Chapter 3: Jessica’s new dissatisfaction
Keegan watched from the hallway closet, his breath a shallow ripple in the dark. Jessica lay still for a full minute before pushing herself up, her movements sluggish, and went to the ensuite. The shower hissed on. When she returned, her hair damp, she dressed in clean sweats and began stripping the bed, bundling the stained sheets with a grim efficiency. Downstairs, the front door clicked shut—Justin’s final exit. She carried the laundry to the hall machine, her face a blank mask.
Back in the bedroom, she paused, her eyes drifting to the closet door. Keegan held his breath. She took a step towards it, then jumped as her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text lit the screen: “Same time tomorrow? -J.” She deleted it, her thumb trembling, and tossed the phone aside like it burned. She stood there, hugging herself, a single tear tracing a path through her tan. Then her gaze hardened, resolve settling in the set of her jaw. She turned and left the room, heading downstairs.
Keegan waited, counting the creaks of the old house settling. He emerged, the taste of copper in his mouth from a bitten cheek. The party sounds from the Airbnb’s main floor were muffled laughter and clinking glass. He found her in the kitchen, pouring a shot of vodka, her back to him. “How long?” His voice was gravel.
She spun, the glass slipping to shatter on the tiles. “Keegan.” His name was a gasp, a confession. “What are you… how long have you been…?” Her eyes darted towards the bedroom hallway, understanding dawning, draining the color from her face.
“Since before the piss,” he said, the words acid on his tongue. “I saw it all.” Her hand flew to her mouth. He took a step closer, the glass crunching under his shoe. “My wife. My champion.” The violence in his whisper was worse than shouting.
She didn’t speak, just stared, her athletic frame trembling against the kitchen counter. The silence stretched, broken only by the drip of the broken faucet he’d meant to fix. Then, months later, they were in the car, the highway unspooling under a bleached sky, the Airbnb six hours behind them and another hour ahead. “God, Keegan, I really need to pee,” Jessica said, her voice tight, her legs pressed together on the passenger seat. He glanced over, saw her hand pressed hard against her jeans, and a dark heat uncoiled in his gut. “It’s just an hour to the rental,” he said, his tone casual, his eyes back on the road. “Think you can hold it?” She squirmed, biting her lip. “I don’t know. It’s bad.” “Try,” he said softly, his knuckles white on the wheel, images of the toilet, of Justin, flashing behind his eyes. She held on, her discomfort a palpable third presence in the car, her soft whimpers feeding a bitter arousal in him. When they finally pulled into the gravel drive of the rustic cabin, she flung the door open before the engine died, nearly stumbling as she ran for the keypad-locked front door. “Code, Keegan! Now!” she yelled, her voice pitched high with panic. He took his time, reading the host’s email aloud slowly, watching her dance on the spot. The door clicked open and she bolted inside, frantically searching halls as he followed, a predator drawn by desperation. He found her in the master bath, her back to him, fingers fumbling uselessly with her button fly. A choked sob escaped her as she finally tore the jeans down, revealing that perfectly trimmed strip of dark hair he now knew so intimately. The hiss of her piss hitting the bowl began before her ass met the seat, a strong, urgent stream that made her head fall back in profound relief. A long, guttural groan of release filled the small room, a sound of pure, uncomplicated satisfaction. He was hard, aching, leaning against the doorframe watching her wipe, the paper dragging through the wet folds he’d seen violated. She looked up, saw him, and her face—flushed with relief—froze. Her eyes widened, not with fear, but with a dawning, unsettling comprehension.
Her eyes widened, not with fear, but with a dawning, unsettling comprehension. He saw it click—the withheld bathroom stop, his deliberate slowness, his presence here now—and he moved before she could speak. Keegan rushed towards Jessica and tore down her jeans, the denim scraping her thighs as he yanked them to her ankles.
His tongue shoved into her pussy while she was still standing, and the taste was a brutal confession—the sharp, acrid tang of piss layered over her own slick, sweet juice. She gasped, a sharp intake of air, but made no other noise as she looked down at him with an ‘O’ of horror and unwilling pleasure, her hands gripping his shoulders for balance. She stumbled backward and Keegan picked her up, his arms under her thighs, and threw her onto the waiting bed.
He buried his face back into her, his tongue a relentless, circling pressure on her clit. One finger, then two, plunged into her wet pussy while his thumb found her asshole, applying a firm, insistent pressure that made her jolt. “You like that, don’t you?” he growled against her, his voice muffled by her flesh. “You like being full.”
She gripped the bedsheets, her knuckles white, a guttural “Fuck” escaping her lips as his fingers slid in and out of both holes in a brutal rhythm. Her hips began to stutter against his face, her breath coming in ragged hitches as the trembling started deep within her muscles. Keegan knew she was going to orgasm, and without his tongue leaving her clit, he glanced to the side to see her toes curling violently into the quilt.
He looked up to see her eyes staring directly at him, glazed with a silent, shuddering pleasure he hadn’t seen in years.
That silent understanding between them now felt thin and cold. Keegan needed to cum, and Jessica knew what was next. He stood up and yanked his pants down, freeing his six inches.
He lined it up to her pussy and watched it part as his cock slowly made its way into her. She was already wet, swollen from his mouth and fingers, but she felt loose. He was all the way in, thrusting, and the heat was a mockery.
Keegan looked up and saw Jessica’s face looking annoyed and bored. Her head was turned toward the window, her eyes on the fading light. What the fuck, he thought.
He pulled her legs up over his shoulders, changing the angle, and continued to thrust his member in and out. The wet slaps filled the room. She still looked bored.
“Look at me,” he grunted. She didn’t. He reached over to her open handbag on the nightstand, fumbling inside until his fingers closed around the cold, hard plastic of the vibrator. He clicked it on, its buzz a sudden insect hum in the quiet, and pressed it against her clit.
She flinched, then pushed his hand away with a force that surprised him. “Don’t,” she said, her voice flat. The rejection was a physical blow.
He pulled out with a ragged sound and came in thick, hot stripes across her stomach and that trimmed strip of hair. She looked disgusted, her lip curled. She got up without a word, walked to the bathroom, and cleaned herself with a washcloth, starting to get ready for the party later that evening as Keegan felt embarrassed, sitting there on the bed with his softening dick in his hand.