Escort
Copyright© 2026 by Sandra Alek
Chapter 7
Helen carefully opened the door to her bedroom and stepped into the common living room. The house was dark, only moonlight silvered the floor. The sounds grew louder. They came from behind Steve’s bedroom door. Heavy, fast breathing, a quiet cry, and the rhythmic thump of the bed frame against the wall.
Helen froze in the middle of the room. Heat rushed through her. So while she suffered from her husband’s calls, Steve hadn’t wasted time? Who was with him?
She felt a strange mix of humiliation, jealousy, and wild, uncontrollable excitement.
Helen no longer belonged to herself. The rhythmic sounds from behind the wall matched her own arousal that had been building all these days — from Steve’s hungry looks, from his fingers on the ties of her swimsuit, from the shocking yet sweet triumph on the beach.
She walked right up to his door and pressed her back against the cold wall. Her legs shook. Her hand moved down on its own, finding the wet warmth. With her eyes closed, she no longer saw the dark living room.
In her mind, it wasn’t her fingers — it was Steve’s hard, sure hands. She imagined him taking her right there, against this wall, with the same raw power she heard behind the door. When she pushed her fingers deeper, she bit her lip hard, picturing him inside her, his rhythm, his control.
The tension reached its peak. Helen arched her back, and a loud, unrestrained moan escaped her lips, echoing through the empty bungalow. She didn’t care if anyone heard. It was a cry of freedom from Brooklyn, from Andrew, from herself.
Breathing hard, she pushed away from the wall. Sticky liquid ran down the inside of her thighs, leaving hot trails. Helen took a step toward her room, but at that moment Steve’s bedroom door opened.
A woman stood in the doorway — a tall, black-haired goddess in a barely-there silk robe. She looked relaxed and satisfied. When she saw Helen, she didn’t look embarrassed. Instead, she gave her a knowing look with soft superiority, smiled playfully, put her fingers to her lips, and blew Helen an air kiss. Then she walked out of the bungalow with a light step.
Helen stood frozen. Humiliation burned stronger than the recent ecstasy. She felt like a pathetic fan waiting backstage for a rock star.
She almost ran to her shower, turned the water on full blast, and scrubbed herself furiously to wash away the traces of the night. The water didn’t feel hot enough to clean away the bitterness.
She climbed into bed and pulled the sheet up to her chin. Sleep didn’t come. She was angry at Andrew for his pettiness, at that woman for her confidence, at Steve for his calm, and most of all — at herself.
The morning started with a sharp feeling of indifference. Helen showered without even thinking about locking the door — she didn’t care who might walk in or what they might see. She walked around the bedroom completely naked, standing for a long time by the window, letting the morning sun touch her body. Inside her lived a strange, slow-building anticipation that she couldn’t even explain to herself.
Steve’s knock made her only stretch slowly.
“Breakfast in the living room, Hel. Come out.”
She threw on a silk robe right over her damp skin and walked out. Steve was only in shorts; sunlight played across his tanned chest. On the table were already delicacies, iced juices, and a frosty bottle of dry white wine. They ate in silence, looking at the endless ultramarine ocean.
Not a word about the night before — no hints, no questions about the moans behind the door or the black-haired guest.
“After breakfast we’ll go into town,” Steve broke the silence. “Look at souvenirs, gifts. We fly out tomorrow morning.”