Chapter 3: The Bartender's Turn
The doorbell’s chime was still fading when heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. The bedroom door flew open without a knock, banging against the wall.
“Alright, you filthy animals, the fun police are here!” Petra announced, her voice a booming, cheerful shout.
She filled the doorway, a whirlwind of energy in a tight black tank top and jeans. Her spiky hair was mussed, her eyes sparkling with devilish delight. She took in the scene: Fiona, hurriedly pulling her dress on, her face flushed; Aidan, still bound and glistening with sweat and other things; Catriona, cool and composed by the window.
“Whoa. Business as usual, then,” Petra grinned, stripping off her leather jacket and tossing it onto a chaise. “Fi, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck. The good kind.”
Fiona managed a weak smile, smoothing her hair. “It was… intense.”
“I’ll bet.” Petra’s eyes locked onto Aidan. She whistled low. “Christ, Cat. You really do feed him well.” She approached the bed, her movements loose and confident. She didn’t ask permission. This wasn’t an exploration; it was a claim.
She climbed onto the mattress, her knees sinking into the soft space beside Aidan’s head. He could smell her: cigarettes, cheap beer, and a faint, clean scent of soap. She looked down at him, her expression one of pure, unadulterated glee.
“Fiona’s sweet. I’m not.” She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and panties, shoving them down her thighs in one rough motion. “You’re gonna work for it.”
Before he could process it, she was straddling his face, lowering herself onto him. The world narrowed to the musky heat of her, the coarse hair against his lips, the overwhelming intimacy. He heard Catriona’s light laugh from across the room.
“Breathe through your nose, darling,” Catriona advised, her tone amused.
Petra grinded against his mouth, a demanding, circular motion. “Yeah, listen to your wife. And use your tongue, you big lug. I didn’t come here for a facial.”
He obeyed, the act a surreal submission. At the same time, he felt her hand wrap around him, still slick from Fiona. She guided him inside her in one smooth, practiced thrust. She was wet, but tight, a scorching sheath that squeezed him relentlessly.
“Fuck yeah,” Petra groaned, arching her back. She began to ride him in a hard, driving rhythm, reverse-cowgirl, giving him a full view of the intricate tattoo of a serpent coiled around her spine, the ink shimmering with a fine sheen of sweat. “See, Fi? This is how you do it. No shy bullshit.”
Fiona, now standing by the door with her wine, sipped it quietly, watching with wide eyes.
Each of Petra’s downward slams drove the air from Aidan’s lungs. The dual sensation was overwhelming—the suffocating pressure on his mouth, the exquisite friction below. He was a tool being used from both ends, and Petra was a merciless operator.
Catriona drifted over. She picked up Petra’s discarded wine glass from the nightstand and took a sip. Then, with a sharp, sudden crack, her palm connected with Petra’s ass.
Petra yelped, then laughed, a wild, barking sound. “Again!”
Catriona obliged, spanking her in time with Petra’s own frantic pace. The slaps were crisp, shocking punctuation in the humid air.
“You like that, don’t you?” Petra shouted, whether to Aidan or Catriona or the room itself wasn’t clear. “You like being everyone’s fucking toy? Your wife’s little party favor?”
Aidan couldn’t answer. He could only feel, a vortex of sensation pulling him under. His hips strained upward to meet her plunges, his bonds biting into his wrists.
“I’m close, I’m close, you bastard,” Petra chanted, her movements becoming erratic, jagged. Her inner muscles clamped around him in fierce, pulsating waves. She threw her head back and let out a raw, guttural scream that seemed to shake the candles in their holders. “FUCKKKKK!”
She ground down on him, hard, milking him as she convulsed. The intensity ripped through him, a second, staggering release that felt like it drained the marrow from his bones. He spilled into her with a muted groan, his body shuddering against the sheets.
For a few seconds, Petra just sat there, panting, her body limp. Then she let out a satisfied sigh and climbed off, dismounting with the practicality of someone stepping off a bus. She stood beside the bed, naked and unselfconscious, a trickle of white already tracing a path down her inner thigh.
“Round one to me,” she announced, grinning. She scooped up her jeans and pulled them on without bothering with her underwear. “I’m gonna go raid your fridge, Cat. But I’m putting my name back on the list. That thing,” she pointed a thumb at Aidan’s now-softening cock, “had better be ready for an encore.”
She winked at Fiona, swatted Catriona on the ass as she passed, and strode out, leaving the door swinging open behind her.
The comparative silence was deafening. Aidan lay utterly spent, the taste of Petra still on his lips, the smell of sex and sweat a thick blanket in the room. The wet spot on the sheets beneath him was growing cold. He felt used, hollowed out, and yet a low, treacherous current of electricity still hummed in his veins.
Catriona walked to the bed and ran a cool hand through his hair. “My brave boy,” she murmured, her voice soft. “Two down. You’re doing so well.”
From the hallway, Petra’s voice echoed up, accompanied by the sound of the refrigerator opening. “Lisa! Megan! Get your asses up there! The ride’s still running!”
Aidan closed his eyes. The restraints felt less like silk now. They felt like the only things holding him together.