Change of plans

Nick heads upstairs to his parents’ master bathroom while Michelle finishes straightening up the kitchen. He knows exactly where his dad keeps the little blue pills—tucked behind the vitamins in the medicine cabinet, prescribed after William’s last “executive checkup.” Nick pockets four of them, just to be safe, and washes one down with water from the sink. He feels the familiar rush of confidence; he’s used them once or twice before when he wanted to go multiple rounds with Lena and leave her wrecked.

By the time he comes back downstairs, Michelle is waiting by the door, keys in hand, eyes fixed on the floor. She’s changed into a plain hoodie over her uniform to avoid questions, but Nick can still see the faint red marks on her neck from earlier.

“Ready?” he asks, smirking.

She nods silently and leads him out to the staff’s modest gray Corolla parked in the side driveway.

They pull out of the gate and onto the tree-lined street. Michelle keeps both hands tight on the wheel, staring straight ahead as she drives toward the school.

After a few minutes of silence, Nick stretches out in the passenger seat and says, “Change of plans. You’re not taking me to school today.”

Michelle glances over, nervous. “But Mr. Nick, you said—”

“I said you’re driving me. Didn’t say where.” He pulls out his phone, opens a maps app, and picks a mid-range hotel off the 405 that’s close enough to be quick but far enough from the house that no one they know would ever spot them. He drops the pin and shoves the screen in front of her face. “Take us here instead. Get us a room.”

Her eyes widen. “A hotel? I—I can’t afford that, and your mother will notice if I’m gone all day.”

Nick leans in close, voice low and calm. “You’re paying for the room. And I’ll make you a deal, Michelle. We check in, and I fuck you as many times as I want. When I can’t get it up anymore—when I’m completely done—that’s when we stop. Then I’ll delete today’s video, and we go home. No more this morning, no more tonight. Fair?”

Michelle’s knuckles go white on the steering wheel. She knows Nick’s stamina is already brutal on a normal day; she’s lost count of how many times he’s finished and then kept going. But all day? She’s convinced there’s no way an 18-year-old can keep that up for hours without eventually tapping out. A flicker of hope crosses her face—this could be the loophole that ends the nightmare early.

She swallows hard and nods. “Okay. Deal.”

Nick grins and settles back into the seat, watching the familiar neighborhood give way to the freeway.

Forty minutes later, Michelle pulls into the parking lot of the hotel—a clean but anonymous three-story place with an exterior corridor. She uses her own debit card at the front desk while Nick waits in the car, scrolling through the raw footage he shot earlier and already imagining what he’s going to add to it.

She comes back with a key card, face flushed with embarrassment, and drives around to the back entrance. They take the elevator in silence to the second floor.

Michelle slides the key card into room 217. The door clicks open.

The room is standard—king bed, beige carpet, heavy curtains half-drawn against the morning sun. The air smells faintly of bleach and carpet cleaner.

Nick steps in behind her, drops his backpack by the dresser, and shuts the door with a deliberate click of the deadbolt.

Michelle stands near the foot of the bed, arms crossed, waiting for whatever comes next.