Chapter 2: The Consultation
The white-noise hum of the tires on the freeway was the only sound in the car. Craig drove with his usual precision, ten-and-two on the wheel, eyes never straying from the middle distance of the road. Renea watched the suburbs bleed into the commercial district, the familiar chain stores and gas stations giving way to anonymous glass office towers. Her stomach was a tight knot.She felt like she was being taken for a medical procedure. Which, she supposed, she was.A psychological one.
Craig took an exit marked “Central Business Park.” The streets here were wide, empty, sterilized. He pulled into the underground garage of a building that looked like a giant, obsidian shard. The silence down here was profound, broken only by the precise echo of his Italian loafers on the polished concrete.
The lobby was a vast atrium of white marble and chrome.No reception desk. Just a single, floating monitor displaying the Eidolon logo: a stylized, abstract eye.A discreet scanner by the elevator bank blinked a soft green light. Craig held his phone up to it.The doors slid open without a sound.
They stepped out on the fourteenth floor into a different kind of atmosphere.It wasn’t warm. It was a climate-controlled perfection that felt neither cold nor inviting.The lighting was indirect, casting no shadows. The walls were panels of white fabric stretched over hidden frames. The air smelled faintly of ozone, like after a lightning storm, with an underlying note of something woody and expensive—sandalwood, maybe, but sharper. It smelled like a very clean boardroom. Renea’s heels sank into a carpet so plush and uniform it felt like walking on solid fog.A man was waiting for them. He stood beside a frosted glass partition, immaculate in a gray suit that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it.He was ageless, with features so perfectly balanced they were forgettable. His smile was a professional curve, devoid of warmth.“Mr.and Mrs.Grayson. I’m Julian.Please, follow me.”
His voice was as modulated as the environment. He led them down a short corridor and into a consultation room. It held a floating white desk and two chairs sculpted from pale, polished wood.A single screen, thin as a credit card, was embedded in the desk surface. On the wall, a single piece of art: a hyper-realistic digital rendering of a dandelion seed head, perfectly intact.“Please, sit.Can I offer you still or sparkling water? We also have artisanal tisanes.”
“Sparkling,” Craig said, already taking his seat, his posture analytical, ready to assess data.“Still,” Renea whispered. Her mouth was too dry for bubbles.Julian produced two crystal glasses from a seamless cabinet. He placed them soundlessly on the desk and took a seat opposite them.He folded his hands. “Eidolon thanks you for your commitment to curated experiential enhancement. Before we proceed to stimulus options, I’d like to reaffirm our shared understanding.This is not an escort service. This is a program of sensory and behavioral enrichment, designed to strengthen primary partnerships through the strategic introduction of novel variables. Our facilitators are not participants in your life.They are instruments of experience. Is this framework clear?”
“Perfectly,” Craig said.He shot a glance at Renea. “We’re scientists of our own happiness.”
Julian’s smile didn’t change.“Excellent. Then let us begin with parameter calibration.” He touched the screen. It lit up, displaying a series of sliders and scales.“We’ll start with the primary beneficiary’s sensory preferences.Visual focal points. Tactile sensitivity thresholds.Preferred acoustic environment. This is not about the facilitator themselves, but about the qualities of the experience they help generate.”
He began asking questions in that soft, neutral tone. Did Renea respond more to visual stimuli of power or of grace? Was her preference for controlled touch or spontaneous pressure?Did a deeper vocal register enhance a sense of safety, or of excitement? Craig leaned forward slightly, fascinated.This was his language. Renea answered in monosyllables, feeling dissected. Her private, fumbling moment in the dark office nook felt like a vandal’s act compared to this clinical mapping.After an eternity of questions, Julian swiped the screen clear. “Now, for facilitator compatibility.We have several profiles that align with your indicated parameters. Remember, you are not choosing a person. You are selecting a set of aesthetic and physiological variables.”
A gallery of images appeared.Not photographs. They were digital silhouettes, three-dimensional rotoscopes that slowly turned, like models in a clothing website. Stats floated beside them like a sporting profile: height, weight, body fat percentage, athletic disciplines practiced.Age ranges.No names.No faces.
Renea’s fingers were cold.She reached for her water glass, the condensation slick against her skin.
“Flip through,” Craig encouraged, his voice low.“Just look at the data.”
She touched the screen. Swiped. A silhouette of a swimmer’s build, V-tapered, stats listing middle-distance freestyle.Swipe.A rock climber’s lean, ropey frame. Swipe.A cyclist’s powerful quadriceps. Each one was reduced to a blueprint of desirable characteristics.It was horrifying.It was mesmerizing.Then she saw it.
The silhouette was different.Not just athletic, but powerfully built.Shoulders wide, chest deep, legs solid. The stats listed a background in collegiate football, then transitioned to personal training and competitive strongman events. There was a density to the rotoscope that the others lacked. It communicated a raw, grounded physicality.Her finger paused.Craig saw it. He saw the slight catch in her breath, the way her eyes stopped their scanning motion. He noted the dilation of her pupils, visible even in the soft light.Data point confirmed, his mind whispered.
“You like that one?” he asked, his tone casual, as if asking if she preferred the beige or the ecru throw pillow.
“I… it’s interesting,” she managed.Julian leaned in. “Profile Seven-Eight-Nine.A highly requested variable set. Often selected for its association with reliable, grounded strength and a…present physicality. It tests very well in scenarios requiring a palpable sense of security.”
Renea swallowed.She thought of the cheap, bulky man on her laptop screen. This was his refined, sanctioned, outrageously expensive counterpart. The hunger Craig had identified yawned open inside her, but now it was being handed a silver platter.It felt less like rebellion and more like surrender.
“Can we see… more?” Craig asked.Julian tapped the silhouette. It expanded, and a brief, anonymized biography appeared, written in dry, professional prose. Subject has excelled in client-facing wellness roles, noted for calm demeanor and clear communication. Enjoys structured environments and goal-oriented tasks.Holds advanced certifications in kinesthetic mechanics and partnered movement safety.
Then, below that, a single line: Facilitator prefers to be addressed as Jason.Jason. A name.It was a seismic shift.It made him a person. A person who liked structure and clear goals.Like Craig.Renea felt a wave of dizziness.
“A ‘no-contact introduction’ is our most recommended initial phase,” Julian continued.“A shared social environment.Neutral territory. It allows for organic observation and assessment of chemical and behavioral reactivity without the pressure of direct engagement. We have a client-sponsored charity gala this Saturday night.The Museum of Natural History.Black tie. It would provide an ideal setting.”
Craig was nodding, running the logic through his internal processors. “A controlled social field.A baseline interaction metric.Yes. That’s optimal.”
“Renea?” Craig’s voice pulled her back. He was watching her, his eyes soft with what looked like concern but was, she knew, pure analytical interest.“What do you think? A trial run.No obligations.Just… to see the variable in the field.”
She looked at the silhouette. At the name Jason. She thought of the Victorian heroines in her novels, swooning at a glance across a ballroom.This was that, weaponized and sold back to her. The ultimate curated fantasy.Her own secret, messy hunger felt cheap next to this.
Her hands had stopped trembling.A strange calm settled over her.This was the maze.She was inside it now. The only way out was through.“Okay,” she said.Her voice was clearer than she expected. “The gala. Let’s do that.”
Craig’s smile was a brief, victorious flicker, instantly smoothed into supportive partnership.“Great.” He turned to Julian. “We’ll proceed with the introduction package for Profile Seven-Eight-Nine. Jason.”
“Excellent.” Julian made a note on his screen.“The contract and nondisclosure agreements will be in your portal. The gala details will follow. Eidolon appreciates your commitment to the experiential journey.”
The drive home was silent.The sun had set, washing the city in indigo and electric amber. Craig seemed energized, already planning.“The museum is a good venue.Lots of space. Natural conversational topics with the exhibits.We’ll need to get your gown altered. The black one, maybe?”
Renea stared out the window. “The black one is fine.”
That night, Craig went to his study to review the digital contracts. Renea stood in her walk-in closet, looking at the simple, floor-length black gown hanging in its garment bag.She touched the fabric. Cool, smooth, expensive.Armor.
From his study, she heard the soft, rapid tapping of Craig’s keyboard.The sound of terms being accepted, parameters being locked, a transaction being sealed. She unzipped the bag and slipped the dress off the hanger. She held it up against herself in the full-length mirror.Her reflection looked back, a pale oval face framed by dark fabric. The woman in the mirror had agreed to this. The woman in the mirror had trembled at a silhouette on a screen. The woman in the mirror had a secret, one that felt smaller and dirtier by the minute, buried under the crushing weight of Craig’s elegant, airless experiment.
She pressed the dress against her body, harder, until she could feel the zipper’s teeth against her ribs through her thin camisole. She didn’t see a scientist, or a heroine.She saw a specimen, beautifully mounted, ready for observation.
In the other room, the typing stopped.A quiet, satisfied sigh carried down the hall.
The gala was in three days.
The three days passed with a strange, suspended quality. Craig was preoccupied with logistics, absorbed in the Eidolon portal’s checklist of preparatory steps. Renea moved through the house like a ghost, feeling the approaching event as a slow, magnetic pull toward an unavoidable threshold.
She had the black gown altered on Tuesday.The seamstress, a small woman with pins in her mouth, knelt at her feet. “Heels will change the drape,” the woman muttered, her words muffled by fabric.
Renea stared at her own reflection in the triptych of mirrors. The dress was simple, elegant, severe.It made her look like a stretched shadow.“It’s fine,” she said. “Just take it in at the waist.” She wanted the fabric to hold her tighter, to feel the boundaries of her own body.Craig seemed happier than he had in months. He whistled while making coffee. On Wednesday evening, he laid out his tuxedo on the bed with ceremonial care. “Black tie always feels like a uniform, doesn’t it?” he said, brushing an invisible speck from the lapel.“A clear set of parameters for behavior. I find that comforting.”
“Do you?” Renea was folding laundry, her hands moving on autopilot.
“Of course.” He turned to her, his head tilted. “Predictability is the foundation of any good experiment.The gala provides that. All we’re doing is introducing one new, controlled variable into a stable environment. It’s actually very low-risk.”
I am the environment, she thought, but said nothing.The folded towels in her hands were perfectly square.
Thursday morning, an encrypted email arrived with final instructions. Facilitator Jason will be present as a guest of the Eidolon table.Identification will be intuitive.Proceed naturally. A PDF map of the museum’s hall was attached, with a discreet star marking their table’s location.Craig printed it out. He studied it over breakfast, tracing routes with a fingertip. “We’ll enter through the dinosaur hall. It’s a natural conversation flow toward the cocktail area.”
“What if we see a dinosaur we like?” Renea asked, sipping her juice. “Should we linger?”
Craig looked up, a flicker of confusion crossing his face before he registered the tone. He offered a thin smile.“Very funny.Just be yourself, Renea. Your natural reactions are the whole point of the baseline metric.”
Her natural reactions.The phrase echoed.Which ones? The polite librarian smile, or the tremor she felt when she let herself think about the solid, unnamed weight of Profile Seven-Eight-Nine?The day of the gala dawned grey and drizzling. Craig scheduled a couples’ massage for the afternoon, a “pre-experiential calibration” he’d read about in a study.The silent room smelled of eucalyptus. A stranger’s hands worked the tension from her shoulders, but it pooled right back in her belly the moment she stood up. Dressing was a silent ritual.Craig knotted his tie in the mirror with precise, efficient movements. He watched her apply a faint touch of lipstick.“You look stunning,” he said. The words sounded measured, like a confirmed data point.The Museum of Natural History at night was a cathedral of shadows and glass. The towering skeleton of a barosaurus greeted them in the cavernous entrance hall, its bones lit with a spectral blue glow. The din of the party—clinking glasses, layered conversations, a jazz trio—swirled around its prehistoric feet.Renea felt infinitesimally small. Craig took her elbow, his touch proprietary, and guided her toward the sound.
The cocktail reception was in the Ocean Life room. A gigantic, suspended blue whale model soared overhead, its plaster belly swimming with party lights.The room was a sea of black tuxedos and shimmering gowns. Craig procured two glasses of champagne. “See anyone yet?” he murmured, his eyes scanning the crowd like a search algorithm.“Just a lot of whales,” Renea said. The champagne was too dry, biting her throat.Then she saw him.It was intuitive. He stood near a diorama of deep-sea creatures, a glass of water in his hand. He was taller than the silhouette suggested, broader. His tuxedo fit him differently than it fit the other men; the fabric strained slightly across his shoulders and chest, not from poor tailoring, but from the sheer mass beneath it. He had a clean-shaven head and a beard, trimmed close. His posture was relaxed but alert, like an athlete at rest.Jason.
As if sensing the weight of her gaze, he turned his head.His eyes found hers across the crowded room.They were a calm, direct brown. He did not smile.He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Then he turned back to the diorama, as if studying the glowing jellyfish.The whole sequence lasted three seconds. A pre-arranged signal. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage of bone and black silk.“Subject identified,” Craig whispered, his lips close to her ear. His breath smelled of champagne and satisfaction.“At two o’clock. Let’s circulate.”
They drifted.They made polite conversation with a museum trustee about mineral exhibits. Renea’s awareness was split, a dual-channel broadcast. One channel tracked the trustee’s dry comments about tectonic plates.The other was a sonar pulse, locked onto Jason’s position in the room. She felt his presence as a low-grade vibration in the air, a gravitational pull.
Fifteen minutes later, the vibration shifted.He was moving. He navigated the crowd with a quiet, unassuming confidence, stopping to speak briefly with an older couple. His voice, when it occasionally carried, was a deep, pleasant rumble, indistinct from the distance. He was working his way, indirectly, toward their sector of the room.Craig felt it too. Renea saw the subtle shift in his posture, the hyper-aware gleam in his eye. The experiment was entering its active phase.He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers.A show of unity. A baseline claim.Jason finally arrived at their island of space near a display of Antarctic penguins. He looked at Craig first, extending a hand.“Jason,” he said. His handshake, Renea saw, was brief and firm.“Craig. This is my wife, Renea.”
Jason turned to her.Up close, he was more real than any rotoscope. She caught the subtle scent of his soap, something clean and citrus, cutting through the party’s perfumes. His eyes held hers again, and this time there was a hint of something professional, assessing. “A pleasure,” he said.His voice was indeed deep, but softer than she’d imagined. “Quite a venue.”
“It is,” Renea managed, her own voice sounding faint.
“Jason’s in wellness, I understand?” Craig prompted, seamlessly initiating the script.“Physical training, yes. Mostly corporate clients now.Stress management through movement.” He took a sip of water. His answers were smooth, rehearsed yet natural.Part of the instrument’s function. “This is a welcome change of scenery.Less fluorescent lighting.”
Craig chuckled, a dry, practiced sound. “I’m in software.I know all about fluorescent lighting.Renea’s a librarian. She deals with a different kind of stress.”
Jason’s gaze returned to her. “What section?”
“Fiction,” she said. “And mythology, sometimes.”
“Stories of old gods and monsters,” Jason said, a faint smile touching his lips. “That sounds more interesting than quarterly sales reports.”
A waiter passed with canapés. Jason smoothly took one, offering the tray first to Renea, then to Craig.The interaction was normalized, social, perfectly calibrated. For ten minutes, they talked about the museum, the city, the unseasonable rain. Jason asked Renea a few more questions about her work, drawing her out with an easy, attentive professionalism. He listened to her answers fully, his eyes never straying over her shoulder. Craig watched it all, his hand still clasping hers, a scientist observing a flawless reaction.
A chime sounded, calling guests to dinner.“Looks like we’re summoned,” Jason said. “Enjoy your evening.” He nodded again, the same slow, deliberate motion as before, and melted back into the crowd, heading toward a different table.Craig released her hand.His palm was slightly damp. “Well,” he breathed, a scientist triumphant.“Initial data is promising.Behavioral compatibility is high. The variable integrates well.”
Renea followed him toward the dining hall, her legs unsteady. The ghost of Jason’s attention lingered on her skin, a phantom touch.The introduction was over. The observation, she knew, had only just begun. Craig guided her to their table, his mind already racing ahead, analyzing every word, every glance, hungry for the next phase of the trial.
Craig pulled out her chair with a soft grating sound against the parquet.The table held ten strangers. He engaged them instantly, turning the forced proximity into a data-gathering opportunity. Renea sipped wine, the orchestra’s music a distant throb beneath the chatter.She felt the ghost of Jason’s attention like a sunburn.
Every laugh from across the room might be his.The brush of a server’s jacket against her shoulder made her flinch. She ate roasted tenderloin without tasting it, her awareness a narrow beam scanning the crowded hall. She found him three tables over, his shaved head gleaming under a crystal sconce.He was listening intently to a woman speaking, his large hands resting folded on the linen.
Then, as if feeling the heat of her stare, his eyes slid sideways and met hers.He didn’t smile. He simply held the look for two heartbeats, then gave a slow, deliberate blink. It felt like a door being quietly shut in a corridor she hadn’t even known she was walking down. She looked away, her face hot.Craig’s hand landed on her thigh beneath the table, a proprietary weight. “You’re quiet,” he murmured into her ear, his breath warm. “Processing the stimulus?”
“The steak is chewy,” she said, pushing her plate away.His fingers squeezed her leg, a silent warning to maintain the facade. He returned to his conversation about venture capital, his touch remaining, a constant, possessive pressure. The dessert course was a blur of chocolate and raspberry foam.Speeches droned. The gala was ending.Craig stood, offering her his arm.“Time to exit. We’ve captured the necessary baseline.”
In the cab home, the city lights streaked past the windows in smears of color.Craig was vibrating with a quiet intensity. “His nonverbal cues were perfectly calibrated,” he said, more to himself than to her.“The eye contact was optimal—assertive but not challenging. His posture suggested availability without neediness.”
Renea leaned her forehead against the cool glass. “He seemed nice.” The word was pathetic, a child’s assessment.
“Nice isn’t the metric,” Craig corrected softly.“Compatibility is. And the data suggests high compatibility.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the taxi’s stale air. “The next phase would be a controlled, private interaction.A follow-up to measure physiological responses more accurately.”
She closed her eyes. “What does that mean?”
“A meeting.A facilitated session. At a neutral location Eidolon provides.” His hand found hers in the dark, his fingers interlacing with hers.This touch felt different. It was electric, charged with his anticipation.“You’d be safe.I’d be observing. It’s the logical next step.”
The word observing echoed. She saw herself now as he saw her: a substrate, a reactive surface. “You’d watch,” she said flatly.
“For data collection,” he breathed, his voice thick with a fascination that bordered on arousal. “To see the unfiltered response.The authentic...unfurling.”
At home, the vanilla-scented quiet of the living room felt like a museum diorama of their former life. Craig poured two glasses of brandy, his movements precise, ritualistic.He handed her one. “To successful iteration,” he said, clinking his glass against hers.
She drank, the liquor burning a path down her throat to coil in her stomach. He watched her over the rim of his glass, his gaze analytical, hungry.She understood then that his excitement wasn’t about sharing her. It was about accessing her.Tapping into a hidden reservoir of response he could not himself elicit.
“Would you want to?” he asked, setting his glass down. The question hung, stripped of pretense.
The memory of Jason’s solid presence, the deep quiet of his voice, collided with the raw, shameful heat from her secret laptop session. Craig’s maze offered a path to that heat without the shame.A sanctioned corruption.It felt inevitable. She looked at her husband, this architect of her desire, and saw not a man, but a system. She nodded once, a stiff mechanical dip of her chin.“Yes,” she said.
The word seemed to trigger something in him.He stepped close, his body a tense line.He didn’t kiss her. He studied her face, his eyes cataloging the micro-expressions of her consent.His hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. His own arousal was evident now, pressed against her hip through his trousers.It felt small, insistent, a buzzing beside the looming concept of Jason.
“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice rough.“Tell me what you think about. When you think about him.”
It was part of the experiment.Evocation. She swallowed, her mouth dry.“I think about… how big he seemed.His hands.”
Craig’s breath hitched.“And what would those hands do?”
She felt a terrifying power then, the subject steering the experiment. “They’d hold me down,” she murmured, the filthiness of the words a shock in the prim room.“They’d be rough.I think he’d be rough.”
Craig groaned, a low, desperate sound.His fingers tightened on her jaw. “God, yes,” he hissed. “He would.He’d use you.He’d fucking own you.” His other hand fumbled between them, undoing his belt, then hers.He pushed her back against the cool wall, the floral wallpaper scratching her shoulders. His pants slid down, his small, erect penis springing free.He was already slick at the tip.
He didn’t enter her.He pressed himself against her mound, rutting like an animal against her silk underwear, his eyes locked on hers. “You’d be so wet for him,” he panted, his hips pumping. “You’d be dripping down your thighs for that big black cock.Wouldn’t you?”
The obscenity, the clinical racial specification, was like a splash of cold water and gasoline together.Her body reacted, a pulse of sharp, unwanted wetness between her legs.“Yes,” she breathed, playing her part.
“You’d take it all,” Craig gasped, his movements growing frantic, inelegant. “Every thick inch.You’d scream for it.” He was painting the scene with his words, and she could see it: Jason’s powerful body covering hers, the stretch, the brutal possession Craig could never provide. Craig’s own orgasm was a quiet, strained shudder, a damp spot spreading on her underwear.He collapsed against her, forehead on her shoulder, breathing hard.
After a moment, he stepped back, composing himself with an air of exhausted triumph. He looked at the smear on her clothing.“See?” he said, his voice returning to its normal, measured tone. “The fantasy is already enhancing our connection.”
He cleaned himself in the bathroom, leaving her leaning against the wall. She felt used and complicit, a tool he had just employed to visualize his own cuckolding.The next morning, he finalized the arrangements. The session was booked for Sunday afternoon at an Eidolon-affiliated boutique hotel.The parameters were set: two hours. Craig would observe via a discreet live feed in an adjoining room.Jason had been briefed on the “observational dynamic.”
Saturday passed in a hyper-real haze.Craig was meticulously prepared, charging recording devices, testing the video link. He packed a bag for her with a change of clothes.“Something simple,” he advised. “Easily removed.”
Sunday.The hotel was discreet, modern, a tower of steel and tinted glass. The room was on the twelfth floor. It felt like a high-end clinic: a large bed with crisp white linens, a chair in the corner, a single abstract painting. No personality.Craig kissed her cheek at the door to the observation room. “Remember, it’s data,” he said, his eyes bright.Then he disappeared.She stood alone in the silent room. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs.She waited.Five minutes.Ten.A soft knock. She opened the door.
Jason stood there, no longer in a tuxedo but in dark jeans and a simple gray t-shirt that strained over his chest and shoulders.He carried a small gym bag. He looked at her, then past her into the room, his expression professional, unreadable.
“May I?” he asked.His voice was the same.She nodded, stepping back. He entered, closing the door behind him with a quiet, definitive click.He surveyed the space, his gaze lingering on the bed, then the empty chair.He set his bag down.
“Are you comfortable with the established boundaries?” he asked, turning to face her. His tone was neutral, like a trainer asking about a client’s injury history.“Yes,” she whispered.
“The observer is next door?”
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly. “My role is to facilitate a physical experience aligned with your indicated preferences.To provide the stimulus.” He paused, his dark eyes holding hers. “Your husband’s research suggests a responsiveness to scenarios of… overwhelming physicality.A surrender of control.”
She could only nod again, her throat sealed shut.
“Okay,” he said, and the word seemed to shift the very air in the room.His professional demeanor softened by a single, fractional degree. “Then we begin.”
He didn’t move toward her violently.He moved with a deliberate, inevitable calm. He stepped close, and his presence was a physical wall of heat and scent—clean soap, cotton, the faint, sharp smell of male sweat.She had to tilt her head back to look up at him.His hands came up, not to strike, but to frame her face. They were enormous, warm, the palms slightly calloused.He studied her, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “You’re trembling,” he observed quietly.She was shaking violently now, a full-body tremor. It wasn’t just fear.It was the collapse of every barrier.
“Good,” he murmured.Then he kissed her.It was nothing like Craig’s measured pecks. It was deep, consuming, his mouth hot and demanding.His tongue pushed past her lips, claiming the space. One of his hands slid from her face down to her throat, not squeezing, just holding, a collar of warm flesh and bone.A low whine escaped her.He swallowed the sound. His other hand went to the zipper of her simple dress, dragging it down in one smooth, rough motion.The fabric pooled at her feet.She stood before him in plain white bra and underwear, shivering.
He broke the kiss, looking down at her body.His expression was one of focused assessment. “On the bed,” he said, his voice a quiet command.
She obeyed, scooting back on the cool linen until her back hit the headboard. He followed, kneeling on the mattress, which dipped profoundly under his weight.He didn’t bother with her bra, just hooked his fingers in the front clasp and pulled.The fabric gave way.He looked at her breasts, then leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth.He sucked hard, his tongue working, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. The sensation was so sharp, so shockingly direct, it tore a gasp from her.He bit down, not enough to break skin, but enough to make her cry out. “Fuck!”
He released her breast, the nipple wet and painfully erect.He looked up at her, his eyes dark. “That’s the idea,” he said, his voice low and gravelly now.He hooked his thumbs in her underwear and pulled them down her legs, tossing them aside.