Blow off Ava for a quick hookup with your secretary (Emily)

You ask Elsa if she could go with Ava for her gown for the party. Your youngest daughter ever the opportunist said yeah but wanted you to pay for her secret dress as well. You told her yes. As long as she helped her mother with a nice gown.

You watch them go from the window, a little flutter of something in your chest. Guilt? Maybe. But it's buried beneath a more potent, immediate thrill. The car pulls away and you're alone. The house is yours. A canvas.

You head upstairs to shower, the water hot and stinging. You scrub your body clean, but you're not washing away the sin; you're preparing for it. Your reflection in the steamy mirror is a stranger's, a man with a wolfish grin. You dress in the clothes you know she likes. The dark tailored pants, the crisp shirt with the top two buttons left undone. The cologne she bought recently for you, the one Ava said was "too spicy."

Emily doesn't live far. Her apartment is in one of those new, soulless complexes, a glass and steel box overlooking the highway. She buzzes you in without a word. When she opens her apartment door, you see she's already dressed for you. Or, more accurately, undressed. She's wearing a sliver of black silk that barely covers anything, a stark, simple challenge. Her black hair is down, loose around her shoulders.

"Couldn't even wait for the party, huh?" she says, her voice a low purr. She pulls you inside, the door clicking shut behind you. Her place is immaculate, minimalist, clean. It smells like lavender and her. It smells like a place with no history.

She reaches up, her fingers undoing the rest of your shirt buttons, her touch electric. Her lips find yours, and it's not the kiss of a lover. It's the kiss of a predator. All teeth and tongue, a claiming. You back her up against the wall, your hands gripping her hips, the silk of her stocking bunching in your fists.

No words are necessary. You've had this conversation a hundred times in glances across the office, in late-night texts, in the way she'd bite her pen during your meetings.

The young slut drops to her knees. You watch her, your hands flat against the cool wall behind you. This is the view you wanted a few nights ago, in the dark, staring at a screen. But this is better. Real. The messy, chaotic, beautiful reality of your sin. You thread your fingers through her dark hair, guiding her, and she looks up at you, her eyes full of a worship that has nothing to do with love and everything to do with power.

Later, tangled in her stark white sheets, the city lights blinking silently through the floor-to-ceiling window, you feel that familiar hollowness set in. You push it away as Emily taste your cock.

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