Clean up

Emily’s fingers trembled as she lifted the empty breakfast bowl, the glass perched beside it. She was trying to tidy—offer some small apology in motion—but her knee bumped the coffee table, jarring the remote. It clicked under the bowl.

The television snapped on, bright and immediate.

First, a sleek interface—clean fonts, dark background, the unmistakable layout of a particular premium adult site. Then a cut to a paused scene.

Studio lighting. High resolution. Perfectly framed.

A woman, handcuffed behind her back, was bent over a chair, her body presented in a curve of soft submission. The man behind her had one hand gripping her hip, the other buried in her hair, holding her steady as he pushed deep into her. His cock glistened with slick, thick and real and mercilessly hard. It was captured mid-thrust—his hips pressed tight against her ass, the full length of him buried inside.

Emily’s breath caught.

The woman looked like her. Not just vaguely—same height, same soft hips, same hair tone. Her face wasn’t quite the same—slightly rounder, lips fuller—but the resemblance was enough to make Emily’s stomach twist.

The man was clean-shaven, but his skin tone, his build—lean and toned, not bulky—was too similar to ignore. The way he looked, even frozen mid-motion, felt familiar.

Emily couldn’t move. The position—the brutality of it—was striking, intimate, almost reverent in its aggression. The woman’s mouth was open, caught mid-moan, her breasts swaying forward from the **** of the thrust.

Emily’s nipples tightened under her bra, the fabric suddenly rough and tight against her skin. A pulse throbbed between her legs, slow and insistent.

This wasn’t random. This wasn’t background noise. Rami had searched for this—picked this. Found something that looked like her getting fucked by someone who moved like him.

She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until the remote trembled in her hand.

The scene unfroze.

Sound flooded the room.

The slap of skin. The woman’s gasp, ragged and ****. “Fuck—yes, just like that—don’t stop—deeper—”

Emily shuddered.

The man obeyed. His rhythm intensified—thrust after thrust, relentless, precise. The woman’s handcuffed arms tensed, her moans breaking into high, helpless cries. He angled his hips down, grinding on the way in now, and her back arched violently in response.

Her whole body was reacting—Emily’s, not the woman’s. Thighs tight. Core aching. That hot, breathless pressure she hadn’t felt since—God, since before Chloe.

She should turn it off.

She should move.

Instead, her fingers flexed on the remote, her eyes locked on the screen, watching this stranger who wore her body ride the edge of something that made her pulse hammer.

And she thought—he watched this.
He got hard for this.
He thought about me.