Chapter 4: The Shoot

The silence after she collapsed felt thick enough to cut. She lay there, breathing in sharp little gasps, the phone still pressed to her ear. I sat in the armchair. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. Leave? Applaud? My face burned. My whole body felt like a live wire, every nerve buzzing with a toxic mix of arousal and shame. I had watched her finish. She had made sure of it.

After a minute, she shifted. She murmured something into the phone—probably a goodbye—and let her arm drop to her side, the phone clattering onto the cushion. She didn’t look at me. She just stayed curled on the couch, eyes closed, her chest rising and falling. The air in the room smelled different now. Musky. Intimate.

I stood up. The movement was stiff. I picked up my empty plate and mug. My coffee was cold. I walked back to the kitchen without a word. I washed the dishes, scrubbing the plate with more force than necessary. The water was too hot. I dried my hands on a towel. I could still hear her breathing from the living room.

That was Monday morning.

The rest of the week passed in a strange, suspended blur. Mandy’s routine didn’t change. She still paraded through the house in her tiny outfits—a lace bralette one day, a thin tank top with no bra the next, the dark circles of her piercings always visible through the fabric. She’d dance while making toast, humming along to music only she could hear. She’d lean over the kitchen island to reach for something, giving me a perfect view down her shirt. The performances continued.

But something had shifted. It was subtler now. Less like a broadcast and more like a private signal meant just for me. A lingering glance held a second too long. A slow stretch when she thought I was watching. She’d mention Jake in passing, but without the graphic detail of that morning. It was just, “Oh, Jake texted,” or “Saw Jake at the gym.” Each mention was a tiny pinprick. The wound from Monday was still fresh, and she kept touching it to see if it would bleed.

I played my part. I laughed at her jokes. I teased her back when I could muster the energy. I pretended the image of her coming apart on the couch wasn’t burned onto the back of my eyelids. At night, in my room, with the house quiet, that’s when I gave in. I’d lie in bed and the memories would unspool—not just of what she’d described, but of her face in that moment, the raw, unguarded ecstasy. My hand would move under the sheets, efficient and grim, chasing a release that left me feeling emptier each time. It was a pathetic cycle. She provoked. I reacted in secret. She won.

By Friday, a low-grade tension headache had taken up permanent residence behind my eyes. I was in the kitchen, trying to focus on a welding schematic for a custom bike frame I was supposed to start on the weekend. The numbers and angles kept swimming. Mandy flitted in and out, a whirlwind of black fabric and pale skin. She was more agitated than usual.

“He’s gonna be here soon,” she said, not to me, but to the room. She was checking her reflection in the dark glass of the microwave.

“Who?” I asked, not looking up from my notebook.

“Mateo. The photographer. Remember? I told you.”

I did remember. She’d mentioned it days ago, offhand. Some artsy friend of a friend who wanted to do a “concept shoot” with her. “Punk muse meets urban decay” or something. I’d grunted in acknowledgment, hoping she’d forget.

She didn’t. “He’s really good. Does editorials for, like, obscure zines. Very raw. Very visceral.” She said the words like she’d rehearsed them. She adjusted the strap of her top. She was wearing a pleated micro-skirt and a cropped leather vest that didn’t close over a black lace bra. Her makeup was heavier than usual—smudged kohl around her eyes, dark purple on her lips.

“Visceral,” I repeated, my voice flat.

“Yeah. It’s about capturing a mood. An energy.” She spun around, the skirt flaring. “Do I look like a mood?”

She looked like a fantasy. A complicated, frustrating fantasy. “You look like you’re trying too hard,” I said.

She stuck her tongue out at me. The silver stud in it glinted. “Jealous he gets to photograph me and you don’t?”

“Thrilled for him.”

The doorbell rang. It was a harsh, electronic buzz that cut through the house.

Mandy’s eyes lit up. “That’s him!” She practically skipped to the front door.

I stayed at the kitchen island. I listened to the door open. A male voice, low and carrying a slight accent I couldn’t place, said, “Mandy. You are late. The light is changing.”

“I’m ready! Come in.”

He didn’t wait for an invitation. I heard the heavy tread of motorcycle boots on the hardwood floor. He walked right past the kitchen entrance toward the living room, a blur of black denim and a worn leather jacket. He had a large, weathered camera bag slung over one shoulder and a tripod in his hand. He was older than I expected, maybe late thirties, with sharp, severe features and dark hair pulled into a short ponytail. He moved with a quick, impatient energy, already assessing the space.

“This is crap,” he announced, his voice echoing in the living room. “The light in here is dead. Flat. We use the porch. The afternoon sun is side-lighting now. It will give dimension.” He wasn’t asking.

Mandy followed him, a eager puppy. “The porch? Okay. Yeah. That could be cool.”

“It is not ‘cool.’ It is correct.” He dropped his bag by the couch with a thump. “Bring a chair. Something metal if you have it. And a glass of water. No ice.”

Mandy scurried back into the kitchen. She gave me a wide-eyed look that was pure excitement as she grabbed a rusty folding chair from its spot by the back door and a clean glass from the cupboard. She filled it with tap water.

“Need help?” I asked, the words automatic.

“No, we’re good,” she chirped, already rushing back out.

I stayed put. From my spot, I could see a sliver of the porch through the living room windows. Mateo was already setting up. He unfolded the tripod with practiced, efficient clicks. He attached a large camera, its body black and professional-looking. He took the chair from Mandy and placed it at a specific angle, twisting it a few degrees, then stepping back to squint at it. He spoke to her in short, clipped sentences. I couldn’t hear the words, but I saw her nodding, her posture attentive.

He handed her the glass of water. “Drink. Half. Then hold it. Look through it. Not at it. Through it. Think about something that makes you angry.”

Mandy took the glass. She brought it to her lips, her eyes fixed on some middle distance. She took a sip, then held the glass up, peering through the water at the distorted world beyond. Her expression shifted. The playful glint faded, replaced by a harder, more sullen look. It was a convincing performance.

Mateo raised his camera. The shutter clicked. A rapid, mechanical sound. He moved around her, crouching, shifting angles. “Good. Now, lower the glass. Let it drip down your chin. Don’t wipe it. Let it fall.”

She tilted the glass, letting a trickle of water run down her neck and onto the lace of her bra. She didn’t break character. The sullen look remained, but her lips parted slightly.

The clicks came faster. He was circling her now, a predator documenting its prey. “Turn the chair. Face me. Legs apart. Wider. Good. Now slump. Slump forward. Elbows on your knees. Look up at me through your eyelashes. You are bored. You are dangerous. You are waiting for something to happen.”

She obeyed every instruction with a fluid grace. She became the thing he was describing. The poses were artistic, stylized. The ripped fishnets, the leather, the smudged makeup—it all worked within his ‘visceral’ concept. It was a performance, but a different kind than her usual teasing. This was directed. This was for him.

A tight knot formed in my stomach. I pushed away from the island and walked to the living room window, keeping back in the shadows. I had a clearer view now. Mateo was completely focused, his entire body angled toward his camera. Mandy was giving him everything he asked for. When he told her to arch her back, she arched. When he told her to pull her skirt higher up her thigh, she did it without hesitation, her fingers hooking under the fabric.

“Now, stand,” he commanded. “Grab the railing. Back to me. Look over your shoulder. Not all the way. A three-quarter turn. Your face in profile. Good. Now, drop the shoulder of the vest. Let it fall.”

She hooked a thumb under the leather strap of her vest and pushed it down, baring one shoulder and the top of her arm. The black lace of her bra strap cut across her skin.

“Further. Take it off.”

She shrugged out of the vest entirely, letting it fall to the porch floor. She was in just the bra and skirt now. The afternoon sun caught the fine hairs on her arms, gilding them. Mateo’s camera whirred.

“Hands on the railing. Bend forward from the hips. Not your back. Hips. Present yourself.”

She leaned over, her hands gripping the white-painted wood. The position pushed her ass out, the short skirt riding up. The pose was blatantly, undeniably sexual. It was no longer about urban decay or a mood. This was something else.

My throat went dry. I should have looked away. I should have gone back to my schematics, upstairs to my room, anywhere but here. But my feet were rooted to the floor. A morbid, masochistic curiosity held me. How far would this go? How much would she give him?

Mateo moved in closer. The camera clicks were slower now, more deliberate. He was studying the image in his viewfinder. He lowered the camera for a moment, looking at her directly. “The light is catching the fabric of your underwear,” he said, his tone clinical. “There is a damp spot. From the water, or from something else?”

Mandy’s head turned slightly. I couldn’t see her face, but I saw the tension in her shoulders. She didn’t answer.

Mateo smiled. It wasn’t a warm smile. It was the smile of a hunter who’s found a fresh track. “Good,” he said, almost to himself. He raised the camera again and took several more shots.

Then he did something that made my hands curl into fists at my sides. He stepped out from behind the tripod. He walked right up to her. He didn’t ask permission. He placed his hands on her. One hand settled on the small of her back, pressing down to adjust the arch of her spine. The other hand went to her hip, his fingers splaying over the curve of her ass, tilting her pelvis to a different angle. His touch was firm, proprietary. A physical correction.

Mandy didn’t flinch. She didn’t tell him to stop. She held the position, letting him manipulate her body like a mannequin. A soft, almost inaudible sigh escaped her, her breath fogging slightly in the cool air.

The jealousy was a physical ache, a hot, corrosive fluid filling my chest. I imagined my hands there instead. My palm on the warm skin of her back. My fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hip, claiming it. I’d tell her to arch just like that. I’d tell her she was perfect. The fantasy was so vivid it left me dizzy.

Mateo stepped back, returning to his camera. “Hold that,” he said. He took a few more pictures. Then he seemed to make a decision. He took the camera off the tripod, holding it in one hand as he approached her again.

“This next series,” he said, his voice dropping into a more intimate register. “I am in the frame with you. It is about dynamic. About tension between subject and artist.” He stood beside her, his back to the railing, facing the house. He pointed the camera down at her. “Kneel.”

Mandy sank to her knees on the wooden porch floor in front of him. She looked up at the camera, her expression now a mix of defiance and submission.

“Closer,” Mateo ordered. “Your face near my leg.”

She shuffled forward on her knees until she was between his boots. Her face was level with his groin.

“Now,” he said, his voice calm and direct. “Put your hand on me. Here.” He gestured vaguely at his crotch.

Mandy’s hand lifted. She placed her palm flat against the worn denim of his jeans, over his erection. It was clearly outlined, hard and pressing against the fabric. She didn’t move. She just kept her hand there, looking up at the camera he was pointing down at her. Mateo’s free hand came to rest on top of her head, not stroking, just resting possessively.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound was inside my skull. I couldn’t breathe. The scene was too much. It was a diorama of everything I wanted and couldn’t have. My face felt numb. I finally forced myself to move. I turned from the window and walked away, my steps heavy on the stairs. I went to my room and closed the door. I didn’t slam it. I closed it with a soft, definitive click.

I sat on the edge of my bed. I stared at the wall I shared with her room. I could hear nothing. The house was silent except for the distant, occasional click of the shutter. I tried to focus on my breathing. In. Out. It was just a photoshoot. It was art. It meant nothing.

But the image of her hand on him, of his hand on her head, wouldn’t leave. It played on a loop. I stood up and paced the small room. I opened my laptop and stared at the welding schematic without seeing it. I checked my phone. No notifications. The silence from downstairs felt louder than any noise.

After half an hour, the pacing wasn’t helping. My mouth was pasty. I needed water. That was a legitimate reason. I was just going downstairs for a glass of water. That was all.

I left my room and went down the stairs quietly. The living room was empty. The camera bag and tripod were still by the couch. I moved into the kitchen. I went straight to the sink, my back to the window. I filled a glass with cold water and drank it down in three long gulps. The water didn’t help the tightness in my chest.

I put the glass in the sink. I turned around slowly.

They were still on the porch. The scene had evolved. Mateo had Mandy bent over the railing again, but this time, her skirt was pushed up around her waist. She was in just a pair of tiny black panties. The damp spot was larger now, a dark smudge against the fabric. Mateo was standing close behind her, not touching her with his body, but his left hand was extended. His fingers were resting lightly on the front of her panties, right over her pussy. It wasn’t an insertion. It was a placement. A claim. His right hand held the camera, angled to capture her expression as she looked back over her shoulder at him, her eyes dark and wide.

Click.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I was frozen at the sink, hidden I hoped by the dimmer light of the kitchen. He was touching her. He was photographing himself touching her. And she was letting him. Her expression wasn’t one of protest or discomfort. It was one of intense, focused arousal. Her lips were parted. Her chest heaved.

Mateo shifted his hand, his fingers pressing more deliberately against the wet fabric. Mandy’s eyes fluttered closed for a second. A faint tremor went through her legs.

Click.

Then, abruptly, Mateo pulled his hand away. He lowered the camera. He looked at Mandy, then past her, through the window. His eyes scanned the dark kitchen. I didn’t move. I don’t think he saw me at first. He was thinking.

“This is not working,” he said, his voice carrying clearly through the glass. He sounded frustrated. “The environment is wrong. The porch is limiting. The story needs a bedroom. Your room. Now.”

Mandy straightened up, pulling her skirt down. She looked flushed, disoriented. “My room?”

“Yes. The intimacy is wrong here. It is too open. We need walls. A bed. Private space.” He was already gathering his equipment with a new urgency. He detached the camera from the tripod, leaving the tripod standing. He slung the camera around his neck and grabbed his bag. “Come. The light inside will be different. We can use lamps. We can create a new mood.”

He unlatched the porch door and strode into the living room, Mandy following close behind. He was a man on a mission, his artistic vision redirected. He cut through the living room and into the kitchen, heading for the stairs.

And that’s when he saw me.

He stopped short just inside the kitchen doorway. Mandy almost bumped into his back. Mateo’s sharp eyes fixed on me, standing by the sink. He took in my position, the empty glass, the fact that I was fully dressed and obviously not just passing through. His gaze flicked to the window behind me, which offered a perfect, unobstructed view of the entire porch.

A slow, understanding dawned on his face. It wasn’t anger. It was something colder. More amused. His lips curved into a taunting, knowing smirk.

Mandy peered around his shoulder. She saw me. Her cheeks, already flushed, darkened further. Her eyes widened, then quickly narrowed, calculating.

Mateo didn’t break his stare. He reached back without looking, his hand finding Mandy’s. He pulled her forward, past him, leading her by the hand toward the stairs. As he passed me, he gave a low, mocking chuckle.

“Enjoying the show, roommate?” he said, his voice dripping with condescension.

He held her hand all the way to the staircase, not letting go even as they started to climb. I listened to their footsteps, the heavy thump of his boots and the lighter, quicker patter of hers, until they reached the top and turned down the hallway. I stayed where I was, my knuckles white where I gripped the edge of the sink. The glass was empty.

I stood there for a few minutes, maybe five, listening to the silence. I tried to go back to my notebook on the island, but the numbers were just shapes. My pencil felt like a foreign object in my hand. The idea of focusing on anything was ridiculous. The house felt different, the air charged with something I wasn’t meant to be part of. I needed to be in my room, away from whatever was happening behind her door.

I walked to the stairs. My own steps sounded too loud in the quiet. When I reached the top, the hallway stretched in front of me, dim in the late afternoon light. My door was at the end. Hers was on the right, halfway down.

Her door was open.

Not wide, but enough. A wedge of golden, lamp-lit space spilled onto the hardwood floor of the hall. I stopped walking. I could hear a low, rhythmic sound. A wet, dragging noise, punctuated by soft, sucking gasps. A man’s voice, a strained, guttural groan that seemed to vibrate in the quiet.

“Yeah… just like that. Take it deeper.”

I took one step, then another, moving closer without meaning to. The angle through the open door was narrow, but it was enough. I could see a slice of her room. The edge of her rumpled bed. And Mandy, on her knees on the floor between his legs. She was still in her skirt and that black lace bra, her head bobbing in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Mateo was sitting on the edge of her bed, his black jeans pushed down to his thighs. One of his hands was tangled in her messy black hair, not guiding, just holding. His head was tilted back against the wall, his eyes closed, his face a mask of tight concentration.

The sounds were obscenely clear. The slurping, wet noise of her mouth on him. His low, ragged breathing. Another groan, this one longer, more desperate. “Fuck, your mouth…”

I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed, anchored to the spot in the shadowed hallway, forced to witness the raw, explicit reality of a thing I’d only heard described. This wasn’t a story told to provoke me. This was happening. Now. His hand tightened in her hair, his hips giving a shallow thrust up into her mouth. She made a muffled sound, a choke that turned into a hungry moan, and the wet sounds grew louder, more frantic. He was whispering to her now, filthy, encouraging words that carried clearly into the hall. Words about her throat, about how good she was.

The heat in my own body was a sick, shameful echo of his. My breath caught, my chest too tight. I should have turned away. I should have gone to my room and shut the door and put on music loud enough to drown it out. But I just stood there, watching the muscles work in her bare back, listening to the undeniable proof of her desire for someone else. It was the most effective punishment she could have ever devised, and she wasn’t even doing it for me. She’d forgotten I existed.

Mateo’s eyes opened. They shifted from the ceiling and found me in the hallway. He didn’t startle. A slow, lazy smile spread across his face. His hand still in her hair, he gave a small, deliberate thrust, and let out a low chuckle.

“Well, look at that,” he said, his voice thick but clear. “We have a voyeur.”

Mandy pulled back, his cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pop. She turned her head, following his gaze. When she saw me, her expression didn’t change to shock or anger. It sharpened. A predatory gleam lit in her eyes. She kept one hand wrapped around the base of him, and slowly, deliberately, ran the flat of her tongue up his length from root to tip, her eyes locked on mine the entire time. She held my stare as she took him back into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing.

Mateo laughed again, a sound of pure, amused contempt. “See something you like, roommate? You want to take notes?” He pushed her head down gently, and she went, her gaze finally breaking from mine to focus on her task. “She’s a natural, isn’t she? Such a good little muse.”

My face was on fire. The paralysis broke. I stumbled back a step, then turned and walked to my door. My hands were shaking so badly I missed the knob on the first try. Behind me, I heard Mateo’s groan, a drawn-out sound of pleasure, and Mandy’s eager, gagging choke. I got the door open, stepped inside, and shut it. The click of the latch was soft, but it felt like slamming a vault.

I sat on the edge of my bed, my back to the wall, listening to the muffled sounds that refused to stay muffled. The wet noises. His groans. Her choked, eager sounds. I pressed the heels of my hands against my closed eyes, trying to erase the image of her face looking up at me as she licked him. The doorknob turned.

My door swung open. Mateo stood there, one hand on the knob. Mandy was in front of him, his other hand gripping her upper arm. Her lipstick was smeared. Her eyes were glassy, her breathing shallow. He gave her a rough shove between the shoulder blades, propelling her into my room. She stumbled forward and fell onto my bed beside me, the mattress dipping under her weight.

Mateo stepped in and kicked the door shut behind him with his boot. He looked at me, his expression cold and utterly sure of himself. He walked to the bed, grabbed Mandy by the hips, and flipped her onto her stomach. She didn’t resist. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her tiny black panties and yanked them down to her knees in one sharp motion.

“You like to watch?” he said, his voice flat. He unbuttoned his own jeans. “Good. If you want a show, I’ll give you a show. Watch how a real man fucks a slut.”

Mandy turned her head, her cheek pressed into my quilt. She looked at me, her eyes wide. A strange, breathless laugh escaped her. “I knew he was rough,” she said, her voice trembling with something that wasn’t fear. “I didn’t know he was THIS rough!”

Mateo didn’t bother with anything else. He pushed her thighs apart with his knees and positioned himself. I saw him guide himself, saw the blunt head of his cock pressing against her. Mandy gasped, her fingers clawing at my blanket. He shoved into her in one brutal, deep thrust.

The sound she made was half scream, half moan. Her back arched. Mateo gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her skin, and began to pound into her with a steady, punishing rhythm. My bedframe knocked against the wall with each drive. The headboard rattled. He was using her, fucking her with a focused, impersonal intensity, his eyes fixed on the point where their bodies joined.

Mandy’s face was turned toward me. Her mouth was open, her breath coming in sharp pants. Her eyes were locked on mine. Tears had smudged her kohl into darker streaks. She wasn’t pretending now. This wasn’t a story. This was her body being jolted over and over by another man’s force, on my bed, while I sat beside her and watched.

She moaned, the sound thick and ragged. Her gaze never left my face, even as her body rocked with his thrusts. “You see?” she gasped, her voice breaking on a particularly deep one. “You see how he—oh, god—how he fills me up?” She bit her lip, a sharp little cry escaping. “He’s so much bigger than Jake. Aren’t you? Tell him.”

Mateo grunted, his rhythm never faltering. “Shut up and take it.”

“Make me,” she breathed, and then she laughed, a wild, unhinged sound. She looked right at me. “He likes when I talk. Don’t you? He likes hearing what a filthy little cocksleeve I am. Your tight little roommate, getting wrecked on your bed.”

Each word was a needle. My own arousal was a traitor, a hard, aching line in my sweatpants. I couldn’t look away from where he was buried in her, the slick, wet sounds of it filling the room.

Mateo’s pace quickened, his breaths coming in harsh pants. He suddenly slowed, pulling almost all the way out. Mandy whimpered at the loss. He looked over her shoulder at me, his eyes gleaming with a cruel, new idea.

“You want a taste?” he asked, his voice rough. “Since you’re so interested.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. A taste. He was offering to let me… to switch places. The thought was a lightning strike of shameful, desperate hope. My mouth went dry.

Before I could form a word or move, he slid his hand between her legs from behind. He rubbed his fingers through her, gathering the wetness there. Mandy moaned, pushing back against his hand. Then, in one swift motion, Mateo leaned over her, his arm shooting out. His wet fingers, glistening and smelling of her, jammed against my lips.

The shock was total. I recoiled, but his hand was already there, smearing the taste of her onto my mouth. It was salty, musky, utterly foreign.

He pulled his hand back and shoved himself back inside her in the same movement, making her cry out. Both of them were laughing now—Mateo’s a low, contemptuous chuckle, Mandy’s a breathless, hysterical giggle.

“How’s that?” Mateo grunted, driving into her harder. “Good?”

Mandy twisted her head to look at me, her eyes bright with tears and vicious delight. “He’s blushing! Oh my god, he’s actually blushing!” She let out another moan as Mateo hit a deep angle. “Tastes like me, doesn’t it? Tastes like what you can’t have.”

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, the taste lingering, burning. Humiliation washed over me, hot and complete.

“Pathetic,” Mateo spat, his rhythm becoming brutal. His hands gripped her hips like vices, slamming her body into the mattress with each thrust. The bedframe screamed in protest. Mandy’s moans turned into choked, continuous sounds, her fingers twisting in my sheets. Her eyes rolled back for a second before finding mine again, her expression slack with a pleasure that had nothing to do with me.

The bed stopped shaking. Mateo pulled himself out of her with a slick, wet sound. He moved over me, his scent filling the space between us, a mix of sweat and her. He grabbed a handful of my hair, not hard enough to hurt but enough to force my head back. Then he shoved his cock against my mouth. It was still wet and warm from her body.

“If you like it so much,” he said, his voice low and tight, “get a real taste.”

My lips were pressed flat against my teeth. I could taste her on him, that same salt and musk, but stronger now, mixed with his own skin. It coated my tongue. I couldn’t breathe through my nose. I made a sound, a muffled gag, and tried to turn my head away.

He held me firm. “Open up.”

On the bed, Mandy had pushed herself up onto her elbows. She was watching, her chest heaving, her skirt still rucked around her waist. Her eyes were huge in her smeared makeup, wondering what I'll do.

He used his other hand to grip my jaw, his thumb pressing hard into the hinge. The pressure forced my mouth open a fraction. He pushed the head of his cock past my lips. The taste flooded in, overwhelming. My throat convulsed.

“Swallow it,” he commanded, his hips giving a shallow thrust.

I choked. Spit pooled in my mouth. I couldn’t get air. My hands came up, gripping his wrist, but I didn’t push him away. I just held on. The humiliation was a solid thing in my chest, colder than anything I’d felt before.

He fucked my mouth a few more times, short, shallow strokes that made me gag with each one. Then he pulled back, letting my head go. I coughed.

spit dangling from my chin. Mateo wiped the tip of his cock against my cheek, leaving a cold, wet streak.

“There,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “Now you know.”

He turned from me and crawled back over Mandy, who was still propped on her elbows, watching. Her shock had melted into something else, a kind of giddy, horrified awe. A giggle burst from her, high and unsteady.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, her eyes wide on my face. “You actually did it. You actually sucked his dick.”

I wiped my cheek with my shoulder, the taste of them both turning sour in my mouth. She laughed again, the sound bouncing off the walls, too loud.

Mateo shoved her back down onto her stomach. “Eyes forward, slut.” He positioned himself and drove back into her with a single hard thrust that punched the laugh from her lungs. She gasped, her fingers scrabbling at the blanket again.

He set a brutal pace immediately, his hips pistoning, the sound of skin on skin sharp in the small room. He leaned over her, his mouth near her ear. “Is this what you wanted? Huh? You wanted your little friend to see you get used?”

“Yes!” she cried out, her voice muffled by the quilt. “God, yes!”

“Tell him what you are.”

“I’m your slut!” she yelled, turning her head to the side, her eyes finding mine. They were glassy and unfocused. “I’m just a hole for you to fuck!”