She hummed.

She lifted herself off me slowly; the pull of it made her gasp—a small, bereaved sound, her hand going to my chest for balance. Then the cold moved in her, warm; she felt it start down the inside of her thigh.

"Stay there," she said. "You look like a man who's been used."

She got the towel off the floor with her toe, bent, pressed it between her legs, wiped it, and held it there a moment. Then she pulled the dress up over her tits, tugged the straps onto her shoulders, and smoothed the skirt down over her hips. There was a dark crescent on the front of it, low, just below the waist. She looked at it and shrugged.

I buttoned my pants. My hands smelled of her.

Upstairs the plug came out of the tub with a hollow sucking noise. Water ran, then stopped. Sofia picked up the towel, folded it onceand carried it into the kitchen as if it into the kitchen like nothing at all had happened. I sat there with my heart still going, the ceiling creaking over my head.

He came down in a soft grey t-shirt, shorts, and bare feet, his hair combed wet and dark, his jaw scraped clean. Steam came off him. The good soap came down the stairs with him, sandalwood; under it was nothing at all of iron or diesel. He looked ten years younger. He looked like a man who had been taken care of.

"Darling," Sofia said, "let me take care of dinner. How about steak and fries? Alberto can deliver in thirty minutes."

"Yeah. Cool."

"You stay," Magnus said to me.

"He stays the night, darling. He needs to rest after such a long day."

"Okay," he said it easily, with no weight on it at all. "Here. Let me get you a drink, darling."

"I'll make them," she said.

So she made three mojitos. She made them at the kitchen counter with her back to us, the ice going in, the mint crushed; she carried them through on a tray with the stems of mint standing up green in each glass, three tall sweating glasses, and set them down.

I took a sip of mine. Sugar, lime, mint, and cold. No rum. Not a drop.

Magnus drank half of his in one go and pulled a face. "Jesus, Sofia. That's strong."

"Is it? Maybe." She sat down on the arm of the sofa by my shoulder, her hip against my arm, and looked at me over the rim of her glass. "But you are not going anywhere tonight, darling."

Magnus nodded along, agreeable, already thinking about something else.

"And you," she said to me, loud enough, clear enough, "are going everywhere."

He didn't understand it. He smiled at his own glass.

She got up to make more. From where I sat I could see the back of her thigh, the shine of me drying on it in a thin line, a pale smear on the inside of her knee. The two old spots on her breasts had become stiff and yellow at the edges due to the fabric pulling. She moved around the kitchen in that dress with her hair coming down; she looked like a whore. She looked exactly like what she was.

He didn't see any of it. His girlfriend walked past him with another man's cum drying on her leg, another man's cum banked up in her womb; he stirred his mint with a straw.

We talked about the boat again. The housing, the manifold, and the machine shop in Porto would want the work done in their own time. She put a fresh glass at his elbow. He drank it without comment—he'd gotten used to the strength or given up—then drank it the way a man drinks water when he's been out in the sun, fast, unthinking, the ice knocking his teeth.

Before the food was even ordered, she'd given him a third.

The doorbell rang at half past one. Six glasses stood on the crate by then, six; I had had one, one only, so sober it was almost funny. Magnus carried the food in himself and two paper bags and set them on the counter. Sofia put out plates, a bottle of hot sauce, and no cutlery. We ate steak with our fingers off the plate, standing up at first, then sitting.

He chewed slowly. His eyes had gone soft, unfocused, pleased with everything. She kept topping him up. He ate half his steak and left the rest; she slid a seventh glass in front of him; he picked it up.

"Strong," he said again, mildly, then drank it.

"Mm," she said.

Eight, his words started to come out with soft edges on them. He was telling me something about a man he'd known in Faro who had a dog that could count; the story kept slipping sideways, doubling back, losing its point.

What a bitch, I thought. What a beautiful bitch his girlfriend is.

I smiled at him; he smiled back, glad of the company.

The evening went on. The plates went in the sink. The sun got low, orange through the shutters, then gone. Sofia gathered up the glasses, four at a time, stacked them by the sink, and didn't wash them. The moment she wanted to make him another mojito, he kind of woke up; Magnus stood, put his hand on the back of the chair, and said, "I need to sleep."

"Go on up, darling," she said. "I'll be up later."

He made it to the stairs and got up them, one hand on the rail. He didn't close the door; at least, I heard nothing. The bed took his weight with a creak; a few minutes later the snoring started, thick, regular, going right through the floorboards.

Sofia looked at the ceiling, then at me.

"I need to get ready for you," she said. She set her glass down. "Change into something more adequate for your cock. Don't go away, stud."

She went up. The snoring went on without a break.

I heard her talk to him but couldn't understand the words she said.

I waited a moment. Then I got up, went to the foot of the stairs, and stood there, one hand on the newel, listening.

Her voice came down to me, quiet, ordinary, pitched for someone half asleep.

"—going to fuck him all night, you know? Fuck him everywhere. We start in the living room. Then the kitchen, when we've recovered—" A pause. Something moved over the floor up there, a drawer. "Oh, maybe right here beside you. In our bed. My legs are around his back when he comes inside, your girlfriend. "A small laugh. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go fuck a hard cock."

Heels clicked on the boards. I went back to the sofa fast, sat down, and picked up my glass to look casual. My cock was already growing hard against my pants, thick along my thigh, from nothing but her voice.

She hummed a song on the stairs, the way a woman hums when she's going to have a good meal.

She came round the corner, nothing I had expected.

She'd changed into lace. Dark olive lace, almost black, worked in little flowers, thin enough that everything showed through it: the sheer bra across the tits, the nipples standing dark and wide behind the flowers, and the flat brown run of her stomach bare between the cups and the waistband.

No panties. Her beautiful, moist mound was naked, ready for me. Inviting me without speaking. But I heard it scream for my cock.

Then the stockings. Black stockings. Opaque, up to the middle of the thigh, the top was a band of lace that bit a soft line into her leg. Black heels, patent, with an ankle strap. Her hair was down, straight, heavy, parted in the middle, black-brown, and falling forward over one shoulder, down her back. Her eyes were dark and steady on me; her mouth was red and wet.

The light behind her from the window made a white blaze in the room; she stood in the middle of it on those heels with her hip out, letting me look, letting it take as long as it took.

She stood in the arch with one hip out; let me look. She knew what she was doing. She knew exactly what she was doing.

"You like it?" she said.

"It's all yours," I said.

Something moved in her face, pleased and hungry. She came across the rug, sat her knees down either side of mine, and sank between my legs, her heels folding under her, her hands sliding up my thighs.

"Let's make that beautiful cock hard and ready, won't we," she said.

She pulled me out of my trunks and got her mouth on me before I'd finished breathing in.

She started at the root, worked up with the flat of her tongue, and was wet; when she reached the head, she opened wide, took me in, her jaw working at it, unhinging, and widening, with a small straining noise in her throat at the size of it. She came off, went back on, came off, and went back on, each time taking a little more, her hand wrapping the base to hold what her mouth couldn't. Her tongue worked along the underside. Then she hummed.

The hum went up the whole length of me like a struck wire. My heel skidded on the floorboards.

She did it again, longer; the vibration rolled under my cock and up into my stomach; my hand came down on the back of her head. She hummed harder in answer, mouth full, the sound going through me. The blood came up so fast it was almost painful. I felt myself thicken under her tongue until I was ironed, aching, and standing in her mouth.

She pulled off, gasping, chin wet, her lips swollen, her eyes going up to me.

"Are you ready for Magnus's little cheating pussy?" she said.

She kissed the head of it, sucked it back in, looked up at me with her eyes watering, her mouth stretched around me, and did not let go.

"Are you going to make me very happy?"

Something moved in her face, pleased and hungry. She came across the rug, sat her knees down either side of mine, sank between my legs with the heels folding under her, and put her hands flat on my thighs.

"Let's make that beautiful cock hard and ready, won't we?" she said.

She had me out of my pants before I'd finished breathing in.

When she dragged the waistband down, my cock came out of my trunks, swung up hard, and caught her on the chin.

She didn't flinch. She sighed—a soft, pleased, almost relieved little breath—her hand coming up, catching me, cupping the whole weight of me, holding me against her palm like something she'd been looking for all day.

"Hello, darling," she said, to it, not to me. "Did you miss me?"

She turned her face and rubbed her cheek along the shaft slowly, the wet of her mouth smearing down the side of it, her eyes coming up to mine over the top of it while she did it, then back down.

"Look at you. Look at this big, stupid, beautiful thing." Her thumb came over the head, gathered what was there, and spread it. "All this for me? All of it?" She kissed the crown once, loud, wet. "You're going to make Mommy so happy, aren't you? Aren't you?"

She licked the slit, quick, tasting it; her voice dropped into something lower, dirtier.

"Are you going to make me a slut? Hm? Are you going to make me a filthy, cheating, screaming little slut on my boyfriend's living room floor?" She took the head into her mouth, sucked it, and let it go with a pop. "Yes, you are. Yes, you are. You're going to wreck me; I'm going to let you."

She started at the root with the flat of her tongue, wet, worked up; when she reached the head, she opened wide, took me in, her jaw fighting for it, unhinging, wider, a small straining noise in her throat at the girth of it. She came off, went back on, came off, and went back on, each time taking a little more, her hand wrapping the base to hold what her mouth couldn't. Her tongue worked the underside.

Then she hummed.

The hum went up the length of me like a struck wire. My heel skidded on the boards.

She did it again, longer; the vibration rolled under my cock and up into my stomach; my hand came down on the back of her head. She hummed harder in answer, mouth full. The blood came up so fast it ached. I felt myself thicken under her tongue until I was iron, standing in her mouth.

She pulled off, gasping, chin wet, lips swollen.

"Are you ready for Magnus's little cheating pussy?" she said.

She kissed the head of it, took it back in, looked up at me with her eyes watering, her mouth stretched, and did not let go.

"Are you going to make me a happy whore?"

She worked me like that until my hips were lifting off the cushion to meet her; she had to put a forearm across my stomach to hold me down. Her other hand went under, cupped my balls, and weighed them; the sound she made around me was satisfied, muffled, and filthy. She dragged her mouth off slowly with a wet sound, kept her hand moving on me, and looked up.

"Quiet now," she said. "He's asleep."

She looked pleased and filthy; let her hand drift down over her stomach, one finger tracing the crease of her thigh without touching the rest of it. "I thought I'd go commando, honey," she said. "Have my pussy accessible for you. You don't mind, do you? Having a dripping mound in plain sight."

She didn't wait for an answer. She came off the arch, crossed the rug, turned her back on me, and went down onto the carpet on all fours.

Heels first, then her knees, one after the other; she arched her back as she settled so her ass came up, high, round, and offered, the stockings pulling tight across the back of her thighs, the lace band cutting in. Her hair fell forward off her shoulders onto the floor. Between her legs the whole of her was open to me, pink, wet, wet down to the stocking tops. She looked back along her own shoulder, her cheek nearly on the carpet, her eyes on me.

"Fuck this Brazil pussy," she whispered.

She rocked her hips once, a slow roll; the shine between her legs caught the light.

"Take my cheating pussy hard. Look how wet it is."

It was. It was running.

I made myself sit still. I don't know how. There was something worth having in making her wait for it, in sitting there with my cock standing up out of my trunks while she knelt on her own carpet with her ass in the air.

She waited. Then she wiggled it, impatient, and looked round further.

"My pussy is so lonely," she said.

Nothing from me. She dropped her shoulders lower and arched harder; her voice went up into a pout.

"Are you man enough for another round, honey? Hm? Are you?"

That did it. I stood up and got out of my clothes fast—trunks, shirt, everything—and kicked it all away. She watched me do it over her shoulder; her mouth came open, pleased.

"Oh," she said. "Now we're talking, big boy. Come here with your cock. Make me happy."

I went down behind her. My knees were on either side of her calves, her heels under my shins, and her ass against the front of me; she pushed back into me, grinding the wetness of her along the underside of my cock. Then I got a hand on her hip, took myself in the other, and put the head of me against her.

She stopped breathing.

I pushed. She was slick enough that it went almost easy, almost; she took the crown with a long, shivering intake, her fists closing in the carpet pile.

"Ah—" Her head dropped. "Ah, yes—"

I gave her the rest an inch at a time; she opened for me in slow, wet stages; her back dipped, her voice coming out in a low, unbroken line. When I was all the way in, flush against her, my hips to the backs of her thighs, she made a noise like she'd been holding it an hour.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, that's good, big boy. Ah—yes. A little deeper—oh yes, like that. Oh, so good."

She pushed her ass back at me, more, then more, working herself onto it until her back was a deep bow, her cheek flat to the carpet, every small push making the lace at her thighs shift, the wet sound coming out of her louder.

"That's it," she said, muffled, breathless. "There. Right there. Don't you dare be gentle."

So I wasn't.

I pulled back until only the head of me was in her, held it a beat, and drove home; she took it with a grunt punched out of her, the whole length of her jolting forward on the carpet.

"Unh—"God"—"

Again. Again. Long pulls, hard, deep shoves, my fingers digging into the lace at her hip, her heels lifting off the floor, dropping, one of them coming off entirely, lying on its side in the pile. The wet noise of it went up the walls. Her ass met my hips each time with a flat, meaty smack that sounded obscene in the quiet room. She had her face turned sideways, mouth open, with no sound coming out of it at all for a while, just breath, just hitching breath.

Then it came back.

"Fuck—fuck, yes—" Ragged, half into the carpet. "Harder, honey, come on, 'harder'—right there, don't stop, don't you dare stop—"

She got a hand under herself and worked her fingers against her clit; her whole body changed and tightened, and her cunt clamped down the length of me in a slow-rolling squeeze that nearly took the top of my head off.

"Oh—" "Oh—" Her voice cracked up into something high and undignified. "Fuck—ah—ah—"

The rhythm went ragged. Mine went ragged. She was grunting now, low, on every push, with little punched-out sounds that weren't words; once when I bottomed out hard, she made a noise like a complaint and shoved back into it for more. Sweat came up on her back under the lace. Her hair was stuck to her cheek. The stockings had gone slack at one knee and rucked down.

Then it turned over on me, the way it does; there was nothing left in me that was polite.

My balls drew up tight and hard against the base of me, pulled up into a knot; the first one came out of me so hard it hurt—a thick hot rope of it, straight up into her. She felt it go and made a sound like she'd been struck.

"„Oh"—"

I held it there, buried, pumped. Once. Twice. The whole shaft of me jumping, kicking with it, each spurt dragged out of me from somewhere behind my ribs. She was shaking under me, her arms going out from under her one after the other, her face down in the carpet.

"Yes"—yes, yes, „fuck"—"

Three. Four. Her cunt gripped, released, and gripped again, milking at me in time with it, the wet running out around the seal of us, down the inside of her thigh onto the stocking tops. Five. Her back went into a hard arch and stayed there; she came, came around my cock with a long-broken wail. She didn't care anymore; she didn't care at all—

"Aaaaah!"

Six. Seven. The last of it, short and hot. Then I was empty, still coming, twitching, wedged in her as deep as I could get, my hips grinding little circles to work the rest of it out of me.

Her name—my name—went up through the ceiling.

Above us, on the other side of it, the snoring stopped.

Then he started again, slower, thicker; a man rolled over and dragged back under.

She lay there under me with her cheek on the carpet, her eyes shut, her breath going in and out of her in big ragged heaves, one hand still trapped beneath her belly, her fingers wet. She didn't move to look up. She didn't have to.

I stayed where I was, in her, holding her hips, feeling her pulse around me, feeling the warmth of my own come banked up deep in her—all that seed of mine sitting in her womb, the two of us sealed up together so it couldn't go anywhere, so it had to stay, had to take. Take her womb.

"That's it," she said at last, into the floor, hoarse and ruined. "That's it, honey. Keep it there. Every drop."

Above us, through the ceiling, Magnus snored on, steady as a clock.

To be continued