Chapter 5: Louder and Louder
The scent of jasmine from the open window could no longer mask the smell of sex in the guest room. It clung to the sheets, to Krissy’s damp skin, to the very air. Dominic had untied the scarves, his movements casual, as if unbinding a parcel. He leaned over the bed, his dark eyes tracing the red marks on her wrists. “Your husband is very trusting,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “It is a good quality.”
Krissy couldn’t meet his gaze. She pulled the rumpled sheet over her nakedness, her body still vibrating from the brutal fullness it had just contained. The echo of her own screamed lie—just yoga—thrummed in her ears, a discordant note beneath Tim’s cheerful, oblivious reply from downstairs. Shame was a cold, heavy stone in her stomach, but beneath it, buried deeper, a treacherous ember of heat still glowed. Her thighs were slick with him.
“I need to shower,” she whispered, her voice raspy.
Dominic nodded, as if granting a royal pardon. He watched her slide from the bed, her legs unsteady, her full breasts swaying with the movement. He didn’t touch her again, but his eyes did, crawling over every curve and tremor. It felt more violating than the silk bindings.
The hallway floorboards were cool under her feet. She could hear the muffled sound of a baseball game from the living room television. Tim’s voice, warm and familiar, called out, “Everything good up there, Kris? Sounded like you were wrestling a bear!” He laughed.
Krissy froze, her hand on the bathroom doorknob. “Just… a new cardio flow!” she managed, forcing a lightness into her tone that felt like broken glass in her throat. “Really intense!”
“Atta girl!” Tim’s reply was followed by the crunch of a potato chip.
She locked the bathroom door and leaned against it, squeezing her eyes shut. The image of Tim, smiling on the couch, wholly unaware of the sweat drying on her skin or the foreign pulse deep inside her, made her nauseous. She turned the shower on full, the roar of the water a welcome shield.
Steam filled the room, fogging the mirror. She stepped under the blistering spray, scrubbing at her skin with a loofah until it turned pink. She wanted to scour the feeling of his hands away, the memory of his weight, the specific, stretching ache he left behind. But the more she scrubbed, the more her traitorous body replayed the sensations: the helpless arch of her back as he drove into her, the shocking friction, the unwelcome, grinding pleasure that had torn through her like a lightning strike.
She was so lost in the scouring and the remembering that she didn’t hear the lock click.
The shower curtain was yanked back with a sharp rattle of rings.
Dominic stood there, already naked, his lean form backlit by the bathroom light. His cock was half-hard, thick and heavy against his thigh. Steam swirled around him like an aura.
Krissy gasped, crossing her arms over her breasts. “Get out! Dominic, please!”
“You are cleaning my gift from you,” he said simply, as if commenting on the weather. He stepped into the tub, the water splashing around his ankles. “This is not respectful.”
“It’s not a gift,” she hissed, shrinking back against the cool tiles. “You can’t just come in here!”
He moved into the spray, the water sluicing over his bronzed shoulders. “Your husband said I should make myself at home. Is the shower not part of the home?” He reached for her, his hands strong on her hips, pulling her from the wall. “In my village, a woman washes her man after. It is how it is done.”
This wasn’t the frenzied, frantic taking of the bed. This was something slower, more possessive. He turned her around to face the wall, his front pressed against her back. The water beat down on them both.
“Please don’t,” she begged, but the words were a weak tremor lost in the shower’s roar.
One hand slid around her belly, holding her firmly against him. The other traveled up, palming her heavy, soap-slick breast, kneading the soft flesh, thumb circling a nipple until it tightened into a stiff peak. His erection grew hard against the cleft of her ass.
“You see?” he murmured into her wet hair. “Your body knows the custom.”
He rocked against her, his thick shaft sliding between her buttocks. Krissy braced her hands on the tiles, her head bowed. Resistance was crumbling, replaced by a paralyzing cocktail of fear and a dark, shameful curl of arousal. The steam, the heat, the overwhelming physicality of him—it blurred everything.
With a grunt, he adjusted his stance. One hand left her breast and guided his cock down. He notched the broad head at her entrance, still loose and sensitive from before.
“No,” she moaned, but it was a whisper.
He pushed.
The stretch was even more intense this time, a burning, filling invasion under the cascade of hot water. He sank into her deeply, a single, slow, inexorable thrust that stole her breath. He was so fucking big, it felt like he was in her throat.
“Ah, fuck,” Dominic groaned, his hips flush against her ass. “So good. So tight and wet for me.”
He began to move. Short, deep pumps at first, each one punching a soft whimper from her lips. The water cascaded over their joined bodies, the sound masking the wet, rhythmic slap of his flesh against hers. His hand returned to her breast, squeezing and pulling in time with his thrusts.
“Your husband,” he panted, his breath hot on her neck. “He does not fuck you like this, does he? He does not fill this hungry cunt.”
The crude, filthy words, spoken in that matter-of-fact tone, sent a shock through her. She shook her head, a frantic denial, but her body was betraying her, softening, accepting, even beginning to clutch at him.
“Answer me.” He drove into her harder, his pace quickening.
“N-no,” she choked out.
“No,” he echoed, a note of triumph in his voice. His thrusts became punishing, each one jolting her forward, her breasts swaying heavily. The tile was cool and rough against her cheek. The world shrank to the smell of steam and soap and sex, the sound of water and grunting, the feeling of being utterly, completely used. Her own pleasure built against her will, a tight, desperate coil in her belly, fed by the relentless friction and her own crushing guilt.
He fucked her with a steady, animal rhythm, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hip. She could feel every ridge, every vein of him as he pistoned in and out.
“You come for me,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “You come on my cock.”
And, God help her, she did. A silent, convulsive wave broke over her, her internal muscles clamping around his invading length in a series of ragged pulses. She bit her lip to stifle a cry, tasting blood.
Her climax triggered his. With a final, brutal slam, he buried himself to the hilt and held there. A hot, raw roar tore from his chest. She felt the hot, pumping rush of his cum flooding her, a stark contrast to the shower’s water. He pulsed inside her, again and again, his whole body rigid against her back.
Slowly, he stilled. He stayed lodged within her for a long moment, both of them breathing ragged breaths in the steam. Finally, he pulled out. Krissy sagged against the wall, spent and hollow.
He turned off the water. The sudden silence was deafening. Dripping, he stepped out of the tub, grabbing a towel. He looked at her, still huddled under the now-dribbling showerhead.
“You are clean now,” he said. He wrapped the towel around his waist and left the bathroom, leaving the door ajar.
Krissy slid down the wall into the tub, pulling her knees to her chest. The water at her feet swirled, milky and clouded. Downstairs, the baseball crowd roared on the television. Tim called up, his voice cheerful and clear.
“Hey Kris, you almost done? I was thinking we could order pizza for dinner! Dominic must be starving after all his… studying.”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She simply sat in the cooling water, feeling his seed begin to leak down her inner thigh.
She simply sat in the cooling water, feeling his seed begin to leak down her inner thigh.
The physical evidence was a cold, slick truth her mind still scrambled to reject. She finally stood on trembling legs, dried herself with a towel that smelled only of clean cotton, and dressed in loose sweats that hid nothing from herself. Downstairs, the normalcy was a weapon.
“There she is!” Tim smiled from the couch, a pizza box open on the coffee table. “You were in there forever. Get lost?” He took a huge bite, cheese stretching.
Dominic sat in the armchair, already eating. He met her eyes, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips before he looked back at the game. “The shower is very good,” he said to Tim. “Very strong pressure.”
“Yeah, we had that fixed last year,” Tim nodded, swallowing. “Kris, your half is here. Extra mushrooms.”
She ate without tasting, the pizza like ash. Every laugh from Tim was a needle. Every casual glance from Dominic was a brand. That night, in their marital bed, Tim curled around her, his hand resting innocently on her stomach. She lay rigid, staring at the ceiling, feeling the phantom ache between her legs, a persistent reminder that felt more like a claim than an injury.
Three days later, the excuses felt flimsy even as they left her mouth.
“I’m just helping Dominic with his pronunciation drills,” she called out, shutting the guest bedroom door behind them as Tim tinkered in the garage. “English idioms are so tricky!”
Once the lock clicked, the pretense dissolved. Dominic was on her before she could turn around, pushing her against the door, his mouth hot and demanding on hers. His hands went under her loose knit top, finding her breasts, pinching her nipples through the lace of her bra. She gasped into his mouth.
“You want this,” he stated, a hard fact. He unbuttoned her jeans, yanking them and her panties down to her ankles in one rough movement.
“We can’t, not here, he’s right outside—” she babbled, even as she stepped out of the tangled fabric.
“He is busy.” Dominic turned her around, bending her over the edge of the neatly made bed. He freed his cock, already fully erect, and rubbed the swollen head through her slick folds. She was wet already, shamefully, undeniably wet. “Your cunt tells the truth your mouth will not.”
He pushed in, not slowly, a single, deep, lung-emptying thrust that punched a choked “Oh god!” from her lips.
He set a ruthless pace, each drive forward shaking the bedframe against the wall. Thump. Thump. Thump. Krissy buried her face in the duvet to muffle her sounds, but they escaped as desperate, rhythmic whimpers. The pleasure was a thick, rising tide, obliterating thought. His grip on her hips was iron, his balls slapping against her with every snap of his pelvis.
“You take it so good,” he grunted, his voice tight. “This hungry married pussy is mine now.”
She came with a shattered cry, her body clenching wildly around the invading thickness, the orgasm tearing through her with violent, unwelcome intensity. He kept pounding, prolonging her convulsions, until his own control shattered.
“Fuck, here it is,” he snarled, slamming home and holding deep.
She felt the hot, rhythmic pulsing as he emptied himself, another flooding release that seemed to go on forever. He collapsed over her, his sweat-slicked chest against her back.
A door slammed downstairs. “Kris? You guys want a soda?” Tim’s footsteps moved through the kitchen.
Krissy froze, panic icing her veins. “Yes! Fine!” she yelled, her voice strangled and too high. “Just… one more difficult phrase!”
Dominic slowly pulled out of her, a gush of his cum following. He chuckled softly, zipping his jeans. “A very difficult phrase,” he murmured.
She scrambled to pull her clothes on, her hands shaking. When she opened the door five minutes later, her hair hastily smoothed, Tim was at the foot of the stairs with two cans of cola.
“You sound like you were wrestling in there,” he laughed, handing her a can. His kind eyes held only mild curiosity.
“Just… frustrated with the subjunctive tense,” she breathed, taking the cold can, using it to cool her burning face.
“Well, don’t work too hard.” He pecked her cheek and wandered back toward the garage.
Krissy stood on the landing, the cold soda in her hand, the warm trickle of Dominic’s spend seeping into her underwear. The fear of Tim’s suspicion was a sharp, constant stitch in her side, a sane counterpoint to the delirious hum in her nerves. She worried about the noises, the closed doors, the time. She crafted lies in the shower, rehearsed them while doing dishes.
But when Dominic’s shadow fell across the hallway later that evening, his gaze dropping to her lips, then lower, every anxious thought dissolved into a single, primal truth. Her body craved it. The memory of that filling, the brutal fullness, the shocking heat of his release, sparked a low, throbbing hunger that overshadowed the guilt. She knew the excuses were wearing thin, paper over a cracking wall. She knew the risk was metastasizing.
Yet when he murmured, “The laundry room. Now,” as Tim took a phone call in the living room, she found herself nodding, her pulse not in fear, but in anticipation. She followed him into the narrow, humid space, the scent of detergent and warm dryer sheets enveloping them. He pushed her against the vibrating dryer, and she went, her back arching to meet him before his hands even guided her hips.
The humid thrum of the machine vibrated up her spine. His hands were already at the button of her jeans, popping it open with a sharp twist. “He is on the phone with his mother,” Dominic breathed against her ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. “He will talk for many minutes.”
Her jeans and cotton panties were around her ankles in one swift pull. The cool metal of the dryer door hissed against the bare skin of her lower back. He didn’t bother to undress himself, just unzipped his fly, freeing his rigid cock. It slapped against her thigh, heavy and hot.
He hooked one of her knees over his arm, hiking her leg up high and wide. The position opened her utterly, exposed her completely to the dim light from the single bulb. He rubbed the broad, slick head of his cock through her folds, gathering her wetness, coating himself in it.
“Look at you,” he muttered, dark eyes fixed on where he worked himself against her. “Dripping for it. Always dripping.”
He pressed forward. The initial stretch was a familiar, burning ache she now associated with him. He filled her with a single, relentless thrust, burying himself to the root in one smooth, devastating motion. Her mouth fell open in a silent gasp.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his head tipping back. “That’s it. Take it.”
He pulled back almost all the way, then slammed home again. The force drove her harder against the shuddering dryer. A bottle of fabric softener clattered off the shelf above them, hitting the floor with a plastic crack. They both froze.
Tim’s voice droned on in the living room, a comfortable, distant murmur. “Yeah, Mom, the weather’s been great.”
Dominic’s gaze locked onto Krissy’s. A sly, dangerous smile touched his lips. He began to move again, deliberately now, each deep stroke a calculated risk. The wet, rhythmic sound of their joining mixed with the machine’s mechanical rumble. He kept her leg hoisted, driving into her at a brutal angle that rubbed directly against a spot that made her vision blur.
Her own pleasure was a treacherous tide, rising to drown her shame. She bit down on her own knuckle to stay quiet, the taste of skin and salt sharp on her tongue. His grip on her thigh was vise-like, his other hand splayed possessively over her belly, as if feeling himself move inside her.
“You feel that?” he panted, his rhythm becoming jagged, frantic. “You feel my cock in this married pussy? It belongs to me now. Say it.”
She shook her head, a frantic denial muffled by her own hand. He drove into her harder, the pace punishing. The coiled tension in her gut was a wire pulled taut, vibrating.
“Say it,” he growled, his voice raw.
“Yours,” the word escaped her, a broken whisper against her skin. “It’s yours.”
That was all he needed. A guttural sound ripped from his chest. He plunged deep and held there, his body rigid. She felt the hot, internal pulse of his release, jet after jet flooding her, a claiming that was becoming routine. Her own climax seized her a second later, a silent, shattering convulsion that milked him painfully, drawing out his own pleasure until he shuddered.
He stayed buried in her, both of them breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps. Slowly, he lowered her leg. It trembled uncontrollably as her foot touched the linoleum. He withdrew, and she felt the immediate, shameful gush of his cum leaking out of her.
Zipping himself up, he looked utterly composed. He picked up the fallen bottle, setting it back on the shelf. “You should clean this floor,” he said, his tone neutral. “It is dirty.”
He left her there. Krissy slumped against the still-vibrating machine, listening to Tim’s cheerful goodbye to his mother. She used her discarded panties to wipe between her legs, a futile gesture. She pulled her jeans up over the sticky evidence. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
That night, over a dinner of spaghetti, Tim frowned. “You okay, Kris? You seem jumpy.”
“Just tired,” she said, twirling pasta without appetite. “Maybe coming down with something.”
“Probably just that bug going around,” Tim nodded, reaching for the garlic bread. He turned to Dominic. “So, the cultural center trip is this weekend. You excited? It’ll be a real taste of home for you.”
Dominic smiled, a slow, easy gesture. “I am very excited. Krissy has been… most helpful in preparing me.”
Tim beamed. “That’s my girl.”
Later, in the dark of their bedroom, Tim’s hand slid over her hip. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and affection. He nuzzled her neck, his body warm and familiar against her back. His fingers traced the waistband of her nightgown.
A cold panic seized her. She could still feel the sore, stretched ache between her legs, the phantom fullness. The thought of Tim touching her there, of him discovering the lingering sensitivity or, God forbid, feeling something different, made her stomach lurch.
“I think I really am getting sick, honey,” she whispered, pulling away slightly, feigning a cough. “My head is pounding. I wouldn’t want you to catch it.”
He stilled, then kissed her shoulder. “Okay. Get some rest.” He rolled over, his breathing eventually evening out into sleep.
Krissy stared into the darkness, the lie brittle in her mouth. The weekend loomed, a public event where they would all be together, where roles would be performed under watchful eyes. She thought of the cultural center, of Dominic surrounded by reminders of home. She thought of Tim’s proud, trusting smile. A new, deeper fear curdled in her gut: not of getting caught in the act, but of this secret life becoming the only one her body recognized.
The crisp Saturday air felt like a taunt. Outside the modern glass-and-steel cultural center, families milled about, chatting in a blend of English and Spanish. Tim was in his element, enthusiastically reading every plaque to Dominic, who nodded politely. Krissy walked a half-step behind them, her sunglasses hiding her eyes.
Inside the main hall, vibrant textiles hung from the walls, and the smell of spices and roasted corn filled the air. A traditional music group began to play, the rhythmic beat of drums immediate and primal.
Dominic’s posture changed. The practiced polite slouch straightened. His eyes, usually so lazily predatory, grew sharp, intense. He watched the dancers, his foot tapping in perfect time with the complex rhythm.
An older woman with a kind, wrinkled face approached him, speaking rapidly in a dialect Tim couldn’t follow. Dominic’s face lit up with a genuine, unguarded smile Krissy had never seen. He answered, his voice animated. The woman gestured to Krissy, a question in her eyes.
Dominic’s smile didn’t fade, but his eyes, when they flicked to Krissy, glinted with something darkly possessive. He spoke to the woman again. The woman’s expression shifted, her gaze sweeping over Krissy with a new, appraising curiosity. She nodded slowly, then reached out and patted Dominic’s cheek with a maternal pride that felt obscene.
“What was that about?” Tim asked, grinning.
“She asked if this was my host family,” Dominic said, his voice smooth. “I told her yes. That the woman was very kind, and very… accommodating. She said I am lucky.”
Tim clapped Dominic on the back. “We’re the lucky ones!”
The music shifted, grew faster. The dancers swirled, their movements becoming more expressive, more frankly sensual. A female dancer approached the crowd, her eyes seeking. They landed on Dominic. With a smile, she beckoned him forward.
He didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the open space, his body instantly merging with the rhythm. He was transformed. The lean, lurking young man in their suburban home was gone, replaced by a man of pure, confident grace and power. His hips moved with a fluid, undeniable sexuality that drew every eye. He danced with the female performer, a public conversation of sway and counter-sway, of intimate glances and parted lips.
Krissy couldn’t look away. This was him in his element. This was the source of that unshakeable confidence, that assumption of possession. Tim watched, impressed and clapping along.
The dance ended. The crowd applauded. Dominic returned to them, a sheen of sweat on his brow, his chest rising and falling. His eyes found Krissy’s, and the heat in them was no longer just personal. It was cultural, sanctioned, a thousand years old.
“You’re a natural!” Tim laughed. “I had no idea!”
“It is in the blood,” Dominic said, still breathing heavily. He didn’t look away from Krissy. “Some things are simply in the blood.”
The car ride home was quiet. Tim chatted about the exhibits. Dominic stared out the window. Krissy watched the suburbs blur past, the neat houses hiding their own secrets. The drumbeat was still in her skull.
When they got home, Tim headed to the garage to sort some tools. “Gonna take advantage of the daylight,” he said.
Dominic stood in the foyer, watching Krissy hang her jacket. The polite visitor was gone, shed at the cultural center. The raw tension from the laundry room was back, amplified.
“You saw,” he said, his voice low.
She didn’t answer, fussing with the coat hanger.
“You saw what I am.” He stepped closer. “This is not a game in my village. A man sees. A man wants. A woman receives. It is simple.”
“This isn’t your village,” she whispered, her back to him.
His hand closed on her arm, not painfully, but with absolute certainty. He turned her to face him. The intensity from his dance was still there, crackling in the air between them.
“It is my village when I am inside you,” he said. His other hand dropped, palming her between the legs through her trousers, a crude, direct claim. She was still sore, but a traitorous throb answered his touch. “This knows the truth. Your husband watched me dance, but he does not see. He will never see.”
From the garage, the high whine of Tim’s table saw started up, a scream of oblivious industry.
Dominic’s mouth crashed down on hers, his tongue pushing past her lips. The sound of the saw swallowed her moan. He walked her backwards, not toward a bedroom, but into the open-plan living room, in full view of the front windows. He backed her against the cool glass of the patio door, his body pinning hers.
“Here,” he breathed against her mouth. “Where he walks through every day.”
His fingers worked her zipper.