Hannah's performance rang false—each sound too perfectly timed, too carefully pitched, like a porn star who hadn’t quite figured out how to take a dick convincingly.
I pulled out my phone, framing them in the screen, and pressed record. Evidence. Insurance. A goddamn weapon for later.
The champagne burned cold down my throat as I took another long pull from the bottle. Their bodies slapped together in a desperate, graceless rhythm—Andrew’s dick plunging into her pussy, her legs wrapped around his waist like a fucking vise, but I'd seen enough of this particular show.
I stood, letting the coat fall from my shoulders to pool on the floor.
The black lace barely covered my tits and ass, the fabric clinging to my curves like a second fucking skin. Andrew’s rhythm faltered. His cock slipped out of Hannah’s cunt with a wet pop, his eyes locking onto me like I was the last fucking meal on Earth.
"You want this?" I purred, running my hands down my sides, letting my nails dig into my skin. My hips swayed, teasing him with every inch of my body. "You can have it. But only if you stop right now. Only if she watches everything. The way I've been watching."
"Yes." The word tore from his throat without hesitation.
Fucking pathetic. He’d throw away his wet orgasm, throw away Hannah’s feelings, throw away his fucking dignity for the chance to bury his dick in me. No thought for either woman—just raw, selfish fucking hunger.
"Andrew, what are you doing?" Hannah's voice cracked as he lifted her off him, setting her aside like a discarded toy.
"Sit in the chair," he barked, not even glancing at her. His eyes were glued to me, his cock still hard and dripping. "Watch. Touch yourself if you want. But watch."
I caught the flash of hurt in Hannah's eyes, followed by cold calculation. She needed his money. She'd play whatever role he demanded.
She slithered into the chair he’d been sitting in earlier, spreading her legs like the pro she was. Her fingers crept between her thighs, circling her clit with practiced ease.
Andrew moved toward me, his dick twitching with every step. His hands reached for me, desperate to grab, to claim, but I caught his wrists.
"My rules," I said, then pulled him into a kiss that started soft and ended with my teeth sinking into his lower lip.
He gasped against my mouth, the sound caught between pain and arousal. Before he could recover, I shoved him down onto the couch.
"Stay," I commanded, my voice dripping with dominance.
Then I turned my back to him, lowering myself onto his cock with agonizing slowness. His dick slid into my soaking wet pussy inch by fucking inch, stretching me wide, filling me up.
The position left me facing Hannah directly. Our eyes locked across the room—former friends, current rivals, both fucking trapped in Andrew’s twisted little game.
Hannah’s fingers moved faster between her thighs, her breathing ragged, her chest heaving. But something unexpected happened.
Her fake moans turned real, her eyes burning with genuine fucking lust—not for Andrew, but for me. She wasn’t just watching; she was into it.
The realization hit me like a fucking freight train. She wasn’t just enduring this humiliation—she was getting off on it.
My blood boiled, my rage fueling the rough rhythm I set. Andrew’s hands gripped my hips, his nails digging into my skin as he thrust up into me, his dick slamming against my cervix.
"God, Angie. Both of you—every nerve is lit—"
"Shut up." I snarled, slamming down harder, angrier, watching Hannah’s face twist with pleasure. Her fingers worked her clit furiously, her pussy clenched tight around nothing, her tits bouncing with every ragged breath. "Just shut up."
The studio was a symphony of filth—harsh breathing, skin slapping against skin, the wet sounds of my pussy taking Andrew’s dick, Hannah’s desperate fucking moans. Her eyes never left mine, her pleasure mounting with every brutal thrust.
Then it erupted—Andrew’s release shooting inside me, his dick twitching as he filled me up. Hannah came next, her body shuddering, her fingers still working her clit as she cried out. And me? I fucking hated myself for it, but I came too, my pussy clenching around Andrew’s dick, my own orgasm ripping through me unwanted and undeniable.
I stood immediately, grabbing my coat.
"Angie, wait—"
Andrew reached for me, still dazed.
"No." I wrapped the coat around myself, suddenly cold. "You got what you wanted. Your fantasy. Your two women. Enjoy it."
"But we could—"
"We could do nothing." I grabbed the champagne bottle, nearly empty now. "Go back to your muse, Andrew. See if she can give you what I just did."
Hannah remained in the chair, disheveled and silent, her eyes following me with an expression I couldn't read.
I left without another word.
The apartment felt cavernous when I returned. I finished the champagne alone, standing at the window, watching the city lights blur through angry tears I refused to acknowledge.
My phone stayed silent. Andrew… bailed? Was he ashamed? Guilt-ridden? Steeled in his resolve?
The next evening, I opened another bottle of wine, trying to understand what I'd done wrong.
I'd shown him I could be everything Hannah was and more. I'd proven I could match his desires, exceed his fantasies. But he had power over Hannah—her debts made her controllable. With me, he had nothing but history and the memory of love.
He was drunk on control now, playing puppet master to his muse. But he'd come crawling back. He always did. He wasn't as self-sufficient as he pretended—
My phone buzzed.
Andrew: I need to pick up the rest of my things tomorrow.
The wine bottle left my hand before I made the conscious decision to throw it. It exploded against the wall in a shower of green glass and wasted vintage, the sound like my heart detonating in my chest.
Red wine ran down the white wall like blood. I stood in the wreckage, breathing hard, finally understanding.
He wasn't coming back.
The game had changed, and somehow, despite everything, I was losing.