Chapter 1: The Neighborly Invitation
The moving truck had been gone for two hours, but the cardboard fortress in Aidan Walters’s living room seemed to have multiplied. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a dusty streak. Silence, thick and unfamiliar, pressed in on him. It was the silence of a fresh start, and it was, frankly, a little terrifying.
Through the front window, the suburban street baked in the afternoon sun. Perfect lawns. Quiet houses. A world away from the shouting matches and slammed doors of his old life. He needed a human sound, anything to puncture the quiet. A greeting, maybe. He’d seen the neighbors on the porch next door.
He walked out, the screen door slapping shut behind him. The air outside was better. It smelled like cut grass and the lavender bushes lining the walkway to the house next door. Three women were lounged on the wide, shaded porch in a row of Adirondack chairs. As he got closer, the details resolved.
One wore a wide-brimmed sunhat, her face in shadow. Another was in a sleeveless crop top, her abdomen toned and smooth. The third had on a fitted white tank top that did nothing to hide her generous curves. They all held glasses of iced tea, and they all stopped talking to watch him approach. Their smiles weren’t just friendly. They were knowing. Like they’d been waiting for him.
“Hi,” Aidan said, stopping at the foot of the porch steps. He felt instantly underdressed in his sweat-stained t-shirt. “I’m Aidan. Just moved in next door.”
“We know,” said the woman in the sunhat. She lifted a hand and tipped the brim up. Her eyes were a clear, piercing blue. “Saw the truck. I’m Margot.”
“Zola,” said the one in the crop top. She had a playful glint in her eye, her dark hair piled in a messy bun.
“Cho,” said the third, her voice softer. She took a slow sip of her tea, her gaze never leaving him.
“Nice to meet you all,” Aidan said, shifting his weight. The quiet stretched, but it was a different quiet now—charged, humming. “It’s a really nice street.”
“It is,” Margot agreed. She swung her legs down from the chair’s extended footrest. “Peaceful. Private. Perfect for certain… activities.”
Zola laughed, a bright, clean sound. “Don’t scare him, Margot. He just got here.”
“I’m not scared,” Aidan said, though his pulse had kicked up a notch.
Cho leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. The movement made her tank top strain. “So, Aidan. What do you do? Besides unpack a lifetime of regret.”
He blinked. “Graphic design. Freelance.”
“Creative,” Zola noted. “Good. You probably have an open mind.”
“I like to think so.” He was thoroughly off-balance now. This wasn’t the usual welcome-to-the-neighborhood chat about trash day and sprinkler systems.
Margot stood up smoothly and walked to the top of the steps, looking down at him. The lavender scent was stronger here, mixed with something else—coconut sunscreen, maybe. “We have a proposition for you, Aidan. A professional one, of a sort.”
“Okay?”
“We run a content studio,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact, like she was discussing a bakery. “Specialized content. Very high-end, very tasteful. Our usual male talent had a… scheduling conflict. A family emergency. He flaked, basically.”
Zola picked up the thread. “We’ve got a full day booked in the studio. Lights, cameras, the works. A whole thematic series planned. And no one to worship the altar.”
Aidan’s brain stuttered. “The… altar?”
Cho smiled. It transformed her face, making her look both sweet and deeply mischievous. “It’s a metaphorical altar, silly. Ours.” She gestured vaguely behind her, toward the house. “The theme is devotion. Specifically, the worship of the female asshole. The tight, perfect, star of the show.”
The words hung in the air. The lavender smell, the creak of the wooden swing moving in a slight breeze, the distant whir of a lawnmower—all of it felt suddenly hyper-real, a stark contrast to the conversation.
“You’re joking,” Aidan said, but it came out weak.
“We are not joking,” Margot said. Her blue eyes were steady, assessing. “The day involves face-sitting. Multiple, detailed rimjobs. And it culminates in a series of anal creampies. One from each of us. The visuals are meant to be… transcendent.”
Aidan’s mouth was dry. He should have turned and walked away. This was insane. He was a divorced graphic designer from Milwaukee, for god’s sake. But his feet were rooted to the spot. A part of him, a part he’d buried under years of polite compromise, was screaming yes with a clarity that shocked him.
“Why me?” he managed to ask.
“Why not you?” Zola countered. “You’re here. You’re new. You look like you could use an adventure that doesn’t involve Ikea furniture. And,” she added, her eyes trailing down his body and back up, “we have a good feeling about you. You seem… appreciative.”
Cho stood and joined Margot on the top step. “It’s just a day’s work. Well-paid work. And we’re very good at what we do. We’ll direct you every step of the way. All you have to do is show up, follow instructions, and… perform.”
The three of them looked at him, a united front of casual, breathtaking audacity. The proposition was obscene. It was impossible. It was the most straightforward, honest thing anyone had said to him in years.
He thought of his empty, box-filled house. The silence. The cautious, wounded version of himself he’d moved in with. This wasn’t on any map for a fresh start.
But it was an open road.
“What…” He cleared his throat, forced the words out. “What time would you need me to start?”
Margot’s smile widened. It was a beautiful, victorious smile.
“How about now?”