TRUE FRIENDS (FF/M)
Posted: Tue Jan 20, 2026 4:29 pm
The first time Marie threw up from nerves was in tenth grade, right before her solo in the spring choir concert. Sue held her hair back in the girls' bathroom, whispering:
"Just pretend everyone's naked."
Marie laughed so hard she snorted, which made Sue cackle, and suddenly the terror was gone.
Twenty years later, Marie still felt that same twist in her gut whenever a man looked at her too long.
"It's pathological…" Sue declared over martinis last Thursday, stabbing an olive with her toothpick, "You're a knockout who flinches when someone hands you a coffee."
Marie traced the condensation on her glass.
"Maybe I just need the right guy."
"Bullshit!" Sue said, leaning in. Her perfume smelled like expensive lemons, "You need control. Like that time with the choir—you weren't scared when you got to decide what happened."
Marie froze. She knew that tone. It was the same one Sue used before convincing her to sneak into the boys' locker room junior year.
"What are you plotting?"
Sue's grin widened. She slid a glossy black shopping bag across the table. Inside: two stocking masks, leather gloves still in their tissue paper, and a hunting knife still in its plastic sheath.
"Steve works late tomorrow," she said casually, as if discussing brunch plans. "Parking garage. No cameras after seven."
Marie's pulse hammered in her throat.
"You can't be serious. This is different…" she murmured. "It’s Steve. Your husband!"
Sue's manicured finger tapped the knife sheath.
" Exactly. Which means I know his schedule, his habits—where the cameras aren’t. Or you want to spend another decade waiting for Prince Charming? Or do you want to take what you need?"
The bartender refilled their glasses. Marie stared at her own reflection in the vodka, warped and wavering. She thought of Steve's broad shoulders in his tailored suits, the way he always smelled like cedar and ironed cotton. Her face burned. Sue squeezed her wrist.
"Just like choir…" she murmured, "Deep breath. And then…"
She mimed yanking a rope taut. Marie exhaled. The knife's weight in her palm felt colder than she expected.
Back in high school, Sue had once dared her to steal Principal Hendricks' antique letter opener—a ridiculous, ornamental thing with a jade handle. Marie had panicked halfway through the act, her clammy fingers slipping against the polished wood of his desk. But Sue, waiting by the door, had merely rolled her eyes and snatched it herself, sliding the blade into her waistband with the ease of someone who'd done this before. Later, giggling behind the bleachers, they'd used it to slice open a bag of gummy worms.
"See?" Sue had said, licking sugar off her fingers, "The scary part's before."
Now, standing in Marie's dimly lit foyer, Sue adjusted the leather gloves with a practiced tug. The left one had a tiny scuff near the thumb—probably from when she'd tested the zip ties earlier.
"Remember…" she whispered, her breath warm against Marie's ear, "no talking once we're in the van. Even with the mask, he might recognize your voice."
Marie nodded, her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. The stocking mask clung to her forehead, its nylon threads tickling her eyelashes. She'd practiced walking in the outfit earlier: black turtleneck, black jeans, the gloves, and nearly tripped over her own feet when Sue barked:
"Move like you mean it!"
Now, though, her body moved with eerie precision, as if the fear had sharpened her instead of paralyzing her.
The parking garage smelled of gasoline and damp concrete. Steve's Audi gleamed under a flickering fluorescent light. Sue pressed Marie against a pillar, her grip firm.
"Wait for my signal," she mouthed.
Then—footsteps.
Steve's polished Oxfords clicked against the pavement. He was humming something, the sound muffled as he fished for his keys. Marie's vision tunneled. She could see the precise curve of his jaw where his collar gaped open, the way his tie was slightly loosened after a long day. Her mouth watered.
Sue's gloved fingers twitched once: now!
Marie lunged from behind the pillar like a panther, her gloved hand clamping over Steve's mouth before he could even inhale to shout. His startled grunt vibrated against her palm—warm, alive. She felt the exact moment his body tensed to fight, muscles coiling under his suit jacket, but Sue was already there, the hunting knife's flat edge pressing just below his Adam's apple.
"Don't!" Sue whispered, her voice low and unrecognizable through the mask.
Marie watched Steve's throat bob against the blade as he swallowed hard, his keys clattering to the concrete.
They moved in perfect sync: a choreography rehearsed in hushed midnight conversations. Sue kept the knife steady while Marie yanked Steve's arms behind his back, the zip ties biting into his wrists with a plastic click. His muffled protests turned to sharp, panicked breaths through his nose when Sue wound the rag between his teeth, taping it tight. Marie's fingers trembled as she secured the knot—not from guilt, but from the electric thrill of his helpless twitching. His cologne flooded her senses, richer up close: bergamot and something darker, like well-worn leather.
The van's sliding door groaned open. Steve's polished shoes scrabbled against the pavement as they hauled him inside, his muffled shouts bouncing off the metal interior. Sue slammed the door shut and peeled out of the garage, her laughter a bright, incongruous sound under the mask. Marie straddled Steve's thighs, her knees pressing into the van's carpet. His pupils were blown wide with fear—or was it anticipation? The thought sent a jolt through her. She trailed a gloved finger down his sternum, feeling his heartbeat race beneath his rumpled dress shirt.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Marie remembered the first time she'd seen Steve shirtless—Sue's bachelorette party, when he'd been dared to jump into the pool with all his clothes on. He'd emerged dripping, white fabric clinging to every ridge of muscle, and Marie had looked away so fast she'd given herself whiplash. Now, her nails dug into his shoulders through the fabric. The van hit a pothole, jostling them together. Steve's groan against the gag sounded less like protest and more like... something else entirely. Sue glanced at them in the rearview mirror, her masked face unreadable.
"Told you…" she said lightly, "Control changes everything."
Marie's gloves creaked as she undid Steve's belt. The leather was softer than she'd imagined against his skin. When she finally slid her hand beneath his waistband, his hips jerked involuntarily—whether to escape or press closer, she couldn't tell. The van smelled like sweat and the faint ozone of nervous energy. Steve's wrists twisted in their restraints, the zip ties leaving angry red marks she'd later trace with her tongue.
Sue turned down an unlit road. Trees whipped past the windows, their branches clawing at the moonlight. Marie leaned down, her breath hot through the mask's nylon mesh.
"You're going to come for me…" she murmured, "and then you're going to forget this ever happened."
His muffled moan vibrated against her lips. Somewhere beneath the terror in his eyes, she saw the same flicker she'd noticed at Sue's wedding—when he'd caught Marie staring during their first dance and held her gaze a beat too long.
The van lurched to a stop. Marie barely had time to register the familiar porch lights of her own house before Sue was yanking open the sliding door.
"Move!" Sue ordered, her voice rough with adrenaline.
Steve's legs kicked out instinctively, but Marie caught his ankle, her thumb brushing the bare skin above his sock. He went still instantly, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. She'd never seen a man look at her like that, like she might devour him alive. Sue tossed Marie a coil of rope.
"Bedroom…" she said. "Now."
The knife glinted in her other hand. Steve's gaze darted between them, his breathing uneven. Marie realized with dizzying clarity that he wasn't afraid of the blade. He was afraid of how badly he wanted whatever came next.
The bedroom smelled like lavender detergent and the nervous sweat still drying on Steve's dress shirt. Sue straddled his chest while Marie worked the rope around his ankles, her gloves creaking with each tug. When Marie leaned over him to secure the final knot, Steve's nostrils flared—taking in her scent through the stocking mask. Sue smirked and pressed the knife flat against his sternum.
"Eyes on me, baby…" she purred, dragging the blade downward until it caught on his belt buckle.
The metallic *ping* made Marie's thighs clench.
Steve's muffled groan turned into a choked gasp when Sue ripped his shirt open, buttons skittering across the hardwood. Marie peeled away his ruined clothes with surgical precision, her gloves leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. The camera Sue had positioned in the corner blinked steadily, capturing every twitch of Steve's straining muscles as Marie finally freed his cock—already half-hard despite the terror and restraints. Sue laughed low in her throat and palmed herself through her jeans.
"See?" she said to Marie, "Told you he'd like being hunted."
Then Sue was stripping, her turtleneck hitting the floor with a whisper of fabric. The stocking mask stayed. The gloves stayed. Marie followed suit, her bare skin prickling in the air-conditioned room. Steve's eyes darkened when she climbed onto the bed, her thighs bracketing his hips. Sue crouched over his face, her gloved fingers gripping his hair.
"Breathe through your nose, sweetheart…" she murmured right before lowering herself onto his mouth.
His gagged cries vibrated against her, the sound wet and desperate. Marie watched Sue's back arch as she ground down, then slowly sank onto Steve's cock. The stretch burned deliciously. She could feel every frantic pulse of his heartbeat through where they were joined. When Sue reached back to pinch Marie's nipple through the glove, Marie moaned and rode him harder, the leather of her fingertips leaving smudges on his sweat-slicked stomach. Steve's hips bucked wildly beneath them, the ropes straining. Sue tightened around his face in warning.
"Uh-uh…" she chided, her voice thick with pleasure, "You don't get to move until we say so."
The camera caught it all: the way Marie's thighs trembled as she came, the exact moment Steve's eyes rolled back when Sue finally let him gasp for air, the glint of saliva on the hunting knife abandoned near the headboard. Later, they'd watch the footage together—Steve still bound, Sue's gloved finger tracing his collarbone—and Marie would realize he'd never once closed his eyes.
For now, though, Marie rode him like she was starving, her orgasms rolling through her in waves so intense she had to bite her own glove to keep from screaming. Steve's cock twitched inside her, his muffled groans growing frantic as Sue straddled his face again, this time backwards, her thighs clamping around his head like a vise.
"Again!" Sue commanded, and Marie obeyed, her hips stuttering as another climax tore through her.
Steve's body arched off the mattress, the ropes creaking. Marie watched his cock pulse beneath her so close before Sue yanked her off with a wet pop.
"Not yet…" she panted, smearing Marie's slick between their bodies with her gloved hand.
In the kitchen, champagne bubbles burst against Marie's tongue like tiny explosions. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was until the first sip hit her throat. Sue played the footage on her phone, zooming in on the moment Marie had dug her nails into Steve's hips hard enough to leave crescents.
"Look at him…" Sue murmured, tapping the screen where Steve's abs clenched. "He came *this* close to begging."
The video showed Marie rolling her hips in slow, torturous circles while Sue whispered filth in Steve's ear—words they'd rehearsed, but sounded utterly real through the mask's distortion. His muffled whimper through the gag sent a fresh rush of heat between Marie's legs.
Back in the bedroom, Steve had gone still except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Sweat glistened on his collarbone where Marie had bitten him. The ropes had left angry red lines across his thighs. When Sue crouched beside him with the camera, he flinched—then shuddered when she traced the marks with her gloved fingertip.
"Round two?" she asked Marie, her voice syrup-slow.
Steve's cock twitched against his stomach in answer. Marie drained her glass, the champagne fizzing down her throat like liquid adrenaline.
"Round two…" she agreed, already reaching for the knife.
Marie straddled Steve's hips again, her thighs still slick from before. She took him in hand—slow, torturous—and watched his pupils blow wide. His muffled groan vibrated through the gag when she sank down, her body clamping around him like a vise. Sue pressed the camera close, capturing the way Steve's abs flexed as Marie rolled her hips.
"Look at him…" Sue murmured, zooming in on the veins standing out on his forehead, "He's trying so hard not to come."
Marie grinned behind her mask and ground down harder, relishing the way his cock jumped inside her.
Sue's gloves creaked as she suddenly clamped one hand over Steve's nose and mouth, cutting off his air. His hips bucked wildly, the bedframe knocking against the wall. Marie moaned at the sudden pressure, her fingers digging into Steve's chest as she rode him faster, chasing the coiled heat in her gut. Through the haze of pleasure, she noticed how his cock hardened even more under Sue's suffocating grip—the lack of oxygen forcing blood into his erection with desperate urgency. Sue's other hand snaked between Marie's legs, her gloved fingers circling Marie's clit in rough, precise strokes.
"That's it…" Sue breathed, watching Marie's thighs tremble. "Almost there."
Marie's vision whited out as her orgasm hit—a tidal wave that left her gasping against Steve's heaving chest. Sue didn't let up, her hand still smothering him as she reached for the chloroform-soaked rag on the nightstand. Steve's muffled scream was cut short when Sue pressed the cloth to his nose, her grip unrelenting as his frantic struggles weakened. His cock pulsed inside Marie one last time before his body went slack, his eyelids fluttering shut. Sue peeled the mask away just enough to check his pulse.
"Out cold." she announced, tossing the rag aside.
Marie collapsed beside him, her gloves streaked with sweat and lube. The camera blinked steadily in the corner, still recording.
*****
Three hours later, Steve groaned awake on the damp grass behind his own house, his skull pounding like he'd been hit by a truck. His wrists burned where the zip-ties had chafed them raw. A familiar voice cut through the fog:
"Oh my God, Steve!"
And suddenly Sue was kneeling beside him in her pajamas, her hands fluttering over his rumpled suit.
"Where the hell were you?" she demanded, her voice shrill with panic.
Steve blinked up at her, his tongue thick with the taste of stale gag fabric. His mind scrambled for any memory that made sense—darkness, leather gloves, unknown masked woman's thighs squeezing his ribs—but the images slipped away like smoke.
"I... don't know…" he rasped, his throat sore from screaming.
Sue helped him inside, her nails digging into his bicep a little too hard. She ran a bath while he peeled off his ruined clothes, hissing at the rope burns on his thighs. The marks looked suspiciously deliberate—almost artistic—but Sue just clucked her tongue and handed him a whiskey.
"Must've been muggers…" she lied smoothly, toweling his hair with unnecessary vigor, "You're lucky they didn't take your wallet."
Steve frowned into his glass, something primal stirring in his gut at the sight of Sue's reflection in the mirror—the way her lips curved when she thought he wasn't looking.
*****
The next morning, Marie answered Sue's video call with a grin, her screen filled with footage of Steve arching off the mattress as she rode him.
"Told you he wouldn't remember…" Sue whispered, watching Marie trace the bite marks on her own collarbone.
Marie stretched like a satisfied cat, her sheets still reeking of sex and chloroform.
"Round three tonight?" she murmured, just as Steve's drowsy voice called for Sue from the other room.
Sue winked and hung up, her slippers whispering against the hardwood as she went to greet her husband—freshly showered, freshly confused, and none the wiser.
"Just pretend everyone's naked."
Marie laughed so hard she snorted, which made Sue cackle, and suddenly the terror was gone.
Twenty years later, Marie still felt that same twist in her gut whenever a man looked at her too long.
"It's pathological…" Sue declared over martinis last Thursday, stabbing an olive with her toothpick, "You're a knockout who flinches when someone hands you a coffee."
Marie traced the condensation on her glass.
"Maybe I just need the right guy."
"Bullshit!" Sue said, leaning in. Her perfume smelled like expensive lemons, "You need control. Like that time with the choir—you weren't scared when you got to decide what happened."
Marie froze. She knew that tone. It was the same one Sue used before convincing her to sneak into the boys' locker room junior year.
"What are you plotting?"
Sue's grin widened. She slid a glossy black shopping bag across the table. Inside: two stocking masks, leather gloves still in their tissue paper, and a hunting knife still in its plastic sheath.
"Steve works late tomorrow," she said casually, as if discussing brunch plans. "Parking garage. No cameras after seven."
Marie's pulse hammered in her throat.
"You can't be serious. This is different…" she murmured. "It’s Steve. Your husband!"
Sue's manicured finger tapped the knife sheath.
" Exactly. Which means I know his schedule, his habits—where the cameras aren’t. Or you want to spend another decade waiting for Prince Charming? Or do you want to take what you need?"
The bartender refilled their glasses. Marie stared at her own reflection in the vodka, warped and wavering. She thought of Steve's broad shoulders in his tailored suits, the way he always smelled like cedar and ironed cotton. Her face burned. Sue squeezed her wrist.
"Just like choir…" she murmured, "Deep breath. And then…"
She mimed yanking a rope taut. Marie exhaled. The knife's weight in her palm felt colder than she expected.
Back in high school, Sue had once dared her to steal Principal Hendricks' antique letter opener—a ridiculous, ornamental thing with a jade handle. Marie had panicked halfway through the act, her clammy fingers slipping against the polished wood of his desk. But Sue, waiting by the door, had merely rolled her eyes and snatched it herself, sliding the blade into her waistband with the ease of someone who'd done this before. Later, giggling behind the bleachers, they'd used it to slice open a bag of gummy worms.
"See?" Sue had said, licking sugar off her fingers, "The scary part's before."
Now, standing in Marie's dimly lit foyer, Sue adjusted the leather gloves with a practiced tug. The left one had a tiny scuff near the thumb—probably from when she'd tested the zip ties earlier.
"Remember…" she whispered, her breath warm against Marie's ear, "no talking once we're in the van. Even with the mask, he might recognize your voice."
Marie nodded, her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. The stocking mask clung to her forehead, its nylon threads tickling her eyelashes. She'd practiced walking in the outfit earlier: black turtleneck, black jeans, the gloves, and nearly tripped over her own feet when Sue barked:
"Move like you mean it!"
Now, though, her body moved with eerie precision, as if the fear had sharpened her instead of paralyzing her.
The parking garage smelled of gasoline and damp concrete. Steve's Audi gleamed under a flickering fluorescent light. Sue pressed Marie against a pillar, her grip firm.
"Wait for my signal," she mouthed.
Then—footsteps.
Steve's polished Oxfords clicked against the pavement. He was humming something, the sound muffled as he fished for his keys. Marie's vision tunneled. She could see the precise curve of his jaw where his collar gaped open, the way his tie was slightly loosened after a long day. Her mouth watered.
Sue's gloved fingers twitched once: now!
Marie lunged from behind the pillar like a panther, her gloved hand clamping over Steve's mouth before he could even inhale to shout. His startled grunt vibrated against her palm—warm, alive. She felt the exact moment his body tensed to fight, muscles coiling under his suit jacket, but Sue was already there, the hunting knife's flat edge pressing just below his Adam's apple.
"Don't!" Sue whispered, her voice low and unrecognizable through the mask.
Marie watched Steve's throat bob against the blade as he swallowed hard, his keys clattering to the concrete.
They moved in perfect sync: a choreography rehearsed in hushed midnight conversations. Sue kept the knife steady while Marie yanked Steve's arms behind his back, the zip ties biting into his wrists with a plastic click. His muffled protests turned to sharp, panicked breaths through his nose when Sue wound the rag between his teeth, taping it tight. Marie's fingers trembled as she secured the knot—not from guilt, but from the electric thrill of his helpless twitching. His cologne flooded her senses, richer up close: bergamot and something darker, like well-worn leather.
The van's sliding door groaned open. Steve's polished shoes scrabbled against the pavement as they hauled him inside, his muffled shouts bouncing off the metal interior. Sue slammed the door shut and peeled out of the garage, her laughter a bright, incongruous sound under the mask. Marie straddled Steve's thighs, her knees pressing into the van's carpet. His pupils were blown wide with fear—or was it anticipation? The thought sent a jolt through her. She trailed a gloved finger down his sternum, feeling his heartbeat race beneath his rumpled dress shirt.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Marie remembered the first time she'd seen Steve shirtless—Sue's bachelorette party, when he'd been dared to jump into the pool with all his clothes on. He'd emerged dripping, white fabric clinging to every ridge of muscle, and Marie had looked away so fast she'd given herself whiplash. Now, her nails dug into his shoulders through the fabric. The van hit a pothole, jostling them together. Steve's groan against the gag sounded less like protest and more like... something else entirely. Sue glanced at them in the rearview mirror, her masked face unreadable.
"Told you…" she said lightly, "Control changes everything."
Marie's gloves creaked as she undid Steve's belt. The leather was softer than she'd imagined against his skin. When she finally slid her hand beneath his waistband, his hips jerked involuntarily—whether to escape or press closer, she couldn't tell. The van smelled like sweat and the faint ozone of nervous energy. Steve's wrists twisted in their restraints, the zip ties leaving angry red marks she'd later trace with her tongue.
Sue turned down an unlit road. Trees whipped past the windows, their branches clawing at the moonlight. Marie leaned down, her breath hot through the mask's nylon mesh.
"You're going to come for me…" she murmured, "and then you're going to forget this ever happened."
His muffled moan vibrated against her lips. Somewhere beneath the terror in his eyes, she saw the same flicker she'd noticed at Sue's wedding—when he'd caught Marie staring during their first dance and held her gaze a beat too long.
The van lurched to a stop. Marie barely had time to register the familiar porch lights of her own house before Sue was yanking open the sliding door.
"Move!" Sue ordered, her voice rough with adrenaline.
Steve's legs kicked out instinctively, but Marie caught his ankle, her thumb brushing the bare skin above his sock. He went still instantly, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. She'd never seen a man look at her like that, like she might devour him alive. Sue tossed Marie a coil of rope.
"Bedroom…" she said. "Now."
The knife glinted in her other hand. Steve's gaze darted between them, his breathing uneven. Marie realized with dizzying clarity that he wasn't afraid of the blade. He was afraid of how badly he wanted whatever came next.
The bedroom smelled like lavender detergent and the nervous sweat still drying on Steve's dress shirt. Sue straddled his chest while Marie worked the rope around his ankles, her gloves creaking with each tug. When Marie leaned over him to secure the final knot, Steve's nostrils flared—taking in her scent through the stocking mask. Sue smirked and pressed the knife flat against his sternum.
"Eyes on me, baby…" she purred, dragging the blade downward until it caught on his belt buckle.
The metallic *ping* made Marie's thighs clench.
Steve's muffled groan turned into a choked gasp when Sue ripped his shirt open, buttons skittering across the hardwood. Marie peeled away his ruined clothes with surgical precision, her gloves leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. The camera Sue had positioned in the corner blinked steadily, capturing every twitch of Steve's straining muscles as Marie finally freed his cock—already half-hard despite the terror and restraints. Sue laughed low in her throat and palmed herself through her jeans.
"See?" she said to Marie, "Told you he'd like being hunted."
Then Sue was stripping, her turtleneck hitting the floor with a whisper of fabric. The stocking mask stayed. The gloves stayed. Marie followed suit, her bare skin prickling in the air-conditioned room. Steve's eyes darkened when she climbed onto the bed, her thighs bracketing his hips. Sue crouched over his face, her gloved fingers gripping his hair.
"Breathe through your nose, sweetheart…" she murmured right before lowering herself onto his mouth.
His gagged cries vibrated against her, the sound wet and desperate. Marie watched Sue's back arch as she ground down, then slowly sank onto Steve's cock. The stretch burned deliciously. She could feel every frantic pulse of his heartbeat through where they were joined. When Sue reached back to pinch Marie's nipple through the glove, Marie moaned and rode him harder, the leather of her fingertips leaving smudges on his sweat-slicked stomach. Steve's hips bucked wildly beneath them, the ropes straining. Sue tightened around his face in warning.
"Uh-uh…" she chided, her voice thick with pleasure, "You don't get to move until we say so."
The camera caught it all: the way Marie's thighs trembled as she came, the exact moment Steve's eyes rolled back when Sue finally let him gasp for air, the glint of saliva on the hunting knife abandoned near the headboard. Later, they'd watch the footage together—Steve still bound, Sue's gloved finger tracing his collarbone—and Marie would realize he'd never once closed his eyes.
For now, though, Marie rode him like she was starving, her orgasms rolling through her in waves so intense she had to bite her own glove to keep from screaming. Steve's cock twitched inside her, his muffled groans growing frantic as Sue straddled his face again, this time backwards, her thighs clamping around his head like a vise.
"Again!" Sue commanded, and Marie obeyed, her hips stuttering as another climax tore through her.
Steve's body arched off the mattress, the ropes creaking. Marie watched his cock pulse beneath her so close before Sue yanked her off with a wet pop.
"Not yet…" she panted, smearing Marie's slick between their bodies with her gloved hand.
In the kitchen, champagne bubbles burst against Marie's tongue like tiny explosions. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was until the first sip hit her throat. Sue played the footage on her phone, zooming in on the moment Marie had dug her nails into Steve's hips hard enough to leave crescents.
"Look at him…" Sue murmured, tapping the screen where Steve's abs clenched. "He came *this* close to begging."
The video showed Marie rolling her hips in slow, torturous circles while Sue whispered filth in Steve's ear—words they'd rehearsed, but sounded utterly real through the mask's distortion. His muffled whimper through the gag sent a fresh rush of heat between Marie's legs.
Back in the bedroom, Steve had gone still except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Sweat glistened on his collarbone where Marie had bitten him. The ropes had left angry red lines across his thighs. When Sue crouched beside him with the camera, he flinched—then shuddered when she traced the marks with her gloved fingertip.
"Round two?" she asked Marie, her voice syrup-slow.
Steve's cock twitched against his stomach in answer. Marie drained her glass, the champagne fizzing down her throat like liquid adrenaline.
"Round two…" she agreed, already reaching for the knife.
Marie straddled Steve's hips again, her thighs still slick from before. She took him in hand—slow, torturous—and watched his pupils blow wide. His muffled groan vibrated through the gag when she sank down, her body clamping around him like a vise. Sue pressed the camera close, capturing the way Steve's abs flexed as Marie rolled her hips.
"Look at him…" Sue murmured, zooming in on the veins standing out on his forehead, "He's trying so hard not to come."
Marie grinned behind her mask and ground down harder, relishing the way his cock jumped inside her.
Sue's gloves creaked as she suddenly clamped one hand over Steve's nose and mouth, cutting off his air. His hips bucked wildly, the bedframe knocking against the wall. Marie moaned at the sudden pressure, her fingers digging into Steve's chest as she rode him faster, chasing the coiled heat in her gut. Through the haze of pleasure, she noticed how his cock hardened even more under Sue's suffocating grip—the lack of oxygen forcing blood into his erection with desperate urgency. Sue's other hand snaked between Marie's legs, her gloved fingers circling Marie's clit in rough, precise strokes.
"That's it…" Sue breathed, watching Marie's thighs tremble. "Almost there."
Marie's vision whited out as her orgasm hit—a tidal wave that left her gasping against Steve's heaving chest. Sue didn't let up, her hand still smothering him as she reached for the chloroform-soaked rag on the nightstand. Steve's muffled scream was cut short when Sue pressed the cloth to his nose, her grip unrelenting as his frantic struggles weakened. His cock pulsed inside Marie one last time before his body went slack, his eyelids fluttering shut. Sue peeled the mask away just enough to check his pulse.
"Out cold." she announced, tossing the rag aside.
Marie collapsed beside him, her gloves streaked with sweat and lube. The camera blinked steadily in the corner, still recording.
*****
Three hours later, Steve groaned awake on the damp grass behind his own house, his skull pounding like he'd been hit by a truck. His wrists burned where the zip-ties had chafed them raw. A familiar voice cut through the fog:
"Oh my God, Steve!"
And suddenly Sue was kneeling beside him in her pajamas, her hands fluttering over his rumpled suit.
"Where the hell were you?" she demanded, her voice shrill with panic.
Steve blinked up at her, his tongue thick with the taste of stale gag fabric. His mind scrambled for any memory that made sense—darkness, leather gloves, unknown masked woman's thighs squeezing his ribs—but the images slipped away like smoke.
"I... don't know…" he rasped, his throat sore from screaming.
Sue helped him inside, her nails digging into his bicep a little too hard. She ran a bath while he peeled off his ruined clothes, hissing at the rope burns on his thighs. The marks looked suspiciously deliberate—almost artistic—but Sue just clucked her tongue and handed him a whiskey.
"Must've been muggers…" she lied smoothly, toweling his hair with unnecessary vigor, "You're lucky they didn't take your wallet."
Steve frowned into his glass, something primal stirring in his gut at the sight of Sue's reflection in the mirror—the way her lips curved when she thought he wasn't looking.
*****
The next morning, Marie answered Sue's video call with a grin, her screen filled with footage of Steve arching off the mattress as she rode him.
"Told you he wouldn't remember…" Sue whispered, watching Marie trace the bite marks on her own collarbone.
Marie stretched like a satisfied cat, her sheets still reeking of sex and chloroform.
"Round three tonight?" she murmured, just as Steve's drowsy voice called for Sue from the other room.
Sue winked and hung up, her slippers whispering against the hardwood as she went to greet her husband—freshly showered, freshly confused, and none the wiser.