Marcus stepped back through the French doors, the cool air of the terrace clinging to his jacket, and found himself in the warm amber glow of the estate’s main hall. His lie was already formed, smooth on his tongue, the way all his lies were—practiced, precise, unshakeable.
"Everything alright?" Melinda's mother appeared at his elbow, her voice a silk-draped question, her eyes already hunting his face for cracks.
"Fine," he said. "Elena needed some air. She's coming back in."
The woman's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes—she was too old, too wealthy, too seasoned to believe anyone fully. But she wanted to believe. That was the trick. Give them something they wanted to believe, and they'd do the rest of the work themselves.
"You and Melinda seem... better," she said, and it was almost a question. "I was worried, you know. After the first year. Every marriage has its rhythms, but I thought perhaps—"
"We're finding ours." He said it with the same tone he used in boardrooms when a competitor needed reassurance. Warm. Certain. Empty.
Her face softened. "And grandchildren? Melinda's always wanted children. She told me once she wanted three. Can you imagine?"
"Soon," he said, and watched the word land like a key turning a lock. The woman's entire body relaxed, her shoulders dropping a full inch.
"Good. Good. I'll leave you to find her, then." She touched his arm, a brief, maternal pressure, and drifted back toward the party.
Marcus stood alone in the hallway, the chandelier light catching the sharp planes of his face, and felt the lie settle into his bones like a second skin. He'd been wearing it so long it fit perfectly.
His phone buzzed. He didn't check it. He already knew what he needed to do.
He easily found Melinda with a few of cousins ws she told them more lies about their relationship. Marcus with practiced ease, interrupted and whispered to her telling her he was leaving. As he walked away, her mother, with a knowing smile, quickly encouraged Melinda to go as well. Confused Melinda chased after.
Sitting in the car quietly in the back, Melinda recieved a text from her mother. Teasing she cannot wait to hear the good news. Melinda flushing, peaked at Marcus hoping he wasn't asked about children. Belatedly realizing she mostly likely shouldn't have told her mother about her desires for children again.
Marcus’s jaw clenched as images of Elena dominated his mind, pulled out his phone and typed: Come now.
Sent.
He didn’t bother to wait for a reply, curious to see how quick Natasha would be ready for him.
By the time he reached the guest bedroom—the one he'd moved into a month into the marriage—his cock was a hard line against his trousers, pressing against the wool like a demand. Elena's tear-streaked face was burned into the back of his eyelids. Her voice. The way she'd said his name. The way she'd looked at him.
The guest bedroom was large, impersonal, the kind of room that belonged to no one. He'd chosen it deliberately. Melinda's scent didn't linger here. Her hopes didn't cling to the furniture. The sheets were gray, the walls were beige, and the only thing that mattered was the door, which he'd locked every night for eleven months.
Melinda in the master bedroom changed, deciding to suprise him to do something different just like she was advised to by her best friend— Jessica— the other day. She stripped and put on a silk robe a gift from her, looking in the mirror she started practicing what she was coached. Remembering how Jessica told her she needed to be more bold. Especially now that Melinda had opened the door to other women. Reaching to his door, she took a moment to calm her nerves before opening it.
He didn't hear her enter.
But did hear her whisper his name.
He turned, his hand already on his cock—he'd freed it from his trousers, the dark fabric bunched around his hips, his palm working the length in slow, deliberate strokes—and found Melinda standing in the doorway, her robe loose, her honey-brown waves falling over her shoulders, her eyes fixed on his hand.
On his cock.
On the fact that he was hard.
Her eyes widened. Softened. Filled with the kind of hope that made him want to break something.
"Marcus," she breathed, and her hand went to the knot of her robe, tugging it loose. The silk parted. Her small breasts were visible through the gap, her nipples already peaked, her skin flushed with the belief that he wanted her. She walked up to him, body vibrating in anticipation, glad she had someone like Jessica to reach out to.
He snarled.
Melinda jumped back.
It wasn't a word. It was a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest, a warning, a threat, a disgust that he couldn't hide fast enough. Her face crumpled, the hope collapsing like a building in slow motion, and he saw the exact moment she understood: the hard-on wasn't for her.
The doorbell cut through the silence.
He pointed at the door, his voice flat and cold, the same voice he used when a deal was dead and there was nothing left to negotiate. "Open it. Bring her to the sun room— stay naked."
"Marcus, I—"
"Now."
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "You can't—you can't mean—"
"I said now. "
She stood there for a long, terrible moment, her robe hanging open, her body exposed, her face a mask of humiliation that he watched without a flicker of remorse. Then she turned. Her bare feet made soft sounds on the hardwood as she walked out of the bedroom, down the hall, toward the front door.
The robe fell from her shoulders somewhere between the hall and the entrance. He heard it hit the floor.
He followed at a distance, his cock still hard as his balls slapped, his jaw set, the image of Elena's eyes—winter-sky, unreadable, wanting —pushing him forward like a hand on his back.
The front door opened.
Natasha stood on the threshold, her fitted top clinging to her curves, her jeans molding to her long legs, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She took in the scene in a single glance: Melinda naked in the doorway, her robe somewhere behind her, her face streaked with tears she was trying not to shed. Marcus behind her, eyes already on Natasha.
Natasha's lips curved into a small, assessing smile. She looked at Melinda—really looked—the way a jeweler looks at a stone before deciding whether to buy it. She saw the slender frame, the delicate breasts, the soft belly, the hopelessness in the brown eyes. Not unattractive, Natasha decided. But not what Marcus wanted. Probably never would be.
Pity flickered across her face before she could hide it.
Melinda caught it. Her spine stiffened. Her voice came out raw, scraped clean of any softness. "Be a good dog and follow."
Natasha's smile widened. She stepped past Melinda, her shoulder brushing against the other woman's bare skin, and walked into the mansion like she owned it.
Marcus led them to the sun room.
It was massive—glass walls on three sides, the evening pressing in like a dark ocean, the moon painting silver lines across the marble floor. A large couch sat in the center of the room, white leather, expensive, obscene in its comfort. Marcus sat down, his legs wide, his cock standing hard and thick against his stomach, pre-cum beading at the tip.
He looked at Melinda. "Undress her. Slowly."
Melinda's hands trembled as she reached for Natasha's top. Her fingers fumbled with the hem, and Natasha stood still, patient, a statue waiting to be unveiled. The fabric lifted, slid over her head, fell to the floor. Her breasts were full, round, the nipples already hard, her skin smooth and warm in the low light. Her bra followed a moment later, and then her jeans, and then her panties, each garment peeled away with agonizing slowness while Marcus watched, his hand moving on his cock in steady, unhurried strokes.
He grunted. Moaned. His eyes traced every curve of Natasha's body—the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the dark triangle between her thighs. "Open the player," he said, his voice rough. "Then sit. Across from us. Watch."
Melinda found her phone, connected to the mansion's speakers, and let whatever playlist was queued begin to play—something slow, something with a bass line that throbbed like a pulse. She sat in a chair opposite the couch, her legs together, her hands in her lap, her naked body glowing with shame and something else she wouldn't name.
Marcus looked at Natasha. "Dance for me."
And she did.
She moved like water, like smoke, like every fantasy he'd ever had given flesh and breath. Her hips rolled, her hands traced her own body, her fingers slid through her wetness and lifted to her mouth, tasting herself while she watched him watch her. The music wrapped around them, a slow, insistent groove, and she moved to it like she'd been born for this moment.
Melinda watched. Her hands stayed in her lap. Her eyes tracked every motion, every sway, every flicker of pleasure on Marcus's face—pleasure she'd never been able to give him, pleasure she was watching another woman create with nothing but her body and a song.
"Come here," Marcus said, and his voice was a command, low and dark.
Natasha crawled to him. The marble was cool against her knees. She reached the couch, rose up, and positioned herself between his legs. Her breasts pressed against his thighs. Her mouth found his cock—not taking it yet, just brushing her lips along the shaft, tasting the pre-cum that beaded at the tip, her tongue tracing the vein that ran along the underside.
He grunted, his head falling back.
She took him into her mouth, her hands cupping his balls, her tongue working the length of him while her breasts pressed and released against his thighs in a rhythm that matched her strokes. She sucked. She swallowed. She took him deep, her throat opening for him, and the sounds she made were wet and obscene and perfect.
Marcus's hand found her hair, gripping, guiding. "That's it. Fuck. That's—"
Melinda's hands had moved from her lap to her own breasts. She squeezed them together, her fingers pressing into the soft flesh, her nipples hard against her palms. She watched her husband's cock disappear into another woman's mouth, and the shame was a living thing in her chest, and she couldn't stop touching herself.
"Harder," Marcus groaned. "Suck it harder."
Natasha obeyed. Her mouth worked him, her throat taking him deeper, her tongue swirling around the head each time she pulled back. The wet sounds filled the room, mixing with the music, and Marcus's hips began to thrust, fucking her face in a rhythm that grew faster, more desperate.
"Fuck—fuck, I'm going to—"
He came in her mouth, his body shuddering, his grip tightening in her hair as he pulsed down her throat. She swallowed, her throat working around him, and when he finally released her, she sat back on her heels, her lips wet, her eyes bright with satisfaction.
"Get up," he said, his voice already recovering, his cock already rising again—still hard, still hungry. "Get on the couch."
She climbed onto the white leather, her body gleaming under the moonlight. He positioned himself between her thighs, lowered his head, and took her into his mouth.
Melinda watched.
She watched his tongue find Natasha's clit, watched his fingers slide into her, watched the way Natasha's body arched and twisted and begged without words. She watched her husband—her husband, the man she'd been married to for a year, the man who'd never once put his mouth on her—eat another woman's cunt like it was his last meal.
Natasha screamed.
It wasn't a moan, wasn't a gasp—it was a full, throaty scream that echoed off the glass walls, her hands fisting in the leather, her hips grinding against his face. "Fuck—fuck, Daddy—right there, right there, please —"
She came with a cry that sounded like something else, something wordless, something that made Melinda's fingers press harder into her own clit, desperate and ashamed.
Marcus pulled back, his mouth wet, his eyes dark. He sat up, his cock still hard, ready. Natasha knelt on the couch, breathing heavily, her body slick with sweat, and looked at him with the kind of satisfaction that came from being exactly where she belonged.
"Thank you," she whispered, and the words were for him, and for her, and for the woman watching from the chair.
He chuckled, low and rough, and lifted her onto his lap, positioning her so she faced Melinda. Her full breasts were presented like an offering, her body displayed against his, her legs spread around his hips. His hand came up to cup her breasts, his fingers squeezing, kneading, rolling her nipples between his thumb and forefinger.
"Look at her," he whispered into Natasha's ear, loud enough for Melinda to hear. "Look at my wife. Watching. Touching herself. Wishing she was you."
Natasha leaned back against him, a lazy, possessive smile spreading across her face. She looked directly into Melinda's eyes, and the message was clear: This is mine now.
She began to move on his lap, her hips grinding against his cock, the tip teasing her entrance, sliding through her wetness but not entering. "Daddy," she breathed, and the word was a key, a code, a confession. "Please."
His hands tightened on her hips. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you inside me, Daddy. I want to feel you. Please."
He entered her in one slow, deliberate thrust, and the sound she made was broken and perfect, her head falling back against his shoulder, her walls gripping him like they'd been waiting for this. He held her hips, guiding her into a rhythm, his cock stretching her, filling her, the wet sound of his thrusts mixing with the music.
"Fuck," he groaned, his forehead pressing against her shoulder blade. "So tight. So fucking tight."
His hips began to piston harder, faster, the slap of skin against skin filling the room. He bit her neck, sucked it, left bruises along her collarbone, her shoulders, the curve of her throat. His hands found her breasts, squeezing, her nipples pinched between his fingers, and she moaned—loud, shameless, her body taking everything he gave her.
Melinda watched, her fingers moving faster, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She watched Marcus's hands on another woman's body, watched his mouth marking another woman's skin, watched the way he fucked Natasha like he was trying to burrow inside her, and she couldn't understand. She couldn't understand why he'd never wanted her like this. Why he'd never touched her like this. Why he'd never looked at her like this.
"Harder, —please, harder—" Natasha's hands found her own breasts, her fingers on top of his encouraging him to pinch her nipples more, her body bucking against his thrusts. She fell from the pain—a sharp pinch that made her gasp—but she didn't stop. "Squeeze harder," she said, her voice a mockery of a plea, her eyes finding Melinda's. "I can take it."
Melinda's fingers faltered. The shame was a drowning thing now, pulling her under, and she couldn't stop. She didn't know if she wanted it to stop.
Marcus pulled out of Natasha, rising from the couch, his cock slick and hard. "Stand up," he said.
She obeyed, and he gripped her arms behind her—pulling them back, pulling her spine into an arch—and thrust into her from behind. The new angle made her scream, a raw, broken sound that bounced off the glass walls. The slap of his hips against her ass, the wet sound of his cock sliding into her, the moans that poured out of her like a confession—they carried the scene for a long, wet, brutal stretch of time. Natasha came twice, her body shuddering, her knees buckling, held up only by Marcus's grip on her arms. And then he groaned, a deep, animal sound, and came inside her, his hips grinding against her ass as he emptied into her.
He let her go.
She crumbled to the ground, her body glowing with sweat, her chest heaving, her legs unable to hold her. She stayed there, on the marble floor, panting, listening through the ringing in her ears.
"Why?" Melinda's voice was cracked, raw, a shell of itself. "Why do you want her and not me? I've been here. I've been—I've been waiting. Always. You never—you never wanted to—"
Marcus walked to the bar in the corner of the room, his footsteps steady, his cock softening. He opened a bottle of water, drank, set it down. When he spoke, his voice was flat. Cold. Final.
"I'm already trapped in this marriage, Melinda. I'm not going to trap myself with a child from you. Madame Isadora found women who know what this is—women who won't be stupid enough to try and force a situation."
He looked at Natasha, still on the floor, her body a sprawl of sweat and satisfaction. He walked to her, knelt, lifted her legs over his shoulders, positioned the tip of his softening cock at her entrance. Melinda smiled—a tired, broken smile—and began to touch herself again, her fingers finding her clit, her eyes fixed on her husband's body between another woman's thighs.
He entered Natasha slowly. The softness of his cock made the stretch different, more intimate, a grind rather than a thrust. His hands found her hips, and he moved in slow, methodical circles, watching her breasts jiggle with each rotation, hypnotized by the motion.
Melinda touched herself, her fingers working her clit in frantic circles, her eyes on the scene before her. She imagined she was Natasha. She imagined those hands on her hips, that cock inside her, those eyes watching her with something that wasn't quite love but was attention. She imagined being wanted.
"Marcus," she moaned, her voice a whisper that barely carried across the room.
He didn't hear her. His eyes were fixed on Natasha's breasts, her face, the way her mouth opened in a silent O each time he ground into her.
His pace picked up. Harder. Faster. The slap of his hips against her, the wetness of her, the way she moaned and begged and babbled in bliss—he leaned down, captured her mouth, kissed her savagely. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and he lowered himself onto her, his full weight pressing her into the marble, his cock still grinding into her, her breasts bouncing against his chest, her nipples poking into his skin.
He groaned, thrusting harder, the angle making her scream. "Daddy—Daddy, please—I'm going to—"
"Cum for me," he said, his voice a growl against her mouth. "Cum for Daddy."
She did, her body clenching around him, her moans turning into wordless cries. He followed a moment later, his hips grinding into her, his body shuddering, his groan a deep, satisfied sound.
He pulled out and flipped her over in one smooth motion, entering her again from behind, his hand gripping her hair, pulling her head back. Her eyes opened, still dazed, still swimming in pleasure—and found Melinda's. Melinda, her hand between her legs, her face streaked with tears, her body shaking with a desperation she couldn't hide.
Natasha smiled. A small, private, knowing smile.
This was easier than she'd thought. This was a door opening, and she was already walking through it.
Marcus pulled her hair back, his mouth finding hers, and she arched into him, moaning into his kiss. His hips drove into her, relentless, and Melinda's hand moved faster, her breath catching, her body tensing as she reached the edge.
"Marcus!" she shouted, and the sound came out broken, a sob and a climax tangled together, her body shuddering in the chair as she came alone.
He didn't look at her. His hand found Natasha's throat, squeezing gently, and he ground into her, his hips working in a rhythm that was all possession. Natasha groaned, begged, her voice cracking, and he let go, coming again with a grunt, spilling across her back in hot streaks.
She crumbled to the floor. He ground into her entering her again, his hips humping against her ass, his cock softening inside, his breath ragged. She cried out in ecstasy, babbling words that didn't form sentences, and he kept moving, kept thrusting, kept taking.
Natasha spent, clenched her walls feeling his cock hardening throbbing in her.
Melinda watched, exhausted, her thighs wet, her hand aching. She looked at the clock on the wall. Forty-five minutes. They'd been going for forty-five minutes. With her, it was never more than ten.
Marcus stood, lifting Natasha with him. Still in her as she lazily wrapped he legs around, her body limp, her eyes half-closed. He gripped her ass, content in her cunt, carried her toward the door, his steps steady, his voice flat but deep as he spoke without turning around.
"I'm taking the master bedroom."
The door closed behind them.
Melinda sat alone in the sun room, the music still playing, the moonlight still spilling across the marble floor. Her body was cold, but she didn't move. She stared at the spot where Marcus had been, where Natasha had been, where her marriage had been dismantled piece by piece in front of her, and she wondered—for the first time, truly wondered—if he had ever wanted her at all.
If any of it had ever been real.
The music played on. The silence waited. And Melinda sat, naked and forgotten, trying to remember what hope felt like. She wondered if he was always faking. She wondered if she never satisfied him.