Chapter 9: The Weight of Secrets

The third week settled into something dangerously close to habit. The mansion’s rhythms had always been predictable—parents leaving for work or golf by 8:30, quiet afternoons broken only by the hum of the HVAC or the distant rumble of I-435—but now every silence carried an undercurrent. Sophia and Julian moved through the house like thieves in their own home: careful footsteps, averted eyes in daylight, stolen touches when backs were turned.

Monday night they used the attic—dusty boxes of childhood relics, old Christmas decorations, the faint smell of mothballs and forgotten summers. Sophia waited on her knees among the stacked cardboard, hoodie unzipped to her navel, shorts discarded. Julian found her there at 12:17, door creaking shut behind him.

He didn’t speak. Just crossed the narrow space, pulled her up by the hair, pressed her face-first against a stack of labeled boxes—Sophia’s High School Art, Julian’s College Books—and entered her from behind in one long, slow thrust. The cardboard gave slightly under her palms; something inside shifted with a soft thud.

“Feel that?” he whispered against her ear. “That’s your old sketchbooks. The ones you used to hide drawings of me in. Naked. Hard. You thought I never found them.”

Sophia’s breath hitched—cunt clenching around him. “I—I wanted you to find them.”

He fucked her harder—slow snaps turning brutal—each thrust rocking the boxes. “You drew my cock like you’d memorized it from stolen glances. Now you get the real thing. Bent over your own failures. Taking your brother like the needy little artist who never grew up.”

She came silently—body shuddering, slick dripping onto the plywood floor—then he pulled out, turned her, pushed her to her knees again. Cum across her face this time—thick ropes streaking her cheeks, lips, dripping onto the box labeled Sophia Age 16-18. She licked what she could reach, tasting salt and dust, while he watched with dark eyes.