Chapter 2: The Neighbor's Shameless Demand
The silence after Michael and Gary left was a physical thing, thick and suffocating in the sleek penthouse. Kim remained on the chaise, the smell of sex and leather clinging to her skin. Her body felt used, a collection of aches and sticky reminders. She stared at her hands again, trying to find the artist in them, and saw only tremors.
The sharp click of the penthouse door unlocking broke the spell.
It wasn’t the men returning. The footsteps that stumbled across the marble were lighter, unsteady. Kim pulled the discarded silk robe around herself, the fabric doing little to cover the blooming marks on her thighs.
Susan stood in the archway of the living room, a silhouette against the dying sun. Her usual perfection was unraveled. Her dark, sleek hair was disheveled, her designer blouse untucked and stained with what looked like red wine. She leaned against the doorframe, her eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Kim?” Susan’s voice was a slurred, unfamiliar drawl. The sharp, analytical lawyer was gone, replaced by this raw, vibrating thing.
“Susan? What’s wrong?”
Susan let out a bitter laugh that echoed in the vast space. “What’s wrong? I won a fucking case today. A big one. And you know what my celebration was? A three-hour dinner with partners who looked at my tits while talking precedent.” She pushed off the doorframe, staggering forward. Her cool composure had cracked, revealing something frantic and hungry beneath. “I’m so goddamn tired of being in control.”
Her eyes landed on Kim, really saw her: the messy hair, the robe, the unmistakable aura of recent activity. A slow, understanding smirk twisted Susan’s lips. “Oh. You’ve been playing.”
Before Kim could answer, Susan was crossing the room, her movements a drunk, determined prowl. She stopped inches away, the scent of Chanel No. 5 and expensive gin mingling with the sex in the air. “I heard things,” Susan whispered, her breath hot. “Through the wall. Sounded like you were having more fun than I was.”
Kim’s face flushed. She opened her mouth to say something, an excuse, an explanation about artistic expression, but Susan’s hand came up, a cool palm resting against Kim’s heated cheek.
“Don’t,” Susan said, her thumb tracing Kim’s lower lip. “Just… don’t talk. I need to not think.”
Then Susan’s mouth was on hers. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming, all teeth and desperate tongue, tasting of gin and frustration. Kim gasped into it, her hands coming up to clutch at Susan’s waist. This was different. This wasn’t being used by spectators. This was a shared fracture.
Susan broke the kiss, her chest heaving. “I need to be fucked right fucking now,” she slurred, the words raw and guttural. “Not made love to. Fucked. Until I can’t remember my own name.”
As if summoned by the sheer need in her voice, Gary stepped back into the room from the terrace, a cigarette in his hand. He took in the scene—the disheveled lawyer, the stunned artist—and a slow, predatory smile spread across his face. “Party’s not over, I see.”
Susan turned to him, her gaze challenging. “You. Can you do that? Or do you just pose in penthouses?”
Gary dropped the cigarette, grinding it under his heel. “Get over the couch.”
It was not an invitation. It was an order. And Susan, the woman who commanded courtrooms, obeyed instantly. She stumbled to the large, low-backed sofa, bending over it, her palms flat on the cushions. She presented herself, the elegant line of her back, the curve of her ass still encased in her tailored trousers.
Gary unzipped them, yanking them and her underwear down to her knees in one rough motion. The pale skin of her ass was exposed to the warm, dusky light. He didn’t bother with foreplay. He spit into his hand, slicking himself, and positioned his thick cock at her entrance.
Kim watched, frozen, from a few feet away. She saw Susan’s face, turned to the side against the cushion. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her jaw clenched. Not in pain, but in fierce, agonized anticipation.
“Do it,” Susan hissed.
Gary pushed. He didn’t ease in. He split her open with one savage, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
Susan’s scream was muffled by the cushion. Her body bowed, accepting the brutal invasion. Then, a broken, “Yes… fuck, yes…”
Kim’s own body throbbed in sympathy, a fresh heat pooling low in her belly. The voyeuristic thrill was dizzying. This was Susan, unhinged. This was power, inverted.
Gary set a punishing pace from the start, each thrust slamming Susan’s body into the couch. The rhythmic, wet slap of skin filled the room. Kim found herself moving, drawn to the sight like a moth to a flame. She knelt on the floor in front of Susan, who was now sobbing with each drive into her.
Susan’s blouse had fallen open. Her breasts, freed from her lace bra, bounced heavily with Gary’s momentum. Kim didn’t think. She leaned forward and captured one nipple in her mouth, sucking hard, her tongue circling the taut peak.
Susan cried out again, her hand fumbling into Kim’s hair, holding her there. “Oh god… suck them… yes…”
Kim switched to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, tasting salt and the faint, floral trace of perfume. She was between them, a participant in this breakdown. She looked up and saw Susan’s face, tears cutting through her makeup, her mouth slack with pleasure-pain.
“You like that, you fucking cunt?” Gary grunted, his hands digging into Susan’s hips. “You like being spit-roasted by your bohemian neighbor and a stranger?”
“Yes!” Susan screamed, the word torn from her. “I’m a cunt! I’m a needy, fucking cunt! Fill it!”
Kim released Susan’s breast and kissed her way up her chest, her neck, finding her mouth. This kiss was different—softer, a strange communion in the chaos. Susan kissed her back desperately, their tongues tangling, sharing the taste of sweat and despair and gin.
Gary’s rhythm faltered, growing ragged. “Gonna cum in this tight lawyer pussy,” he groaned.
“Do it,” Susan begged against Kim’s lips. “Paint my fucking walls.”
With a final, deep snarl, Gary shuddered and slammed home, holding himself there as he emptied into her. Susan’s body clenched around him, her own climax triggered by the raw, claiming act, a series of violent shudders that made her teeth nip Kim’s lip.
He pulled out, leaving her gasping and dripping over the couch. He zipped up without a word and left, the terrace door sliding shut behind him.
The two women were alone again, collapsed in a heap of tangled limbs and ruined clothing. The only sound was their ragged breathing. The sun had fully set, leaving the penthouse in darkness, punctuated only by the city’s distant, glittering lights.
Slowly, Susan pushed herself up. She looked down at the mess between her legs, then at Kim, whose face was stained with her lipstick and tears. The lawyer’s mask was utterly gone. In its place was a hollow, shattered vulnerability.
“Well,” Susan said, her voice hoarse but startlingly clear. “That was… inadvisable.”
Kim let out a shaky, unexpected laugh that bordered on a sob. “Yeah.”
Susan looked around the dark, opulent room, then back at Kim. “This contest,” she said quietly. “It’s not about art or challenges, is it?”
Kim followed her gaze to the chaise where she herself had been taken hours before. The canvas of her body felt irrevocably marked. “No,” she whispered. “I don’t think it is.”
Susan stood, pulling up her trousers with trembling hands. She looked like a survivor assessing the wreckage. “Then what is it about?”
From the shadows of the hallway, a new voice, smooth and observational, answered. “It’s about documentation.”
A man stepped into the edge of the light. He held a high-end video camera, its small red recording light a malevolent eye in the dark. He’d been there, silent, capturing it all.
“Beautiful raw material,” the man said, lowering the camera. “Thank you, ladies. The judges will be very pleased with tonight’s submissions.”