Chapter 14: The Deal and the Dining Room
The bathroom door opened before Melissa could turn the lock.
Karen stood in the doorway, silk robe already pooled on the hallway floor behind her. She was naked—full breasts, soft stomach, the faint silver lines of stretch marks that Melissa had never seen before. Her pubic hair was trimmed into a neat strip, dark against pale skin.
"What are you doing?" Melissa asked.
"Shut up and get in the shower."
"Karen—"
"I need to see the damage for myself." Karen stepped past her, into the glass enclosure, and turned the water on. Steam billowed immediately. "You think I'm going to let you wash away all the evidence without a proper examination?"
Melissa stood frozen, water soaking her hair, watching her best friend step under the spray like she belonged there.
"Come here," Karen said.
Melissa went.
The water was hot enough to sting. Karen pulled her close, chest to chest, and Melissa felt the soft press of breasts against her own, the unfamiliar curve of another woman's hips beneath her palms.
"Turn around," Karen murmured.
Melissa turned. Faced the tile. Karen's hands landed on her shoulders, then slid down her back, tracing the faint scratches Victor had left between her shoulder blades.
"He marked you up good," Karen said. "These are going to scar if you're not careful."
"They're not that deep."
"They're deep enough." Karen's hands moved lower. Cupped Melissa's ass. Squeezed. "Jesus, Mel. You're still swollen."
"I know."
"Spread your legs."
Melissa's breath caught. But she obeyed, widening her stance, bracing her hands against the tile. Water sluiced down her back, between her shoulder blades, dripping from her hair.
Karen knelt.
The tile was hard beneath her knees—Melissa could hear the soft impact, the slight grunt of discomfort. But Karen didn't complain. Her hands slid up the inside of Melissa's thighs, gentle at first, then firmer, pushing them farther apart.
"Fuck," Karen breathed. "You're still leaking."
Melissa felt it—the slow seep of Victor's come, thick and warm despite the water, sliding down her inner thigh. Her pussy clenched around nothing, a reflexive spasm that made her gasp.
"Karen—"
"Shh."
Karen's fingers parted her labia. The touch was clinical at first—probing, exploratory—but Melissa's body didn't care about intent. Her hips jerked forward slightly, chasing the pressure.
"You're so red," Karen murmured. "He really did a number on you."
"He's... enthusiastic."
"Enthusiastic." Karen laughed softly. "That's one word for it."
Her thumb found Melissa's clit. Pressed. Circles, slow and deliberate, spreading the slickness that had nothing to do with the shower.
Melissa's forehead hit the tile.
"Your husband ever make you this wet?" Karen asked.
"No."
"Ever make you come four times in one night?"
"No."
"Ever make you beg?"
Melissa's silence was answer enough.
Karen leaned in. Her tongue touched Melissa's inner thigh first—a long, deliberate stroke that collected the trail of come and water and need. Melissa shuddered.
"You taste like him," Karen said. "Like sex. Like surrender."
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"I don't—I can't—"
"You can." Karen's tongue found her cunt. Broad, flat strokes, licking up the length of her slit, lapping at the mess Victor had left behind. "You can and you will."
Melissa's hands scrabbled against the tile. The shower rail was too far. She grabbed it anyway, stretching, her arm screaming in protest, and held on like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Karen ate her like she was starving.
There was nothing tentative about it. No hesitation. Karen's mouth worked her with the kind of focus Melissa had only ever experienced from Victor—that singular, consuming attention that made her feel like the center of the universe. Karen's tongue curled inside her, scooping out Victor's seed, swallowing it down with a hum of satisfaction that vibrated against Melissa's clit.
"That's it," Karen whispered against her. "Give me all of it."
Melissa's hips bucked. The shower rail creaked. Water poured into her eyes, her mouth, but she didn't care—couldn't care—because Karen's tongue was inside her, fucking into her with quick, precise thrusts, and her thumb was back on Melissa's clit, rubbing tight circles that made her vision white out.
She came with a scream that echoed off the tile.
Her knees buckled. Karen caught her—somehow, impossibly—pinning her against the wall with her body, keeping her upright while the orgasm tore through her like a live wire. Her pussy clenched around Karen's tongue, spasming, gushing. Every muscle in her body locked tight, then released, then locked again.
She might have blacked out. She wasn't sure.
When she came back to herself, she was sitting on the shower floor, water raining down on both of them, Karen's arms wrapped around her from behind.
"Hey," Karen said softly. "You with me?"
"Fuck."
"I'll take that as a yes."
Melissa turned her head. Karen's face was inches away—wet, flushed, her lips still slick with Melissa's come and Victor's.
"You just..." Melissa started.
"I know."
"You actually just..."
"I did." Karen grinned. "And I'd do it again. But first—" She helped Melissa to her feet, steadying her when she wobbled. "—we need to talk about Friday."
They dried off in silence. Karen wrapped her hair in a towel and pulled on a fresh robe—navy silk this time, short enough to show off her legs. Melissa borrowed a t-shirt and sweatpants that were slightly too small, the fabric clinging to her hips.
In the kitchen, Karen poured fresh mimosas. The clock on the wall ticked too loudly. Melissa watched the second hand sweep past the twelve and felt something cold settle in her stomach.
"Friday," Karen said, settling onto a barstool. "David leaves for Chicago at six. Victor gets home at seven. You'll have one hour to prepare."
"Prepare how?"
"Everything." Karen ticked off on her fingers. "The house. The food. Yourself. You want this to be perfect."
"It's not going to be perfect. It's going to be—"
"Perfect," Karen repeated. "Because I'll be there."
Melissa took a long drink. "Where exactly will you be?"
"The walk-in closet in your bedroom. The one with the slatted doors."
"He'll see you."
"He won't. I'll be there before he arrives. Door cracked just enough to see. Just enough to hear." Karen's eyes gleamed. "You'll need to leave it open. Tell him you were trying on outfits. Tell him anything. Just make sure I can watch."
"Watch what, exactly?"
"Everything." Karen leaned forward. "You eat him at the table first. On your knees. I want to see you choke on his cock while he calls you his good little slut. Then bend over the dining table and let him fuck you like the whore you are. I want to hear everything—every slap, every moan, every time you beg him for more."
Melissa's stomach flipped. Dread and heat, tangled together.
"You're serious."
"I've never been more serious about anything in my life." Karen reached across the island, covered Melissa's hand with her own. "You need this, Mel. You need someone who understands. Someone who won't judge you for wanting what you want."
"And what do I want?"
"Him." Karen squeezed her fingers. "And maybe—just a little—me."
Melissa pulled her hand back. "I'm not—I don't—"
"I know. You don't have to decide anything right now. Just think about it." Karen stood, walked to the coffee maker, poured herself a fresh cup. "Now. Text him. Tell him you need him Friday night."
"What am I supposed to say?"
"Exactly that. 'I need you Friday night. David will be gone.' Then send him a picture."
"A picture of what?"
"Whatever you want. Whatever makes your pussy wet just thinking about it." Karen smirked. "You still have the bruise on your neck. Show him that."
Melissa pulled out her phone. Her fingers trembled as she typed.
I need you Friday night. David will be gone.
She attached a photo—a close-up of her neck, the purple mark stark against her skin, her collarbone visible, the strap of Karen's borrowed t-shirt cutting across her shoulder.
She hit send.
The reply came thirty seconds later.
I'll be there. Wear something I can rip off.
Melissa's pussy clenched. She showed the message to Karen.
"Perfect," Karen said. "Now the hard part."
"What's that?"
"Waiting."
The rest of the week passed like molasses.
Melissa moved through her days in a fog—grocery shopping, cleaning the house, pretending to listen when David talked about his upcoming trip. He kissed her goodbye on Tuesday morning and she didn't feel a thing.
Her phone buzzed constantly.
Victor.
Thinking about your mouth.
Thinking about your cunt.
Thinking about Friday.
She responded in kind—filthy messages that made her blush just to type, pictures of her in lingerie that she deleted immediately after sending. On Wednesday night, she found herself alone in bed, David already asleep beside her, and she slipped her hand between her legs and came thinking about Victor's voice saying You're mine while Karen watched.
Thursday, she cleaned the house from top to bottom. Changed the sheets. Lit candles that smelled like vanilla and sandalwood. Stocked the fridge with his favorite beer.
She texted Karen: Everything's ready.
Karen replied: So am I.
Friday morning, David left at six. Melissa stood in the doorway, watching his car disappear down the street, and felt something shift inside her. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The clock on the wall ticked too loudly.
She went upstairs. Showered. Shaved. Moisturized. Put on the dress she'd chosen—black, backless, short enough to show off her legs but not so short that she looked desperate. Underneath, nothing but a lace thong that served no protective purpose whatsoever.
At 6:30, Karen arrived.
She was dressed casually—jeans, a simple blouse—but her eyes were sharp, assessing, taking in every detail of the house, the lighting, the nervous energy radiating off Melissa in waves.
"Closet?" she asked.
"Master bedroom. I left the door cracked."
Karen nodded. Paused in the hallway.
"You sure about this?"
"No."
"Good. Fear means you're paying attention." Karen touched her arm. "I'll be watching the whole time. If anything goes wrong—anything—I'll be there."
"Okay."
"You're going to be fine. You're going to be better than fine." Karen smiled. "You're going to be spectacular."
She disappeared into the bedroom. Melissa heard the closet door creak open, then close. A sliver of light appeared between the slats—just enough to see, just enough to hear.
The doorbell rang at 6:55.
Early.
Melissa's heart hammered. She smoothed her dress, checked her reflection in the hallway mirror, and opened the door.
Victor stood on the doorstep.
He was taller than she remembered. Broader. He wore a simple button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and jeans that fit him obscenely well. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he smelled like soap and something muskier underneath.
His eyes swept over her. Lingered on her legs. Her throat. The dress that hugged every curve.
"Hi," Melissa said.
"Hi."
He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. The door swung shut behind him. They stood in the foyer, inches apart, the air between them thick with everything that had happened and everything that was about to.
"You look..." Victor started.
"What?"
"Like I'm going to ruin you," he finished. "Again."
Melissa kissed him before he could say anything else.