Katie takes her time as Chloe makes more cocktails

Chloe worked with the same deliberate slowness as before.

She measured each pour carefully, stirred longer than necessary, tasted, adjusted, then started the next glass. Ice clinked. Bottles clinked. The others stayed clustered around you in the kitchen, sipping whatever she finished first, casually blocking every path back toward the hallway.

From the living room the sounds continued.

Katie’s voice carried clearly—breathless, uneven, and punctuated by soft, involuntary moans she didn’t quite manage to swallow.

“We’ve… ah… we’ve got this,” she called out, the words shaky. “Brian’s being a really big help. He’s—mmh—helping me get redressed. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

Another wetter sound followed, then a longer, higher moan that made one of the guys in the kitchen glance toward the doorway with a quiet chuckle.

Chloe kept her eyes on the shaker. “Take your time, Katie. No rush.”

Katie’s voice came again, thinner now, as if she were speaking through clenched teeth or something else entirely.

“Maybe… maybe we should stay a bit longer after this. Just for a while. We could—oh God—we could even play another game if everyone wants. It was… it it is a fun, right?”

The last word broke into a short, sharp cry. There was a brief pause, then the unmistakable rhythm of movement started up again—soft, wet, steady. Katie’s commentary dissolved into a string of breathless, fragmented sounds that no longer resembled anything to do with putting clothes back on.

You tried once more to push toward the hall.

Two of Brian’s friends shifted, shoulders solid, keeping you in place.

“She’s fine,” one of them said. “You heard her. They’re just getting her dressed. Give them a few more minutes.”

Chloe set another finished cocktail on the counter and started the next, unhurried. The circle around you didn’t open. From the living room Katie’s moans grew longer and more open, her earlier insistence that everything was under control sounding less and less convincing with every passing second.

The cocktails kept coming.

And whatever “help” Brian was giving your wife showed no sign of finishing.

Chloe still wasn’t finished with the cocktails.

She moved from one glass to the next with the same unhurried precision, tasting, adjusting, starting over when something wasn’t perfect. The others stayed loosely arranged around you, drinks in hand, conversation low and unconcerned. Every time you shifted toward the doorway someone casually closed the gap.

From the living room Katie’s voice continued, breathless and increasingly fragmented.

“We’re… still working on it,” she called, the words broken by a soft, wet sound and a shaky moan. “Brian’s helping. He’s being really thorough. Almost—ah—almost dressed.”

Another longer cry followed, higher this time. Then her voice came again, thinner, as if she were speaking while trying to keep control of her breathing.

“We should definitely stay longer. Just a bit. Maybe… maybe we could play something else. Something more fun. Like… truth or dare again, but with higher stakes. Or that game where you pass a card around and have to do whatever’s written on it. Or… strip poker. Or the one where you have to keep going until someone taps out—”

Her suggestion dissolved into a sharp, involuntary moan that trailed off into a series of shorter, helpless sounds. The rhythmic noise underneath—skin meeting skin, the soft creak of the couch—had grown steadier, more purposeful.

Chloe glanced toward the doorway, smiled faintly, and kept pouring.

“Sounds like she’s got some good ideas,” someone muttered. A couple of people chuckled.

You tried again to push through.

Mark stepped squarely in front of you. “She’s fine. You heard her. She’s just getting dressed and brainstorming games. Give them a few more minutes.”

Katie’s voice rose once more, strained and open.

“Maybe… maybe the game where the loser has to stay on someone’s lap for a full song. Or the one where you have to finish what you start no matter who walks in. Or—oh fuck—Brian, wait—”

Whatever she had been about to suggest broke into a long, trembling cry. The wet rhythm sped up. Her earlier insistence that she was only getting redressed sounded further away with every second.

Chloe set another cocktail on the counter and started the next.

The circle around you remained closed.

And in the living room, Katie kept “dressing” with Brian’s help, still insisting they should stay, still offering up increasingly adult game ideas between the sounds she could no longer fully control.