The Following Morning

Morning did not start with a kettle whistling.

It started with Jenny.

The scream hit the wall before the light had decided to be light. Then the headboard -- shorter than last night, meaner, a finishing beat. Scott's eyes opened on the ceiling. Emma was already awake, rigid, listening with her whole body.

The moans and screams filled the flat. Mr. Jones was grunting. Conquering. Emma's brain had sketched the image in her brain. She gripped the sheet either side of her body. She shifted. Her arse moving side to side. Her pelvis started making little circles, as she opened her mouth and started to breathe and gasp. Scott looked sideways. His mind racing. Disgust featured heavily, but also shock. He'd never seen Emma like this. He hated that this made him hard, and watched Emma's lips pursed knowing full well that she was desperate to touch herself.

Jenny's voice was wrecked and shameless.

"Please-- please daddy come in me. I want it. Don't pull out. Fill me-- fuck, fill me--"

A man's sound. Not the pub. Not goodnight. Low, certain. The bed slammed the wall three times and they heard it happen: the break in his breath, Jenny's sob, the wet knowledge of a man spending inside her.

She came on it like she wanted the flat to know.

A long cry.

"daddy yes, I can feel it, I can feel you coming".

The headboard stuttering. It went on until her voice frayed and the slaps slowed.

Scott lay still.

Emma did not. Flush on her throat. Sheet tight over her nipples. Thighs pressed together and failing. She shifted for friction. He put his palm on her hip and stopped her movement.

"No."

"Scott?"

"I'm not helping you get off to that."

He left her buzzing. Denied. On the edge of orgasm, but denied. Emma knew not of this level of frustration. She'd never masturbated before. She'd never heard a man fuck a woman. She'd never watched a man fuck a woman. She'd never even watched porn. Scott was her one and only sexual partner, and she was having a million feelings that she'd never experienced.

The door to the spare room opened. Jenny's laugh trying to be ordinary. The clicking of her heels across the hallway. The front door. Then the spare room again, and Scott's father went to the kitchen like a guest again.

They waited fifteen minutes. Waited in silence. Emma put on a baggy t-shirt and yoga pants. Scott wore shorts and a t shirt.

When they emerged he was at the counter in an old man vest and baggy boxers, grey hair flattened, thick waist against the unit. Kettle steaming. Two mugs. The Sunday-lunch smile with sleep and sex under it.

"Morning. Kettle's hot."

Scott said something about tea that was not about tea.

His father handed them both mugs.

Emma said nothing. She couldn't pair the image of this fat, old man in front of her with what she heard. He looked even older standing in their kitchen bare foot with a dirty, white vest on. She'd only ever seen him dressed, and smartly dressed at that. Her eyes moved side to side as her brain anxiously tried to process this. Her smoking hot, young, blonde best friend was fucked into submission by this man? This fat, old man who right now looks like a nobody? She looked him up and down again.

She stared at his crotch.

Not a glance. A hold so complete the rest of the kitchen fell away. He was in old boxers, thin cotton, and even soft the shape of him sat heavy along his left thigh -- a thick, blunt line that explained the dance floor and the two hours of Jenny begging to be filled. Emma's lips parted. Her mug hung forgotten. She looked at it the way she had looked at the wall in the dark: like if she stared long enough she would see through cloth.

Scott saw her seeing it.

The humiliation arrived first, heat in his face, a sick drop in his stomach. Then anger, useless, because shouting "stop looking at my dad's cock", would write the sentence in the air. He followed her gaze despite himself and hated that he could now see what she was seeing, the weight of it, the reason Jenny had melted on the floor. His hands found the back of a chair and stayed there.

His father saw both of them.

He did not tug the shirt down. He did not turn to the sink. He leaned his hip into the counter, mug lifted, and let the cotton do the talking. His smile stayed friendly. His eyes did not. They went from Emma's mouth to the place she was staring to Scott's white knuckles and back, a quiet yes. He shifted his weight on purpose. The shape moved. Emma's throat moved with it.

Nobody spoke.

The kettle clicked off and still nobody spoke. Steam. The fridge humming. Jenny's perfume still in the hall. Emma's nipples were visible through her T-shirt. A shine had started at the join of her thighs; if either man had looked down they would have seen her press her knees together and fail. She swallowed. She tried to look at the window and her eyes dropped again, helpless, to that thick rest against his thigh.

Scott's father took a sip.

"Sleep all right?"

The question was for both of them. The amusement was for him.

Scott heard "I know what you heard. You know what she's doing with her eyes".

He heard, "your mother is at home and your fiancée is looking at my cock in your kitchen."

"Fine," Scott said.

Emma made a sound, but nothing followed. They both looked at her. The corner of Scott's mouth dropped, as his fathers rose.

She looked at Scott helplessly. They made eye contact. She glanced down at his crotch, and saw no shape. Just fabric. As if nothing was behind it. Scott immediately used the chair to cover himself. Emma moved her gaze sideways to his fathers crotch. The difference was unmistakable. She made another indistinguishable noise. Higher pitched.

She took one step toward the counter as if she might actually pour tea and stopped too close. From there the view was worse. The smell of soap and last night. She could have reached out. The thought must have shown, because Scott's father glanced at her hand on the worktop, pale, shaking slightly, and his smile widened a millimetre.

Scott saw that too.

The wire through the room pulled tighter. Three people. A thin wall. A wet spare sheet two doors away. Emma's breathing had gone shallow. She was so turned on it had become a posture -- shoulders tight, mouth soft, eyes stupid. Scott wanted to grab her wrist and drag her back to the bedroom. He also wanted, with a self-hatred that made him dizzy, to see whether she would drop to her knees if his father pointed.

He'd never experienced shame like this. Emma was his first. Every other girl he pursued from his school days was an unfruitful endeavour. He usually settled into the long game. Let's be friends first. He'd tried to talk to girls before then as a teenager, but was always shut down. He wasn't cool. He was a geek. The girls at school lusted after the sporty lads, or the bad boys. He never stood a chance. And even when he became friends with girls, that ended with them confiding who they really fancied. Scott never wanted to hear that. He didn't want to hear who was hot or not. And then when he was 18, he told Emily, his best friend, after two years of patience, and watching her get dumped and be treated badly, that he loved her. She laughed in his face. She found the idea preposterous. She told him that she'd never be interested in someone like him and that she can't see how other girls would be. Scott was humiliated. More so when she told her friends and the whole school knew what had transpired. The last six months of Scott's school life were miserable. And he very much kept himself to himself at Oxford, until in his final year he met Emma.

Emma was innocent. She liked the fact that he was nice. She liked the fact that he had patience. And she was a huge fan of the fact that he never pressured her and respected her. Emma had seen the types of boys, her friends got with and never wanted any part of that. For her, a boyfriend was someone who she could rely on and trust. He made her feel safe. To Emma, Scott was the ideal life partner, and someone she wanted to build a family with and spend their lives in a village with kids and a dog. The dream.

Scott had given her his all over the last two years. And he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He knew she was different to the girls with whom he was friends with previously she would never leave him for one of the cool boys The cool boys who made him feel insecure. He'd grown within those two years he felt like he was finally becoming a man.

And yet, here he was in his own kitchen, watching his beloved fiancée turn into a zombie in front of his own father. All his previous insecurities came rushing back and he did not know how to stop this. Every battle previously fought along these lines was lost by him and now he did not know what to do.

Emma continue to stare at her future father-in-law's crotch. She wanted to see how the fabric changed around it in painstaking detail so she could bring the image to life in her mind. She wanted to see it. She needed to see it. She had no idea who she was or where she was in that moment.

Scott watched her open mouth shallow breaths. He could see the wetness. He watched her slowly lick her lips. His own fiancee was salivating at the site of his father's cock. and the worst part was, it wasn't even on display.

Emma finally excused herself. She managed to say one word, and even that one word came out so meekly that's Scott didn't even recognise it.

"Bathroom."

She slipped out of the kitchen. The hall. The door. The extractor a second later.

Scott's father set the mug down without hurry. He walked to the bathroom and paused outside it, head tipped, a guest listening.

On the other side Emma did not even sit at first.

She shoved her back against the locked door, T-shirt up, yoga pants peeled down to her knees, knickers shoved aside, and put her fingers on herself like she was angry.

She was soaked -- from the screams, from the kitchen, from the shape in the cotton. Two fingers slid in with almost no resistance. She'd never touched herself this way before. Her other hand found her clit and rubbed hard, tight circles, the kind that did not care about building. It felt incredible, She bit her lip and still a wet sound left her. Small, filthy, the sound of a woman who had been denied in bed and then made to look.

She thought of Jenny's voice. " Fill me". She thought of the headboard. She thought of the bulge in the kitchen and how close she had stood. She fucked herself with her fingers and then added a third because two was not the thing she was picturing. She was lost in a foreign but needed masturbatory pleasure. Her knees bent. Her head hit the door. Heavy breathing now, through her nose, trying to be silent and losing: hitch, swallow, the slick rhythm of her hand, the faint slap of skin.

She dropped to the cold bathroom floor. She opened her knees against her yoga pants as much as she could. The tense pressure of the fabric resisted her, but she dared not remove her hands from herself to peel them down further. Her squirming hips seemed to do the trick, and forcing her knees wider meant that her yoga pants slipped down slightly to her calves, and then to her ankles. She now lay against the door with her legs and feet in full contact with the tiled floor. Three fingers thrust in and out of her squelching, wet, pussy. Two fingers on her other hand worked her throbbing clit furiously. Her body started to crumple inwards as she was building towards a tremendous orgasm. Her knees started to bend so that she drew her feet closer to her. Her face contorted in agony as she tried to prevent the scream. Her mouth opened and she drew a large gasp of air. And then it happened. Her world erupted. She slammed her body and head back against the door. So hard that the thump was heard in the kitchen. She came like thunder. An array of gurgles escaped her mouth as she managed to prevent the loud scream. Her cunt spasmed like never before. The soles of her feet clawed at the tiles to release the energy as both hands stayed pressed on her throbbing, soaking, vagina. She'd cum hard and ugly, thighs shaking, a swallowed cry that still had a shape, cunt clutching her own fingers while she pictured the hidden monster cock of the old man making toast twenty feet away. She released one hand to bring over her mouth, her hand covered in her own slippery, pussy juices. She breathed deeply and rapidly through her mouth. Stifling the moans and as much she could the gasps.

Scott's father heard the breathing. He felt the thumps against the door. He pressed his enormous, stiff cock against the door. The sounds of his future daughter in law: a young, pristine, English Rose, cumming like a bitch in heat on the bathroom floor. He chuckled, low, and walked back toward the kitchen.

Scott lasted less than a minute. He wanted out of the kitchen. He ignored his fathers' erection.

He stopped where his father had stopped. Closer, he heard her. He could feel her against the door. He could hear her breathing. He knew what that meant. He knew she'd just cum. He heard her wet fingers against the floor as she rose, brushing up against the door.

She washed her hands as if that were the point. In the mirror she was flushed, eyes wet, mouth swollen from being bitten.

When she opened the door Scott was still there. Mouth open. Lost for words.

She looked at him. Not sorry enough. The smell of her hung in the small room.

From the kitchen, pleasant as anything:

"Toast?"

Emma stepped past Scott. In the kitchen doorway her eyes went down again, one last helpless drop to the cotton, before she forced them to the window.

Scott's father buttered bread and smiled at his son. The tension did not ease.

It just had the sound of a tap dripping, and a woman who had already finished, and a man who had stood in the hall and counted her breaths.