Chapter 14

It’s Monday.

I don’t like Mondays.

My ass is itchy, my muscles are sore, and I’m going through major withdrawal.

I miss Kari.

I miss Ken.

... And yeah, I miss Brit too.

What does that make me? A sex addict? Sexaholic? Is that even a real word? Maybe I’m just hypersexual. Or maybe I’ve just finally found the good stuff, and now I can’t get enough. Is there even a difference?

Who cares?

People do incredible things for sex—beautiful things, terrible things, absurd, depraved, glorious things. Hell, in the last few days alone, I helped my hot friends dominate, humiliate, and reprogram my icy ex-girlfriend like she was some fucked-up Barbie doll.

And the wildest part? Brit was into it.

Seriously—she didn’t flinch once.

Oh, shit.

Brit.

I haven’t messaged her since we left Kari and Ken’s place yesterday afternoon. Is she pissed at me? Should I care? I mean ... yeah. I do care. That’s the problem.

Overthinking. Again. My brain’s going to melt if I keep spinning like this.

What I need is a quadruple espresso just to survive this godforsaken workday.

Naturally, there’s no espresso machine at lumberjack central. Just a sad drip machine, manned like a sacred altar by a literal Viking named Einar.

Big dude. Red beard. Tobacco-stained grin. Probably guards that coffee pot with his life.

I hold eye contact as I down an entire mug of Einar’s barely-caffeinated sludge. Tastes like burnt tree bark and melted nails.

You know me by now. I don’t mind drinking piss—but you’d better fuck me first if you want me to enjoy it.

“Good stuff,” I lie, smiling politely.

“You’re welcome,” Einar replies, voice as gravelly as a mountain road. He winks at me.

I smile back, resisting the urge to bleach my brain.

I leave the break room and head toward the locker room to stash my phone.

Ping!

I check the screen.

Brit: Coffee after work?

Me: 5:30. The new place near my house.

Brit::)

Smiley face. Okay. Promising.

I’m about to toss my phone into the locker when—

Ping!

Brit: Sex after coffee?

... What?

Okay, that I wasn’t expecting.

Is this real life?

She’s either horny or completely unhinged—or both.

Do I need to call Kari first? Ask permission? Are we exclusive? Does Brit even count?

I think about it for half a second. Kari won’t mind. She’d probably cheer me on. Or watch.

Me: Maybe.

Brit: two hearts and three pussycats!

Jesus. Brit’s gone full emoji.

I really thought she might be pissed. Or embarrassed. Or at the very least in recovery-mode after the shitstorm we just put her through.

But no. She’s throwing hearts and cat faces at me.

Has she changed?

Is she for real?

I guess I’ll find out in a few hours.

For now, I need to lock up my phone and go do actual work. You know—manual labor. Chopping wood. Measuring stuff. Trying not to think about coffee, pussy, piss, ass, cock, spit, tribbing, toe sucking...

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Coffee.

Pussy.

Coffee.

Pussy.

Ass.

Ass.

Cock.

A little later...

I’m sipping a strong, smooth-as-sin quadruple flat white. Across the table, Brit’s cradling a cappuccino in both hands like it’s a baby bird. She’s dressed like a bratty influencer: light pink jacket, tight white Hello Kitty tee, and no bra. Her nipples are doing their own social media post under that shirt.

Blue eyeshadow. Thick lashes. Pink lips.

She looks like a spoiled, rich girl straight off an Instagram reel—and I’m not mad about it.

She fidgets with her fancy lighter, pulling out a cigarette with slow, deliberate fingers. She lights it, takes a long drag, and finally looks at me. I can tell she’s working something out in her head, so I wait. Quiet. Patient.

She exhales a thin stream of smoke and sighs—long, deep—and suddenly she looks ... different. Her eyes glisten. Her bottom lip quivers like a kid who just lost her favorite toy.

“Do you ... I mean, I...” she starts, then trails off. Another drag. Another pause. “What happened this weekend ... that wasn’t real, was it?”

Oh boy.

Here it comes.

The regret. The breakdown. My punishment.

Bad Leo. Naughty Leo. First-class dick.

Letting my new filthy friends torment my delicate ex-girlfriend while I watched—and joined in.

Shame. Shame. Shame!

“Why?” I ask, feigning confusion. I know exactly what she’s going through.

She stares down at the table, her fingernails, her coffee—anywhere but me. Then she starts to cry.

Here we go.

She looks so cute like this. Vulnerable, unguarded. I could tease her, break her down further—but I don’t. I know where this is coming from. She’s been through shit. We all have. Life does that.

Cue the thinky-preachy bullshit in three ... two...

Parents mess you up because their parents messed them up. Then you mess up your kids, who mess up theirs. Trauma’s like a family recipe—handed down through generations, slightly burned every time.

We hurt the people who care about us, because somebody else hurt us first.

“You’re worried I think less of you,” I say gently, smiling.

She exhales like I just opened the valve on a pressure cooker.

“Oh god—yes! Thank you. I didn’t know how to say it.” She shakes her head. “Everything that happened was ... surreal. It felt like I wasn’t even me doing those filthy, stupid, incredible things. What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m a good girl. From a good family.”

She takes a drag, exhales through her nose—soft, smoky, sexy.

“I still go to church ... well, not all the time. Sometimes. One minute I’m me, the next I’m being passed around like a sex toy by the man I love and two strangers. And now I’m sitting here with you, crying—and soaked down there.”

She smiles. For real this time.

And damn, it’s gorgeous.

“It’s time you take responsibility for your own pleasure,” I tell her, still smiling. “If you wanted it, and you liked it, then own it. No one forced you. You could’ve left whenever you wanted—but you didn’t. You stayed. You wanted to be used.”

“I guess...” she murmurs, her cheeks flushing.

“It freed you,” I say. “Being bossed around, taken, pushed—you weren’t stuck in your own head anymore. Right?”

She nods. “Yeah. It did. I think ... I needed it.”

“And let me tell you something,” I lean forward. “You were fucking amazing. When you drop the act, when you let yourself go—you’re unreal.”

Her voice trembles. “I’ve never loved you more than I do now.”

I blink.

“You’re—how old are you?” she laughs, dabbing at her tears. “Sometimes you talk like an old monk. That’s what made me fall for you in the first place, you know.”

Monks? Ugh.

I don’t like monks. Or monkeys.

Let’s skip the philosophy and cut to what you really came here for:

Fast-forward.

We’re at my place.

I’m leaning back on my elbows, ass perched on the edge of the bed, feet planted wide on the floor.

Brit’s on her knees in front of me.

Her mouth is open.

Her eyes locked on mine.

She’s licking my balls. Slowly. Lovingly. Three fingers are buried deep in my ass, curling just enough to make my toes twitch.

She drags her tongue from my balls up the shaft. Across the slit. Then seals her lips around my cockhead like it’s the holy grail.

The force is strong with this one.

She bats those lashes. Takes me deeper.

Moans. Hums.

The vibrations make my skin sing.

“Fffuck...” I gasp, watching her swallow me whole.

She might go to church, but right now?

She’s worshipping something else.

“Mmm,” Brit hums like a naughty lullaby, her lips wrapped around my cock, her fingers still pressed deep in my backdoor—expertly curled, confidently stroking.

Her other hand flattens against my pubes, pushing down as if to say, Go on. Let it out. My thighs start to tremble. The familiar tingle spreads from my prostate to every nerve ending. She knows it. I know it.

SPLUT. SPLAT. SPLUT.

I unload—hard. Thick ropes of cum shoot down her throat, and Brit doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull back. She just keeps humming, drinking it all down like it’s her holy sacrament.

I grab her head with both hands, gently pulling her off my slick, twitching dick. What the hell? Junior is still at full attention.

Bravo, Junior. Standing ovation.

Before I can even admire him properly, Brit peels off her panties, climbs the bed like a wild animal and impales herself on my shaft. Just drops down on me. My back hits the mattress, elbows behind me for support, and I just watch her ride.

She’s still wearing her Hello Kitty shirt, and her bare tits bounce under the fabric like she’s trying to shatter a world record in slutty cardio. I grab those glorious boobs through the fabric, pinch her nipples, twist.

“Harder,” she breathes. “Pull them ... ouch ... yeah!”

She’s grinding. Fast. Faster. Her ass slaps against my thighs in wet, glorious rhythm.

SLAP! SMACK! SLAM!