Chapter 2

Days blurred into a relentless haze for Lillian, each one punctured by the chime of the doorbell and the shuffle of Tyler’s Tinder sluts traipsing through the mansion at all hours. A brunette barged in mid-yoga, her giggles slicing through Lillian’s downward dog, forcing her to abandon the mat with a curse. A leggy redhead strutted past during her treadmill session, heels clicking, leaving Lillian to crank the speed in vain to outrun the irritation. At night, just as sleep teased her eyelids, a curvy blonde’s squeals—”Oh, it’s huge!”—jolted her awake, the headboard’s thump a cruel alarm clock. She buried her face in the pillow, teeth gritted, the house a battlefield she couldn’t escape.

Then came another whore. The doorbell rang one afternoon as Lillian sipped tea in the kitchen, and she checked the security feed with a groan. Tyler ushered in an Asian bimbo with thick bleach-blonde hair in a high ponytail, her petite frame stuffed into a neon pink minidress, fake tits spilling over the top. Her lips shimmered with gloss, her eyes caked in glitter. She tottered on platform heels, cooing at Tyler in broken English: “You so sexy, lah! Big cock, I like!” Upstairs, the walls shook, her voice a jagged screech—”Oh yes, big lah! Fuck me hard, so good!”—until it stopped, leaving Lillian’s tea cold and her patience in tatters. Minutes later, the bimbo stormed down, dress crooked, thighs bruised, yelling, “Where my money, huh?”

Tyler trailed her, hands up. “Chill, I’ll get it later.”

Her eyes landed on Lillian. “You pay, lady! He rough, extra charge—six hundred!”

Lillian’s blood boiled, but she fished the cash from her purse, slapping it into the girl’s hand—five hundred, plus a hundred for the “surcharge.” The bimbo grinned, pocketing it, and flounced out, leaving Lillian to glare at Tyler. He shrugged, muttering, “Thanks, Lil,” and slunk off, her muttered “asshole” bouncing off his back.

One evening, Lillian sprawled on the living room sofa, the TV flickering with Trophy Wives of the Elite, her one shred of sanity. A sudden blast of noise jolted her upright—grunts, slaps, a woman’s wail of “Fuck me harder!” spilling from upstairs. Hardcore porn, loud and abusive, pouring from Tyler’s room.

She flung the remote down, her slippers smacking the hardwood as she stomped up the stairs, fury propelling her. His door hung wide open, and there he was—reclining on his bed, boxers shoved down, hand pumping an enormous cock that glistened in the laptop’s glow. The screen flashed with a woman bent over, taking it rough, her screams syncing with the real-time chaos.

Tyler’s head lolled toward her, catching her in the doorway, and his smirk spread like oil. “Jealous, Lil?” he taunted, his voice a lazy drawl, hand still moving. “Bet you wish you were getting this.”

Her face burned, a mix of rage and something she wouldn’t name, and she slammed the door shut with a bang that rattled the frame. She stomped back downstairs, the porn’s muffled echo chasing her, her hands shaking as she snatched her wine glass. That smug little shit—his cock, his grin, his everything—burrowed deeper under her skin, and she hated how it lingered.

The night after slamming the door on Tyler’s porn-fueled jerkoff session, Lillian lay sprawled across the king-sized bed, the sheets cool against her flushed skin, her satin nightgown bunched around her thighs. The house was silent for once, but the quiet only amplified the restless thrum in her veins—days of Tyler’s sluts, his porn, that smug glimpse of his cock replaying behind her eyes.

She squeezed them shut, determined to sate the ache herself, her hand slipping beneath the fabric, fingers finding her clit with furious intent. She tried to picture anything else—Brad Pitt’s chiseled jaw from some old movie, the sweat-slicked abs of a football player—anyone but Tyler, that little shit, and his shit-eating grin. Her breath hitched, her fingers working faster, but the images wouldn’t stick. Pitt blurred into nothing, the athlete faded—Tyler’s hazel eyes, glinting with mockery, kept creeping in, his massive cock flashing unbidden.

She growled, low and frustrated, and rolled over, snatching her phone from the nightstand. Desperation clawed at her; she tapped open a porn site, scrolling past thumbnails of couples and threesomes, her thumb hesitating over videos tagged “big dick.” She clicked one—a tanned guy with a thick, veiny shaft pounding a moaning blonde—and propped the phone against a pillow, her hand diving back between her legs.

The man’s grunts filled the room, the woman’s gasps mirroring Lillian’s own, and she tried to lose herself in it, syncing her rhythm to the screen. But the guy’s size—impressive, obscene—dragged her mind back to Tyler, sprawled on his bed, stroking himself with that same arrogant ease. Her fingers sped up, slick and frantic, and she fought it, chanting not him, not him in her head.

The video’s climax loomed, the guy pulling out to finish, and Lillian’s resolve cracked—Tyler’s smirk flooded her vision, his taunt of “Jealous, Lil?” ringing in her ears. She came hard, a sharp, shuddering spasm ripping through her, her pussy clenching as she spasmed on the bed, the phone tumbling to the floor with a thud.

She slumped back, chest heaving, the orgasm fading into a humiliated, frustrated heap. Her hand trembled, sticky against her thigh, and she stared at the ceiling, Tyler’s grin still smirking in her mind’s eye. She yanked the sheets over her head, cursing herself, the ache dulled but not gone, her shame a bitter aftertaste.

A few nights later, Lillian sprawled across the living room sofa, the TV flickering with Trophy Wives of the Elite, her third—or was it fourth?—glass of Chardonnay trembling in her hand. The wine buzzed in her veins, a feeble attempt to drown the sexual frustration that gnawed at her, Tyler’s smirk and that damn cock still haunting her nights.

The doorbell chimed, sharp and unwelcome, cutting through the haze. She ignored it, assuming it was another of his sluts, her eyes fixed on the screen where a blonde screamed about a stolen yacht. It rang again, then a third time, insistent. Tyler’s voice bellowed from upstairs—”Lil, get the door! I’m busy!”—and she snarled, slamming her glass down, wine sloshing over the rim. She hauled herself up, the room tilting slightly, and stomped to the foyer, yanking the door open with a scowl.

There stood the dumbest, sluttiest, most whorish-looking girl Lillian had ever laid eyes on. She was barely five feet, drowning in a leopard-print tube dress that clung to fake tits like a second skin, the hem barely grazing her ass. Her hair was a platinum tangle, fried from bleach, extensions dangling loose, and her face was a clown show—blue eyeshadow smeared to her brows, lips a glossy orange, fake lashes clumped like tarantula legs. A tramp stamp peeked above her thong, visible through a cutout in the back of the dress, and her platform heels wobbled as she chewed gum with a loud smack.

Lillian’s lip curled. “Come in,” she snapped, jerking her head toward the stairs. “Make sure that little shit pays you first.” The girl blinked, vacant blue eyes wide, and tilted her head, gum popping. “Huh? Pay me? It’s just a Tinder date, lady.” Lillian rolled her eyes so hard it hurt, the wine fueling her disdain. “Whatever. Upstairs, second door on the right,” she muttered, waving her off before staggering back to the sofa, the TV’s volume her only shield as she heard the girl squeal in delight upon reaching Tyler’s room.

Minutes later, the house erupted. The thumping started—hard, fast, the headboard slamming like a jackhammer—and the girl’s voice exploded, the loudest and most obnoxious yet. “Oh my Gawd, Daddy, it’s so fuckin’ big!” she screeched, her twang piercing the walls.

Lillian’s teeth ground together, her hand shaking as she poured another glass, wine splashing the table. The TV blared, but it was useless; the girl’s dumb-as-a-box-of-hammers enthusiasm drowned it out. “Fuck me harder, Daddy, yesss!” she wailed, the bed creaking in protest. Tyler’s grunts joined the chorus, rough and guttural, and Lillian gripped her glass, knuckles white. “You’re so hot, Daddy, gimme that huge cock!” the girl yelled, each word a nail in Lillian’s skull.

Lillian cranked the TV higher, the trophy wives’ shrieks no match for “Ohhh, Daddy, pound me, I love it!” upstairs. The wine burned her throat as she gulped it, the noise a relentless assault, her frustration boiling over into a seething, drunken haze. Fury simmered in her chest, but worse—her pussy throbbed, heating up against her will as the slut’s shrieks rained down from upstairs. “Daddy, yes, fuck me!” echoed through the ceiling, the headboard slamming with brutal rhythm.

She clenched her thighs, hating the flush creeping up her neck, the TV’s trophy wives bickering uselessly in the background. Finally, the girl’s voice cracked into a series of piercing climaxes—”Oh Gawd, Daddy, I’m cumming!”—each one louder, the thumping hitting a crescendo before collapsing into silence. Lillian smirked, a bitter twist of her lips. At least it was over.

Five minutes later, the thumping kicked up again. Lillian’s smirk vanished as the girl’s moans erupted anew—”More, Daddy, gimme that big cock!”—the bed creaking like it might splinter. Her jaw tightened, her fingers digging into the sofa as the noise drilled into her skull, a second round she hadn’t signed up for. The slut climaxed again, shrieking, the walls shaking, until silence fell once more. Lillian exhaled, gripping the remote, trying to sink into her show’s third hour-long episode, the onscreen drama a lifeline.

Then it started yet again. Her head snapped up, disbelief warring with rage as the headboard resumed its assault, the girl’s voice hoarse but relentless—”Daddy, pound me, I need it!” This time, it dragged on longer, the slut hitting multiple shrieking peaks—”Ohhh, I’m cumming again, Daddy!”—each one clawing at Lillian’s frayed nerves. Her pussy burned, a traitor to her fury, the wine doing nothing to dull the heat. Finally, after an eternity, the crescendo crashed, and silence settled, heavy and taunting.

Fifteen minutes later, footsteps thudded down the stairs. Lillian glanced over as Tyler escorted his “date” into the foyer, the girl a sweaty, disheveled mess—hair plastered to her face, dress twisted, thighs bruised. She clung to his arm, gushing in that brainless twang. “Oh my Gawd, Tyler, your cock’s so fuckin’ huge, the best I ever had!” she squealed, batting clumpy lashes. “You lasted forever, Daddy, nobody fucks me like you!” She pressed against him, pleading, “Please, call me again, I need that dick soon!”

Tyler just swaggered, his smirk wide, soaking it in. “Yeah, we’ll see, babe,” he drawled, cocky as ever, nudging her toward the door. She giggled, blowing a kiss, and stumbled out, the latch clicking shut.

Tyler turned, scratching his bare chest, and headed for the kitchen, passing through the living room. “Man, I’m thirsty,” he muttered, then paused, eyeing the TV blaring at max volume. “Jesus, Lil, you got that cranked up,” he taunted, his grin sharp. “Might fuck up your hearing, y’know.”

Lillian’s teeth ground together, her face hot, her pussy overheating from hours of listening to him drill that dumb blonde slut. She glared at him, words caught in her throat, the wine and lust a volatile mix as he sauntered into the kitchen, his boxers slung low, oblivious to the storm brewing behind her eyes.

Her wine glass clattered onto the coffee table as she lurched to her feet, the TV’s chatter swallowed by the roar in her ears. She stormed into the kitchen, her bathrobe flapping, where Tyler stood cracking open a beer, the hiss of it slicing through her last shred of restraint. “You fucking degenerate,” she snarled, her voice a venomous whip. “You selfish, cocky little asshole who can’t keep his dick quiet for one goddamn night!” She advanced, fists clenched, hurling every name she could muster—”pig, leech, filthy bastard”—her red hair wild, eyes blazing.

Tyler leaned against the counter, sipping his beer, his smirk infuriatingly amused, like she was a yapping dog. He swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned. “Chill, Lil. Just trying Viagra for the first time—worked like a charm. Maybe get some for Dad, loosen you up a bit.”