Chapter 3: Forbidden Breakfast
The morning light felt different. It wasn’t gentle; it was interrogating. It sliced through a gap in the curtains and landed directly across Christy’s closed eyelids, a persistent, golden brand. She blinked awake, the soft, unfamiliar weight of Jojo’s arm still slung over her waist.
The memories returned not as a flood, but as a series of stark, indelible images. The crinkling sound. The scent of powder. The overwhelming, shame-soaked relief.
A sharp, silent jolt went through her. She was stiff, her mind scrambling back into its familiar, panicked architecture. What did I do? The question was a siren in her head. She carefully, slowly, extricated herself from Jojo’s loose embrace, sitting up. The sheet fell to her waist. She was wearing Jojo’s soft, old t-shirt. Her body felt clean, used, incredibly relaxed. Her mind was a war zone.
She slid out of bed, her bare feet cold on the wooden floor. The room was a disaster of soft light and softer shadows. The candle had drowned in its own wax. Two empty mugs sat sentinel on the nightstand. And there, peeking from under the bed, was a corner of the plastic packaging from the wipes. A mundane piece of evidence.
Christy’s throat tightened. She needed air. She needed to not be naked in this room full of whispered secrets. She found her knickers and jeans folded neatly on the velvet chair, her bra draped over the back. She dressed quickly, her movements furtive, like she was stealing herself back.
From the bed, Jojo stirred. A sleepy, throaty sound. “Hey.” Her voice was blurred with sleep. “You’re up.”
“Just… need the loo,” Christy whispered, not turning around. She couldn’t look at her. She slipped out of the door and into the cool, tiled silence of the bathroom. She locked the door and leaned against it, pressing her palms into her closed eyes. Breathe. Just breathe.
The face in the mirror was a stranger’s—flushed, her hair a wild tangle, her lips still faintly swollen. She looked well-fucked. And something else. There was a softness around her eyes she didn’t recognize. A vulnerability that felt dangerous.
She splashed cold water on her face. The routine of it—twist the tap, cupped hands, the shock of cold—grounded her a little. But the questions kept circling. What did it mean? Was she someone who… liked that? The word wouldn’t even form properly in her mind. It was absurd. She was a teacher. A wife. She organized school trips and argued with her husband about whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher.
She thought of Mark, of his predictable, slightly absent-minded kiss goodbye yesterday morning. The distance between that moment and the feeling of Jojo’s hand pressing firmly over the thick, padded barrier last night was a canyon she couldn’t bridge.
A soft knock on the door made her jump. “Christy? You okay in there?” Jojo’s voice was clear now, edged with a careful concern.
“Fine!” Christy called back, her voice too bright. “Just a minute.”
She took a last look at the stranger in the mirror, then unlocked the door.
Jojo was leaning against the doorframe in just her t-shirt. Her blonde hair was a magnificent mess. She looked like a rumpled angel. She studied Christy’s face, her own expression unreadable. “You bolted,” she said, simply.
“I didn’t bolt. I needed the toilet.”
“Same thing.” Jojo pushed off the frame and walked past her into the bathroom, brushing Christy’s arm as she went. “You’ve got that face. The ‘oh fuck, what have I done’ face. It’s pretty common.” She picked up her toothbrush, matter-of-fact.
“I don’t have a face,” Christy said, but it was weak.
Jojo squeezed toothpaste onto her brush. “You do. It’s okay. It’s a lot to process.” She started brushing, talking around the foam. “Want some coffee? Proper coffee, not my instant rubbish.”
Christy nodded, grateful for the anchor of a normal question. “Yes. Please.”
In the kitchen, Jojo moved with a easy competence, grinding beans, heating milk in a small saucepan. Christy sat at the small table, watching the London grey outside the window. The bubble was well and truly popped. The city was right there, with its judgement and its routines.
Jojo set a large, proper latte in front of her. “So,” she said, sitting opposite with her own mug. “Talk. Or don’t. But silence feels a bit heavy at nine AM.”
Christy wrapped her hands around the warm mug. “I just… I don’t know who that was last night.”
“Which part?”
“The part at the end.”
Jojo took a sip, her eyes steady over the rim. “That was still you, Christy. It’s just a part you didn’t have the keys to before. Doesn’t make it a different person.” She set her mug down. “Did it feel bad? In the moment?”
“No.” The answer was immediate, pulled from her. “That’s the problem. It felt… monumental.”
A small smile touched Jojo’s lips. “Yeah. It can do that. It’s just sensation, though. It’s just play. It doesn’t have to define you unless you want it to.”
“Easy for you to say,” Christy mumbled, then instantly regretted it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“No, it’s fine. It is easy for me. I’ve had years to figure out what I like, to separate the stuff that feels good from the stuff society says I should be ashamed of.” She leaned forward. “You’re on a compressed timeline. You’re unpacking thirty years of ‘shoulds’ in one weekend. It’s going to feel messy.”
Christy looked down into her coffee. “I’m married.”
The words hung in the air between them, the first real acknowledgment of the world outside the bedroom. Jojo didn’t flinch. “I know.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Does it bother you?” Jojo countered gently.
“Of course it does. I’m… I’m cheating.” The word was ugly, final.
“You’re exploring,” Jojo corrected, though her tone held no judgement. “You had a need he wasn’t meeting. Maybe couldn’t meet. That doesn’t make it right, but it makes it understandable.” She paused. “Do you want to stop?”
Christy looked up, meeting Jojo’s gaze. The thought of stopping, of going back to her life with this new, hungry part of her locked away again, felt like a kind of death. She shook her head, a tiny, desperate movement. “No.”
“Okay then.” Jojo stood up, coming around the table. She took Christy’s hand, pulling her to her feet. “Then let’s not waste the time we have on guilt. Guilt is a boring feeling. Come back to bed.”
“Jojo, I can’t just…”
“You can.” Jojo’s voice was low, compelling. She led Christy back down the hall, not to the guest room, but to her own. The unmade bed waited, the sheets still smelling of them. “Last night was about surrender. About me taking care of you.” She turned Christy to face her, her hands on Christy’s hips. “This morning… let’s play with the power you were given. You liked having it, remember?”
Christy’s heart began to drum against her ribs again. The conflict wasn’t gone, but Jojo was offering her a way out of her own head. Back into the feeling.
Jojo sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes darkening with intention. She leaned back on her elbows, a picture of casual invitation. Then she slowly, deliberately, hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her own cotton shorts and underwear, pushing them down her hips and kicking them off. She left them on the floor.
“You remember what it felt like? To have me at your mercy?” Jojo’s voice was a purr. She spread her thighs, the morning light catching on the soft blonde hair between them. “Your turn.”
Christy’s mouth went dry. She stood frozen, five feet away.
Jojo’s grin was wicked, knowing. “Come taste me, darling.” She crooked a finger. Then her gaze dipped pointedly to Christy’s jeans. “But don’t you dare take those off.”
The command landed like a physical shock. Christy understood instantly. The denim was her barrier now. Her constraint. The crinkling plastic was gone, but the concept remained. She was to stay locked in her own clothes, her own frustration, while she served.
A current of pure, defiant heat flashed through her. The confusion, the guilt, the fear—they all combusted into this one, clear instruction. She could do this. She could own this part.
She took a step forward, then another, her movements deliberate. She knelt on the rug between Jojo’s parted legs, the rough weave scratchy through her jeans. The intimate, musky scent of Jojo filled her senses, overwhelming the last traces of lavender and powder. She could see the glistening evidence of Jojo’s own arousal.
Jojo arched her back, a soft sigh escaping her. “That’s it,” she murmured. “Just like that. Your mouth on me. But you stay dressed. You stay wanting.”
Christy leaned in, her own need a tight, echoing ache between her legs, amplified by the rough denim pressed against her. She closed her eyes, and let the taste, the sensation, the power of being the one who gave, drag her under once more. The guilt was still there, waiting in the wings. But for now, it was just a quiet, distant hum beneath the roaring in her blood.