Step inside Marco's house — you could use some gentle treatment after what just happened.

2 Breedmore Lane porch, Maplewood Suburbs, at 9:15 PM on Friday October 31, 2024

I step across the threshold.

The warmth hits me immediately — a wall of heat from the crackling fireplace, the scent of cinnamon and something earthier, like sandalwood, wrapping around me like a blanket. My thighs are still tacky with Derek's cum, and I'm acutely aware of how I must look — corset half-laced, skirt darkened with moisture, no underwear, my hair a wild mess of purple tangles. Marco closes the door behind me with a soft click and the lock turns.

"First things first," he says, his voice low and easy. "Sit down. Drink something warm. You're shaking."

He guides me to the sectional couch — enormous, deep-cushioned, draped in soft blankets — and presses a mug of hot cider into my hands. The ceramic is warm against my frozen fingers. I take a sip. Apple and bourbon and clove. It burns going down, spreading heat through my chest.

Marco settles beside me — not too close, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin. Those brown eyes study me with something that looks almost like concern.

"You want to tell me what happened next door?" he asks.

"He... didn't use a condom," I say flatly. "Said he would. Didn't."

Marco nods slowly, no judgment in his expression. "Derek's a piece of work. Always has been." He reaches over and tucks a strand of damp purple hair behind my ear — the gesture so gentle it makes my throat tighten. "I'm not like that, Luna. I want you to know that up front. Anything that happens in this house, you control. You say stop, I stop. You say slower, I slow down."

I clutch the mug tighter. My pussy throbs beneath my ruined skirt — still swollen, still tender, but that treacherous heat is building again. The insatiable thing inside me is waking up, stretching, yawning. I came three times at Derek's and my body is already hungry for more. I hate it. I hate that I can feel myself getting wet again — fresh arousal mixing with the cum still leaking from my abused channel.

"You're tense," Marco observes, his hand settling on my shoulder — warm, steady. His thumb traces a slow circle against the knot of muscle at the base of my neck. "Every muscle in your body is locked up. How about I work some of that out before we do anything else?"

His hands are enormous — thick fingers, calloused palms — and when he presses into the tension along my trapezius, something inside me unspools. A small, involuntary moan escapes my lips.

"There you go," he murmurs. "Let me take care of you."

He shifts behind me on the couch, both hands working my shoulders now, his thumbs digging into the tight bands of muscle along my spine. The wolf mask sits forgotten on the coffee table. His beard brushes my ear as he leans close.

"I'm going to take this corset off you properly," he says, fingers finding the laces at my back. "And then I'm going to lay you down and massage every inch of this gorgeous body until you're melting. And then — if you want it — I'm going to put my mouth on that pretty little pussy and lick you until you can't remember your own name. How does that sound?"

His hands pause on the laces, waiting. My skin is prickling with goosebumps. My clit is already swelling, pressing against nothing, aching for contact. The rational part of my brain — the part that knows I should be protecting myself, rationing condoms, being careful — is being drowned out by the hungry, desperate thing that lives in my belly.

"Yes," I whisper.