Chapter 35: Two-Faced 🌶️🌶️

We’re sitting at the table. Warm light, steaming plates, cutlery clinking against the dishes.

My mom’s serving portions of gratin, my dad’s going on about work—some guy who fell off a scaffold on-site. The vibe is chill. A little too chill.

And right across from me, there’s Emma.

She’s eating like it’s just another evening. Calm. Casual. But I can feel her feet moving under the table. Slow. Subtle.

And then it starts.

Her toes brush against my leg, creeping up slow, like some blind insect feeling its way. They climb. Higher. Until the sole of her foot presses against my thigh—warm, soft, unhurried. Then she pulls back. Playing. Fucking with me.

I tilt my head down a bit. I glance at her. She’s staring back, a bite of food halfway to her mouth, looking completely innocent.

But her feet? Still up to their filthy little game.

So I react. Cold. Loud. On purpose.

Me: “Jesus, Emma, get your nasty feet off me, this is getting annoying.”

Everyone turns to look at me.

She acts surprised. Gives a soft laugh.

Emma: “What? Not my fault if you’re invading my personal space...”

And then, like the smug little brat she is, she lifts one foot in my direction and wiggles her toes. I stare at her, heart pounding.

Mom: “Oh boy ... feels like you two are ten years old again.”

Dad: “Ha! No kidding.”

Emma hides a crooked grin as she helps herself to another serving.

And me? I’m still putting on the whole annoyed big brother act—arms crossed, eyes sharp.

But under the table, her foot slides right back in. Between my legs.

And she presses. Just enough.

Fuck ... she’s gonna drive me insane.

Dinner goes on—between my mom’s stories, random comments about the gratin, weak laughs, soft chatter. Feels like a good mood.

And yet...

That knot comes back in my throat. Tight. Crushing. Like a fucking weight pressing down.

And without warning, I blurt it out:

Me: “I got my results this morning.”

Silence.

All eyes on me. Even she stops moving under the table.

Me: “I fucked up.”

My mom puts her fork down. My dad goes quiet. The whole room freezes.

Dad: “What do you mean, you didn’t pass? You failed a class?”

I shake my head. I’m done hiding.

Me: “Not one. All of them. I haven’t done shit in months. I tanked the exams, the assignments—I turned in half-finished crap, or nothing at all. I’m totally fucked. I didn’t even hit the minimum average.”

Silence.

Heavy. Like something rotting in the air.

I keep going:

Me: “And the worst part? I know exactly why. It’s not the uni, not the teachers. It’s me. I let go, I checked out. And now I’m deep in the shit.”

I stare down at my plate. I can’t even lift my head anymore.

And that’s when the real talk begins.

My mom’s worried. Really worried. She asks how long it’s been going on, why I didn’t say anything.

She wants to know if it’s stress, a rough patch, if I want her to call someone—a teacher, a supervisor. She’s trying to understand. Her voice is soft, reassuring, but there’s a tremble underneath.

My dad stays calmer. He’s staring at me with that shut-off face—the “you’re pissing me off but I’m not letting go” kind of look.

He talks about repeating the year. Taking a break. Wants us to sit down, assess things properly.

And me, I’m just there. Empty. My stomach’s in knots. I feel sick. Ashamed. Not because of them.

Because of me.

Emma hasn’t said a word since the start. She’s still sitting across from me, quiet, eyes a little low. She hasn’t touched me again. But I know she’s burning up inside.

Then, right in the middle of all this, my dad turns to her—almost absentmindedly:

Dad: “Well ... let’s hope things go better for you, sweetheart. Looks like we’ll be counting on you to make the family proud this year.”

She slowly lifts her head.

And smiles. That twisted fucking smile. The one she saves just for me.

Then she drops the line. Calm. Casual. But it’s a slap in disguise.

Emma: “Brice could always sell his body. I’m sure he’d do well.”

A small silence.

My mom lets out this nervous little laugh, the kind that says “she’s such a little idiot.” My dad cracks a grin too.

Mom: “Emma ... come on now, not the time for jokes.”

But me ... I’m staring at her.

And what I see isn’t a joke.

It’s something more like an invitation.

Her eyes are burning. That look—it’s only for me.

It says: “If you fall, I’ll be right there.”

And under the table, slowly, her toes find their way back to me...

A few hours later, the house is drowned in silence. Not a sound. Lights off. Doors closed. The parents are asleep.

I’m sitting at the edge of my bed, shirtless, belt already tossed to the side. Phone in hand, screen glowing.

I type without thinking—my dick’s been hard for ten minutes already.

Me (message): “Come. Dress up nice. And not a word.”

Reply hits almost instantly.

Emma (message): “Yes, Sir. I’m on my way.”

And I know it’s true. I know she’s already picked an outfit. Picked it for me. I know she’s wet just thinking about me giving her orders.

A few minutes later, the handle turns, slow and silent.

She walks in.

Fuck.

Black garter belt, thigh-highs, no panties under a half-transparent lace top. Her nipples are poking through the fabric. Her hair falling over her shoulders. Her gaze, clear as crystal.

She shuts the door without a sound, walks toward me slowly, almost solemn.

I look up. Devour her with my eyes.

Me: “On your knees.”

She drops without hesitation. Her knees hit the floor softly. Head down for a second.

I lean toward her, eyes locked. She looks up—submissive, but there’s that fire burning behind her eyes.

Me: “So this is how you show up to your brother’s room now?”

She smirks. Slow. Way too confident. A brat’s grin—the kind that says she knows she’s breaking every rule ... and she loves it.

Emma: “Would you rather I came in one of my little girly pajamas?”

I blink. My stomach tightens.