The living room swallows me whole, its familiar comfort now feeling like a prison cell with premium cable. I stare blankly at the TV, some cooking competition where a chef is having a meltdown over undercooked risotto. His crisis seems laughably trivial compared to mine.
Emily left an hour ago in that tight silver dress that hugs every curve, her white hair cascading down her back, lipstick perfect. She kissed me goodbye with a tenderness that nearly broke me. "I'll be back around midnight, baby," she whispered, her perfume lingering long after the door clicked shut behind her.
Now it's just me and the empty house and the decision I've finally reached after days of mental torture. Constantly making love with Emily, only to be raped by Holly when Emily leaves the house for even a second.
I'm giving up.
Not on Emily, never on her, but on fighting what's happening with Holly. My life isn't my own anymore. Every moment is colored by the threat hanging over my head, that video she could release at any time. The constant anxiety is poisoning everything, even my precious time with Emily.
So I've made a choice. Compartmentalization. When I'm with Emily, I'll pretend Holly's continuous assaults aren't happening. I'll lock those memories in a vault and throw away the key, just like growing up with my Mom. And when Holly demands I service her, I'll comply with minimal resistance. No talking, no emotion. Just mechanical movement, like a workout routine. Rep after rep until it's over. Then I'll pretend it wasn't real.
It's the only way I can see to preserve my sanity and my relationship with Emily. The alternative is losing everything.
The front door opens with a soft click that sends ice through my veins. I don't need to turn around to know who it is. I sigh heavily, the timing almost comical. Think of the devil, and she appears.
"You're home early," I say, not bothering to look away from the TV where the risotto crisis has escalated to full-blown kitchen warfare.
Holly drops her backpack by the door with a dull thud. "Professor canceled class," she replies, moving into my peripheral vision. She's wearing jeans and one of those oversized university sweatshirts that somehow still manages to hint at the curves beneath. Her hair is in that perfect ponytail, not a strand out of place, wire-rimmed glasses perched precisely on her nose.
"Mom's out?" Holly asks, her eyes scanning the room as if making sure we're truly alone.
"Yeah," I confirm, keeping my voice flat, emotionless. Just like I decided. No resistance, no emotion.
Her lips curl into a wide, predatory smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Well, come on then," she says, motioning toward her bedroom with a casual flick of her wrist.
I rise from the couch without argument, switching off the TV mid-risotto crisis. Holly's eyebrows shoot up behind her wire-rimmed glasses, genuine surprise flickering across her features.
"You're finally learning your place, huh?" she asks, studying me like I'm a lab specimen that's just done something unexpected.
"Yup," I answer simply, following her down the hallway with mechanical steps.
She keeps glancing back at me, confusion evident in the furrow of her brow. This passive compliance wasn't what she expected.
Once inside her bedroom, she closes the door with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud in the quiet house. We stand facing each other in awkward silence for a moment before she begins undressing, pulling her university sweatshirt over her head.
I follow her lead, stripping off my clothes with the same detached efficiency she displays. There's no passion in our movements, just the mechanical dance of two people preparing for something that shouldn't be happening.
When we're both naked, Holly takes my hand. For the briefest moment, I notice a blush on her cheeks. She guides me to her bed, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she lies back against the pillows.
"Come here," she says, her voice softer than usual as she pulls me on top of her.
I position myself between her legs, bracing my weight on my forearms. This close, I can see the flecks of darker blue in her irises behind those wire-rimmed glasses, so similar to Emily's eyes that it makes my chest ache.
"I want you to do it gently with me today," Holly whispers, her usual commanding tone replaced by something almost... tender.
I nod wordlessly. She reaches between us, guiding my cock to her entrance. I'm surprised to find her already wet, soaked, actually, and I slide in with unexpected ease. The usual tightness that normally feels like a physical manifestation of my betrayal somehow feels pleasurable today, and I don't fight the sensation.
What's the point? Once I leave this room, this never happened. Just like I decided. So who cares if it feels good?
I begin moving slowly, following her request for gentleness. Each thrust is measured, controlled.
Holly's face flushes deeper as I maintain my steady rhythm, her breath catching with each careful stroke. I hit a spot that makes her gasp, and a groan escapes my lips.
Her eyes widen behind those wire-rimmed glasses, pupils dilating with both pleasure and surprise since I didn't even try to stop myself like I usually do. She stares up at me, studying my face with an intensity that's almost scientific.
"Since you're not complaining for once," she whispers, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant, "does that mean you finally like this? Like me?"
"No," I say, the word coming out flat and emotionless.
Holly doesn't look hurt like I expect. Instead, her lips curl into a knowing smile as she intentionally tightens around me, the sudden pressure making me groan involuntarily.
"But you're not holding back anymore, are you?" she whispers, her eyes locked on mine behind those wire-rimmed glasses.
"I'm not," I admit, maintaining my steady rhythm. There's no point in denying the obvious.
Her expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across her features before she masks it with that calculating look I've come to know so well.
"I want you to make love to me. Like, really make love to me." Holly says suddenly, her voice softer than I've ever heard it.
I stare down at her, momentarily thrown by the request. "What?"
She shifts beneath me, her hands sliding up my arms to rest on my shoulders. "I want you to treat me like I'm special. Like I'm the only girl in the world you're thinking about." Her voice wavers slightly. "Make me feel loved."
I sigh, the sound escaping before I can stop it. This is a new level of psychological torture, but what difference does it make? I've already decided to go through the motions.
Without a word, I reach for her hands and interlock our fingers, pinning them gently beside her head the way I sometimes do with Emily when we're being intimate. Holly's eyes widen behind her glasses, genuine surprise flickering across her features as I push deeper inside her.
Her lips part slightly, breath catching as I establish a slow, deliberate rhythm. The gentleness seems to unnerve her more than any resistance I've offered before.
"Well?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"What?" I respond between thrusts, maintaining the steady pace.
"Shouldn't you kiss the love of your life?"
I lean down and press my lips against hers, keeping the kiss soft and lingering. It's strange how easily the body can perform these motions while the mind remains detached. I'm just going through the motions, treating this like masturbation, a physical release without emotional connection. None of this matters. Not her moans, not the way her body responds to mine, not the strange tenderness creeping into her touch.
As I kiss her, I keep my eyes open, staring at the wall behind her bed. There's a small crack in the paint I've never noticed before. I focus on that imperfection, using it as an anchor while my body continues its mechanical performance.
Holly breaks the kiss, her breathing ragged. "Look at me," she demands, but the usual edge is missing from her voice. "I want you to see me."
I shift my gaze to her face, keeping my expression neutral. Behind those wire-rimmed glasses, her eyes search mine with an intensity that's almost desperate.
"Tell me you love me," she whispers.
"I love you," I recite, the words empty and hollow.
Something flickers across her face, disappointment, maybe even hurt. Her fingers tighten around mine.
"Say it like you mean it," she insists, her voice hardening slightly.
I maintain the steady rhythm of my hips, neither speeding up nor slowing down. "I love you, Holly," I repeat, injecting just enough warmth into my tone to be convincing.
Her eyes flutter closed, her breath hitching as her movements beneath me grow more erratic. Something's changing in her rhythm, in the way she's responding to me.
"Daniel," she gasps, her voice cracking with raw emotion I've never heard from her before. "Oh god, Daniel!"
Her inner walls clench around me in powerful waves as she arches upward, her entire body shuddering in release. The physical sensation is overwhelming, triggering my own response despite my emotional detachment. Heat pools at the base of my spine, pleasure building to an inevitable crescendo.
"Holly, I'm…" I start, suddenly aware of how close I am to finishing.
Before I can pull away, her legs wrap around my waist in a vise-like grip, ankles locking behind my back to hold me in place. Her eyes open, glazed with pleasure but focused intently on mine.
"Lovers never pull out," she breathes against my lips, her voice trembling with aftershocks.
I nearly laugh at the absurdity of her statement. Since this whole nightmare began, she's never once let me withdraw.
The pressure inside me reaches its breaking point. I surrender to the physical sensation, emptying myself inside her with a whimper. For a brief moment, my carefully constructed wall of detachment crumbles, and I'm fully present in this twisted act, connected to her in the most intimate way possible. And it only makes me hate myself.
As the pleasure subsides, I rebuild my mental barriers brick by brick. This never happened. Once I leave this room, I'll lock this memory away with all the others.
Holly's legs remain wrapped around me, keeping me inside her as her breathing gradually steadies. Her hands move to my face, fingers tracing my features with unexpected gentleness.
"Look at you," Holly whispers, her thumb tracing my lower lip. "Such a good boy. You can pretend you're not falling for me all you want, but your body tells a different story."
I stare at her, feeling nothing but a void of emptiness. She has absolutely no idea how wrong she is. This isn't affection. It's surrender. It's giving up the fight to preserve what little sanity I have left.
Her legs finally unlock from around my waist, releasing me from her trap. I slide away immediately, my skin crawling with the need to escape her touch, her presence, her delusion.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night," I mutter, grabbing my boxers from the floor.
Holly props herself up on her elbows, watching me with that calculating gaze as I pull on my clothes. "You know, most guys would kill to be in your position," she says, adjusting her glasses with that precise gesture I've come to hate. "Getting to fuck two generations of beautiful women under the same roof."
"Then why not find another guy?" I ask, my voice flat and emotionless. "Someone who actually wants to be with you."
Holly freezes, her smug expression faltering. She sits up slowly, pulling the sheet around her naked body like armor.
"Because I've chosen you, Daniel," she says, her voice unusually soft. "Not someone else. You."
Without another word, I turn and walk out of her room, leaving her sitting there with her sheet clutched to her chest. I don't look back.
The living room welcomes me like an old friend. I sink back into the couch and reach for the remote, punching the power button with more force than necessary. The screen flickers to life, returning to the cooking show I'd abandoned earlier.
My eyebrows shoot up at the scene unfolding before me. The chef who'd been having the risotto meltdown is now sprawled on the kitchen floor, blood trickling from his mouth. Rice is scattered everywhere, on the counters, the floor, even stuck to the walls. The other contestants stand frozen in horror while the host tries desperately to maintain some semblance of control.
"What the fuck happened while I was gone?"