X-rated

The door clicked shut. Four sets of boots went down the stairs—groan, groan, groan, groan—and then the house was quiet, and Arianna lay in the middle of the bed in a room that smelled like beer and sweat and sex, face down in a wet spot she had made and they had made and could no longer tell apart.

She didn't move for a long time.

Her cunt was open. That was the first thing. Not sore exactly—sore was for tomorrow—but open, slack, and warm and still gaping a little where two men had been at once, and every time she breathed she felt the air move across the wet inside of her, and the long, slow rope of what they'd left behind crawled another quarter inch down her thigh.

Wrecked, she thought. Genuinely, professionally wrecked.

And then, with her cheek in the cotton and her legs still spread, she started to laugh.

Not a giggle. A real laugh, cracked and low and helpless, the kind that hurt her belly because her belly had been pushed on from the inside all night. Because it had just occurred to her—properly occurred to her, the way things only occur to you when you're face down in your aftermath—that she had to go downstairs now. That there was a whole house beneath this room. That the stairs were a thing that existed. That she was expected, at some point, to stand on her own two legs and put one in front of the other.

How the hell do you even walk, she thought, and laughed harder, and it turned into a wince, and the wince turned back into a laugh.

She got one leg off the bed. The other one followed. She stood up.

Nothing worked. Her thighs were slick to the knee and trembling like a foal's, and the first step sent a warm, thick trickle out of her and down her leg, and she made a small, strangled noise and half-crawled the rest of the way—one hand on the wall, the other pressed flat over her cunt like she was carrying something precious, which she supposed she was.

The bathroom was small and hot and hers. She got the shower running and stepped in and stood under it with her mouth open and her eyes closed and let the water come down.

And then, just before she touched herself, she remembered.

Don't rinse it.

She pulled her hand back like she'd been burned. Stood there in the steam with her legs apart and let the hot water sheet down her front and over her tits and off her shoulders—but kept her hips tipped forward and kept the spray away from the source, because you don't wash that out, do you? You don't waste it; you don't want to mess it up—and she giggled at herself, head against the tile, dripping, ridiculous, glowing.

Keep them in there, she thought. Let them swim. Let them find each other. Let them race.

The water was so good. It got into her shoulders and her lower back and all the places five men had leaned on, and she moaned at the ceiling and turned in slow circles under it like a rotisserie, and for maybe ninety whole seconds she forgot everything.

Then she remembered the number.

One hundred and ninety.

The rest of them. Downstairs. Waiting.

She froze mid-turn with the water running off her chin and did the actual math for the first time, the real, structural, load-bearing math, and the answer came back: one hundred and ninety men still have blue balls because of me.

"Oh my god," she said out loud to the tile.

This must be—she did the arithmetic again and started laughing all over again—this must be the biggest case of blue balls in the history of the district. The biggest Blue Balls concert. One hundred and ninety men, downstairs, in a garden, at two in the morning, hard because they heard her, and not one of them getting anything.

She had to do something about it. She had to. You couldn't just leave a hundred and ninety blue balls lying around.

The plan assembled itself while she stood there, fast and complete, the way plans do when you've already stopped being careful and your body is making the decisions.

Business cards.

Yes. Cards. She'd go down, and she'd find them one at a time, and she'd take their cards, and she'd promise each and every one of them a set date—a fixed date, on the calendar, when David was at work and the door was hers—and then she'd actually keep it, because a promise is a promise and there was no way in hell she was doing this twice in one night ever again.

Never again, she decided and believed it and would not believe it by next week.

Two in the morning. Two in the afternoon.

Two and two, she thought. That's ten a week. Roughly.

One hundred and ninety over ten—she ran it through the steam—was nineteen weeks. Five months. Five months of good, reliable, scheduled fucking, four men a day, and then the whole thing done and every man in the district satisfied and her marriage intact and her body—

Her body.

She looked down at herself. Flat stomach. Swollen breasts already, a little, from the week of being used, from the welcome. And she thought about five months, and she thought about what she'd look like at the end of five months of ten men a week, and a slow hot thing turned over in her belly.

What would it be like, she wondered, to be doing this with a belly on me? With a real, heavy, swollen belly and a line down the middle and tits full of milk—getting fucked like that, heavy and slow, being spread open while you're the size of a—

She had to brace a hand on the tile.

They'd love it. She knew it, all the way down. They'd pay extra for that. There was a market for it—there had to be; there were whole platforms for it—and the thought rolled her under the water one more time, slow and filthy: a swollen pregnant woman, married, doing her circuit, getting ten strangers a week on a schedule. And someone, somewhere, watching.

Should I film it? she thought. Sell it?

She'd think about that later. That was a later problem. The later problem was that it was a lot of cocks, one hundred and ninety of them, and a girl needed logistics.

She turned the shower off. Stepped out. Stood in the steam dripping and thinking, and it was in the steam, unglamorously, that the real idea arrived.

A wall.

There was a thing. There was a word for it. A wall with holes in it and a cock coming through the hole, and you don't know whose it is—you can't point. now—and you take it because it's anonymous, and "anonymous" is the whole point. Anonymous is what made tonight so filthy, not knowing, opening herself to something she couldn't see, and finding out afterward from the face.

Gloryhole, she thought, and nearly slipped on the wet tile.

Yes. Yes. A gloryhole. But reversed.

Not her mouth at a hole in a wall. Her hole is a hole in a wall. My hole behind the hole. bent over, presented an anonymous cock after an anonymous cock through the wall, and she wouldn't know one from the other until the end, until they came around the side and she got to look and got to be shocked and got to wonder.

And they should get to choose, too. That was only fair. Some men wanted the front; some men wanted the back. Let them have the choice. Two holes, two waiting cunts—my birthing canal or my poop canal, she thought, and laughed out loud at the phrasing, alone in a steamy bathroom at two in the morning.

But how the hell do you organize a thing like that?

She needed professional help. She needed a venue. She needed—her mind reached for it—a brothel, or a club, someplace with dark rooms and a clientele and a man who owned a wall.

And I want to give them the first one free, she decided, fast. Because it had started free, tonight, and it should stay free. Free entry. Free cunt. But let them pay for their own drinks while they waited—that way the club made its money, a hundred and ninety times over, and nobody could say she'd used the place for nothing.

Or a donation. She could give them a donation, five thousand, whatever, to cover the facilities. Or—and this felt better—fifty percent of the movie. If there was a movie. If she filmed it. Split it down the middle, the club and her, everybody paid, everybody happy.

And a name came up through the steam. Something with whips. Something ridiculous and warm and local, the kind of club where the wallpaper knew things.

Whips and Giggles.

She said it out loud twice to make sure. Yes. Whips and Giggles. She knew a girl who'd been. There was a manager, a real one, somebody who dealt with exactly this kind of beautiful problem every week.

Do it now, she thought, and did.

She went back into the bedroom dripping, wrapped in nothing, and sat on the edge of the wet bed with the phone to her ear, and it rang four times, and a man answered with a voice like a filing cabinet.

"Whips and Giggles."

"Yes—hi—" Her voice came out wrecked again, and she cleared it twice. "Can I speak to the manager? The one who does the booking side."

There was a pause. Then, flatly, "I am the manager."

"Perfect." She took a breath. "Okay. Don't hang up. This is going to sound insane."

She told him. All of it. The garden, the crowd, the number, the schedule, the reversed glory hole, the two holes, the free entry, the paid drinks, the fifty percent, the husband—everything—and she heard him start to breathe differently about a third of the way through, heard the chair creak as he sat up, and heard him say "huh" under his breath like a man pricing something.

When she finished, there was a long silence.

"So," he said, finally. "You want a wall."

"A reversed wall, yes."

"For two hundred men."

"One hundred and ninety," she corrected. "The first ten are—" she looked at the bed "—handled."

He laughed. A short, delighted, professional laugh. "You know I've got a back room with a wall exactly like that? Two holes. We use it for parties." Another pause. "Never had a woman on the wrong side of it before."

"That's a crime."

"That's a crime," he agreed. "Okay. When?"

They went through it fast—dates, times, the schedule she'd worked out, the two-and-two, and the five months. He was good at this. He asked about security. He asked about the volume, about turnover, about how long a man would get with her before the next one needed to be through the wall.

"How long does a man need," she said, "to finish in a hole he can't see?"

"...Fair."

He offered things she hadn't thought of. Regulars. Would she mind if a couple of the club's regulars got a slot too? She didn't mind. She didn't mind at all. One hundred and ninety was already absurd; a couple more was a rounding error. "Yeah," she said. "Fine. But they go through the wall, same as everyone. No special treatment."

"Understood."

“And I need you to make the plans and call the cocks.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I give you the business cards, and you keep it a secret. Who will fuck me?"

“OK, gotcha!” And she could hear his smile through the phone.

And then, right at the end, when it was all but settled, he asked the question she'd been waiting for.

"What about the husband?"

And she was already ready. Because she'd been thinking about David this whole time, this whole dripping, glorious, breathless time—and the answer was that David could not know. Not knowing the scandal, it. If David knew that his wife had opened her legs to two hundred men in a single night, his brain would simply stop; you had to do it, David. So he needed to be distracted. Occupied. Out of the house and busy, on the days she was spreading her married cheeks.

"What does he do?" the manager asked. "For work."

"Marketing. Why?"

"No—for fun. What does he do with his hands?"

"...Gardening."

The silence on the other end of the line went pleased.

"Gardening," the manager said, slowly. "You know we've got two acres of beds out back that nobody's touched since—"

"Hire him," Arianna said and laughed and had to put her hand over the phone. "Hire him to do yours. On the days I'm working. Hire him the whole time. Give him a project. Give him a hedge."

"We'll give him a hedge," the manager agreed.

They did the last details. He'd send the wall's measurements. He'd talk to his regulars. She'd bring the cards, the schedule, a bag for them, and a date for every man. Free entry, own drinks, fifty percent of the movie if there was a movie, and a hedge for David. All of it, set by three in the morning, with the phone held in one hand and the other hand cupped over a cunt that still had three strangers swimming in it.

She hung up. Sat in the dark of the little bedroom. Stretched out on the wet bed and looking at the ceiling and thinking, with a slow spreading grin, about the fact that she now had a job.

Then she remembered the cards again, and the hundred and ninety men downstairs, and—being careful, always careful, never again—she got up, went to the closet, and picked out the sluttiest thing she owned.

Because if she was going down there to promise them something, they deserved something to look forward to. Something to remember. Something to hold in their hand while they waited five months for their turn at the wall.

She pulled it on. Checked herself once in the mirror—open cunt, wet thighs, wrecked hair, a dress that showed everything and promised more—and headed for the stairs.

Halfway down she stopped and had one more thought.

Should I number the cards?

No. No. Numbering was for people who cared. She'd take the cards and randomly shuffle them, and she'd fuck them randomly at the wall, whoever came through whatever hole, and let it be a surprise every single time, and there'd be more surprises that way—better surprises—and honestly, truly, it was the only way to run a roulette.

And I owe them one, she thought, reaching the bottom step. One cum load each, at least. As a welcome.

The slut of the entire district.

And that was the plan, and the plan was good, and there was still the small matter of walking into a garden of two hundred hard men and telling them all to wait their turn.

She straightened her dress, took a breath, and opened the door.

…

She took the last step, and the noise hit her like the weather.

Not applause—worse. Roaring. Two hundred men in a garden at three in the morning, all of them with a beer in one hand and a hard-on in their jeans, all of them turning at once the second the back door opened, and the sound rolled up the wall of the house and out over the street, and somewhere out there in the dark a neighbor's dog started barking, and Arianna stood in the doorway in a dress that showed everything and understood, with a small hot thrill, that she had done this. She had made two hundred grown men cheer.

Behind her, up in the little bedroom with the window open, David heard it too. He'd been lying there half-asleep and gut-punched, replaying the last hour, and now the house shook with men yelling, and he sat up in the dark and said, to nobody, "What the hell is going on down there?"

Arianna heard the stairs creak behind her—the husband was coming—and she made a fast decision, which was to hurry.

"OI," she shouted, and put her hand up, and the garden went quiet in a way that surprised even her. Two hundred faces. A hush. The only sound is the crinkle of a beer can and the neighbor's dog.

She kept it short. Men didn't need speeches; men needed terms.

"Listen up. Every one of you." Her voice carried. "I can't fuck all of you tonight—" a low groan went round, the aww of a whole garden—"so "here's what I'm offering instead."

And then she laid it out, flat and clean, like reading a contract.

"One of you. Every morning. One of you. Every afternoon. Five days a week. For five months."

She let it land.

"Fresh. Clean. Untouched—by the time you get me, you're the first thing that's been in me all day, and you can feel it. Just you and me and a locked door, and my husband at work, and no one else touching my cunt but you."

She paused. Grinned.

"No sharing."

And the garden exploded.

That was the thing, she realized, watching them cheer—they didn't want the gangbang; they'd had the gangbang. The gangbang was tonight. What they wanted was the opposite. They wanted her alone. They wanted a morning slot and a wife who was fresh and hers and a promise with a date on it, and they were hooting like they'd each just won something, because they had.

"Business cards," she shouted over the noise. "Get them out. Put them in a bag for me. Every card goes in the bag, and I call the number on it, and we set a date—"

She was still saying it when the kitchen door banged and David walked into his own garden.

He stopped dead. Two hundred men, mid-roar, in his backyard at three a.m. His wife was on the step in a scandal of a dress. He looked around at all of it with the open, slightly stunned face of a man who has clearly missed something and doesn't yet know what.

"What's—" He looked at her. "What's going on?"

Arianna turned to him and gave him her sweetest face.

"Oh," she purred. "I'm collecting, honey."

He blinked. "Collecting what?"

She lifted the little cloth bag somebody had already pressed into her hands and shook it. "Cards."

David stared at the bag. Then at her. Then back at the bag. It was very clear that some part of him was beginning to suspect he was the only person in the garden who did not understand the rules of the game he was standing in.

He handled it the way David always handled things he didn't understand. He changed the subject to food.

"Right. Well." He clapped his hands once. "Does anyone want a sausage?"

And the whole garden lost it. Two hundred men laughing all at once, some of them bent over, some of them choking on their beer—because it was three in the morning and they'd all been thinking about one thing for three hours, and a man had just walked into a garden full of cocks and offered them all a sausage.

David looked around, pleased but baffled. "What? What'd I say?"

And Arianna—standing behind him, in the doorway, in the dress—slowly raised one finger and pointed at herself.

That finished them. The garden howled. Somebody up the back shouted, "I'll have the special, mate," and David never once worked out why.

He fired up the grill anyway. Because of course he did. Ten minutes later there were sausages going, and men were queueing for the Barbie and the beer tub, and every one of them got a turn to slip a card into the little bag while his wife stood there beaming, and then—because Arianna had turned the whole thing into a buffet—they all finally stopped staring at her and started eating and drinking and being normal men at a normal party, and it was, honestly, the most peaceful she'd felt all night.

She tried to sit.

The moment her ass touched the chair, she levitated. Up. Straight back up, with a small strangled sound, her hand flew to the chair like it had bitten her.

Because her bottom half was gone. Her cunt was fine—her cunt was glowing—but the back of her was ruined. That was the hole that had taken the most and given the least, and every hard chair in the world had just become a statement. She stood there for a second, laughing at herself, and then she didn't sit down again for the rest of the night.

So, she mingled. Limped around her own garden, gently refilling drinks she didn't own for men whose names she didn't know and would soon have written down, and every time a man leaned in to put his card in the bag, he'd get close enough to smell her, and every one of them lingered, and she let them.

And that was it. That was the whole night. The bag got full. The sausages got eaten. David got drunk and proud and told four separate men about his lawn.

By the time the last car pulled away, it was nearly dawn, and Arianna stood in the kitchen with a cloth bag of two hundred business cards on the counter in front of her and a cunt full of strangers and a date in her head.

The first one was booked for next week Monday.

The wall was booked for that Monday.

She went to bed—on her stomach—and slept like the dead.

---

One day after the party, David came home bouncing.

He was like a Labrador. He had that walk-on him, the chest-out strut, and he was talking before he was even through the door, keys still jingling, work bag still on his shoulder.

"You are not going to believe this—" He found her in the kitchen, kissed her on the cheek, and practically vibrated. "I got it. I got the big one. Biggest job I've ever had."

Arianna put her coffee down. "Got what?"

"Whips and Giggles." He said it like a lottery win. "That club on the far side. Huge old place, massive grounds, and they've let the gardens go to hell—we're talking two acres, front and back, beds, hedges, and the whole thing. And they've hired me. Me! Retainer, every week, months of work—"

He kept going, describing it, proud as a boy, and Arianna stood very still with her coffee and her face arranged into delight while something in her chest did a slow warm turn.

Front and back.

They'd hired her husband to do the front and back.

On the days she was getting fucked through both.

She looked at David—babbling, thrilled, oblivious, waving a printed contract around his own kitchen—and she smiled, and she took a sip of her coffee, and she thought about Monday, and about the two holes in the back wall of a club, and about a man out in those two acres somewhere with a strimmer in his hands, cutting a hedge.

And she wondered, with a small private wickedness, whether the walls of that place were thick enough.

Or whether he'd just hear me anyway, she thought, screaming through the hedge.

"Darling," she said, out loud, sweet as anything, "So you will be doing some serious plowing."

He beamed. He had no idea.

He had no idea.

…

Monday came like a promise.

Arianna woke already wet. Not wanting to be wet—wet, before she'd moved, before she'd thought, before her eyes were properly open. She lay there in the half-dark with her thighs pressed together and felt the damp heat of herself and understood, with a deep and animal satisfaction, that her body had been waiting for her to catch up.

David's side of the bed was cold. He'd been up at six, whistling, off to the club with a strimmer and a hedge in his future and absolutely no idea what was being done to his wife four hundred meters away. She heard his car go. She didn't get up. She savored.

Because the best part of sex, she had decided a long time ago, was not the sex.

It was the knowing.

The seduction was nice—the chase, the maybe, the will-he-won't-he, the man not sure if he's getting it, and the woman not sure she's giving it. But this was better. This was Monday morning, and she knew. She knew that in two hours a strange cock would be inside her. She knew she would be impaled, spread, opened, and known from the inside by a man whose face she'd only see when he came around the wall to fetch his clothes. She knew the exact shape of it—the first deep push, the first hot slide, the warm weight of it settling in and claiming space—and she knew that at the end it would fill her, pulse after pulse of somebody else's seed, warm and thick, deposited in her like it belonged there.

Knowing you're going to get fucked, she thought, stretching, one hand drifting down her own belly, is better than being asked nicely.

She was already late. She didn't care. She took her time. Coffee is nothing. Hair. The slow, delicious ritual of getting dressed—which today meant dressing for exactly one purpose and pretending to have some self-respect about it.

She knew she must be pregnant. By now she must be. The party, the ten men, the loads, and the running total she'd stopped counting at some point on the night—she'd all but done the arithmetic in her head and gotten a yes back. But better to be sure, right? Better to keep going. Better to top up the odds until the test gave her the answer she already felt in her bones. Five months, she thought, pulling the strap up over her shoulder. Five months of this and then a belly and then a hedge and then—

She drove.

The car smelled like her by the time she parked. She was soaking, thighs slick to mid-morning, seat warm, and she sat in the lot for one second with her hands on the wheel just to feel it—that heavy, aching, ready fullness—before she opened the door.

She remembered the raincoat. Grabbed it off the passenger seat, walked about ten steps, and thought no—because she hadn't come here to hide. She folded the coat, dropped it back through the open window, and walked up the steps in nothing but what she had on.

The studded wall of the entrance matched her exactly. She'd picked it that way, without quite admitting it.

Black lace cups, sheer as breath, with the studs running around the edges so that every time she breathed the metal caught the light—and through the mesh, plainly, her nipples, dark and hard from the drive. The matching sheer panties, studded at the hip, are sitting low, doing absolutely nothing to hide the small dark triangle behind them. The choker, studded, was snug at her throat like a collar somebody had already put on her. Lace-topped stockings up the thigh, black, holding everything up and holding nothing in. Cuffs at her wrists, because the manager had asked, and because she liked the little metal clink of them when she moved. And her hair—long, dark, and waved—was down over one shoulder. And her face was done for a camera that wasn't there yet: bronzed, smoky, glossy, and lipstick the color of a bitten mouth.

She was not dressed for a fuck. She was dressed for a receipt. Something to be remembered by.

The manager met her in the doorway of the back room, took one look, and said, flatly, "Christ."

"Hi," she said.

"You're going to ruin my regulars."

"That's the plan."

He walked her through it—the wall, the room, the slot board, and the little table where the bag of cards sat waiting and where a clipboard now held Monday's two names. Two men. One at ten. One at four. The first one was already here, apparently—the manager nodded at a door on the other side of the wall—and had been pacing since nine-thirty like a man who couldn't believe his luck and kept checking it was real.

Arianna stood at the hole. Knee-height, waist-height. Two, like she'd asked. Two clean dark openings in a plank wall and a low padded bench beneath them, and on the far side—she could hear him, a man breathing, a man shifting his weight, and a man on the other side of a wall with his cock out and no idea what was about to happen to him.

She got down.

Face down, knees up, ass back, one hole lined up with the lower opening, and her mouth ready to take the upper if he wanted it. She could smell the wood. Could smell him, faintly, through the gap. Could feel her own heartbeat in her cunt.

Here we go, she thought, and rested her cheek on the bench and waited for the first anonymous cock of the rest of her life.

"Ready?" the manager said.

"Ready."

And then the knob of a stranger pressed against her, hot and blunt and certain, right at the opening of her—and Arianna closed her eyes and smiled into the wood, and the whole beautiful knowing came true at once.

The cock was nice.

That was the word for it, and she had all the time in the world to find it. Not enormous—not the splitting kind, not the kind that made you rethink your body—but thick enough to know it was there, and long enough that every stroke found the far wall of her and pushed and curved just slightly so that when he sank in all the way, the head dragged over something inside her that made her toes curl against the bench.

And he took his time.

That was the other thing. No hurry. No, I've waited five months for this. Let me get it over with—he'd waited, and now he was spending it. Long, deep, deliberate shoves. In slow, out slow, hips rolling, that low, wet schlick of a married cunt being worked over by a stranger who knew exactly how to work one. She could hear him breathe. Could hear him savor. Could feel his hands on her hips and then her waist and then her tits through the hole, unhurried, exploring her like a man reading a book he'd been told was good.

It was, genuinely, a lovely fuck. Ten minutes of lovely, patient, thorough, deep-shove fucking, and Arianna had almost—almost—forgotten to be overwhelmed.

Then he spoke.

"I hope you bring our bastard to my school, Mrs. Johnson."

And laughed.

Arianna's eyes flew open in the dark of the wall.

Our bastard.

Our—

Mrs Johnson.

She got it in one clean, bright, awful flash: the voice, the unhurried patience, the man who took his time because he taught—and she saw him, behind her, on the other side of a plank wall, the tall grey one with the glasses, the one who shook David's hand at party introducing himself and now said to her, "Our bastard will be doing so well in history, Mrs. Johnson—"

The high school principal was inside her!

And the shudder went through her whole body like a bell, from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet, and her cunt clamped—convulsed—milked him in one long rolling squeeze, because of course it was him, of course the first anonymous cock of her new life had to be the man who ran the school, of course it had to be him, and Arianna came on the wall with her cheek grinding into the wood and a long low "ohhhh" she couldn't have stopped for anything.

He felt it. Of course he felt it. He groaned like a man who'd been handed a prize and tried to hold it, tried to prolong—shortened his strokes, went tight and shallow, trying to ride it out—but her pussy had other plans. It milked him and milked him and would not let go, and he broke with a raw, startled laugh and gave her the first warm morning load of her career, before noon, right there in the dark, pulse after pulse of it hot up into her while she shuddered and dripped and held him.

It was a nice, gentle, proper fuck. And he was a gentleman about the end of it, too. He stayed in until he stopped, waited until she'd finished trembling, then pulled out slow and clean.

Arianna lifted her cheek off the bench and whispered through the hole, "We should repeat this."

A pause. Then, warm as anything: "Should we now?"

"That's what parents' evenings are for."

He chuckled. Low, dry, and the chuckle of a man who had just discovered a whole new reason to look forward to term time.

"See you soon, Mrs. Johnson," he said, and she heard him pull on his trousers, and the door on his side opened, and he was gone.

The manager came around the corner two minutes later and found her still draped over the bench, flushed to the roots of her hair, leaking gently, grinning like an idiot.

"You've got an hour and a half before the next one," he said. "You'll want to—"

"Where's the bathroom?" She was already up, wobbling. "I want to wash."

He pointed. She went.

She showered quick and hot and, learning from last time, kept the water off her cunt as much as she could, then stood in the steam and pressed two fingers in just to check, and yes, there it was, warm and thick and his, the principal's, and she laughed out loud at the ceiling of a stranger's bathroom with somebody's load slowly leaving her.

Then she found a robe on the hook—a heavy white club robe, monogrammed, ridiculous, wonderful—wrapped herself in it and went out onto the terrace.

It was a beautiful terrace. Stone, shaded wisteria, and a view over the same two acres her husband was currently destroying with a strimmer somewhere at the far end. The staff brought her a bowl of olives and some bread and an Aperol spritz in a big sweating glass, and Arianna sat in a robe in the sun and sipped and looked out over the garden and did nothing at all for an hour, and it was the most contented she had ever been in her adult life.

This is my job now, she thought. This is Monday.

At five to one, a staff member appeared at her elbow.

"If the madam would like to take position—"

She drained the last of the spritz, got up, and let the robe fall off her shoulders onto the chair. Walked back to the wall in nothing but her studded lace, still slightly damp from the shower, and got down on the bench and lined herself up.

The staff man followed her, brisk and businesslike, holding a little squeeze bottle.

"Lube, madam?"

"No thanks," she said, over her shoulder. "I'm aroused enough," and giggled.

"Mm. Let me check, madam—" and before she could answer, he had two fingers inside her, up to the knuckles, cold and quick and utterly without ceremony.

"Ohh—" Arianna's whole body jumped at the sudden intrusion, and she moaned into the wood, and behind her the man went "hmm" with the deep professional calm of a doctor.

"Yes. Nicely lubricated." He withdrew the fingers and wiped them on his apron like it was nothing. "Have fun, madam."

And he stepped away, and behind the wall she heard the second man of the day—Monday's afternoon cock—unzip.

…

Arianna put her forehead to the plank and smiled and waited to be impaled.

He didn't say a word when he got down on the other side. She heard the bench creak under a heavier man, heard the low thump of a cock being taken out of jeans, heard him spit into his own hand once—and then nothing, and then the blunt blind pressure of him against her.

She'd had the first one already. She was open, warm, and slicked from the principal's load, and she expected to take this one easy.

She didn't.

Because this one was thicker.

Not longer—the same length, roughly, that same long, far wall of her to find—but fat. Fat, in a way the first hadn't been, was wide in a way that made her lips get pushed apart and held apart, and she had about one breath of "Oh, this is going to be different; this one's going to be different" before he put both hands flat on the wood either side of the hole and shoved.

All the way. One stroke. Root to lip, no testing, no easing, no hello.

"HHhh—" Arianna's mouth came open and stayed open, her whole back arching down into the bench, and the sound she made wasn't a word.

The stretch of it dragged everything with it. That was the thing about a fat one—the length found her deep and the girth found her front. The heavy shaft pressed up through her split lips on the way in, flattening her and dragging her, and the whole taut seam of her got pulled along the stroke, so the head of her clit—already swollen, already hard from an hour of nothing—got rolled under the fat of him. Every stroke. Rolled and pressed and ground.

He felt her clamp. She felt him feel it. And the man behind the wall groaned—a low, unhurried, pleased groan, like a man settling into a good chair—and started to fuck her properly.

Hard. Steady. No mercy in it and no hurry either.

"Ohhh—ohh—" she moaned into the plank. "Ohh, oh god—"

"Mm," he said, on the other side. "Just mm," in a soft voice, like he was agreeing with something.

Every shove shoved that fat shaft up through her lips and over her clit and back. Over and over. A slow, grinding, rhythmic torture of it. Her clit went from interested to burning in under a minute, and her cunt was clamping already, the deep muscle of her seizing and letting go in hard convulsive waves, and she came—first one, barely ninety seconds in—with a cracked little cry and both hands clawing the bench.

She waited for him to be nice about it. Slow down. Let her breathe.

He ignored it.

Kept going. Same rhythm, same weight, same long roll over her poor swollen front, fucking her straight through her own orgasm like it was a bump in the road, and the aftershocks were still firing when the friction started building the next one, and Arianna sobbed a laugh into the wood because it was too much, because she was being worked like dough, because a stranger's fat cock was rolling her clit to death and would not stop.

"Ohh—ohh—oh—"

"Good girl," the priest said.

And that did something to her. That did something to her, and her cunt squeezed hard enough that he groaned too, a real one, deep and shaken.

"Fuck—" he breathed and then caught himself. "Excuse me."

Arianna laughed, wrecked, drooling on the plank. "Don't excuse yourself, just fuck me—"

"I will," he replied, low, and his rhythm got harder for it.

She came again. The second one was sudden and violent, her birth canal snapping down on him like a fist, and again he just rode it out, grinding his fat shaft flat over her clit until the pleasure tipped into that hot overstimulated burn, and Arianna cried out and threw her ass back to meet him, impaling herself, trying to match him slam for slam.

"Sooo beautiful," she moaned. Ohh, so good, so good—he can be the father any time.

She heard him breathe differently.

"I want to see you again," she told the wall. "Please—"

And the stranger laughed, warm and soft, and said through the hole:

"Why don't you come and see me this Sunday? Confess, my child." A pause, a slow deep shove for punctuation. "I rather think you might have something to tell your good town priest."

And Arianna's brain did the little click—and of course. The soft voice. The heavy shoulders. The man who blessed her and David at the rail every Sunday and had never once looked at her like this.

"Ohh—Father—"

"Say it properly," he said, and shoved on the word, and she felt it all the way up her spine.

"Father—"

"Mm. Now tell me." Another shove, deep, unhurried. "How long has it been since your last confession?"

"Hours," she gasped. "Three hours, Father."

"Three hours." He sounded genuinely delighted. "And what did you do, my child?"

"I—" A slam. I let a man fuck me through a wall—"

"And?"

"And I—came on his cock—"

"Hm." A slow drag out, a long shove back in, and her clit rolled under him, and she keened. "And did you tell your husband?"

"No—"

"No," he said; it was like a diagnosis. "So you're a little thing, aren't you?"

"Yes—"

"Yes, Father," he corrected, and went faster.

"Yes, Father—ohh—ohh, god—"

"Maybe," he said, hips snapping now, that fat shaft punishing her swollen front, "maybe I'll fuck you during your Ave Marias. Right there at the rail. You on your knees where everyone can see you, and my cock in your married cunt, and you telling your beads and not one soul knowing."

"Ohh—" was all she managed to say. She was sobbing with it now, pushing back, shoving her ass against the wood to meet every drive, trying to answer his rhythm, and every slam ground his shaft flat over her ruined clit and sent another wave up her belly.

"Say it."

"Ave Maria—"

"Slower," he groaned, and it was his turn to lose it, his breath going ragged, his voice dropping to a rough low growl. "Say it like you mean it, my little slut—"

"Ave Maria, gratia plena—" she chanted, giggling and crying, "Domine—ohh—Domine tecum—"

"Heaven-sent cock," he muttered, remembering her pun, and she howled.

He tensed. She felt it, that sudden lock of every muscle, the tell, and she arched her back and shoved herself onto him one last time, all the way, flush to the wood.

"Oh—oh god—yes—"

He came.

Hot. Thick. Pumping—rope after heavy rope of it straight up into her, flooding the same hole the school principal had left swimming in three hours ago, and Arianna came with him, one more time, shuddering and clenching and crying, "Oh god, oh god, yes—" into the wood.

And the priest, panting, hips twitching, still buried to the root, still pumping the last of himself in, said, warm and breathless:

"He hears you."

A slow beat. A final reverent push.

"A bastard baby from heaven, my dear."

And he let the very last rope of his sacred cum go, deep, deliberate, into her thirsty womb.

---

She felt nice.

That was the word again, and she turned it over the whole way home. Not wrecked—not like Saturday, not like the ten men and the two-in-one and the ruin of her poor bottom half. This was something else. A good, warm, worked feeling, like a muscle used properly and left to rest. Her thighs were loose. Her belly was low and pleasant. She drove with one hand on the wheel and the window down and the sun on her arm like a woman coming back from a spa.

Beneath her, on the black leather, the priest was quietly leaving her. Dripping.

She could feel it. Every little bump in the road pushed another warm slow thread of him out and down, and she did nothing about it—didn't clamp, didn't adjust, didn't lift her hips off the seat—just let it go, let it soak into the leather and dry there in the sun. Baptizing the car, she thought, and grinned at the windscreen. Somewhere on the passenger seat, folded, sat the raincoat she'd never worn, and she was glad. She'd wanted the drive home to feel like this.

Imagine, she thought, turning onto the main road with the whole afternoon ahead of her. Imagine having the baby of a priest.

Wouldn't that be something. A little fat one. A little solemn one. A boy who'd end up with the priest's soft voice and his good heavy shoulders, standing at the front of a church some Sunday in eighteen years' time with his mother in the front pew pretending to have no idea at all.

Or a girl. A girl would be worse. A girl would be funnier.

She pulled into her own street still grinning and just made it—because there, reversing onto the drive with a ladder rattling on the roof, was David.

She killed the engine and got out and made it to the front step at exactly the same moment he did. He looked tired. He looked happy. He had grass in his hair and a project in his face, and he was already opening his mouth to tell her about it.

"Hi, honey," she cooed, cutting him off sweetly. "Did you have a reproductive day?"

He stopped. Blinked. Ladder still on the roof, keys still in his hand. "Did I have a what day?"

"Reproductive."

"I—" He frowned at her, working it out. "Yeah? I mean. Cut the whole north hedge. Laid two beds. Reproductive, yeah, I suppose—"

"I had," she said, and chuckled, and kissed his cheek before he could ask what on earth that meant.

She walked past him into the hall, and she could smell herself as she moved—that thick, warm, used smell, unmistakable to anyone who knew to look for it—and David followed her in and hung up his keys and did not, once, notice.

"Listen," she said, over her shoulder, casual as anything. "Want to watch a game later?"

He looked up. Surprised. He'd been staring at her all week like she was a riddle he'd been handed in an envelope, and now she was offering him television, and it clearly felt like a trap.

"Uh—" He glanced at her. "Yeah. Sure. Which—"

"Anyone you like." She was already at the bottom of the stairs. "You go switch on the TV and get comfortable."

"Okay, but what are you—"

"I'm just going to slip into something less used," she whispered.

And she went up the stairs, one hand on the rail, hips swaying, leaving him standing in his own hallway with grass in his hair and the entire concept of the word used quietly dismantling itself behind him.

He didn't understand. He wouldn't. Not for months, if she had anything to say about it.

Upstairs, Arianna shut the bedroom door, leaned her back against it, and looked at her own reflection—flushed, sunlit, still faintly dripping from a priest—and laughed, softly, at the whole enormous beautiful machine of it.

Less used, she thought. Let's see.

To be continued.