The video call window showed David's concerned, pixelated face. Below the frame, Brimstone's shadow swallowed her thighs. The industrial massage gun roared to life in his hand, a predatory growl vibrating up through the floorboards. He pressed the oscillating head against the lace between her legs, and the world narrowed to the violent thrum against her clit and David's voice asking about the noise.
"The neighbor," Misty choked out, her hips bucking involuntarily against the sofa. "He's... cutting the grass late again. Always tinkering."
Brimstone’s grip tightened on her inner thigh, his thumb bruising the sensitive skin. "Lie better," he hissed, his voice a jagged rasp that stayed well below the microphone's pickup.
He hooked a finger into the side of her panties and peeled them away, exposing her drenched, glistening folds to the stagnant air of the living room. Her pussy was already swollen, the labia dark and engorged. Brimstone didn't hesitate. He pressed the oscillating head of the machine directly against her sensitive clitoris.
The sound changed instantly—a wet, rhythmic slapping as the device hammered into her soaked flesh. Squelching noises filled the small space between her legs, the percussion head driving her natural juices into a frothy lather. Air was pushed out of her vagina with every heavy strike, creating soft, popping sounds.
"Misty?" David's voice sharpened. "That doesn't sound like a lawnmower. It sounds... wet."
"Sprinklers," she gasped. Her knuckles were bone-white on the cushion. "The... the sprinkler head is broken. Hitting the siding."
Brimstone adjusted the angle. The rubber head dug deeper, spreading her lips, the relentless percussion now hitting her exposed clit with pinpoint, brutal accuracy. A tremor started deep in her belly, a coil winding tight. Her breath hitched, stalled, came out in a thin whine she strangled into silence.
"You sure you're okay?" David leaned closer, his face a blur of pixels. "You look flushed."
"Fine. Just warm."
She wasn't fine. The vibration was a jackhammer on the most sensitive nerve in her body, a violent, unending pulse that blurred thought. Pleasure wasn't the right word. It was demolition. Her cunt clenched around nothing, greedy and empty, each thrum of the tool sending a fresh gush of wetness to be beaten into foam.
Brimstone watched her face. His eyes were dark, absorbing the way her jaw trembled, the sweat beading along her hairline. He increased the speed. The growl of the motor deepened. The slapping sound grew louder, wetter.
"God, that noise is annoying," David sighed, the sound of him settling back in his chair coming through the speaker. "Can you ask him to stop?"
"He's—" Her body arched. A full-body spasm she couldn't suppress. "He's almost done."
Brimstone's free hand came up, palm flat against her lower belly, pinning her to the sofa. He held her down as her hips tried to writhe away from the assault, or into it—she didn't know anymore. The pressure from his hand was immense, a counterweight to the chaos between her legs.
The orgasm built not as a wave but as a structural failure. A crack spreading from her core. Her thighs began to shake, a violent tremble that made the whole sofa leg judder against the floor.
"Misty?" David's voice was distant, a radio signal from another planet.
She came. Silently. Her mouth fell open in a soundless scream, her eyes wide and unseeing, fixed on the ceiling. Her cunt clenched rhythmically, desperately, milking nothing, each internal spasm syncing with the hammering percussion on her clit. Wetness flooded out, soaking the tool head, dripping onto the hardwood floor between Brimstone's knees.
He didn't stop. The machine kept roaring. He pressed it harder into her oversensitive flesh, dragging the climax out into a painful, breathtaking plateau.
Her hand shot out, gripping his wrist where he held the gun. Not to push him away. Her nails dug into his skin, anchoring herself to the pain, the only real thing in the dissolving world.
Finally, he flicked the switch. The sudden silence was louder than the motor had been. It was filled with the ragged, sobbing pull of her breath, and David's puzzled, tinny voice.
"Hello? Did the noise stop?"
Brimstone set the glistening tool on the carpet. He looked at the mess he'd made of her, the froth and slick shine covering her thighs. Then he looked up, past her trembling body, to the phone on the stack of books. To the tiny, oblivious face of her husband.
He leaned forward, his cedar-and-iron scent enveloping her, and put his mouth to her ear. His whisper was a blade of sound in the quiet room.
"Tell him goodnight."
Misty’s breath was still coming in ragged pulls. She stared at the phone screen, at David’s pixelated, waiting face. The command in her ear was a cold stone in her gut. She swallowed, her throat raw from silent screams. “I should go, David. The… the neighbor’s finally stopped.”
“Wait,” he said, his voice tinny through the speaker. “Your shadow. On the wall behind you. I saw it move again.”
Her blood went cold. She hadn’t considered the lamplight. Her own silhouette, and Brimstone’s massive one, merged and shifting on the velvet curtain.
“It’s just me,” she said, the lie brittle. “I’m adjusting the lamp. It’s hot.”
Brimstone hadn’t moved from between her legs. His heat radiated against her inner thighs. He watched her, his dark eyes tracking the panic in hers.
“It looked… big,” David pressed, a new edge in his voice. “Misty, are you sure you’re alone over there? I’ve been hearing things. Reading things. Wives getting lonely. Hiring… handymen.”
A hysterical laugh bubbled in her chest. Handyman. She choked it down. Her cunt throbbed, a wet, sore ache. The evidence of Brimstone’s work was cooling on her skin, on the floor.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she managed, her voice climbing an octave. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day. You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” The suspicion in his voice was a new flavor. It wasn’t concern anymore. It was ownership, challenged. “Because that noise wasn’t a sprinkler. And your shadow had shoulders.”
She wanted to scream. She wanted to grab the phone, spin it around, and shove the camera into the wet, glistening mess between her legs. To show him the silent mountain of a man crouched there, his knuckles bruised from her grip, the industrial tool resting on her carpet like a spent weapon. Look. Look what I did. Look what I let him do.
Her eyes flicked to Brimstone. A silent, desperate plea.
He read it. His head moved, a slow, deliberate negation. His hand came up, not to touch her, but to hover over her lower belly, a reminder of the weight that had pinned her down. A threat of its return.
“Tell him no,” Brimstone rasped, the sound so low it was more vibration than word, meant only for her.
“There’s no one here, David,” she said, forcing her voice flat. Final. “You’re being paranoid. I’m going to bed.”
“Put the camera on a walk,” he demanded. “Show me the room.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Why not?”
Brimstone’s hovering hand lowered. His palm settled over her mound, not pressing, just covering. Claiming. His thumb rested in the slick fold of her, a blunt, intimate pressure. Her hips jerked. A fresh trickle of wetness escaped, smearing his skin.
“Because I’m your wife,” she hissed into the phone, her composure cracking. “Not your prisoner. Goodnight, David.”
She reached a trembling hand toward the stack of books, fingers fumbling for the phone’s screen.
“Misty, don’t you dare hang up on—”
Her thumb found the red icon. The screen went black. David’s voice vanished.
The silence that followed was absolute. It was filled with the pound of her heart in her ears, the wet sound of Brimstone’s thumb moving slowly against her.
He looked from the dark phone to her face. “Good.”
The phone sat silent on the cold tile floor, not a stack of books. The industrial massage gun lay beside it, its rubberized head glistening under the lamplight.
Brimstone’s thumb was still moving, a slow, deliberate circle in the slick heat of her. Misty’s hips gave another helpless jerk. Her cunt clenched around nothing, a raw, throbbing pulse.
He watched her face. He didn’t speak.
The silence was a living thing. It was the pound of blood in her ears, the wet sound his skin made against hers, the distant hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. It was the absence of David’s voice.
She had hung up on her husband.
The reality of it landed in her gut, cold and heavy. She stared at Brimstone’s hand, at the way his broad palm completely covered her. Possessed her.
“He’ll call back,” she whispered. Her voice was shredded.
Brimstone’s thumb pressed deeper, parting her. She felt the blunt intrusion, the stretch. A fresh trickle of arousal escaped, coating his finger. He brought his hand up between them, his eyes on hers as he examined the shine on his skin.
He put his thumb to his mouth. Licked it clean. His gaze never left hers.
The gesture was so obscene, so utterly casual, that the air left her lungs in a rush.
“Let him,” he rasped.
He shifted his weight. The movement was fluid, powerful. He rose from his crouch, his shadow swallowing her whole as he stood over the sofa. He looked down at her sprawled body—the prim green top, the soldier skirt rucked up around her waist, her thighs spread and glistening.
He unbuckled his belt. The sound of the leather sliding through the loops was louder than the massage gun had been.
Misty’s breath hitched. She watched his hands. He unbuttoned his jeans, pushed them down just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and already fully hard, the head dark and leaking. It curved upward against his stomach.
He didn’t touch himself. He just stood there, letting her look.
“You’re wet enough,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
She was. She could feel it, a hot seep between her thighs, a sore, hungry ache. Her body was still vibrating from the machine, every nerve ending exposed and screaming.
He placed one knee on the velvet sofa, right between her legs. The cushion dipped under his weight. He braced a hand by her head, his cedar-and-iron scent enveloping her. His other hand guided his cock, the broad head nudging through her slick folds, finding her entrance.
He stopped there. Just the pressure, the promise of the stretch. He held it. He was looking at her mouth, at the way her lips were parted, at the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat.
“Tell me you want it,” he said, his voice a low grind.
She shook her head, a tiny, frantic movement. Her hands came up, pressed against the solid wall of his chest. She didn’t push. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
“Tell me.”
“I can’t,” she gasped.
“You just did.” He pushed forward, an inch, just enough to make her feel the impossible width. Her cunt stretched, burned, yielded. A broken sound escaped her throat. “Your body’s begging for it. Say the words.”
She was shaking. Her nails dug into his chest. “Please.”
“Please what.”
“Please… fuck me.” The words were ash in her mouth. A truth she’d never spoken.
He drove the rest of the way in, one brutal, deep thrust that buried him to the hilt. She cried out, her back arching off the sofa. The fullness was shocking, a burning stretch that stole the air from her lungs. He was so deep she felt him in her throat.
He didn’t move. He let her feel it, every inch, the hot, hard reality of him splitting her open. Her cunt fluttered around him, a frantic, wet grip.
“Whose?” he growled against her ear.
She couldn’t think. The world was reduced to the ache, the stretch, the weight of him.
“Whose cock is in your cunt, Misty?”
“Yours,” she sobbed.
“Louder.”
“Yours!” The word was a scream, torn from some raw, broken place inside her.
He began to move.
He began to move.
It was a slow, deliberate withdrawal, a drag of his thick cock that made her feel every ridge, every vein. Then he slammed back in, a hard, deep piston stroke that punched the air from her lungs. The wet sound of it filled the room—a slick, rhythmic slap that was louder than any lie she’d told.
He set a brutal pace from the start. No warm-up, no gentle build. Just the relentless drive of his hips, the force of his body pinning her to the velvet. Each thrust jolted her up the cushions. Her prim green top twisted, the fabric biting into her throat.
Her hands scrambled for purchase, nails scraping against his shoulders, then digging into the sofa back. She couldn’t get a breath. Every exhale was a choked gasp, every inhale was his scent—cedar, iron, sweat.
“Look at me.”
Her eyes flew open. She hadn’t realized she’d closed them. His face was inches from hers, his expression carved from stone, but his eyes were black fire. He watched her unravel.
“See who’s fucking you.”
She saw. The neighbor. The silent mountain from two doors down. The man whose name she didn’t even know, splitting her open on her husband’s sofa.
A high, thin whine escaped her teeth. Her heels hooked behind his thighs, trying to pull him deeper, trying to match his rhythm. Her body was a traitor, meeting every slam with a desperate clench.
He shifted his angle, driving upward. The head of his cock ground against a spot inside her that made her vision whiten. A sharp cry tore from her throat.
On the stack of books, the phone screen lit up. A familiar ringtone cut through the wet noise of their fucking.
David.
Brimstone didn’t miss a stroke. He reached out one long arm, his movement never faltering, and picked up the phone. He held it up, the screen facing her. David’s caller ID photo smiled out—a vacation shot from a beach, a lifetime ago.
He held it there, letting her see it, letting it ring. Then he dropped it onto the carpet beside the sofa. The ringing muffled, but didn’t stop.
“Let him hear,” Brimstone rasped, his breath hot against her ear. “Let him hear what his wife sounds like.”
The permission broke her. A sob racked her chest, even as her hips lifted to meet his next thrust. The vibration from the phone on the floor traveled up through the frame of the sofa, a faint buzz against her spine, a counterpoint to the pounding deep in her cunt.
She was going to come. The orgasm built like a storm surge, undeniable, drawn from the very center of the violation. Her thighs began to shake violently. Her cunt tightened around him, a series of frantic, fluttering spasms that gripped his cock like a fist.
“That’s it,” he growled, his pace turning jagged, ruthless. “Take it. Come on his fucking dime.”
She shattered. Her back arched off the sofa, a silent scream stretching her mouth wide. Her cunt convulsed, milking his length, waves of brutal pleasure tearing through her until she was blind with it. The phone stopped ringing.
He fucked her through it, through the trembling aftershocks, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more focused. A low groan rumbled in his chest. He buried himself to the root, his body locking over hers.
She felt the hot pulse of his release deep inside her, a flood of heat that seemed to go on and on. He ground against her, emptying himself, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. His breath was ragged in her ear.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, and the wet, cooling mess between her legs.
He pulled out. The sudden emptiness was a shock. A thick trickle of his cum leaked out of her, onto the velvet.
Brimstone stood, looking down at her ruined body. He tucked himself back into his jeans, fastened his belt. The leather slide was the only sound.
He picked up the massage gun from the carpet, his fingers curling around the handle. He looked at the phone, dark and silent on the floor. Then he looked at her.
He left without a word. The front door clicked shut behind him.
Misty lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. The lamp’s amber glow caught the dust motes stirred up by their violence, spinning in the silent air. The wet spot beneath her cooled. The phone did not ring again.
The ceiling was a blank white canvas above her, the lamp's amber glow making the paint look yellow and old. She could hear her own breathing, shallow and wet, and the distant hum of a refrigerator cycling on. The cooling mess between her thighs was a fact she couldn't deny, a sticky proof that had already begun to soak into the velvet.
Her green top had twisted around her ribs, the fabric biting into her skin. She reached up with a trembling hand and tugged at it, trying to straighten it, but the gesture felt pointless. Her fingers came away damp with sweat.
The phone lay facedown on the carpet. She stared at it, waiting for it to light up again, for David's face to reappear with a worried question. The silence from it was worse than the ringing. What did he hear? What did he think?
Her thighs were slick with a mixture of sweat and his cum. She felt it trickle down the inside of her leg, a slow, warm crawl that reached the edge of her skirt. She didn't move to stop it.
The room smelled of sex—salt, iron, the faint cedar that still clung to the air from his skin. The massage gun sat on the floor by the sofa, a black, inert tool that had been the instrument of her undoing. It looked ordinary now, mechanical, a thing you'd buy at a hardware store.
She turned her head, letting her gaze travel across the room. The stack of books that had held the phone was still there, slightly askew. Her keys on the entry table. A single coffee mug from this morning, cold and forgotten. Everything looked the same. Everything was different.
A sound from outside—a car door closing, somewhere down the street. She flinched, her body tensing, eyes snapping to the front door. It was still locked. She'd locked it after he'd left. She remembered doing that, the click of the deadbolt, the weight of the chain sliding into place.
But the thought didn't comfort her. He had a key. He'd opened the door without knocking earlier. He always came in when he wanted.
She pushed herself up on one elbow, wincing at the ache between her legs. The movement sent a fresh trickle of cum onto the sofa cushion. She looked at the wet spot—dark velvet, darker in the center, a stain that would never come out.
Her skirt was rucked up around her waist, her panties somewhere on the floor. She found them, a crumpled white triangle of lace, and pulled them on. The fabric pressed against her raw, swollen flesh, a damp reminder that made her hiss.
She stood up, knees weak, and walked to the bathroom. The mirror showed her a stranger: flushed cheeks, wild hair, lipstick smeared into a faint bruise at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were too bright, too wide, pupils still blown.
She ran the tap, cold water, and splashed her face. The shock of it made her gasp. She looked at her reflection again, and saw the woman who had let him do it, who had come on her husband's phone call, who had screamed that she was his.
The phone buzzed on the living room floor. A single vibration, then silence. A notification. Not a call.
She dried her face with a towel, the fabric rough against her skin. She walked back into the living room, her bare feet silent on the rug. She picked up the phone. The screen was dark, but there was a text from David: "call me when you get a chance." No urgency. No anger. Just the polite request of a man who didn't know.
She held the phone in her hand, staring at the words. The lamp flickered once, a brief dimming, then steadied. From outside, a faint creak—her driveway gate. She looked toward the window, at the darkness pressing against the curtains.
The front door was locked. She checked it again, her hand on the cool brass. The deadbolt was solid. The chain was secure.
She stood there, barefoot on the hardwood, the phone clutched in her hand, and listened. The house was silent except for her own heartbeat. But somewhere in that silence, she could feel his presence still, like a breath held just beyond her skin.