filled the quiet room with the sound of slapping skin and ragged breath. Each push drew a gasp from Tilly, each retreat a plea.
“You feel that?” Vanja grunted, shifting her angle. “You feel how deep I am? This is my cunt now. Say it.”
“It’s yours,” Tilly sobbed, her hands scrambling over Vanja’s back, pulling her closer. “Only yours. Fuck, right there!”
Vanja hit a spot that made Tilly’s whole body seize. She hammered it, her thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more brutal. The bedframe knocked a frantic tempo against the wall. Vanja’s world narrowed to the heat gripping her cock, the broken sounds from Tilly’s mouth, the sweat-slick slide of their bodies.
“You gonna come on this cock?” Vanja snarled, her own pleasure building from the dominance, the view, the feel. “You gonna squirt for me again like a good little slut?”
“Yes! I’m gonna—Vanja, I’m—”
Tilly’s sentence shattered into a wordless scream. Her body clamped down viscously, her cunt pulsing in waves around the length inside her as her release hit, a flood of wet heat spilling between them. The force of it, the utterly surrendered convulsion, tipped Vanja over her own edge. A raw, guttural roar was torn from her chest as she thrust through Tilly’s climax, fucking her through it, claiming every last shudder.
She collapsed atop her, spent, the length still buried deep. Tilly’s arms came around her, holding her tight, her face buried in Vanja’s neck. They lay like that for long minutes, panting, the air thick with sex and salt.
Vanja finally rolled off, . She pulled Tilly against her, skin to sticky skin. Tilly nestled into her shoulder, her breathing gradually slowing.
The silence wasn’t empty now. It was full of the echo of Tilly’s screams, the ghost of her tightness, the weight of what had just been broken and bonded. Vanja stared at the ceiling of the bland London flat, Tilly’s steady warmth along her side. The hollowness was gone. In its place was a terrifying, solid thing. It felt like possession. It felt like being owned.
Tilly’s fingers traced idle patterns on Vanja’s sternum. “So,” she whispered, her voice raw from screaming. “That was ‘next time.’”