Pussy

The room smells like sweat and cum and something sour underneath, like David's sheets haven't been washed in a week. Probably haven't. You're crouched at the door, one eye pressed to the gap where it sits cracked open, your heartbeat so loud in your ears you're amazed nobody in the room can hear it.

Carrie is face down on David's bed, her back slick with sweat and her hair a tangled mess stuck to her neck and shoulders. Justin is behind her, sunk all the way inside her, his hips flush against her ass, one hand gripping her hip hard enough that you can see his fingers denting her skin. He's not moving. Hasn't moved for the last thirty seconds. Just holding himself deep, his cock twitching inside your girlfriend, keeping her full while he waits for her answer.

Three choices. Pussy, mouth, or back. Each one with a price tag that made your stomach turn when you heard him lay them out. And Carrie had said "I don't care," her voice cracked and exhausted, which wasn't an answer, and Justin knew it.

"Pick," he says. Flat. Not angry, not teasing. Just a man who already knows the answer and wants to watch her struggle to say it.

Carrie's face is pressed sideways into the mattress. You can see one eye, half-closed, glazed. Her lips are parted and there's a thin string of saliva connecting her lower lip to the sheet. She looks wrecked. Three orgasms will do that. Three orgasms from a man she told you she hated, with a cock she never asked for, in a room she never agreed to be in.

"The..." she starts, and her voice catches. She swallows. You watch her throat work.

"The pussy," Carrie whispers.

The words are barely audible. If you weren't holding your breath and pressing your ear toward the gap, you might have missed them entirely. But you didn't miss them.

His grin spreads slowly, teeth showing, nothing warm in it. The kind of grin that makes you understand why this man has destroyed three marriages for sport.

"Say the rest," Justin says, and he pulls back just an inch before pushing forward again, slow, grinding deep. Carrie's breath hitches.

"I... what?" she manages.

"The terms, bitch. Say what you just agreed to. I want to hear you say it with my cock in your pussy so there's no confusion later."

David shifts in the corner of the room. You'd almost forgotten he was there. He's sitting in his desk chair, leaned back, phone held up at chest level. Still recording. His face is blank, watching like he's seen this kind of thing before, or at least like he's pretending he has.

Carrie turns her face further into the mattress, muffling her voice. "I won't let my boyfriend touch me without your permission."

"Louder. And look at the fucking camera."

Jesus Christ.

Carrie lifts her head. Her eyes are wet but she isn't crying — not crying, just done. The look of someone who stopped fighting something ten minutes ago. She finds David's phone lens and stares directly into it.

"I won't let my boyfriend touch me without Justin's permission," she says. Her voice is steadier this time. Almost robotic. Like she's reading terms and conditions she didn't bother to scroll through.

"Good girl," Justin says, and he starts to move.

Not fast. Not the relentless pounding from before. This is different. This is slow, deliberate, every stroke pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in, and each time he bottoms out Carrie makes a sound that isn't a moan and isn't a whimper; it's somewhere between, this low throaty uunnh that she makes with her jaw slack and her eyes unfocused. You've heard her make sounds during sex hundreds of times. You've never heard that one.

Justin leans down, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth close to her ear. "You feel that? That's what owning you feels like."

Carrie doesn't respond. Her fingers are twisted into the sheets so hard the tendons in her hands are standing out and she's biting her lower lip hard enough that you think she might draw blood. Justin's pace picks up just slightly, his hips rolling in a steady rhythm, and you can hear it — the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of your girlfriend's soaked pussy, mixed with the slap of his thighs against her ass.

"Gonna fill this pussy up," Justin grunts. "My pussy now."

"Fuck... fuck..." Carrie breathes, and you watch her push back against him, meeting his thrust, her body doing something her mouth never agreed to. Her ass pressing back into his hips as he drives forward, taking him as deep as he can go.

Justin's rhythm breaks. His strokes get shorter, harder, faster — three, four, five quick thrusts, each one punctuated by a grunt that comes from somewhere deep in his chest, not his throat. His hand shoots up to grab Carrie's hair and he yanks back, arching her spine as he slams in one final time and holds.

"Fffuuuck," he groans through clenched teeth, and you can see it — his hips twitching, his ass clenching, his whole body locking up as he empties himself inside your girlfriend. Carrie gasps, her mouth open wide, eyes squeezed shut, and she lets out this shaking exhale that goes on for way too long, like something is leaving her body along with the breath.

Justin doesn't pull out. He stays deep, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades, breathing hard. Carrie's arms give out and she collapses flat onto the mattress with him still on top of her, still inside her.

Nobody moves. The only sound is breathing and the faint wet stick of skin separating from skin.

Then Justin chuckles. Low, satisfied, like a guy who just got away with something and knows it.

"Welcome home, bitch," he mutters into her skin.

David lowers his phone. He taps the screen — saving the video, probably — and glances over at Justin. His eyebrows lift slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching before he catches himself. He leans back in his chair and exhales through his nose.

You pull back from the door.

Your hands are shaking. Not from anger, not from arousal, not from fear: from all three at once and your body doesn't know which one to act on. Your cock is hard and your stomach is sick and your eyes are burning and you can't process any of it standing in this hallway in your boxers at 11:38 on a Tuesday night.

You take one step back. Then another. The hallway carpet muffles your footsteps as you retreat toward your bedroom, each step careful and deliberate because if that floor creaks, if David's door swings open, if anyone sees you right now. It's over. Everything collapses. Every lie you'll need to tell from now on dies before you even get the chance to build it.

Your bedroom door closes behind you with a soft click. You sit on the edge of the bed. Your bed. The bed Carrie will climb into later tonight, smelling like Justin's sweat and carrying his cum inside her, and she'll have to tell you something. Some version of what happened, because she can't just pretend a man you both hate didn't fuck her raw in your roommate's bedroom.

And you'll have to act like you're hearing it for the first time.

You stare at the wall. Your cock throbs against your thigh, insistent and stupid, completely disconnected from the dread sitting like a brick behind your chest. You don't touch it. You just sit there, hands flat on your knees, breathing through your nose, listening to the muffled sounds of movement down the hall.

You told Carrie to fuck David. That was your idea. Your fantasy. And now Justin's cum is inside her and she agreed to terms you never set and you're sitting on your bed with a hard cock and a sick stomach and no one to blame but yourself.

Down the hall, a door opens. Footsteps. Water running in the bathroom. Carrie cleaning up, or trying to. The faucet shuts off. More footsteps, closer now.

Your doorknob turns.

You lie back, pull the covers up, and close your eyes.