Getting Aquainted

Jon's vision tunneled, the smirk a red flare in the dim room. He could hear the wet, possessive sound of the kiss, a soundtrack to his own annihilation. The house that had always felt safe suddenly felt occupied, as though Richard had carried the poison of his influence across the threshold and infected every room he entered.

Every muscle in Jon's body coiled with a silent, volcanic rage, yet his feet remained planted on the rug he and Brandi had chosen together. He began assembling the equipment while Richard settled comfortably onto the sofa. Brandi stood motionless in the center of the room. The trap had been obvious. They had nearly escaped it.

Yet somehow they had ended up exactly where Richard wanted them anyway. That realization felt worse than any threat he had made. The first camera went up in the corner of the living room. Jon's hands shook as he tightened the mounting plate..Every instinct screamed at him to stop. Instead, he kept working.

Behind him, Richard sat comfortably on the sofa, one arm stretched across the back cushion as though he had lived there for years. "Brandi," Richard said. "Sit down." The request sounded harmless.That was part of what made Richard so dangerous. Nothing was ever just a request.

Brandi looked at Jon. He looked at the floor. After several seconds she crossed the room and sat on the far end of the couch. Richard immediately frowned. "I tell you to sit with me and you sit six feet away."

Brandi folded her arms.."I sat down."

Richard smiled. "Technically true." The smile vanished.

"Get your fat ass over hear and sit on my lap, you stupid slag." Brandi hesitated.

Brandi's eyes flickered to Jon, a silent plea, before she lowered them. With a stiffness that betrayed her dread, she took the two steps and perched on the edge of Richard's knee. His arm immediately snaked around her waist, pulling her firmly against his bulk, anchoring her in place on the familiar couch that now felt like foreign ground.

Richard nodded approvingly. "There. See how easy that was?" He leaned close to Brandi's ear, his voice a low murmur just for her. "Need to verify the dress code," he sighed, his hand sliding up her thigh under the pink fabric. His fingers found her bare skin, and a soft, crude laugh escaped him. "Good girl."

Jon watched, his own breath catching as Richard's hand stilled, cupping her possessively. He tightened another screw. His stomach twisted. The second camera was destined for the bedroom. Just the thought made him feel sick, yet his cock disagreed, slithering against his thigh, growing hard.

"Jon." He looked up. Richard was pointing toward the kitchen. "I'm thirsty, get me a beer."

I wasn't a request. Richard didn't even look at him again. Instead, he leaned back on the sofa, assuming compliance. Richard's fingers tightened around Brandi's labia, a rough, claiming pressure that made Brandi flinch. Brandi's eyes squeezed shut, a tremor running through her as she tried to retreat into the darkness behind her lids.

Richard's coarse touch was a brand through the thin cotton of her dress, his hand up her dress anchoring her to this moment of profound surrender. Across the room, Jon's silent horror was a tangible weight in the air. He felt the violation like a cold current through his own body, watching the man's hand disappear under the hem of her dress.

After a moment Jon walked into the kitchen. The refrigerator door opened and he fished out a bottle of beer. He twisted off the cap, hating himself a little more with every step. When he handed it over, Richard accepted it without so much as a thank you.

"Excellent." Richard took a drink, then he looked at Brandi. Two of his fingers pressed into her tight pussy, a blunt, insistent pressure that **** a sharp gasp from Brandi's lips. Her body resisted for a heartbeat before yielding to the intrusion, the unfamiliar stretch a shocking, intimate violation in her own living room.

"Is this what you imagined, Jon?" Richard's voice was conversational as his fingers pressed inward, a deliberate, stretching invasion.

Brandi gasped, a sharp, pained sound, her body rigid with the shock of the intrusion. A flicker of something dark and curious sparked in the depths of her humiliation a bewildering awareness of his crude possession. His fingers worked slowly, stretching her with a deliberate, burning friction.

The sensation was unbearably intimate, a raw mapping of her most private self. A soft, choked sound escaped her as she felt the stark, undeniable fullness. Richard slowly withdrew his fingers, holding them up to the lamplight, glistening. He glanced at Jon, a cruel amusement in his eyes. Richard held them up, a grotesque trophy for Jon to see.

"See this?" Richard said, holding his glistening fingers up to the lamplight for Jon to see. "You couldn't stretch her like this. No wonder you wanted to see her get fucked by a real man," he said, his voice dripping with scorn. "She's barely been touched."

He turned to look at Brandi, wiping his fingers on her face. "Your husband must be a real needle dick," Richard said. He slowly brought them to his own lips, tasting them with a deliberate, theatrical relish. Richard's wet fingers pushed back inside her, a practiced, rhythmical violation.

"Now tell me something." The slick, intimate sound filled the quiet room as he worked her body, his eyes locked on Jon's pale, frozen face. "What was the first thing you noticed about ole Jon here?"

Brandi's breath hitched with each movement, a rhythm of shame echoing in the domestic silence. Finally Brandi sighed. "He was funny."

Richard looked disappointed. "That's it?" He pushed a third finger in, the stretch a sharp, undeniable burn that stole her breath.

"He was kind," she gasped.

Richard leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "Just sixty-four to go, after tonight," he whispered, the words a private verdict between them.

His fingers flexed inside her, a heavy, claiming presence. Across the room, Jon heard the whisper but not the words, and the unknown promise in it was somehow worse. He watched, his chest tight, as his wife's body was remade for another man's touch right before him.

Richard took another drink. Then he looked at Jon. "What about you? What was the first thing you noticed about Brandi?"

Jon stared at the camera tripod. "Her smile."

Richard laughed. "Not her tits?" He slapped on of them. "Not this sweet ass?" He grabbed it and squeezed. "You're a better man than me." He took another drink. "You know what fascinates me?" he continued. Neither answered. "I didn't start any of this." The statement hung in the air.

Richard leaned forward. "You two keep acting like I'm some sort of evil mastermind." He continued the slow, deep rhythm, three fingers stretching her with a persistent, claiming pressure. His smile widened. "I didn't walk into your office and offer your wife to me." Jon's face went pale.

His eyes shifted toward Brandi. "I didn't volunteer private information." Brandi's hands gripped his forearm, her knuckles white, as shame and a traitorous, unwelcome heat coiled low in her belly. "And I certainly didn't **** you to finger yourself on a video chat."

Jon watched the intimate mechanics of it, the way her body shifted on Richard's lap with each thrust, and felt something inside him fracture. Richard nodded slowly. "See? That's what makes this interesting." He wasn't speaking to them anymore. He was speaking like a man examining insects beneath glass. "You both want someone to blame."

Richard withdrew his glistening fingers, holding them before her lips. Her eyes fluttered open, meeting the dark command in his gaze. With a soft, defeated sigh, she parted her lips and accepted the taste of her own submission. She gagged softly as he pushed his fingers deeper, the taste sharp and unmistakable in the back of her throat.

He held her head steady, his other hand still tight around her waist, ensuring she took every bit of the violation. The salt-sweet flavor was a brand on her tongue, her humiliation complete as Jon watched her swallow his fingers. His own mouth tasted of ashes, a mirror of her silent ****.

Brandi's hands clenched. Richard's smile returned like a shark's fin breaking the surface. He pulled his fingers from her mouth, a thin string of saliva briefly connecting them. "Angry?" She didn't answer. "I like a woman with a little fight. It makes breaking them that much more fun."

Richard looked at Jon, his voice conversational. "Start recording, dickless. Then go set up the camera in your bedroom. We'll be down here, getting aquainted." Jon stared, the command slicing through his paralysis.

"Now." He pointed toward the stairs. "Go up and finish setting up the second camera." Jon's limbs felt weighted, moving in dreamlike slowness. He fumbled with the camera, the red light glowing as he pressed record. He couldn't meet Brandi's eyes as he pointed the lens, the image of her on Richard's lap burning into the display. He turned toward the stairs without a word.