Chapter 4: The next one
The apartment smelled like regret and stale Thai food. The fluorescent light in the kitchen buzzed with its familiar, dying hum, casting everything in that sickly yellow pallor that made even the healthiest plants look jaundiced. Jake sat on the edge of the bed, still in his jeans from two days ago, staring at the cracked screen of his phone like it might offer some kind of absolution. It didn't.
Three days had passed since the Dolby Theatre. Three days of silence that felt louder than any conversation they'd ever had. Maya had been… normal.Too normal. She'd made coffee, gone to work, came home, watched her shows. She hadn't brought it up once. Not the dressing room, not the sounds, not the way she'd wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stared at nothing. The absence of discussion had become a third presence in the room, a specter that sat between them at dinner, that lay between them in bed, that followed them through the apartment like a shadow cast by a body neither of them acknowledged.
He watched her now, hunched over her laptop at the tiny kitchen table, her finger scrolling through something on the screen. Her brown hair was pulled back in a messy knot. She wore his old hoodie, the one with the frayed cuffs. She'd been wearing it a lot lately, like armor against a conversation she wasn't ready to have.
"Maya." His voice cracked on the syllable. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Maya, we need to talk about—"
"Nope." She didn't look up. "We don't."
"Maya, for fuck's sake—"
"Nope," she repeated, her tone clipped, final. "We don't talk about it. It happened. We're still here. We're still us. The end."
Jake opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. Because what could he say? Sorry I got my dick sucked by Ariana Grande? Sorry you had to eat her pussy so I could paint her tits like a Jackson Pollock? There was no version of that conversation that ended well. So he'd let it fester instead, let the silence grow teeth, let the distance between them stretch until the apartment felt like a cave.
Her phone buzzed.
It was a small sound, a cheap vibrator hum against the wooden table, but it cut through the air like a gunshot. Maya glanced at the screen, her brow furrowing. She picked it up, thumb swiping across the glass. Her face went through a series of micro-expressions—confusion, disbelief, then a slow, spreading shock that turned her skin pale.
"What?" Jake asked, sitting forward. "Who is it?"
She didn't answer. Her eyes were locked on the screen, darting back and forth as she read whatever was on it. Her lips parted slightly, then pressed together. She read it again. And again.
"Maya." He stood, his bare feet cold against the laminate floor. "You're scaring me. Who the fuck is—"
"It's her." The words came out hollow, like she'd swallowed them wrong. "It's Ariana."
The name hit him like a fist to the sternum. The air left his lungs in a rush. He crossed the room in three long strides, standing behind her, his hand on the back of the chair, his eyes finding the screen over her shoulder.
The message was short, almost clinical. A text from an unknown number, but the sender was unmistakable.
"Overall it was quite pleasant. I don't want to see you again, but if your boyfriend wants to try something similar, I think Simone Biles would be down for it. Just in case, I think she did some breast augmentation surgery."
Jake read it three times. The words didn't change. They stayed there, glowing on the screen, a surreal missive from the most famous woman in the world offering them a referral like she was recommending a good restaurant.
"Simone Biles," he breathed. "The gymnast. The Olympic champion."
"Yeah." Maya's voice was small, almost reverent. "The gymnast."
They stood in silence, the fridge humming its discordant note, the flickering light casting shifting shadows across her face. The weight of the message pressed down on them, filling the space between their bodies with something electric and terrifying.
"Why?" Jake finally managed. "Why would she… why would she pass us along? We were supposed to be a one-off. She said she didn't want to see me again. She said—"
"She said she didn't want to see you again," Maya cut in, her voice gaining an edge. "She didn't say anything about not helping you find someone else." She looked up at him, her sharp brown eyes searching his face. "This is a gift, Jake. A bizarre, incomprehensible, purple-ribboned gift from a pop star who apparently has time to matchmake for her fans."
"A gift," he repeated, his mind struggling to wrap around the concept. "She's setting me up with Simone Biles. Like a… like a booty call networking."
"More like a tit-fuck referral chain," Maya said, and despite everything—despite the tension, despite the absurdity—a ghost of her old smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Should we rate it? Like Uber? 'Ariana Grande provided excellent service, would recommend to a friend.'"
Jake let out a hollow laugh, the sound foreign in his own throat. "This isn't happening. This is a fever dream. I'm going to wake up in the dressing room, and you're going to be there, and we're going to—"
"We're not waking up, Jake." Maya turned in her chair, fully facing him. Her legs brushed against his, the contact electric through the thin fabric of her pajama pants."This is real. Ariana Grande just texted me to tell me that Simone Biles has new tits and would probably be down to use them on your dick."
"Stop saying it like that."
"Like what? Like it's true?" She raised an eyebrow. "Because it is.It's true. This is our life now. We're the couple that gets passed around the celebrity elite like a joint at a house party."
Jake ran his hands through his messy hair, tugging at the roots. The pain was grounding, real. "We can't just go after Simone Biles. She's… she's a hero. She's an icon. She's a goddamn national treasure. I can't just ask her to—"
"To what? To fulfill the next box on your celebrity fantasy bingo card?" Maya's voice was teasing, but her eyes were sharp, watching his reaction. "Come on, Jake. You had one fantasy.It's done. It's checked off. The universe, through the medium of your girlfriend, has just delivered you another one. What are you going to do with it?"
He stared at her, the question hanging in the air between them. The apartment felt smaller, the walls closing in, the weight of possibility pressing against his chest.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do with any of this."
Maya picked up her phone again, turning it over in her hands. Her thumb traced the edge of the screen, a nervous habit he'd seen a thousand times. When she looked up at him, there was something new in her eyes. Something that looked like hunger.
"Answer it," she said."What?"
"Answer the message. Write back. Say thank you. Ask for the contact."
"Maya—"
"I'm serious." She stood, pushing the chair back, closing the distance between them until she was right in front of him, close enough that he could smell her shampoo, the familiar coconut scent that had become as much a part of his life as breathing. "You were obsessed with Ariana.I got it. I understood it. I helped you make it happen, because that was the challenge. That's what we do. We don't do normal.We do weird. We do extreme. We do things that would make other couples call a therapist." She placed her hand on his chest, over his heart, feeling it pound beneath her palm. "And now the world has handed us the next chapter. Are you going to take it, or are you going to let it slip through your fingers?"
His breath hitched. Her hand was warm against his skin, a familiar touch that grounded him even as the world spun around them. "What about you?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "What if I don't want to do this without you?"
"Who said anything about without?" She tilted her head, that sly smile spreading across her face. "Did you forget the rules of engagement, Jake? I'm not a spectator. I'm a participant. If we're doing this, we're doing this together. All of us."
The words hit him like a wave, washing over him, pulling him under. He thought of the dressing room—Maya on the carpet, Ariana grinding against her mouth, the sounds she'd made, the way she'd looked up with slick lips and eyes full of fire. The image burned in his mind, recontextualized, transformed.
"You want to do this again," he said, the realization dawning. "You want to—"
"I want to explore the parameters of our arrangement," she interrupted, stepping closer, her hips brushing against his. "I want to see what happens when we push the boundaries further. I want to know what Simone Biles tastes like. Is that so wrong?"
The question was rhetorical, but he felt the weight of it anyway. The world had gone strange and bright, the edges of reality blurring into something new.
"No," he said, his voice thick. "No, I don't think it's wrong."
"Good." She reached up, her fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, pulling him down until his forehead rested against hers. "Then let's do this. Let's answer the message. Let's see where this goes."
Her lips met his, and it was different from the kisses they'd shared before. It wasn't tentative or apologetic. It was hungry, desperate, a claiming. Her tongue slid against his, and he tasted the mint of her toothpaste, the residual bitterness of coffee. Her hands found his waist, pulling him closer, and he felt the heat of her through their clothes, a promise of what was to come.
They broke apart, breathless, and Jake reached for her phone without hesitation. His thumbs moved over the screen, composing the response.
"Thank you for the recommendation. We'd love to connect."
He hit send, and the message disappeared into the digital ether. The two of them stood there, hearts pounding, the possibilities stretching out before them like an endless horizon.
"What now?"he asked.
Maya's smile was wicked, full of teeth. "Now we wait."
"Now we wait" hung in the air like a dare. Maya's fingers were already on the laptop, the screen's glow bleaching the color from her face as she typed. The keys clicked with a furious rhythm, each stroke a small declaration of intent.
Jake paced behind her. The worn carpet fibers felt rough under his bare feet, a grounding texture against the unreality of the last hour. He watched her shoulders, the tension in her spine, the way she chewed her bottom lip as she scrolled through page after page.
"What are you looking for?" he asked, though he already knew. The word "augmentation" was bolded in her search history, followed by "Simone Biles before and after."
"There's a plastic surgeon in Dallas named Dr. Patel," she said, not looking up. "He posts before-and-after photos on Instagram. A lot of athletes use him. I'm trying to find if Simone was one of them."
"Maya, we shouldn't—"
"She was 4'8" when she competed in Tokyo." Maya's voice was flat, clinical, reading directly from the screen. "Competitive gymnasts are usually under 100 pounds. The breast tissue they have is minimal. There's a whole subreddit dedicated to speculating about her surgery. They say she went from an AAA to a full B cup. Some of them have mapped out the timeline based on her competition photos."
She turned the laptop toward him. A photograph filled the screen—Simone at a meet from 2021, her leotard flat against her chest, the lines of her ribcage visible through the fabric. She looked like a child, tiny and powerful, her arms corded with muscle.
Then she clicked to another tab. A more recent photo from an event in Los Angeles. The same face, the same compact frame, but there was a new fullness to her chest, a softness that hadn't been there before. The dress she wore was cut low enough to showcase the change without revealing anything explicit.
"B cup," Maya said. "Maybe a small B. Could even be a full B, depending on the brand." She zoomed in, studying the image with the intensity of a surgeon. "The shape is round, high. That's typical of a primary augmentation, submuscular insertion. She probably went with silicone, teardrop shape. Natural-looking but noticeable."
Jake swallowed. His mouth had gone dry. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Because I need to know." Maya leaned back in her chair, her sharp eyes finding his. "You have a type, Jake. You like small tits. A-cups, sometimes even AA. That's what you've always said. What you whispered to me in bed, the things you asked me to tell you about Ariana before we even met her. You wanted Ariana because she was petite, because her chest was almost flat, because you could fit both of them in your mouth at once."
She reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until he was bent over, his face inches from hers."So tell me. Does the new information change things? Does a B cup still get your dick hard, or are we chasing a ghost who doesn't exist anymore?"
Jake's breath was shallow, his heart hammering. He thought about the way Ariana's tits had felt against his cock—the heat, the pressure, the slick glide of them.Small but perfect. Manageable. The fantasy had been built on that specific physicality, the idea of a woman so tiny that her entire chest could wrap around him.
"I don't know," he admitted, his voice raw. "I never thought about it existing differently. Simone was… she was always this flat-chested gymnast. I'd see her on TV and think about how she was built like a weapon, all muscle and sinew, nothing soft. And now…"
"Now she has tits." Maya's voice was flat, but there was a quirk to her eyebrow. "She went and bought herself a pair of B cups like she was shopping for groceries. It changes the geometry of the fantasy."
"It changes the texture," Jake said, the words coming slowly as he tried to articulate something he'd never spoken aloud. "With Ariana, it was about the smallness. The way her chest was almost like a boy's, except it wasn't. It was about that contradiction—this powerful, famous woman who somehow still had this delicate, almost virginal quality to her body."
Maya tilted her head, her grip on his shirt loosening."And Simone?"
"She's pure muscle. She's one of the most physical women on the planet. And if she's got these new tits on top of all that…" He trailed off, the image forming in his mind. A small, powerful body with a soft addition. Strength and vulnerability in the same frame.
"It's a different fantasy," Maya finished for him. "But it could still be a fantasy."
She released his shirt and turned back to the laptop. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up another tab. This time it was a forum, a gymnastics fan site with a thread titled "Simone's New Look."
"They've noticed," she murmured. "There's a whole thread speculating about her surgery. Some people are saying it's a violation of the sport's spirit. Others are calling it empowering." She scrolled through the comments, her eyes scanning quickly. "There's a user who claims to have worked at the clinic in Houston where she goes for physical therapy. They say she's been open about it. That she got the surgery because she wanted to feel more feminine, to have something that was just for her."
"That seems private," Jake said. "Reading all this feels like a violation."
"Welcome to the internet, Jake." Maya's voice was dry. "Where every celebrity's medical history is an open book if you know where to look." She closed the laptop with a firm click. "But here's the thing. We don't need the information. We don't need to know her cup size or her surgeon's name. All we have is Ariana's text, saying she'd be 'down for it.' That's the only intel that matters."
She stood, stretching her arms above her head. The movement pulled his hoodie up, exposing a strip of her stomach. He caught a glimpse of the C-section scar from a pregnancy she'd never wanted to talk about, a white line that had faded with time.
"So what do we do?" Jake asked. "We can't just message her. We don't have her number. We don't have any way to contact her except through Ariana."
"Then we wait for Ariana to respond." Maya walked to the kitchen counter, picking up her phone, thumb swiping across the screen to check for notifications. "She said she'd pass along the recommendation. Maybe that's all we get. Maybe Simone contacts us. Or maybe nothing happens."
The silence stretched between them, filled with the hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic outside. Jake's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he jumped, fumbling to pull it out."Who is it?" Maya asked.
He looked at the screen, his heart sinking. "It's my mom. She wants to know if we're coming to her birthday dinner next weekend."
"Tell her we'll be there." Maya turned away, running a hand through her hair. "We need something normal to anchor us.A family dinner. Pot roast and small talk and your aunt asking why we haven't gotten married yet."
Jake typed a quick response, then pocketed his phone. "What if nothing happens? What if Ariana was just messing with us?"
"Then we have a story that we can't tell anyone, and we move on with our lives." Maya walked over to him, her arms wrapping around his waist. The embrace caught him off guard, but he returned it, burying his face in her hair. She smelled like the coconut shampoo she'd used this morning, and beneath it, the faint musk of the day's sweat.
"But what if something does happen?" she whispered against his chest. "What if Simone Biles actually shows up, with her new B-cup tits, expecting something from you?"
"Then I don't know what I'm going to do." He held her tighter. "But I know I don't want to do it without you."
Maya pulled back, looking up at him. Her eyes were dark, flecked with the same hunger he'd seen in the dressing room."Good answer." She stood on her toes, kissing him, her tongue sliding against his. The taste of mint and the memory of that night filled his mouth.
Her hands found the hem of his shirt, pulling it up, breaking the kiss just long enough to tug it over his head. She traced her fingers down his chest, nails dragging across his skin, leaving red lines in their wake.
"We have time to kill," she murmured. "Might as well use it."
She pulled the hoodie over her own head, dropping it to the floor. Underneath, she was wearing nothing but a thin cotton bra, her own nipples pebbled against the fabric. Her hand found the waistband of his pajama pants, slipping inside, fingers wrapping around his already hardening cock.
"You're already half there," she observed, her voice musing. "Was it the talk about B cups, or the thought of another woman using her tits on you?"
"Both," he admitted, his breath hitching as her hand worked him from base to tip."Fuck, Maya. You're going to ruin me."
"That's the plan." She pushed his pants down, and he stepped out of them, naked and exposed under the flickering kitchen light. She didn't join him in nudity, keeping her bra and pajama bottoms on, creating a deliberate asymmetry that made him feel even more bare.
"Bend over the table," she commanded. He complied, his palms flat on the cool surface, the edge pressing against his hips. She came up behind him, her hand sliding between his legs, cupping his balls, rolling them gently.
"You know what I think?" she said, her voice low and almost dreamy. "I think you want this. I think you want to see what it's like to have someone different. Someone famous. Someone who's connected to this fantasy world where anything is possible."
"Maybe," he managed, his knuckles white against the table.
"I think you want to be passed around like a treat." She squeezed, just enough to make him gasp. "I think you want to be a story that these women tell each other. 'Remember that guy Jake? He could really take direction.'"
"Shut up," he groaned. "Just shut up and do something."
Her laugh was low, rich. "But that's not what you want, is it? You want me to make you beg. You want to be humiliated a little. You want to feel how it felt in that dressing room, when you were just a body being used for someone else's pleasure."
She removed her hand, and he heard her pull her pajama bottoms down. Then her weight was on him, her bare thighs pressing against his, her cunt sliding against his ass as she rubbed herself against him.
"Is this what you want?" she whispered, her mouth against his ear. "You want me to grind my pussy on you until I come, and then turn you over and use your cock until I come again, and then maybe, if you're lucky, you get to come inside me?"
"Yes," he said, the word a broken plea. "God, yes."
She aligned herself, reaching down to guide the head of his cock to her soaked entrance. She didn't push him in. She just held him there, feeling the heat of her against the tip.
"Then tell me what you're thinking about," she said. "Tell me what you're going to be thinking about while you're inside me."
"Simone," he admitted, the name slipping out before he could stop it. "I'm thinking about Simone. What it would be like to be in that tiny body, to feel those new tits press against my chest, to—"
She slammed down onto him.
The shock of penetration stole his breath, a full, stretching sensation that made his vision white out for a moment. She didn't move, letting him feel the shape of her, the tight channel gripping around him like a fist.
"There," she breathed. "Now you can think about Simone while I fuck you. And I'll think about what it's going to be like when she's here, in this apartment, her B cups hanging over your face."
She began to ride him, hard and fast, her hips slapping against his ass. The table creaked beneath them, the sound mingling with her grunts and his moans. Her cunt squeezed him with every stroke, wet and hot and so goddamn tight.
"Fuck, Maya," he gasped. "You're going to break me."
"That's the point." She leaned forward, her chest pressed against his back, her nipples hard against his skin. "I'm going to fuck you until you forget your own name. Until the only thing you can think about is me.And Simone. And Ariana. And every other famous woman who might want to use you."
She reached around, her fingers finding his balls, squeezing them in a rhythm that matched her thrusts. His legs were shaking, the edge of orgasm approaching too fast.
"Not yet," she commanded, slowing her pace. "You don't come until I tell you to. You hold that cock like a good boy, and you think about all those tits you've touched. Ariana's little A cups. Simone's new B cups. All those perfect, perfect tits."
He screwed his eyes shut, fighting the wave. His hands gripped the table edge so hard his knuckles went white. The sensation was overwhelming—Maya's cunt wrapped around him, her words dripping with filth, the images she was painting in his mind.
She reached down, sliding her hand between her own legs, her fingers finding her clit. She rubbed herself as she rode him, her breathing growing ragged, her movements becoming more desperate.
"I'm close," she panted. "I'm so fucking close. You want to feel me come on your cock, baby? You want to feel my pussy milk you dry?"
"Yes," he choked out. "Please.Please, Maya."
"I'll tell you when." Her fingers moved faster, her hips grinding against him in a circle. "And when I do, you come. You come so deep inside me that I feel it in my throat."
She let out a strangled cry, her body convulsing around him. He watched her come, her face twisted in pleasure, her mouth open in a silent scream. The walls of her cunt rippled around him, milking him, and she gasped out the words:
"Now. Come now, you pathetic bastard."
He obeyed. The orgasm tore through him like a wildfire, a blinding release that emptied him completely. He slumped forward onto the table, Maya collapsing on top of him, her weight a comforting pressure as they both gasped for air.
The apartment was quiet again, save for their breathing and the flicker of the dying fluorescent light. Maya finally slid off him, her legs unsteady, and stood on her feet.
"What happened to your phone?" she asked, her voice casual, as if they hadn't just fucked on the kitchen table.
Jake looked down at the floor. His phone was lying face-up, the screen cracked from where it had fallen out of his pocket. A notification icon glowed at the top.
He picked it up. The message preview was short, from an unknown number:
"Hi Jake. This is Simone. I hear we have some things to talk about."
The room tilted. Maya, reading over his shoulder, let out a low whistle.
"Well," she said, her voice bright with a strange, anticipatory excitement. "I guess we're not waiting anymore."