I walked slowly up the stairs, fingertips grazing the banister, each step weighted with thoughts I shouldn't have. My heart had settled into a heavy rhythm—quiet, insistent, dangerously honest.
Once inside my room, I closed the door carefully, as though silence would hide my secrets. I sat down on the bed, the afternoon sun streaming through the curtains, painting gentle warmth across my lap.
I stared down at my hands resting in my lap, at the silk fabric that moved subtly with each slow breath. And then I imagined David's hands there instead. His fingers tracing the edge of the blouse, thumb brushing my skin, exploring gently as if learning me.
My eyes drifted shut.
The house around me was quiet. Too quiet. I could hear the distant hum of the television downstairs, muffled voices, laughter—normality existing just out of reach. But in here, in the quiet hush of my own breathing, my thoughts were louder.
I imagined him whispering something in my ear, lips brushing my neck as he spoke words I desperately needed to hear. I imagined his hands sliding lower, exploring, teasing, making me shiver in ways I hadn't felt in years.
My breath caught, and I leaned back against the pillows, heart thudding gently beneath my ribs.
But then I opened my eyes.
It was just me.
Just silk and skin and silence.
I wasn't foolish enough to believe this fantasy would become reality. David belonged downstairs, beside my sister, laughing at a show neither of them was watching closely.
And yet—
I placed a hand gently against my chest, felt the heat simmering there, and knew one thing with absolute certainty:
I wasn't finished wanting him.
Not yet.
Not even close.
But something else tugged at the edge of my consciousness—a quiet dread mixed with an irresistible curiosity. A realization was forming, delicate but undeniable: what if he had started noticing?
The thought sent a thrill and panic through me in equal measure.
Would he be careful? Would he step back—or worse, lean in? My hands trembled slightly, betraying how fragile my composure had become.
And for the first time, the fantasy wasn't enough. I wanted more. I needed more.
But how much longer could I hold this delicate façade before everything began to shatter?
My heart wouldn't stop racing, and my skin felt too tight. The silence was suffocating. I stood abruptly, knowing I needed to be anywhere but here, alone with these dangerous thoughts.
Downstairs would help. Lina's laughter, David's casual banter—some noise to quiet the whispers in my head.
But as I descended the staircase, something slowed my pace. The television's soft murmur had stopped. The house felt oddly still, yet charged, like the air before a storm.
Then I heard it.
A breathy sigh—Lina's. Soft, low, unmistakable.
I froze midway down the steps, my heartbeat loud enough to drown out reason.
I moved quietly, carefully, stepping down until the living room came into view, and my stomach tightened instantly.
They were there, on the couch, half-undressed, tangled together without care. David's shirt had come off, muscles flexing as he held Lina's hips firmly. Lina was beneath him, head thrown back, eyes closed, her breath coming in quick, rhythmic gasps.
I shouldn't be watching this.
But I didn't move.
David shifted, gripping Lina harder, driving into her with purposeful thrusts. Her nails dug into his shoulders, urging him closer, deeper, more.
My body flushed hot, shameful heat spiraling lower. My breathing quickened, becoming shallow and uneven.
Without thinking, my hand slid down, under the hem of my skirt. Fingers pressed against damp fabric, matching the pace David had set. Each thrust, each sigh, each whispered encouragement from Lina made me ache.
David leaned down, biting softly at her throat, hips rolling forward in a steady, mesmerizing rhythm. I pressed my fingertips harder, circling slowly, breath held tight in my chest, lips parted in silent longing.
"Harder," Lina murmured, voice raw with pleasure.
David responded immediately, moving rougher, quicker, until she cried out softly, shuddering beneath him.
I watched them, my own release building, my body shivering quietly, invisibly, in the shadows of the stairs.
They collapsed into each other, breathing heavy, bodies tangled and satisfied.
…David leaned over Lina, one hand braced on the couch cushion, the other wrapped around her thigh as he thrust into her with slow, deliberate power.
Lina moaned deep in her chest, legs tightening around him.
"No one fucks me like you do," she whispered against his ear, her voice trembling with need.
David grunted, grabbing her hips tighter, rhythm growing more punishing. The slap of skin echoed against the quiet room.
"Say it louder," he growled.
"Aaahhh—!" she gasped, head rolling back against the cushion. "Fuck me like this is the last pussy you'll ever have!"
David didn't hesitate.
He drove into her harder, face dark with hunger.
"I own you," he snarled.
Then—his hand snapped across her cheek in a clean, controlled slap—claiming her.
David was on top of her—Lina—his back flexing, muscles rolling with every hard, brutal thrust. Her legs were wrapped tight around him, her head tilted back, lips parted in bliss. She wasn't quiet. Not even close.
"No one fucks me like you do…" she moaned, voice thick, broken.
My heart stopped. Then it started again—fast and loud, like it was trying to warn me.
David growled, thrusting harder, sweat glistening down his spine.
"Say it louder," he ordered.
And she did.
"Aaahhh! Fuck me like this is the last pussy you'll ever have!"
I gasped—silently, desperately. My hand shot to my mouth before I could stop myself.
David snarled something back I couldn't quite hear.
Then he slapped her. Sharp. Clean.
I flinched.
Lina moaned louder—like she liked it.
He grabbed her face. Squeezed her cheeks. Forced her mouth open.
And then—
He spat.
"Swallow it," he said.
And she did. Eyes glassy. Hands clinging to him like he was God.
My legs buckled.
I clutched the stair rail, body trembling, barely able to stand.
I was soaking through.
Not damp—dripping. I could feel it running down both thighs, hot and slick beneath my skirt. I didn't even touch myself. I didn't need to. Just watching was enough.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't blink. Couldn't look away.
He owned her.
He could ruin her.
And I wanted him to do it to me.
Right there.
On that couch.
In front of everything.
A quiet, pathetic whimper escaped behind my fingers.
And I knew—
I wasn't just obsessed anymore.
I was his. And he didn't even know it yet.