Fulfilling dinner

Kyle came back the next Thursday, strolling into the kitchen with that loose-limbed swagger that suggested he thought rent was due in oxygen instead of money. Mark sat at the dining table, staring into the depths of his cold coffee. Across the room, Sarah and Linda moved around the counters, preparing dinner.

Lately, their outfits had gotten… strange.

They insisted they were “supportive yet liberating,” part of some European lingerie trend—but their bras were barely bras, more like geometric puzzles made of straps, hooks, and gaps that framed their breasts like modern art installations. Their panties were microscopic, the kind you buy accidentally in the wrong section.

Mark was pretty sure Kyle had something to do with it, but the women claimed it was all “ergonomics.”

He didn’t know what ergonomics meant in this context.

Kyle drifted up behind Sarah at the cutting board. He didn’t touch her so much as arrange her, like he was tidying a cluttered desk.

One hand slid up her abdomen—checking her posture maybe?—then continued upward, fingers splaying over her breast like he was testing the tensile strength of the bra. His thumb found her exposed nipple (why was it exposed?) and began circling it, probably trying to fix the hook system or check for… sensitivity issues?

Then he tugged her bra down entirely.

Mark blinked.

Maybe he was fixing a misalignment.

Those straps did look complicated.

Kyle’s other hand “adjusted” her waistband. The motion got deeper. And deeper. His arm kept jerking like he was tightening something important beneath her apron.

Sarah’s face contorted. She turned toward him, mouth opening, a long strand of saliva flying across and smacking Kyle’s cheek.

Mark pumped a fist under the table.

Good job, honey! She was spitting at him!

Kyle wiped his cheek… and nodded. In approval? Apology? Mutual understanding? Who knew with Kyle.

He withdrew both hands from under her apron, finally giving her space to cook without interference.

Except she didn’t keep cooking.

Instead, Sarah bent forward over the cutting board, arching her back like she had sudden lumbar pain. She lifted the bottom of her apron, exposing her lower half to Kyle, who stepped behind her, placed his hands on her hips, and began a rhythmic, full-body push that made the counter rattle.

Mark frowned.

“Huh. Must be some kind of deep-tissue massage technique…?”

Kyle looked up and waved cheerfully at Mark over Sarah’s trembling body. Sarah raised one hand without looking and—shakily—gave Mark the finger.

Mark nodded calmly.

Good. She wasn’t enjoying the massage too much.

After about a minute, Kyle murmured something, and Linda immediately grabbed a ceramic bowl before kneeling under the counter beside them.

Mark sighed with relief.

Kyle had his annoying habits, but at least he was helpful enough to contribute to the homemade high-protein salad sauce. He always filled that little bowl for them. The only strange part was that either Sarah or Linda always had to hold it, crouched, their hands or heads constantly working underneath the counter like they were trying to milk a goat in the dark. Mark could never quite see where the thick, off-white dressing came from. But it must’ve been a fancy cooking trick.

“That’s it,” Kyle’s voice boomed toward the hall. “I’m done with cooking for the day.”

A final wet schlop echoed as he pulled away from Sarah. He slapped the counter, making carrot cubes hop.

“Enough. Linda. Get over here.”

Mark winced.

There he went again, barking orders like a drill sergeant. But Linda—oddly—didn’t seem to mind. She stiffened, then hurried toward him in three quick steps, her breath catching, chest heaving above her open-frame bra.

Kyle slapped her across the cheek.

The crack was sharp enough to make Mark flinch. A red mark bloomed instantly.

Mark stood half out of his chair. “Hey—!”

But Linda didn’t complain.

Didn’t ask him to stop.

Didn’t even glare.

She actually leaned into Kyle’s chest, sighing like this was part of a breathing exercise.

Kyle grunted. “Fucking winded me.”

Mark nodded slowly.

She had been checking his airways last time. Maybe he still had residual throat or sinus pressure.

Kyle grabbed her neck—checking lymph nodes maybe—and murmured something about “getting his strength back.”

Sarah could finish dinner, apparently.

Kyle backed into the living room, dragging Linda with him until the couch creaked under his weight. He spread his legs wide and pushed Linda down—not onto the couch cushion, but onto the carpet between his knees.

“You know what to do,” Kyle breathed, voice vibrating through the furniture into Mark’s back.

Mark kept his eyes glued to his spreadsheet.

He knew better than to interfere with… whatever medical-artisanal wellness ritual this was.

But he heard it.

Wet, rhythmic, unmistakable suction sounds.

Like someone plunging out a stubborn drain mixed with gurgling breaths.

Squick—squick—gllk.

Mark swallowed hard. Probably a very intense decongestant technique.

Maybe Kyle had fluid buildup.

Maybe it was lymphatic drainage.

A deep, low moan vibrated through the couch, making the cushions tremble against Mark’s spine.

He risked a glance.

Kyle sat sprawled, eyes rolled back, face flushed with relief. One fist twisted in Linda’s hair, guiding her head in a strict, mechanical rhythm. Her throat bulged visibly with each forward motion, muscles convulsing around whatever device she was helping him… clear.

Thick ropes of white fluid dribbled from the corner of her mouth onto the carpet.

Mark cringed.

God. Sinus infection discharge could be nasty.

After what felt like hours, Sarah called from the kitchen.

“Dinner!”

Linda poured dressing—oil, vinegar, and Kyle’s mystical high-protein substance—over the salad. She tossed it with her bare hands until every leaf gleamed slick and wet.

Mark gagged.

At dinner, Kyle got a massive, perfect steak.

The rest of them got salad drowned in the “special dressing.”

Mark poked it. “Why does he get the steak? I hate salad.”

“We need to eat healthy,” Linda said, shoving a dripping leaf into her mouth and swallowing with a little shiver. “It’s good for us.”

“You’ll adjust,” Sarah added, already devouring hers.

Mark took a bite.

Bitter. Musky. Wrong.

He gagged and pushed it away.

Sarah came to him, draping her warm body over his shoulders from behind, breasts pressing into his back.

“Just a few more bites,” she whispered, her voice shaky.

Kyle slid behind her. Set his hands on her hips. Pulled her back against him. Began a slow, grinding motion.

Mark sighed irritably.

Couldn’t the man stand still for three seconds?

Sarah moaned into Mark’s neck, voice breaking. She guided the fork into his hand, then took it away and fed him herself.

“Eat up, darling.”

Kyle kept grinding. Sarah kept trembling.

The salad dressing dripped off the fork like some thick, awful sap.

Mark opened his mouth.

Linda appeared, breathless, glowing with some internal heat.

“Want a drink?” she asked coyly.

“Yes,” Mark sighed.

“Oh, I wasn’t asking you, sweetie.”

She looked at Kyle.

Kyle nodded once, still moving.

Linda beamed and floated to get his beer.

Sarah’s body pressed harder into Mark, rocking him in Kyle’s rhythm. Mark’s face slid between her breasts with each motion. Against his will, heat stirred in his lap.

“I’m about to blow,” Kyle grunted.

Mark froze. Blow what? A fuse? His back? His sinuses?

Sarah shuddered.

“Do it inside,” she panted.

Kyle hesitated. “Worried about getting a baby?”

Mark jolted upright. “What baby? What are you talking about?”

Sarah cupped his cheeks lovingly.

“Honey, we talked about having a baby. Do you still want one?”

“Not right now!” he sputtered. “Sarah—this is not the time!”

“No, this is the perfect time,” she moaned. “I’m fertile.”

Kyle’s final thrust made Sarah cry out as she crushed Mark’s head into her chest.

“I’m gonna be a mommy,” she whispered into his hair.

Linda returned holding a glass—Mark’s glass—and handed it to him.

“Here you go,” she said sweetly. Then added, almost to herself:

“Can I get a new kid? My previous one is so-so.”

Everybody laughed.

Mark didn’t.

He wasn’t sure what was happening anymore.