back at Deans flat

He came back from the bar carrying three pints of lager, foam shaking on the rims. The envelope lay open on the table all of the pictures in the open for anyone to see, Deans smile was broad.

“Still got that mole on your lower back, Em,” he said, casual and cruel. Emma’s eyes stayed on the tabletop, face burning raw.

Mark set the drinks down with a slap. Beer sloshed onto the table and, for a moment, the clatter made someone glance over. “Here,” he said, voice sharp. “Drink.”

Dean tipped his head back and swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he sneered at Mark . “That’s better. See? You know your place. Always did.”

Mark felt that old, ugly spark coil beneath his ribs, he had beat him before and he was pretty sure that he could do it again but if the police were called then the pictures would be out and he couldn't risk it.

Dean flipped another image and whistled low. “Fuck me. This one. You used to do that. Hair back, head down. Christ.”

Emma's hands gripped her glass and for a second she though it would smash, this was meant to be a bit of fun, now it was something different.

“You owe me a drink,” Dean said after a beat, waving the photos like a handkerchief. “At least that much, after the show.”

Mark’s mouth went dry, Emma's hand found his under the table and squeezed as if to hold him still as they watched and waited to see what Dean wanted.

He nodded. “One drink, back at mine, lets see what happens”.

They left the bar and walked a short distance, Dean’s flat sat above a shuttered newsagent, they walked up the stairs and he pushed the door open, there was no need to lock it there was nothing to steal.

Emma's nose wrinkled at the smell, a mix of stale booze, body odder and old urine. Dean switched on a single light and they walked into the living room their feet stuck to the carpet with a mixture of bodily liquids and food. Mark looked around, he saw a photographs pinned to the wall it was dog eared and yellowed with age, Dean and Emma, laughing at a funfair arm in arm him wearing the same clothes her wearing a school uniform.

Emma’s whisper broke the room. “Oh God…”

“Never threw it away,” Dean said "I like to look at it when I'm a bit lonely and well, you know knock one out remembering what we used to do together"

Emma looked like she was going to be sick, Mark noticed the white stains on the carpet indicating Deans previous pleasure.

"But now I've got something a lot better, I've got proper dirty picture of you being well, the way I always remembered" She said pulling out a picture and looking at it again "But well, you have got older, your tits are a bit saggy now but you still look good"

Fury built in Mark and he went to say something but Dean held the envelope like a shield, "right big fella, before you do something that is stupid remember everyone saw us leaving together, I am sure they saw the pictures. If you anything I will call the cops and tell them that you left pictures and then attacked me, I've got fuck all to loose, what about you"?

Emma put her hand on Marks back and he began to relax Dean sneered.

“Sit the fuck down,”

Dean sat beside Mark and patted his leg "Good boy, now Em, darling please go into my bedroom and the draw beside my bed, you'll find something put it on and show us"

Emma’s breath caught. She stood, legs stiff, and walked to the bedroom door. Mark turned his head, half-ready to follow, but she shook him off. She disappeared inside.

There was silence for a moment. Then her voice, small, cracking: “I… I can’t believe you still kept this. It must be nearly thirty years old.”

Dean’s laugh was low, triumphant. “And it hasn’t been washed since the last time you wore it and to be honest I can still smell you off it, well I used to, I now just use it as a cum rag.”

Mark swallowed hard, the words hitting him like a punch. He heard the rustle of fabric, the creak of old elastic. When Emma returned, his stomach lurched.

She was wearing it, White lace that had yellowed with age, thin straps that bit into her skin, and those pathetic little blue bows, faded, frayed, hanging limp, barely keeping it together.

The bra was a mockery of support, nothing more than a string of lace stretched so tight across her chest it looked ready to snap. Her tits spilled through the gaps, heavy and bare, nipples poking stiff against the cold air of the flat. The top didn’t cover her, if anything, it displayed her.

And the panties, if you could even call them that, were worse. Thin lace straps cut into the meat of her hips, digging grooves into her freckled skin. The front triangle was worn so thin it was see, through, her slit clearly outlined, a dark damp patch already blooming where her pussy pressed against the fragile fabric. The bows at her hips looked like they’d give way if you tugged once Mark felt his throat close. He recognised her body, the soft curve of her belly, the toned thighs, the freckles scattered over her skin but the sight of it stuffed into lingerie that had no business existing outside of Dean’s drawer twisted his gut. It was obscene.

Emma’s cheeks burned red. Her hands twitched at her sides, instinct begging her to cover up, but Dean snapped from across the room:

“Arms down. Don’t you dare hide. Show him. Show me.”

Her arms froze, her chest rising and falling too fast, nipples jutting angrily against the lace.

Mark wanted to smash Dean’s face into the wall. Instead, his cock stirred, treacherous, pressing against his jeans.

Dean stepped forward, eyes glued to Emma like a starving dog at a butcher’s window. He reached out and flicked one of the bows under her tits with a dirty finger.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, grin spreading. “I can’t believe it still fits. Thought maybe you’d outgrown it. But look at you. Still perfect.”