Chapter 8 - Shattered & Drowning.

The scalding water cascades over me, a relentless torrent that does nothing to cleanse the images seared into my brain.

My mind is reeling, spinning with the images seared into my brain. The gasps, the moans, the raw, animalistic sounds, the utter depravity of what I witnessed.

Of what I allowed. What I craved, in the darkest recesses of my soul.

I scrub at my skin, hard, as if I can erase the memory with sheer force. But the scene is indelible, branded onto my consciousness.

I can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop picturing Emma’s face glazed in cum, her lips swollen and streaked with spit. The way she looked at me afterward, dazed and debauched.

Ashamed. Guilty.

I replay the scene after Marcus finished, after he’d painted my wife with his seed as if she were a canvas for his pleasure.

“You can go clean up in the bathroom, sweetheart,” he’d said, his voice still ragged from his climax.

Emma, seemingly jolted out of the trance she’d been in, had rushed off without a word, leaving the two of us alone.

Marcus had turned to me then, his dark eyes searching mine.

“Was that alright?” he’d asked, his voice low and husky.

Alright? The word echoed in my mind, absurd and incendiary.

I had no answer. What could I possibly say after witnessing what I’d just seen?

I vaguely remember snapping at him, the sound of my own voice raw and unfamiliar, but the specifics are lost to me now, swallowed up by the rising tide of my own shame

But he just smiled gently.

“I understand, Mike. It’s a lot to process,” he said gently. Then, his gaze had fallen to the obvious bulge in my jeans. “Why don’t you go home and talk to her? I think you both need it.”

With that, he’d retreated to his bedroom, leaving me alone with the aftermath of our encounter.

Emma emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, her face scrubbed clean, but her eyes still holding a distant, haunted look. She avoided my gaze, her silence speaking volumes.

Not knowing what else to do, I simply turned and left, Emma trailing behind me like a shadow. The elevator ride down was agonizing, the silence thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. We didn’t look at each other, didn’t speak.

It was as if we were strangers.

Once we were home, I immediately sought refuge in the shower, hoping the it would somehow wash away the stain of the evening’s events.

But the cold water did little to quell the fire raging within me. My cock remained stubbornly erect, a constant reminder of the scene I’d witnessed, of the desires that had been awakened within me. My mind raced, a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. How could I have let that happen? Why didn’t I stop them?

Images flash before my eyes, vivid and disturbing. Marcus, his powerful body pressing Emma against the couch, his dark hands roaming her skin, his cock disappearing into her eager mouth.

Stop it. Stop thinking about it.

I shake my head, trying to banish the thoughts, a string of curses escaping my lips.

I stumble out of the shower, my skin prickling with goosebumps. I dried off roughly, pulling on the first clothes my hands found.

Emma is lying on the bed, changed into a fresh set of pajamas, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

Our gazes meet and for a long moment, neither of us spoke.

“Mike...” Her voice, small and broken, reaches me from across the room, a fragile thread of hope in the vast emptiness.

I turn to face her, my throat constricting. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t know how to begin to untangle the mess we’d made.

“We need to talk,” she whispers.

“Not now,” I mutter, turning away from her.

“But Mike...”

“We’ll talk in the morning.” I snap, harsher than I intend.

“Please,” she begs, tears welling in her eyes. “We can’t just...”

“I SAID NOT NOW!”

The words explode from my mouth, fueled by a rage I didn’t understand, a rage that is as much directed at myself as it is at her.

Emma flinches back as if I’ve slapped her. A flicker of pain crosses her face.

A stab of guilt lances through me, but it quickly submerges by the icy torrent of my own turmoil. I can’t comfort her, not now. Not when I am barely holding myself together, when the ground beneath my feet feet like shifting sand.

I need time to process, to understand what has happened and what it means for us.

I climb into bed, turning my back to her, and close my eyes, hoping for sleep to offer a temporary escape from the turmoil within. But it is no use. The sounds of her soft sobs fill the room, each one a dagger to my heart.

I knew I could have stopped it. I could have grabbed Emma and left at any moment. But I hadn’t. And now, we were both left to deal with the consequences.

Anger simmers beneath the surface, directed at her, at Marcus, but mostly at myself.

Somewhere between her sobs and my own self-recrimination, I drift off to sleep, the events of the night replaying in my dreams, a haunting reminder of the choices we’d made and the uncertain path that lay ahead.

Morning sunlight streams through the gaps in the curtains, painting the bedroom in a soft, deceptive golden light. For a brief, excruciatingly beautiful moment, as I crack open my eyes, I’m suspended in a blissful void. Then, like a cruel jolt of electricity, the memories come crashing back, shattering the fragile illusion of peace.

It feels as if I’m waking from a nightmare, a surreal and disturbing dream. But as the details sharpen, the images sear into my consciousness with agonizing clarity, I realize it is more like a waking nightmare, a horror show playing on repeat in my mind.

I sit up in bed, my head pounding, my stomach churning with a mix of nausea and regret.

Everything in the room feels alien, distorted. The familiar furniture, the photographs on the dresser, Emma’s favorite throw pillow tossed carelessly on the floor...

I blink, trying to shake off the daze.

She isn’t beside me in bed. I hear the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen, the familiar sizzle of breakfast being prepared. Groaning, I drag myself out of bed and stumble to the bathroom.

The cold water I splash on my face does little to chase away the lingering haze of the previous night. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, searching for a familiar landmark in the hollow-eyed stranger looking back.

Nothing feels real.

I go through the motions of getting ready for work, my body moving on autopilot, my mind still reeling from the images playing on a loop in my head.

Emma is in the kitchen when I emerge from the bedroom. Her back is to me, her shoulders hunched slightly, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. I watch her for a moment, taking in the familiar contours of her body, the way she moves with an easy grace, and a fresh wave of nausea washes over me.

“Hi,” she says softly, turning as she senses my presence.

Her eyes meet mine, and I see the rawness in their depths, the remnants of tears, the flicker of uncertain hope.

“Hey.” My voice is rough, unused.

“Breakfast is almost ready...”

“I’m not hungry.” I turn away from her, unable to bear the weight of her gaze, the unspoken questions that hang heavy in the air between us.

“Wait.” She moves towards me, her hand reaching out as if to touch me, then falling back to her side. “We need to talk.”

“Not now, Emma,” I say, my voice strained, a flimsy shield against the torrent of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

“But Mike, please... “ she pleads, tears welling up in her eyes.

I stride out of the apartment, my heart a drumbeat of panic in my chest. I don’t look back. Don’t allow myself to see her face.

I didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to fix this. All I knew is that I needed to escape, to get away from the suffocating reality of our shattered world.

The last thing I hear before the door slams behind me is the sound of Emma’s sobs. Broken and wretched.

The office walls seemed to close in on me, the sterile environment suffocating. The day passes in a haze, my mind a chaotic jumble of thoughts and emotions.

Emma’s texts—a steady stream of questions, apologies, pleas for me to come home— go unanswered.

Even a message from Marcus, a single line of text I don’t dare to open, sits unread in my inbox.

I vaguely recall Sheila, my secretary, hovers at my door, her voice a distant drone as she attempts to discuss some upcoming project. I nod vaguely, offer cursory responses, praying she doesn’t notice the way my hands tremble, the film of cold sweat on my skin.

My mind kept returning to those images, those forbidden scenes that played on repeat like a broken record. A tightness constricted my chest, a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil within.

Why didn’t I stop it? The question hammers in my skull. Why did I let it happen? Why did I let it go so far?

And why, God help me ... why did it make me feel the way it did? So alive, so electrified. So fucking aroused, I thought I might die from it.

Because despite the horror, the shame, the sense of violation ... there was also a thrill, a rush of adrenaline, a raw, primal excitement that had nothing to do with love or tenderness. It was pure, unadulterated lust, fueled by the taboo, by the shattering of every boundary I’d ever known. And it was intoxicating.

As the day wears on, the weight of these unanswered questions became unbearable.

I can’t go home, can’t face the wreckage of what we’ve become. Instead, I find myself drawn to a dimly lit bar, seeking solace in the numbing embrace of alcohol.

My phone buzzes incessantly, but I ignore it, each vibration a painful reminder of the reality I am trying to escape. I order another drink, the amber liquid burning a path down my throat, offering a temporary anesthetic to the pain that is eating me alive.

“Rough day, huh?”

I look up, blinking blearily. The bartender is watching me, his eyes sympathetic. Understanding.

I laugh, the sound harsh and humorless. “You could say that.”

He nods, wiping down the bar with a rag. “Woman troubles?”

I snort, taking another swig of whiskey. “Something like that.”

“Ah.” He gives me a knowing smile, a look that says he’s seen it all before, heard every variation on this familiar tune. “Marriage, huh? It’s never easy.”

The words are meant to be comforting, I know. I wanted to laugh, to tell him that my problems were far from ordinary, that they were twisted and perverse in a way he couldn’t possibly comprehend.