Creep up the stairs to see what the noise is (Briana blowing)

The stairs are a minefield of creaks and groans, each one a potential betrayal. I move slowly, testing each step with the ball of my foot before committing my weight, my hand sliding along the banister for balance. The wood is cool and smooth beneath my palm, and I'm acutely aware of every sound my body makes—the soft rustle of my shirt, the whisper of my breath, the thunderous pounding of my heart that I'm certain must be audible from every corner of the house.

The sounds from upstairs continue, growing clearer as I ascend. It's not the rhythmic thumping I half-expected—not yet. It's wetter than that. A slick, repetitive sound, like someone licking the last of the ice cream from a spoon, over and over, with an enthusiasm that borders on obscene. And beneath it, a low male voice, rumbling in a register I recognize but can't quite place.

"That's it. Just like that."

My father's voice. I'd know it anywhere—the same measured cadence he uses when he's coaching me through a golf swing or explaining a complex financial concept. But there's something different in it now. Something rougher. Something hungry.

I stop halfway up the stairs, my hand gripping the banister so hard my knuckles go white. The word no echoes in my skull, a desperate denial, a prayer to a god I don't believe in. No, no, no, this isn't happening. This can't be happening. She wouldn't. He wouldn't. They wouldn't.

But the sounds don't stop. They don't even falter. The wet, rhythmic slurping continues, steady and deliberate, and beneath it I can hear a voice—her voice—making small, breathless sounds that might be words or might be nothing but animal noises, stripped of meaning, reduced to pure sensation.

"Mmm," she hums, and the vibration of it carries down the hallway like a physical thing. "Mmm-hmm."

My father groans—a low, guttural sound I've never heard from him before—and I feel something inside me crack.

I force myself to keep climbing. I don't know why. Some part of me—the part that's still thinking, still rational, still capable of making decisions—is screaming at me to turn around, to go back downstairs, to pretend I never heard anything. To drink myself into oblivion and wake up tomorrow with a hangover and a girlfriend who swears nothing happened, and maybe if I try hard enough, I can believe her.

But I don't turn around. I can't. The need to know is stronger than the need to protect myself. I've always been this way—compelled to pick at scabs, to probe at wounds, to confirm my worst fears rather than live with the uncertainty.

I reach the top of the stairs and pause, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The hallway stretches before me, dark and familiar. My bedroom is at the far end, the door still open from when I left it. The bathroom is on the right, the linen closet on the left. And at the end of the hall, opposite my room, is the master suite—my father's domain, a space I've entered maybe a dozen times in my entire life, always with permission, always with the sense that I was trespassing on sacred ground.

The door is ajar.

A sliver of warm light spills through the crack, cutting a golden wedge across the dark hallway floor. The sounds are louder now, no longer muffled by distance. I can hear everything—the wet, obscene sounds of her mouth working him over, the soft grunts of his approval, the creak of the bed frame as he shifts his weight.

I move toward the door. My feet are silent on the carpet, my body moving on autopilot, my mind a blank white void of shock and dread. I'm not thinking anymore. I'm just moving, drawn toward the light like a moth to a flame, knowing it will destroy me and unable to stop.

The hallway seems to stretch forever, each step an eternity. I can see the door getting closer, the sliver of light widening, the sounds growing louder and more distinct. I can smell something now—a faint, musky scent that I recognize but can't quite place. It's the smell of sex, of sweat, of bodies in heat. It's the smell of my father's bedroom, and it's the smell of Briana, and the two are mingled together in a way that makes my stomach clench.

I reach the door.

My hand hovers over the wood, trembling. I can feel the warmth of the light on my face, hear the sounds of their bodies on the other side. I should knock. I should burst in. I should do something other than stand here like a coward, listening to my girlfriend suck my father's cock.

But I don't. I can't. I'm frozen, paralyzed by the weight of what I'm about to see.

And then, slowly, almost against my will, I lean forward and peer through the crack.

The room is bathed in warm lamplight, the kind of soft, golden glow that makes everything look like a painting. The bed is huge—a king-sized four-poster with crisp white sheets and a dark wood frame—and it's positioned against the far wall, directly in my line of sight. The sheets are rumpled, twisted, evidence of a struggle or a surrender or both.

My father is sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to the headboard, his legs spread wide. He's still wearing his dress shirt, unbuttoned now, the fabric hanging open to reveal a chest that's broader and more muscular than I expected. His pants are undone, pushed down just enough to free himself, and his belt buckle glints in the lamplight like a warning.

And between his legs, on her knees on the floor, is Briana.

She's still wearing the Wonder Woman costume—the bustier, the skirt, the boots—but the tiara is askew in her blonde hair, and her lipstick is smeared, and her face is flushed with a heat I've never seen before. Her head bobs up and down in a slow, deliberate rhythm, her lips stretched around him, her eyes closed in concentration. The golden lasso still hangs from her hip, swaying gently with each movement, a mockery of everything it's supposed to represent.

Truth, I think, and the word is bitter on my tongue. The lasso of truth. And this is what the truth looks like.

She's not being forced. That's the thing that shatters me. She's not being coerced or threatened or held down. She's on her knees of her own free will, her hands resting on his thighs, her head moving with a practiced ease that makes my stomach turn. She's good at this. She's enjoying this.

"That's it," my father says, his voice low and rough. "Just like that. You're a natural."

Briana hums in response, a sound of pure, contented pleasure, and I watch her take him deeper, her throat working, her eyes fluttering open for just a moment. She looks up at him through her lashes, and the expression on her face is one I've seen before—the same look she gives me when she's trying to please me, to make me happy, to be good.

But this isn't for me. This is for him.

I can't believe this is happening, I think, and the thought is so absurd, so utterly surreal, that I almost laugh. I can't believe my girlfriend is on her knees in my father's bedroom, sucking his cock like it's the most natural thing in the world.

But it is happening. It's happening right now, in real time, and I'm watching it through a crack in the door like some kind of perverted voyeur.

You wanted to know, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. You wanted to see. Now you're seeing. How does it feel?

It feels like dying. It feels like the ground opening up beneath my feet and swallowing me whole. It feels like every fear I've ever had about not being good enough, not being man enough, not being enough—all of them confirmed in a single, devastating image.

And yet I can't look away.

My father's hand comes down to rest on the back of Briana's head, his fingers threading through her blonde hair, not pushing, just holding. It's a possessive gesture, a claim, and she leans into it like a cat being petted.

"Good girl," he murmurs. "Such a good girl. You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"

She pulls off him with a wet, obscene pop, and I see her lips, swollen and slick, curve into a smile. It's shaky at the edges, but it's there—a flash of the confidence she walked in with, still clinging to the idea that she's in control.

"I told you I'd do anything to make this right," she says, her voice husky, breathless, but steady. "I just want you to go easy on him. He didn't mean any harm. He's a good guy—he just made a stupid mistake."

The words hit me like a physical blow. She's doing this for me. She's on her knees, with my father's cock in her mouth, because she's trying to protect me. Because she made some kind of bargain—some kind of deal—and this is the price.

No, I want to scream. No, Briana, don't. Don't do this for me. Don't do this at all.

But the words won't come. I'm frozen, silent, a ghost in my own home.

My father's expression doesn't change. He looks down at her with that same cold, assessing gaze he's been giving me my whole life, and I see something flicker in his eyes—something almost like amusement.

"Go easy on him," he repeats, as if tasting the words. "Is that what you think this is about? Going easy on him?"

Briana's smile falters, just slightly, but she holds her ground. "I think it's about whatever you want it to be about. I'm here to make things right. That's all."

"You thought you could come in here and negotiate." His voice is quiet, measured, utterly without emotion. "You thought you could bat your eyelashes and show a little skin and I'd forget about the hundred drunk strangers who just trampled through my house. You thought you could offer me a taste and I'd be so grateful I'd let everything slide."

She's still on her knees, still looking up at him, but the confidence is draining from her face. "I just wanted to help," she says, and her voice is smaller now, less sure. "I thought if I could just—"

"Help." He says the word like it's a joke. "Is that what you call this? Helping?"

He reaches down and cups her chin, tilting her face up toward him. His thumb traces her lower lip, still slick and swollen, and I watch her shiver at his touch.

"Let me be clear," he says, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous. "You didn't come in here to help. You came in here because you wanted to see if you could handle me. Because you're used to men falling all over themselves to please you, and you wanted to know if I'd be any different."

Briana's eyes widen, and I see something flash across her face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. "That's not—"

"Isn't it?" He tilts his head, studying her like a specimen under a microscope. "You're a beautiful girl, Briana. You know it. You've known it your whole life. And you've learned to use it—to get what you want, to smooth things over, to make men do things they wouldn't otherwise do. It's not a criticism. It's just the truth."

She's quiet now, her lips parted, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She doesn't deny it. She can't.

"But here's the thing," my father continues, his thumb still tracing her lip. "I'm not like the boys you're used to. I don't fall for the act. I don't get dazzled by a pretty face and a tight body. I see exactly what you are, and I see exactly what you're doing, and I'm not impressed."

The words are brutal, delivered with the same cold precision he brings to everything. I watch Briana's face crumple, just for a moment, before she catches herself and forces it back into something resembling composure.

"Then why did you let me—" She stops, her cheeks flushing.

"Why did I let you suck my cock?" He finishes the sentence for her, and the crude word sounds almost elegant in his measured voice. "Because I wanted to see how far you'd go. Because I wanted to see if you'd actually do it, or if you'd back out at the last second." He pauses, and something shifts in his expression—something darker, hungrier. "And because you're very, very good at it."

The admission hangs in the air between them, thick and charged. I watch Briana's breath catch, watch her eyes darken, watch the flush spread from her cheeks down her neck to the swell of her breasts above the bustier.

"But we're not done," my father says, and before she can respond, he's pulling her up—not roughly, but with an authority that brooks no argument—and guiding her onto the bed.

"Wait," she says, and there's a note of genuine uncertainty in her voice now. "I thought—I thought we agreed—"

"We didn't agree to anything." He's standing now, looking down at her as she sprawls on the rumpled sheets, her skirt riding up, her boots still on, her tiara still askew. "You made an offer. I'm deciding whether to accept it."

"But I already—"

"You already got on your knees and put my cock in your mouth." He says it matter-of-factly, like he's describing the weather. "That was a nice start. But it's not enough. Not nearly enough."

Briana stares up at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes wide. She looks scared. She looks uncertain. But underneath the fear, I see something else—something that makes my heart clench with a pain I didn't know I could feel.

She looks excited.

"Mr. Hartley," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, and I notice she's switched to the formal address without being prompted. "I don't think—"

"You don't think." He kneels on the bed, his hands on her thighs, pushing her skirt up, spreading her legs. "That's the problem with your generation. You don't think. You just do whatever feels good in the moment and deal with the consequences later."

"That's not fair," she says, and there's a spark of defiance in her voice now, a flicker of the girl I know. "I came here to help. I didn't have to—I mean, I'm doing this for him. For your son. Because I love him, and I don't want you to—"

"You don't want me to what?" He's between her legs now, his broad shoulders forcing her thighs apart, his face inches from her. "You don't want me to punish him for throwing a party in my house? You don't want me to be disappointed in him? You don't want me to think less of the girl he's been dating for eight months?"

She flinches at that last one, and I see something crack in her expression. "I'm not—this isn't—"

"You're not what?" His hands slide up her thighs, pushing the skirt higher, exposing the pale skin beneath. "You're not a whore? Is that what you were going to say?"

"I'm not," she says, and her voice is stronger now, almost angry. "I'm not a whore. I'm his girlfriend. And I'm doing this because I love him, and I want to protect him, and if that means—if that means getting on my knees for you, then fine. That's my choice. But don't pretend it's anything other than what it is."

My father pauses, his hands still on her thighs, and looks at her with something that might be respect. Or might be pity. It's hard to tell.

"You're very loyal," he says. "That's admirable. Misguided, but admirable."

"It's not misguided. It's—"

"It's misguided," he repeats, and his voice is soft now, almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse. "Because you think this is a transaction. You think you can give me something, and I'll give you something in return, and everyone walks away happy. But that's not how this works."

His hand moves higher, and I watch his fingers find the edge of her panties—a scrap of red fabric that matches the costume, barely visible beneath the bunched-up skirt. He doesn't pull them off. He just traces the edge of the fabric, his touch light, almost teasing.

"You came in here with a plan," he says, his voice low and conversational, like they're discussing the weather. "You were going to charm me, flatter me, maybe let me cop a feel if things got desperate. And if all else failed, you were going to get on your knees and do what pretty girls do when they want something from a powerful man."

Briana's breath hitches, but she doesn't deny it. Her eyes are fixed on his hand, watching his fingers trace the edge of her panties with a mixture of fear and fascination.

"But here's what you didn't account for," he continues, and now his fingers dip beneath the fabric, just barely, just enough to make her gasp. "You didn't account for the possibility that I might want more than a quick blowjob. You didn't account for the possibility that I might want to take my time with you. That I might want to see how far that loyalty of yours really goes."

"I'm not—" she starts, but her voice breaks as his fingers slide deeper, finding her wet and ready despite everything. "I'm not going to—"

"You're not going to what?" His fingers move with a slow, deliberate rhythm, and I watch her hips jerk involuntarily, her body betraying her even as her mind tries to resist. "You're not going to enjoy this? You're not going to come? You're not going to beg me to keep going?"

"I won't," she gasps, but the word comes out strangled, half-moan, half-sob. "I won't beg. I'm not—I'm not like that. I'm doing this for him, and that's all. That's the only reason."

"The only reason," my father echoes, and there's a smile in his voice now, cold and knowing. "Is that why you're so wet? Is that why your hips are moving like that? Is that why you're looking at me like you want me to fuck you?"

"I don't—" She shakes her head, her blonde hair spilling across the pillow, her tiara finally slipping free and falling to the sheets. "I don't want you to fuck me. I want—I want you to go easy on him. That's all I want."

"Liar." The word is soft, almost affectionate, and he punctuates it with a curl of his fingers that makes her back arch off the bed. "You want me to fuck you. You've wanted it since the moment you walked into my study. You just can't admit it to yourself."

"That's not true," she says, but her voice is shaking now, and her hands are gripping the sheets, and her thighs are trembling around his wrist. "That's not—oh god—that's not true."

"Then why aren't you stopping me?" He's still fingering her, slow and steady, his thumb circling her clit through the thin fabric of her panties. "Why aren't you pushing me away? Why aren't you getting up and walking out that door?"

She doesn't answer. She can't. Her mouth is open, her eyes squeezed shut, her whole body wound tight as a spring. I can see the conflict on her face—the war between what she knows she should do and what her body is screaming for her to do.

"Because you don't want to stop," my father says, answering for her. "Because it feels too good. Because you've never been touched like this before—not by my son, not by any of the boys you've been with. Because you've been waiting your whole life for a man who knows what he's doing, and now you've found one, and you're terrified."

"Please," she whispers, and the word is so quiet I almost miss it. "Please, Mr. Hartley, I can't—I can't think when you—"

"Good." He leans down, his lips brushing her ear, his fingers never stopping. "I don't want you to think. I want you to feel. I want you to stop pretending this is about my son and start admitting what it's really about."

"It's about him," she insists, but her voice is weak, thready, and her hips are moving in rhythm with his hand now, grinding against his fingers with a desperation that makes my chest ache. "It's about protecting him. It's about—oh god—it's about—"

"It's about you," my father says, and his voice is a low growl now, rough with desire. "It's about what you want. What you need. What you've been denying yourself for eight months while you played the good girlfriend to a boy who can't satisfy you."

"That's not—he satisfies me—he's—"

"He's what?" My father's fingers curl inside her, and she cries out—a sharp, startled sound that echoes through the room. "He's a good boy? He's sweet? He's kind? None of that matters when you're lying in bed at night, aching for something he can't give you."

"You don't know anything about us," she gasps, but there's no conviction in her voice anymore. Just breathless, desperate denial. "You don't know—you can't—"

"I know you're about to come on my fingers," he says, and the words are so casual, so matter-of-fact, that they hit like a slap. "I know you're fighting it, trying to hold on to the story you told yourself when you walked in here. But it's not working, is it? You're losing the thread. You're forgetting why you came."

"I'm not—I'm not forgetting—I'm doing this for—for—"

She can't finish the sentence. Her body is shaking now, her hips bucking against his hand, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. I watch her face contort with pleasure—real pleasure, the kind I've only seen glimpses of in our eight months together—and I feel something inside me break.

For him, I think, and the words are ash in my mouth. She's doing this for him. For me. And she's losing herself in it.

"Say it," my father commands, his voice soft but implacable. "Say who you're doing this for."

"For him," she gasps, and the word comes out broken, half-sob, half-moan. "For him. Oh fuck, for him. I love him. I love him. Please—"

The word hangs in the air, unfinished, and I don't know if she's begging him to stop or begging him to keep going. I don't think she knows either.

"Again," my father says, and his voice is low and steady, a counterpoint to her ragged breathing.

"For him. For him. I'm doing this for him. I love him. I love—oh god—I love him. Please. Please."

The words tumble out of her like a prayer, a mantra, a desperate attempt to hold onto something that's slipping through her fingers. But even as she says them, her hips are grinding against my father's hand, and her fingers are twisting in the sheets, and her voice is rising in pitch with every passing second.

"Good girl," my father says, and there's something almost tender in his voice now, which somehow makes it worse. "Good girl. Now let go."

And she does.

The orgasm hits her like a wave, crashing over her body and sweeping away everything in its path. Her back arches off the bed, her thighs clamp around his wrist, and a sound tears from her throat—a raw, animal cry that I've never heard from her before. It's not my name. It's not anyone's name. It's just pure, unfiltered pleasure, stripped of context, stripped of meaning, stripped of everything except the moment itself.

I watch her come, and I feel something inside me die.

When it's over, she collapses back onto the bed, her chest heaving, her body limp, her eyes glazed. The costume is a mess—the bustier askew, the skirt bunched around her waist, the panties soaked and twisted. The tiara lies on the pillow beside her, forgotten. The lasso of truth is still coiled on the floor, a golden snake that never had a chance.

My father withdraws his hand, his fingers glistening, and looks down at her with an expression I can't read. Satisfaction, maybe. Or something darker.

"Still think you're in control?" he asks.

Briana doesn't answer. She just lies there, staring at the ceiling, her breath slowly evening out. And then, after a long moment, she says in a voice so quiet I almost don't hear it:

"I'm still doing this for him."

My father laughs—a low, knowing sound that makes my blood run cold.

"Of course you are," he says. "Of course you are."

He reaches down and starts unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving her face. "But we're not done yet. Not by a long shot."

Briana turns her head to look at him, and I see something flicker in her eyes—fear, yes, but also something else. Something that looks almost like anticipation.

"What do you mean?" she asks, and her voice is small, uncertain, but not entirely unwilling.

My father smiles, and it's the coldest smile I've ever seen.

"I mean," he says, "you walked in here thinking you could buy me off with that pretty mouth. But I don't do quick transactions."

I stumble back from the door, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle the sound that's trying to escape—a sob, a scream, something raw and animal and utterly broken. I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't do anything but stand there in the dark hallway, listening to the sounds of my father and my girlfriend, feeling the world crumble around me.

The hallway tilts. The walls close in. I reach out for something to steady myself, and my hand finds the wall, cool and solid and utterly indifferent to my pain.

I should leave. I should go back downstairs. I should get in my car and drive until the road runs out and never look back.

But I don't move.

I can't.

Because some part of me—some dark, twisted part that I didn't know existed until this moment—wants to keep watching.