Chapter 7: The wild weekend
The worn duffel bag hit the floor of the entryway with a thud that echoed in the sudden quiet. Marcus stood framed in the doorway, a predatory stillness radiating off him despite the casual slouch. He scanned the living room, his gaze lingering on the conspiracy-laden TV screen, then flickered dismissively over Thomas, who hovered near the kitchen archway, feeling like an intruder in his own hallway.
"Guest room's down the hall, last door," Thomas managed, gesturing weakly, his voice tight. He just wanted Marcus contained, out of sight, if not out of mind.
Marcus grunted, hefting the bag. He took a step towards the hallway when Evelyn emerged from the bedroom, a brittle smile pasted on her pale face. "Marcus! You made it." She hurried towards him, stopping just short of touching him, a nervous energy crackling around her. "Forget the guest room. You’re taking the main bedroom. Much more comfortable."
Thomas froze. "What? Evelyn, no. That’s our–"
"The mattress in the guest room is terrible, Thomas," Evelyn cut in sharply, her eyes wide, pleading, yet insistent. "You'd feel every spring. Hardly gracious host behavior to stick our guest there." She turned her full attention back to Marcus, her posture softening into something submissive. "The main bed is king-sized. Plenty of room. You’ll sleep much better."
Marcus’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smirk. He let his gaze travel over Evelyn, lingering on the loose neckline of her blouse. "Huh. Gracious indeed." His eyes slid to Thomas, challenging. "Got no problem bunking with the princess, Tommy? Or you gonna pitch a fit?"
Thomas’s fists clenched at his sides. The violation was staggering. Their sanctuary, the bed where they’d once whispered hopes and held each other… offered to him. "Evelyn, this is–"
"Thomas," Evelyn hissed, stepping close, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper only he could hear, though Marcus watched them with amused detachment. "Don’t make this harder. Be gracious. Please. For us." The ‘us’ felt like a knife twist. It meant her and Marcus now. Their shared delusion.
Thomas looked at her, at the desperate conviction warring with exhaustion in her eyes, the faint, yellowing remnant of the bruise on her cheekbone. The fight drained out of him again, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, turning away to stare blindly at the conspiracy pamphlets littering the coffee table.
"Main bedroom it is," Marcus announced, his voice booming with triumph. He shouldered past Thomas, his duffel brushing Thomas's arm, and strode down the hall like he owned the place. Evelyn scurried after him, leaving Thomas alone in the suffocating silence.
The oppressive weight of Marcus's presence settled over the apartment like a physical shroud. He commandeered the living room couch, the constant drone of the alternative news channels becoming the weekend's soundtrack. Thomas busied himself in the kitchen the next morning, the sizzle of bacon and the scent of coffee a fragile attempt at normalcy. He avoided looking into the living room, where Marcus sprawled, eyes glued to a rant about government microchips in vaccines.
Evelyn entered the kitchen, barefoot. Thomas looked up, and his breath hitched. She was wearing an absurdly tiny, bright red bikini. Two minuscule triangles barely containing her breasts, the bottoms cut high on her hips, revealing the pale curve where hip met thigh.
"Evelyn... what are you wearing?" Thomas asked, his voice strained.
"Marcus's rules," she said, but there was no reluctance, only a strange, feverish pride in her eyes. She ran a hand self-consciously over the strip of exposed stomach. "For the whole weekend. No clothes unless he says. Makes things... simpler. More honest." She turned slightly, showing off, the fabric digging into her flesh. "He picked it out."
Thomas felt sick. "Honest? This is degrading. You look like..." He couldn't find the word.
"Like I belong to him," she finished, her chin lifting. "And I do. It feels... powerful, Thomas. Raw." She stepped closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "He sees me. All of me. No hiding." She touched his arm, her fingers cold. "Try to understand."
Thomas jerked his arm away. Understanding felt impossible. This wasn't his wife; it was a hollow-eyed stranger parading in a scrap of fabric for her abuser. Evelyn’s expression hardened slightly, then she shrugged, a small, defiant gesture, and walked past him to pour coffee.
Thomas focused fiercely on flipping bacon, the grease popping angrily. He arranged plates, poured orange juice. The mundane task was a lifeline. He set Marcus's plate down on the cluttered coffee table beside him – eggs, bacon, toast. The smell filled the small space.
Marcus glanced at the food, then up at Thomas. His expression was flat, dismissive. "No." He picked up the remote and muted the TV.
Thomas frowned. "No? What do you mean, no? It's breakfast."
Marcus leaned back, spreading his arms along the back of the couch. He looked past Thomas at Evelyn, who stood nervously by the kitchen counter, clutching her coffee mug. "Rule number two, princess. Breakfast doesn't happen until after my morning head. Keeps things running smooth. You forgot already?"
Evelyn paled, then flushed. "N-no, Marcus. I didn't forget." She set her mug down with a clatter.
"Then get your ass over here," Marcus commanded, his voice low but carrying absolute authority. "I'm hungry. And Tommy here made the food. Wouldn't want it to get cold, would we?" His eyes, cold and mocking, locked onto Thomas's.
Thomas stood frozen, plate still in hand. "Marcus, this is ridiculous. Just eat the damn–"
"Rules are rules, Tommy," Marcus interrupted smoothly, his gaze never leaving Thomas's face. "Princess knows. Don't you, princess?" He patted the couch cushion beside him.
Evelyn moved. Fast. She crossed the small space, her bare feet silent on the rug, the red bikini a stark, obscene contrast against the drab living room. Without a word, without looking at Thomas, she sank to her knees on the floor between Marcus's spread legs. Her hands went to the waistband of his sweatpants.
Thomas watched, paralyzed, the plate a dead weight in his hand. He saw Marcus’s cock, already half-hard, spring free as Evelyn tugged the sweatpants and boxers down his thick thighs. It was thick, veined, intimidating. Evelyn leaned forward without hesitation, her red-painted lips parting.
Marcus groaned softly as her hot mouth enveloped the swollen head, her tongue swirling. He settled back deeper into the couch, one heavy hand coming to rest possessively on top of her head, fingers tangling roughly in her hair. He didn't push, just held her there, a casual owner commanding his property. His eyes, however, remained fixed on Thomas, who stood trapped in the kitchen archway, the forgotten plate trembling slightly in his grip.
"Smells good, Tommy," Marcus remarked conversationally, his voice rough but steady despite the wet, rhythmic sucking sounds filling the room. Evelyn bobbed her head slowly, taking him deeper, her throat working. A low, guttural groan escaped her, muffled by flesh. "Bacon’s always a solid choice. You use the thick-cut stuff? Makes a difference."
Thomas couldn't speak. His knuckles were white on the plate's edge. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the tableau: Marcus, relaxed and talking about breakfast, while Evelyn, his wife, knelt between his legs, servicing him with desperate, wet enthusiasm. Her eyes were closed, lashes fluttering against her cheeks, one hand braced on Marcus's hairy thigh, the other cupping his heavy balls, squeezing gently. The lewd slurping, the soft gagging sound as he pushed deeper into her throat, the faint scent of sex mingling with the aroma of coffee and bacon… it was visceral, brutal.
"Gotta say," Marcus continued, shifting slightly, thrusting his hips up minutely, forcing a choked gasp from Evelyn. He chuckled, the sound dark and satisfied. "She’s got dedication, your wife. Real talent for swallowing every fucking inch." He watched Thomas's face, relishing the torment. "Took some training, mind you. Had to teach her to relax that throat. But she’s a quick study when properly motivated." His hand tightened in her hair, guiding her pace, pushing her head down firmly until her nose was buried in the dark curls at his base. Evelyn whimpered, the sound vibrating around his cock, her body tensing, but she didn't pull back. Her fingers dug into his thigh.
Thomas felt the bile rise in his throat. He wanted to scream. To smash the plate over Marcus's smug head. To drag Evelyn away. But he just stood there, rooted to the spot, the cold resignation from the week before solidifying into a block of ice in his chest. He was a ghost in his own home, forced to witness the annihilation of his marriage, bite by humiliating bite.
"Deep, princess," Marcus murmured, his voice thick now. "Take it all. Daddy needs to fucking come down your greedy throat." His hips began a shallow, rhythmic pump, fucking her mouth with deliberate, escalating force. Evelyn’s gagging became more frequent, tears welling in the corners of her squeezed-shut eyes. Saliva glistened on her chin, dripping onto Marcus’s thigh. Her hand left his balls to brace against the floor as he drove deeper, harder. The wet, sloppy sounds were obscenely loud.
Marcus kept his predatory gaze locked on Thomas. "Yeah... that's it... choke on it... fucking perfect..." His breath hitched. His thighs tensed. A low, animalistic growl rumbled in his chest as he shoved her head down one final time, holding her there, buried to the hilt. Evelyn's body convulsed, her muffled cries turning into desperate, wet gurgles. Marcus threw his head back, eyes closing for a second in pure, selfish ecstasy, his release pumping hot and thick down her strained throat.
He held her pinned for several agonizing seconds, then finally released his grip on her hair. Evelyn jerked back, gasping, coughing violently, strings of saliva and come connecting her lips to his glistening cock. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, trembling, tears streaking through the mess on her face. She didn't look at Thomas. She looked up at Marcus, her eyes dazed, submissive, awaiting his next command.
Marcus sighed, a sound of deep satisfaction. He tucked his softening cock back into his sweatpants, adjusting himself casually. He reached out and patted Evelyn's damp cheek, a gesture disturbingly paternal. "Good girl. Real good." He finally looked back at Thomas, his expression one of complete, relaxed indifference. He gestured towards the plate Thomas still held. "Alright, Tommy. Breakfast. I'm fucking starving now." He flashed a cold, humorless smile. "Appreciate it."
The silence after Marcus’s mockery hung thick and sour. Thomas placed the plate on the coffee table, the clatter absurdly loud against the resumed drone of the muted TV news crawl. Marcus immediately shoveled eggs into his mouth with aggressive relish, ignoring the cooling bacon grease congealing on the plate. Evelyn stayed on her knees, wiping her chin with the back of her hand, a smear of saliva and Marcus’s come glistening on her skin. She didn’t get up until Marcus gestured vaguely at the kitchen. "Coffee. Black." Her movements were stiff as she rose, the red bikini strings digging into her hips and shoulders. Thomas turned away, busying himself with the sink, the rushing water unable to drown out the wet sounds still echoing in his head, the phantom taste of bile coating his tongue.
Breakfast passed in jagged fragments of sound. The scrape of Marcus’s fork. The intermittent crackle of the TV speaker, muted but insistent. Evelyn perched on the edge of the couch opposite Marcus, sipping coffee, eyes distant. Thomas stood leaning against the kitchen counter, picking at cold toast, his appetite obliterated. Marcus demolished his food, then leaned back, patting his stomach. "Solid, Tommy. Fills the hole." His gaze drifted to Evelyn, assessing. "Still feel that dick down your throat, princess? Bet you do." Evelyn flinched, a faint flush rising on her pale neck. She nodded mutely, her fingers tightening around the mug. Thomas closed his eyes, pushing off the counter, needing movement, escape. He cleared Marcus’s plate, the congealed grease cold and repellent under his fingertips.
Later, the weak afternoon light filtered through dusty blinds, striping the cluttered coffee table. Marcus retrieved a small, pungent-smelling joint from his duffel. He lit it, inhaling deeply, the acrid-sweet smoke curling into the air. He passed it to Evelyn, who took it with an eagerness that felt frantic. She sucked hard, holding the smoke deep in her lungs before releasing a thick plume. They passed it back and forth, the tension in the room thickening with the haze. Thomas sat rigid in the armchair facing the TV, pretending to watch the flickering images of economic collapse theories. He felt their eyes on him, Marcus’s amused, Evelyn’s pleading and defiant. The scent of cheap weed mingled nauseatingly with the lingering ghost of bacon and sex.
"Fuck, it’s roasting in here," Evelyn mumbled after a few minutes, her voice already slightly slurred. The drugs hit her fast, melting the brittle stiffness. Without preamble, without even glancing at Thomas, her fingers went to the knot between her shoulder blades. A tug, and the top of the tiny red bikini came loose, falling forward. She shrugged it off entirely, letting it drop onto the couch cushion beside Marcus. Then she hooked her thumbs into the sides of the bikini bottoms. A swift shimmy down her hips, and she was naked. Utterly bare on the worn leather couch next to Marcus, who hadn’t moved, hadn’t looked away from the TV screen. He just grunted, shifting slightly to make more room.
"So, Thomas," Evelyn began, her voice unnaturally bright, conversational, despite her nakedness. She leaned back, one arm draped along the couch back behind Marcus. Her breasts were pale and full, nipples hardening visibly in the air-conditioned chill. "Did you... did you remember to call the plumber about that leak under the kitchen sink?" Her other hand, resting casually near Marcus’s thigh, began to move. Fingers trailed idly over the sweatpants fabric near his groin, then slipped beneath the elastic waistband. Thomas watched, frozen, as her hand disappeared inside. He saw the movement under the grey fabric, the deliberate, slow stroking shape her fingers made. Marcus remained impassive, eyes fixed on the screen showing grainy footage of alleged UFOs.
Thomas choked, his throat constricting. "The... the plumber? Yeah. Tuesday." His voice sounded alien, detached. He forced his eyes back to the TV, to the flickering nonsense, but his peripheral vision was a trap. Evelyn’s hand working rhythmically inside Marcus’s pants. The subtle lift of his hips. The bulge growing larger, more defined under the fabric. Evelyn nodded, a jerky movement. "Tuesday. Good. Good." Her breathing hitched slightly. Marcus’s hand, resting near her bare thigh, moved, not to touch her, but to push his own sweatpants and boxers down just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and already slick with Evelyn’s ministrations. She didn’t pause. Her fingers wrapped around the shaft, slick with pre-come, and began stroking him openly, the wet, sliding sounds suddenly audible in the room.
"Need to get that fixed," Evelyn continued, her voice breathier now, the drug haze mixing with the immediate proximity of Marcus’s flesh. "Costs add up, right? Water damage." She kept her gaze fixed on Thomas, as if discussing the weather. Her hand pumped Marcus steadily, her thumb circling the swollen, leaking head. Marcus grunted again, a low rumble of pleasure. He still didn’t look at her, his eyes scanning the UFO footage. "Mmm. Fuck yeah, princess," he muttered, almost to himself. Then, without warning, he reached out and grabbed Evelyn’s hip, pulling her roughly. "Up. Ride it." His command was casual, dismissive, like telling her to fetch another beer.
Evelyn scrambled, high and eager, onto his lap. She straddled him, facing the TV, her back to Thomas. He saw the curve of her spine, the dimples above her ass, the pale swell of her hips. She reached behind herself, guiding Marcus’s cock. A sharp intake of breath, then a low, guttural moan ripped from her throat as she sank down, taking him deep inside her cunt. She arched her back, her head falling back onto Marcus’s shoulder, breasts thrust forward. Marcus’s hands settled heavily on her hips, holding her steady, his gaze still fixed on the screen as Evelyn began to move.
"Oh fuck, Marcus... so deep," Evelyn whimpered, her voice thick and raw. She started slowly, grinding her hips in tight circles, then rising up, the wet sound of her cunt gripping his cock obscenely loud each time she impaled herself back down onto his thick length. Thomas couldn't breathe. He was pinned in the armchair, his own traitorous body responding violently. Heat flooded his groin, his cock hardening painfully against the fabric of his jeans. Shame warred with a sickening, undeniable arousal. He watched Evelyn’s ass flex, saw Marcus’s fingers digging into the flesh of her hips, saw the slickness glistening where their bodies joined.
Marcus remained detached, his attention seemingly absorbed by the conspiracy theories flickering across the screen. "See that?" he grunted, nodding towards the TV as Evelyn bounced faster, her moans escalating into sharp cries. "Fucking Zeta Reticuli, man. They’re here. Pulling the strings." He gave Evelyn’s hip a rough squeeze, urging her rhythm harder, faster. Her cries became continuous, punctuated by gasps for air. "Greedy little cunt," Marcus murmured, almost fondly, his eyes still on the grainy alien craft. "Ride that fucking dick. Show Tommy how a real cock feels."
Thomas couldn't look away. His hand moved of its own accord, fumbling with the button of his jeans. The zipper rasped down. He pushed his hand inside, his fingers wrapping around his own straining erection. The touch was electric, shameful, unbearable, yet impossible to stop. He began to jerk himself, his eyes riveted to the sight of his wife impaled on Marcus, her body convulsing with building pleasure. Her cries grew higher, more desperate. "Yes! Marcus! Oh god, YES! I’m... I’m cumming!" Her orgasm ripped through her violently, back arching impossibly, a ragged scream tearing from her throat as her cunt clamped down hard on Marcus’s cock. She shuddered, grinding down onto him, her body trembling through the waves of brutal climax. Marcus barely reacted, just a tightening of his jaw, a slight shift under her weight. He kept watching the screen. Thomas stroked himself faster, his breath coming in harsh gasps, the image of Evelyn’s ecstatic surrender burned into his retinas.
Thomas stroked himself faster, his breath coming in harsh gasps, the image of Evelyn’s ecstatic surrender burned into his retinas. Her whimpers echoed, mingling with Marcus’s low grunts as she slumped against him, spent. Marcus gave her ass a dismissive slap, the sharp crack startling in the sudden quiet. "Off. I need to piss." Evelyn scrambled off his lap, sticky and trembling, collapsing onto the couch beside him, naked skin gleaming under the TV's cold light. She avoided Thomas’s gaze, staring blankly at the flickering images of chemtrails.
Thomas hastily shoved his cock back into his jeans, the zipper scraping raw skin, humiliation a hot coal in his gut. He stood abruptly, needing distance from the stench of sex and weed clinging to the air. "I... gotta check the leak." The lie tasted like ash. Marcus just grunted, lighting another joint without looking up. Evelyn curled in on herself, pulling a throw pillow onto her lap as if for modesty. Thomas fled to the kitchen, the familiar space offering no sanctuary. He gripped the cold edge of the sink, knuckles white, staring at the dripping tap he hadn’t fixed. The sounds from the living room were muted now, just the drone of the TV and Marcus’s low murmur. He heard Evelyn’s soft, tentative reply. A cold dread settled deeper. He knew what was coming.
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows. Thomas forced himself back into the living room. Marcus stood near the couch, stretching his thick arms, joints popping. He looked down at Evelyn, still curled on the couch naked. "Up, princess. Time for the main event." His voice brooked no refusal. Evelyn’s eyes darted to Thomas, wide with a frantic energy that wasn’t quite fear, wasn’t quite anticipation. "Marcus, please... later?" Her voice was thin. Marcus grabbed her wrist, pulling her roughly to her feet. "Now." He shoved her away from the couch, towards the center of the worn rug in front of the flickering TV. "Hands and knees. Ass up. Face your husband." He gestured towards Thomas with a jerk of his chin. "Let him see the show."
Evelyn hesitated for a sliver of a second, a tremor running through her. Then, with a shaky breath, she sank onto her hands and knees. She lowered her head, but slowly raised her hips, presenting her ass towards Marcus, her cunt still visibly slick and swollen from earlier, her face tilted towards Thomas. Her expression was a mask of shame and that terrifying, feverish intensity. Marcus stepped behind her, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness. The leather rasped loudly. He pushed his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock, already thick and heavy again. He spat into his palm, roughly slicked his length, the sound obscene. Thomas felt rooted to the spot by the archway, the scene unfolding with nightmarish inevitability.
Marcus gripped Evelyn’s hips hard, fingers digging into the flesh. "Hold her steady, Tommy boy," he sneered, eyes locking onto Thomas. "Gonna break her in proper this time." Without preamble, he slammed his cock into her cunt in one brutal thrust. Evelyn screamed, a raw, ragged sound torn from her throat, her back arching violently. "FUCK! Marcus!" Thomas flinched. Marcus grunted, a sound of deep satisfaction, and immediately began fucking her with relentless, jarring strokes. His hips pistoned, driving into her with savage force, the wet sound of flesh slapping flesh filling the room, drowning out the TV.
"Yeah," Marcus growled, his gaze fixed on Thomas, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "Your wife’s cunt’s so fucking greedy. Soaked. Begging for it." Evelyn’s cries turned to choked moans with each deep plunge, her body rocking forward under the impact. Her eyes, wide and swimming with tears, locked onto Thomas’s. They held a desperate plea, a shared humiliation, and beneath it, that horrifying spark of perverse excitement. "Look at her fucking face, Tommy," Marcus taunted, increasing his pace, the slaps of his hips against her ass becoming sharper, more rhythmic. "She loves this. Loves being my filthy little whore right in front of you." His hand left her hip, lifted high, and came down hard on her right ass cheek with a resounding CRACK! The pale skin immediately bloomed bright red. Evelyn gasped, then moaned, long and low, pushing her ass back harder against his thrusts.
CRACK! The other cheek this time. Evelyn cried out, but the sound melted into a guttural groan of pleasure, her head dropping, then lifting again, her eyes finding Thomas’s, almost defiant now. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Marcus rained sharp, rhythmic spanks down on her bouncing ass, alternating cheeks, the flesh reddening, jiggling violently with each impact and each powerful thrust. Evelyn was moaning continuously now, a high-pitched, desperate keening, her body writhing not in resistance but in ecstasy. "Yes! Oh fuck! Harder! Spank me! Fuck me!" she panted, the words garbled, lost in the animal sounds ripping from her throat. "Make me feel it!"
"See?" Marcus rasped, his breathing heavy, sweat beading on his forehead as he pounded into her, his spanks unrelenting. "She’s fucking broken for it. Only feels alive when she’s getting used. Owned." He punctuated the last word with a particularly brutal slam of his hips and a simultaneous, stinging slap that made Evelyn shriek. Her cunt visibly clenched around his shaft. "That’s right, scream for him," Marcus demanded, his eyes boring into Thomas. "Let him hear what a real cock does. Let him see you come on my dick like the fucking slut you are." Evelyn’s moans crescendoed into incoherent cries, her body tensing, bowing. "I’m cumming! Marcus! I’m CUMMING!" Her shriek was primal, her whole body convulsing as she clamped down violently on his cock, juices gushing around the brutal thrusts he maintained through her climax.
Thomas watched, frozen horror warring with a sickening, visceral pull. The sight of Evelyn’s ecstasy, the raw violence of Marcus’s possession, the utter degradation – it coiled hot and undeniable in his own groin. His hand moved without conscious thought, fumbling desperately with his jeans. The button popped. The zipper tore down. He shoved his hand inside, pulling out his aching, rock-hard cock. His fingers wrapped around the slick shaft, jerking roughly, urgently. The rhythm matched Marcus’s savage thrusts. Shame burned his face, but he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t look away from Evelyn’s tear-streaked face, her eyes locked onto his as Marcus brutalized her cunt and ass, her expression a terrifying mixture of agony and rapture. She saw his hand moving. A slow, strained, almost triumphant smile touched her swollen lips.
Marcus saw it too. A dark, vicious laugh erupted from him. "Yeah, Tommy! Jerk that little dick! You like watching me fuck your wife's brains out? Like seeing her take it like a champ?" He slammed into Evelyn harder, making her cry out sharply, the smile vanishing briefly before returning, wider this time, directed solely at Thomas as Marcus continued his relentless assault. "She prefers my cock splitting her open. Look at her fucking smile at you! She knows you ain't shit!" Thomas’s strokes became frantic, desperate. The shame was molten, mingling with the base, undeniable arousal. The rhythmic slapping, Evelyn’s guttural moans, Marcus’s harsh breathing and taunts – it was a brutal, filthy symphony, and Thomas was helplessly caught in its rhythm. He felt the pressure building, a coil tightening unbearably low in his gut.
"Gonna fill this greedy cunt," Marcus snarled, his movements becoming shorter, harder, more erratic. His balls slapped against Evelyn’s slick, reddened flesh. "Mark her insides. Make sure she remembers who she belongs to." Evelyn wailed, pushing back frantically. "Yes! Breed me! Fill me, Marcus! PLEASE!" Her plea was raw, broken. Marcus slammed home one final time, burying himself to the hilt with a roar. He held himself deep, grinding hard as his cock pulsed, spurt after thick spurt of hot come flooding Evelyn’s cunt. She screamed again, a sound of pure, agonized ecstasy, her body shuddering violently through another brutal climax triggered by the sensation of being filled.
The image – Marcus planted deep, claiming her, Evelyn’s ecstatic scream, her tear-filled eyes locked on Thomas, the glistening mess of their joining – shattered Thomas’s control. A choked gasp escaped him. His body seized. Hot, shameful spurts erupted from his cock, painting his knuckles and the worn carpet beneath him. He came silently, violently, his eyes squeezed shut against the horror and the undeniable, devastating release. When he opened them, trembling, Marcus was pulling out slowly. Evelyn collapsed onto the rug, gasping, a thick stream of white fluid already leaking obscenely from her well-used cunt onto the fibers. Marcus tucked himself away, zipping up casually. He looked down at Evelyn’s wrecked form, then at Thomas, still exposed, breathing raggedly. Marcus’s smile was a knife. "Enjoy the show, Tommy?" He nudged Evelyn’s trembling thigh with his boot. "Clean yourself up, princess. Then get dinner started." He turned and walked towards the bedroom, leaving them in the wreckage. The TV droned on, talking about false flags.