I'll do it, if it means I can beat Wiley

I looked at her sitting there in my shirt, looking so small and lost. Despite everything, I still loved her. And if there was even a chance this could work...

"Fine," I said. "But you have to coach me. Tell me exactly what to do."

Sarah took a shaky breath. "Okay. Let's go to the bedroom."

We walked down the hall together, and I tried not to think about how many times she'd made this same walk with him. My bedroom smell of him even stronger, making me wonder how long it was going to take to get his smell out of here. In the bedroom, she sat on the edge of the bed while I stood awkwardly by the dresser.

"First," she said, "he always starts by just looking at me. Not in a creepy way, but like he's trying to memorize every detail. He tells me I'm beautiful, but not like he's trying to get something from me. Like he genuinely can't believe I'm real."

I cleared my throat. "You're beautiful, Sarah."

She shook her head. "No, not like that. More like..." She paused, thinking. "Like you're seeing me for the first time. Like you've been dreaming about this moment your whole life."

I tried again, letting my voice go softer, more reverent. "You're so beautiful. I can't believe you're here with me."

Something flickered in her eyes. "Better. Now come closer, but slowly. He never rushes."

I approached the bed, fighting every instinct to take charge, to move at my own pace. This felt wrong on every level, but I could see it was affecting her. Her breathing had changed, her posture had shifted.

"Now what?" I asked.

Sarah closed the bedroom door behind us and turned to face me, her expression serious and determined. "First thing," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "you need to understand that he doesn't rush. He takes his time with everything."

I nodded, trying to absorb every word like my life depended on it.

"When he touches me, he starts slow. Really slow. Like he's memorizing every inch." She demonstrated by running her fingers along her own arm. "And he watches my face the whole time, like he's studying my reactions."

I felt my jaw clench. "Okay. What else?"

"He talks constantly. Not just dirty talk, but... personal things. He tells me how long he's wanted this, how he used to think about me when we were kids." She paused, seeing my expression. "I know it sounds creepy, but when he says it, it doesn't feel that way. It feels... intense."

I tried to imagine saying those words, but they felt foreign in my mouth before I even spoke them.

"The only time he isn’t saying those thing is when he is… Well…" she trailed off, her cheeks flushing.

“He is what Sarah…”

Sarah's face went crimson. "When he's... you know... Liking me..." She gestured vaguely downward, unable to meet my eyes.

The words hit me like a physical blow. I felt my stomach drop as the implication sank in. "You mean when he's..."

"Yes," she whispered, barely audible. "He spends a lot of time doing that. More than you ever have. And he acts like he enjoys it, even though I know I still smell and taste like you from earlier."

My mind reeled. This was information I hadn't wanted, details that made everything worse. But I had asked for this. I had demanded to know.

"How long?" I managed to ask.

"I don't know exactly. It feels like forever. He doesn't seem to want to stop, even when I tell him he doesn't have to." Her voice was getting smaller with each word. "He says things while he's doing it. Tells me how good I taste, how he's dreamed about this."

I swallowed hard, feeling something inside me twist. The image of Wiley, his greasy face between Sarah's legs, wouldn't leave my mind. But if this was what it took to win, to reclaim what was mine...

"I can do that," I said, forcing conviction into my voice as I lower my face bewteen her legs.

I knelt at the edge of the bed, and Sarah lay back, spreading her thighs with an ease that made my stomach clench. I had to close my eyes for a second before I began—for the sake of dignity, or perhaps just to brace myself for what I already knew would be there. The smell was still unmistakably him, musky and sour-sweet, layered over with Sarah’s own scent and the memory of our earlier desperation. It was grotesque and intimate, like licking the sweat from an enemy’s shirt after he’d worn it through battle.

But I had said I could do it, and so I did. I pressed my tongue to her, copying exactly what she had described to me: slow at first, as if every move were deliberate, exploratory, like I was learning her for the first time. I thought my gag reflex would betray me, but as my mouth worked and my tongue mapped out the territory that should have been mine and mine alone, something changed. I became hyper-aware of every nuance of her response. I watched her face like a scientist with a microscope, noting when her eyelids fluttered or when she tensed her legs around my ears. I kept my eyes locked on hers whenever she dared look down, even though I felt like less than a man—closer to a machine, or an animal performing a trick for treats.

“Say something,” she gasped, and I realized I’d gone silent. She needed me to talk, to fill the room with words the way he would have.

I licked my lips and said, “I’ve never wanted anything this much,” the statement half-true, half-wishful thinking. “I always think about you. All the time.” I **** myself to speak in the present tense, though all I could think about was the past, and the future I was mortgaging for this moment.

She shuddered, fingers digging into my scalp, and her thighs squeezed hard enough to remind me she had power here. That she, in fact, might have had the power all along. I heard her whisper his name—softly, quickly, maybe even by accident—but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. If anything, my movements grew more precise, more intent, as if by sheer **** of effort I could erase him from her body and mind.

Her moans were different than they’d ever been with me—higher-pitched, more ****. I found myself simultaneously elated and destroyed by this, and the humiliation only spurred me to work harder, to match every remembered cadence and inflection of what she’d described. I thought: If I do this perfectly, if I become him for her, I’ll finally beat that pig at everything.

Even than I found something a little off about the whole thing. After all the times I have listen to her being fucked, or fucked her myself, I have never heard her moan quite so passionately quiet so quickly. Maybe it just because it’s me… and I am doing it right…

Even now, as she pulled my head up by the hair and moaned, "Kiss me everywhere now," I couldn't forget the way she'd screamed for him, unselfconscious and primal. This was different. This sounded primal but there was something more hidden behind it. As if it was almost too primal.

She moans “Yeah Kiss me on my belly button.” I did as she asked, kissing the tender skin of her stomach, where she was ticklish, even now, her body wiggled under my lips.

"And then he kisses my stomach, as he tells me how soft my skin is" she said. Her hands pressed my head down, guiding me with an almost **** forcefulness.

I moved upward, drawing out the sequence. "Fuck, Sarah," I said, my voice hoarse. "Your skin is the softest thing I've ever touched."

She shivered. "Yes. That, exactly."

"Fuck, Sarah," I said, my voice hoarse. "Your skin is the softest thing I've ever touched."

She smiled, a fleeting, almost childlike thing. "Then he kisses my tits." I did as told, cupping her breasts and planting open-mouthed kisses along the curve of each one, taking in the taste and warmth, trying to forget that I kept catching hints of Wiley's scent—cheap deodorant, sweat, something sour that lingered over her body wash. I sucked her nipples, swirling my tongue, and she gasped so convincingly that for a moment I believed it was real.

"Just like that," she moaned. "Just like that, Liam." But her hands moved with a nervous energy, fluttering to my shoulders, then to my face, as if afraid I'd suddenly stop or lose the script.

I whispered, "Your tits are perfect. So perky, so firm," because I thought maybe that was what she wanted, and because it was true, and because I couldn't think of anything else to say.

She let out a ragged breath, eyes clouded, as if remembering the next line. "Then he kisses my lips as he..." she faltered, color high in her cheeks, "as he puts it in."

I felt a flush of heat rise to my face—rage, or maybe humiliation—but I followed her lead, lining myself up and pushing inside slowly. She was tight, wet, but not in the way I'd hoped. Her muscles resisted at first, then gave way, and she gasped so loudly I half expected her to break character. I wanted it to be natural, but it was so obviously staged I nearly laughed. Instead, I kept going, gently but firmly, watching her face for any sign that she wanted me to stop.

Her eyes went wide, jaw slack as she moaned, "Fuck, Liam, it feels so good, I'm already almost cumming..." She writhed beneath me, clutching at my arms with an intensity that would have turned me on if I hadn't been focusing on the thing that was bothering me.