Chapter 8: Pretense gone
The fireplace crackled, its warmth a mockery in the frigid atmosphere David felt trapped within. Weeks had bled into a seamless, surreal nightmare. The pretense of conception, the fragile veneer of mutual agreement, had shattered entirely, leaving behind a raw, exposed nerve ending of humiliation and obsession. Clara moved through the living room with an unsettling ease, entirely nude as per the new, unspoken decree. Her skin glowed faintly in the firelight, not from warmth, but from a constant, low hum of arousal that seemed perpetually just beneath the surface. She’d grown bolder, her movements languid, possessive, constantly seeking contact with Julian, who sprawled across the couch like a king holding court.
David hunched over student essays at the small writing desk shoved into the corner, the scratch of his red pen the only sound besides the fire. He tried to focus on analyzing weak thesis statements, but the words blurred. He could feel Julian’s gaze, heavy and amused, fixed on him.
"Honestly, David," Julian began, his voice a lazy drawl that sliced through the tense quiet. He stretched, the muscles in his bare chest rippling. Clara, perched on the armrest beside him, immediately began tracing patterns on his shoulder with a fingertip. "You wouldn't believe how deep she took it this morning. Right before your shower. Practically choked herself. Gag reflex is basically gone now. Impressive dedication, isn't it?"
David’s pen froze mid-correction, digging a small hole in the paper. He didn’t look up. His knuckles whitened.
Clara giggled, a light, airy sound that felt grotesque in the context. She nuzzled Julian’s neck. "You liked it, Daddy," she murmured, the word dropping easily, naturally, like a caress. It hung in the air, toxic and saccharine. "Made you shoot right down my throat." She shifted, swinging a leg over Julian’s lap to straddle him, her back to David. Her movements were fluid, practiced. "Didn’t even need a napkin."
"Daddy?" David’s voice was a rasp, finally breaking. He still didn’t turn. "Since when?"
"Since she figured out who really makes her feel safe," Julian answered for her, his hands sliding possessively up Clara’s bare thighs, thumbs tracing circles on her hips. He met David’s hunched profile. "Who really owns her."
Clara sighed, a sound of pure contentment, grinding slowly against Julian’s lap. She tilted her head back, eyes closed. "Mmmm, feels good, Daddy." Then, as if remembering David was present, she twisted slightly, looking over her shoulder with a startlingly casual expression. "Oh, David, did you remember to call the plumber about that leak under the kitchen sink? It was dripping again last night."
David stared at her. Her face was flushed, her pupils dilated, her naked body undulating rhythmically against another man. She was asking about the plumber. As if she were discussing the weather. As if David weren't witnessing her grind on Julian while calling him 'Daddy'.
"The... the plumber?" David managed, voice thick.
"Yes," Clara said patiently, still rocking. Her breath hitched slightly as Julian’s hands tightened on her hips, guiding her rhythm. "You said you’d call them today. It’s annoying, that dripping sound." She moaned softly, a low hum of pleasure vibrating in her throat, completely at odds with the mundane topic. "Could you... ah... maybe do it after lunch?"
Julian chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Priorities, David," he smirked, watching David’s face contort. "The lady needs her plumbing fixed." He emphasized the word, his meaning dripping with crude innuendo. One hand slid around from Clara’s hip to cup her breast, thumb brushing her nipple. She gasped, arching into his touch.
"Y-yes," David stammered, wrenching his gaze away, back to the damning red ink on the paper. He felt sick. "I’ll... call them."
"Thanks, sweetie!" Clara chirped, her voice suddenly bright and affectionate – directed at David, even as she gyrated on Julian. "You’re the best." Then, her tone shifted back to a breathy whisper aimed at Julian. "Faster, Daddy... please..."
Julian obliged, his hips lifting to meet hers in a more forceful rhythm. The wet sounds of their joining became obscenely audible over the crackling fire. David squeezed his eyes shut, the red pen trembling violently in his hand. He couldn’t block out Clara’s escalating moans, the rhythmic creak of the couch springs, Julian’s low grunts of satisfaction. He couldn’t unsee the image burned behind his eyelids: his wife, naked, begging another man, calling him Daddy, while discussing household chores with her husband.
It became the new normal. A constant, degrading soundtrack to David’s existence. Clara floating naked from room to room, perpetually drawn to Julian like a moth to a toxic flame. She’d kneel beside him while he watched TV, taking him into her mouth with practiced ease, humming happily around him. She’d ride him on the rug while David attempted to read, her conversation bouncing erratically between gasping endearments for Julian ("Oh, Daddy, yes, right there!") and questions for David ("Do we need more milk, David? I used the last bit in my coffee."). Julian watched David constantly, a cruel amusement in his eyes, narrating Clara’s actions like a sports commentator detailing a particularly satisfying play.
"Notice how her tongue swirls under the head?" he’d muse, as David tried desperately to concentrate on marking essays. "She’s developed a real finesse. Took some training, but she’s a quick study. Eager to please." Clara would moan in agreement, her eyes glazed, lost in the sensation and the praise.
One afternoon, David was on a video call with a colleague, discussing an upcoming lecture. He kept his camera angled carefully towards his face and the bookshelf behind him, praying the chaos stayed out of frame. He was deep in explaining the nuances of early feudal land grants when movement caught his eye.
Clara, gloriously, unapologetically naked, padded into the living room. She went straight to Julian, who was lounging on the couch scrolling his phone. Without a word, she knelt between his spread knees. David’s breath hitched. His colleague's voice droned on.
"...and the shift from allodial tenure to the feudal contract was primarily driven by..."
Julian looked up from his phone, saw Clara kneeling, and a slow, predatory smile spread across his face. He didn't pause. He simply unbuckled his belt, the metallic snick horribly loud to David’s ears. He pushed his jeans and boxers down just enough.
"...need to emphasize the reciprocal obligations, David, particularly the concept of auxilium..."
Clara leaned forward, her mouth opening. David watched, frozen, his pulse pounding in his temples, as she took Julian into her mouth, her head beginning to bob with familiar rhythm.
"...without the lord's protection, the vassal was vulnerable, hence the exchange..."
Julian locked eyes with David over Clara’s head. He gave a small, deliberate thrust. Clara gagged softly, then resumed, her movements becoming more urgent. Julian raised his eyebrows at David, a silent, mocking challenge. Watch this, his expression said.
David felt a cold sweat break out. His colleague paused. "David? Are you still there? You look pale."
"Y-yes, Professor Higgins," David choked out, forcing his gaze back to the screen, away from the obscene tableau just outside its frame. His voice sounded strangled. "Just... a bit of indigestion. Please, continue. Reciprocal obligations... absolutely vital..." He tried to focus on the pixelated face on his screen, but his ears were filled with the wet, sucking sounds Clara was making, the low grunts from Julian. His own nausea churned.
"...and consilium, the duty to provide counsel..."
Julian’s hand settled on the back of Clara’s head, fingers tangling in her hair, guiding her pace. He mouthed soundlessly at David: She loves it.
David felt the bile rise in his throat. He mumbled something incoherent into the microphone, an excuse about a bad connection, and ended the call abruptly. He slammed the laptop shut, his chest heaving. He whirled towards the couch.
Clara pulled off Julian with a wet gasp, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening erection. She looked up at David, her eyes wide, her lips swollen. "Is everything okay, David? You sounded stressed."
Julian chuckled, shifting Clara off his lap. "Just work stuff, baby," he said smoothly, pulling his pants up. "David’s a bit overwhelmed. Needs to...decompress." He stood, stretching again. "Speaking of, I’m heading out. Meeting some people. Keep the bed warm, kitten." He leaned down and kissed Clara roughly, possessively. She melted into it, moaning.
As Julian sauntered towards the hallway, he paused by David’s desk. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that vibrated with malice. "She’s insatiable, David.Truly. Three times yesterday. Four the day before. I lose count." He smirked. "Good thing I’ve got stamina, right? Keep her satisfied. Keep her happy." He straightened, patting David’s shoulder. "Hold down the fort."
David flinched away from the touch. Julian just laughed, a short, harsh bark, and disappeared down the hall. The front door opened and closed.
Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by the crackling fire and Clara’s soft breathing. She stood up, stretching like a cat, completely at ease in her nudity. She padded towards David, her expression shifting to one of concern. "He’s right, you know," she said softly, stopping in front of him. She placed a warm hand on his tense arm. "You do look stressed. You should relax." Her thumb stroked his skin, a gesture that once would have been comforting, now felt alien, wrong. "Maybe take a bath?"
David looked at her hand, then into her eyes. The eyes of the woman he loved, now filled with a serene detachment, a disturbing contentment born of complete submission. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Her scent – Julian’s expensive shower gel mixed with her own arousal and the lingering musk of sex – enveloped him.
"Don’t worry, David," she whispered against his skin, her voice gentle, almost maternal. "Daddy takes good care of me now. He takes care of everything." She pulled back, giving him a small, placating smile before turning and walking towards the bedroom, presumably to "keep the bed warm" as instructed.
David stood rooted to the spot, the phantom pressure of her kiss burning on his cheek. The red pen lay abandoned on the desk. The fire crackled, a sound like bones breaking. The living room, once their cozy haven, felt like a gilded cage, its warmth suffocating, its familiar walls closing in. He felt the fragile dam of his composure cracking. An impossible pressure building behind his ribs. A silent scream clawing its way up his throat. He stared at the closed bedroom door, imagining Clara lying naked in their bed, waiting for Julian’s return. The pen in his clenched fist snapped in two, the plastic shards biting into his palm. The blood welled, warm and slick, unnoticed. All he could hear was the echo of her voice: Daddy takes care of everything.