“First Steps Unseen” 

The stairs creaked like old bones under me as I hauled Kate down into the basement, her blindfold—that black satin scrap I’d tied too tight—shutting out everything but my grip on her. My hand locked around her wrist, her pulse slamming against my fingers, fast, alive, a drumbeat I could feel in my gut. Each step down—steep, narrow, a goddamn trap—dragged me further from the life I’d been choking on for years. Up there, my marriage was a hollowed-out shell, 41 years of playing content while I rotted inside. Down here? Kate—25, wild as a storm—cracked me open, woke something ugly and hungry I’d buried too long. We’d been at it before—quick, frantic fucks in stolen corners—but this was different. This was mine, ours, a hole I’d dug out of my skull just for her.

“Almost there,” I muttered, my voice scraping low, thick with the shit I couldn’t say. She didn’t answer—just gave this soft hum, lips cracking open a sliver, and fuck, that was enough. It was her sliding into that haze I lived for, submissive but electric, and my dick twitched like it had a mind of its own. The basement door hulked at the bottom, and I shoved it wide, the air hitting me—leather, sandalwood, heavy as sin. Twenty-six by twenty-six feet of twisted freedom sprawled out—a dungeon I’d built piece by piece, every nail a fuck-you to the life upstairs.

I’d sunk everything into this. Red velvet hung on the walls, swallowing noise like a throat, and foam mats padded the floor, screaming for her to kneel. Sconces flickered red, dim as hell, turning shadows into something I could taste. Upstairs, our marriages were cages—hers, mine, rusted shut. Down here, we broke free. I kicked the door shut, the lock snapping loud, a jolt that ricocheted in my chest. No way out now, and I didn’t want one.

She was still catching her breath when I yanked the choker from my pocket—black leather, soft but mean, a silver ring glinting in the red light. “Hold still,” I growled, stepping in, my chest grazing hers, close enough to feel her heat through my shirt. Her skin burned under my fingers, trembling as I strapped it around her throat, tight but not cruel. I clipped the leash on, let it hang in my hand, and fuck—the weight of it hit me hard, a shot of whiskey straight to the blood. She was mine to steer, to shatter, and I could barely keep my hands steady.

“Sebastian…” she whispered, soft, needy, testing the choker like it was a dare. That one word—my name in her mouth—nearly had me slamming her into the wall right there.

“Shh,” I said, tugging the leash light, just enough to feel her sway into me. “You’re mine down here.” Her lips quirked, a quick smirk—defiant, cocky—and it lit a fuse in me, hot and fast.

I pulled her deeper in, the leash tight, her blind steps stumbling but chasing me. The red glow licked across her, and my head was a mess—picturing her stripped, tied, shaking under me, skin flushed and open. I stopped her at the St. Andrew’s Cross, grabbed her hand, pressed it to the wood—smooth, cool, waiting. “This is where I’ll tie you,” I said, voice dropping, rough with want. “Spread you out—cuffs on your wrists, ankles pinned. Tight, so you feel me everywhere when I fuck you ‘til you break.” My breath snagged, the thought alone twisting me up—her helpless, mine, all mine.

Her fingers stayed on the cross, curling a little, and she sucked in air—sharp, quick, a sound that punched through me. I stepped in close, pressed against her back, the leash coiled around my fist. “You want that, don’t you?” I growled into her ear, low, ragged. “Me owning every damn piece of you?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, faint, almost swallowed by the room’s hum, but it landed like a spark on dry grass. She was in, deep as I was, and it burned.

I tugged her again, over to the spanking bench—leather gleaming red, a promise I couldn’t shake. My head spun, dizzy with it—her bent there, ass up, skin pink from my hand, the flogger, whatever I damn well pleased. “Here,” I said, sliding my free hand along the padding, feeling it give. “Legs apart, begging—my palm cracking ‘til you’re dripping for me.” I smacked her thigh, quick and hard, and she jolted—a low, dirty moan spilling out. It sank into me, feeding a hunger I’d starved for years.

“Fuck, Sebastian…” she muttered, and I yanked the leash sharper, reeling her in, her heat bleeding into my skin.

Next was the swing—straps swaying slow in the red haze. I lifted her hand to the harness, my mind already gone—her thighs over my shoulders, rocking hard as I drove into her. “Picture this,” I said, voice cracking, thick with need. “You, hanging, helpless—legs split while I fuck you ‘til you can’t breathe.” My fingers dug into her hip, and she leaned back into me, silent but loud as hell in my head.

“Take it off,” she said, voice cutting sharp, needy—the blindfold, I knew. It was her cracking, just a hair, and it twisted me up worse.

“Not yet,” I rasped, at least not without the safeword, pulling her to the mirrors. They stretched wide, glinting red, throwing back warped ghosts of us—me, her, hunger in shards. I stopped her, let the leash slacken, pressed her hand to the glass. “When I let you see,” I said, voice sinking low, “it’s all there—you, naked, fucked out against this. Every thrust, every scream, staring back in red.” My hard-on jammed against her ass, and I caught my reflection—eyes dark, wild, hers now too.

Her chest was heaving, shirt clinging tight, nipples sharp against it—I knew she was wet, could feel it in my bones. I dragged her to the restraint bed, my head a storm—her spread-eagle, tied down, mine to wreck. “Here,” I said, “I’ll bind you—helpless, the wand buzzing ‘til you’re screaming my name.” I yanked the leash, tipped her head back, sank my teeth into her neck below the choker. Her shudder ripped through me, and I was starving—always more, never enough.

“Oh god,” she gasped, a whisper that torched me.

I couldn’t stay away from the mirrors—hauled her back, ripped the blindfold off. Her eyes snapped wide, drinking in the red haze, the dungeon’s pulse. I grabbed her chin, forced her to the glass. “Look,” I growled, hands clamping her waist. “That’s you—collared, leashed, mine. Soon, you’ll see yourself come apart for me.” Her eyes in the mirror were black, raw, the choker a slash against her throat. The red light twisted us into shadows, and I tugged the leash—her gasp hit like a drug.

“Pick something,” I said, voice shredded, desperate. “Now. I can’t fucking wait.”

She bit her lip, eyes flicking to the cross in the glass. “That,” she said, rough, certain. “Tie me up.”

And fuck—that snapped me. I dropped the leash, grabbed rope and cuffs, hands shaking like a junkie as I hauled her over. She trembled while I bound her—wrists stretched, body arched, red light spilling over her like blood. I stepped back, chest pounding, and saw her in the mirror—eyes daring me to tear her apart. And I would—‘til it was just us, nothing else left.

“Tied to You”

The ropes dug into her wrists just enough as I tightened the last knot, cuffs clamping her ankles to the St. Andrew’s Cross. She stood there, stretched out, a taut wire glowing red under the flickering sconces, her body laid bare to me in a way that made my hands itch. My fingers still buzzed from binding her—every twist of the rope yanking me deeper into this pit I’d dug with her. This wasn’t just a fuck anymore; it was me staking a claim, branding her into my skin.

I stepped back, chest squeezed tight, breath coming rough and uneven, drinking her in. The choker hugged her throat—my mark, black and unyielding—the leash dangling loose now, brushing the floor like it was mocking me to pick it up. Her shirt stuck to her, stretched across her chest, nipples sharp against the fabric, screaming for my hands. The mirrors threw it back—her pinned, me hulking over her, shadows twisting us into something wild, feral, caught in that dim red haze. I caught her staring at herself too, eyes dark and wide in the glass, like she was daring me to snap her in half.

“You’re fucking gorgeous like this,” I said, voice scraping low, a growl I couldn’t choke back as I stepped in. My hand hovered over her hip—close, not touching, letting the heat coil between us, making her feel me there. “All mine.”

She didn’t say much—just tipped her head back against the cross, neck bared, the choker cutting a stark line against her pale skin. “Prove it,” she murmured, husky, a jab wrapped in a plea that hit me square in the gut.

That was it—my green light. My hand slammed onto her hip, rough, greedy, fingers sinking in as I pressed myself against her. The cross didn’t budge—solid, no escape—just her, me, this warped little heaven we’d clawed out of the dark. I dragged my lips along her jaw, tasting salt, feeling the shiver ripple through her. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” I whispered, teeth scraping her ear, voice cracking. “Tied up, waiting—fuck, Kate, you’re killing me.”

Her breath snagged—a soft, jagged sound that sank into my bones—and I pulled back just enough to snatch the flogger off the bench. The leather felt cool, heavy in my palm, strands brushing my skin as I trailed them over her stomach, teasing through her shirt. She twitched, barely, testing the ropes, and the mirrors caught every damn second—her wrists flexing, hips shifting, that red glow turning her into something I couldn’t look away from.

“Hold still,” I snapped, voice sharp, flicking the flogger light—just a tap on her thigh. She jolted anyway, a low moan spilling out, and it hit me like a slug of booze, straight to the veins. I swung again, harder, leather cracking against her jeans, and her head tipped back, mouth open. That sound—half gasp, half beg—echoed off the walls, the mirrors throwing it around ‘til it was all I could hear.

“Sebastian…” she breathed, so quiet I almost missed it, but it landed like a punch—my cock throbbing, straining, begging to break free. I dropped the flogger, hands clawing at her shirt, yanking it up to bare her stomach, her ribs, the edge of her bra. The red light spilled over her skin, and I pressed my mouth there—hard, biting just enough to leave a mark she’d feel later. She arched into me, as much as the ropes let her, heat rolling off her, need I could taste in the air.

I stepped back, grabbed the leash off the floor, wound it tight around my hand. “Look at yourself,” I said, yanking it sharp, forcing her head up to the mirror. “See it—fucking perfect, tied up for me.” Her eyes slammed into mine in the reflection, dark, burning, and I tugged again—her gasp a live wire down my spine. “You like that, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” she muttered, voice cracking, and fuck, it was the sweetest thing—soft, broken, all for me.

My free hand slid down, brushing her jeans’ waistband, teasing, then dipping under—just enough to feel her, soaked and hot against my fingers. She shuddered, a quiet “Fuck” slipping out, and I grinned—wild, unhinged. “That’s my girl,” I said, pulling back, pressing my body into hers again, letting her feel the hard line of me against her hip. The cross creaked under us, mirrors showing it all—her trapped, me grinding, that red light twisting us into something dark and wrong.

Her breath came fast, ragged little gasps filling the air as I stood there, pressed tight, her heat seeping into me. I eased off just enough to see her face—mouth slack, eyes half-shut, glued to the glass. “Feel that?” I rasped, rocking my hard-on against her, letting her know what she’d done. My hand dragged up her side, rough, shoving her shirt higher ‘til it bunched under her arms—ribs curving, bra peeking out, skin begging for my teeth. “You’ve got me fucked, Kate.”

She tipped her head back, a soft moan leaking out as my fingers grazed under her breast. “More,” she muttered, low, thick, and it was like tossing gas on the fire raging in my chest.

I grinned, feral, gripped the leash harder, yanked it ‘til she gasped again. “Greedy little thing,” I said, leaning in, dragging my teeth along her collarbone—tasting her, feeling her shake. “You’ll get it—everything.” My other hand moved quick, popping her jeans open, ripping the zipper down with a jerk. She squirmed, ropes groaning, and the mirrors caught it—hips twitching, chest heaving, every move filthy and perfect under that red glow.

I slid my hand in—past denim, past thin fabric—and fuck, she was drenched, slick and warm against my fingers. Her whole body jolted, a sharp “Oh god” breaking free, and I pressed harder, teasing just enough to make her thrash. “That’s it,” I growled, breath hot against her ear. “Give it to me.” She did—soft, desperate noises spilling out as I worked her, leash pulling her head back so I could watch her in the mirror—eyes shut tight, mouth wide, gone.

Seeing her like that—bound, helpless, unraveling—shoved me right to the edge. I pulled my hand out, ignored her whine, stepped back to grab the wand off the bench. It hummed alive, low and steady, and her eyes flicked open—darting to the mirror, then me. “Sebastian…” she breathed, half warning, half plea, and I smirked, closing in.

“Watch,” I said, pressing the wand to her thigh—letting it buzz through her jeans, slow, cruel. She tensed, thighs shaking, and I slid it higher, nudging it where she needed it. Her head cracked back against the cross, a choked moan tearing out, and the mirrors showed it all—her arching, ropes straining, my hand steady on the leash as I pushed her toward the cliff.

“You’re mine,” I said, voice thick, raw, leaning in to bite her neck—hard, marking her. “Say it.”

“Yours,” she gasped, barely holding it together, and fuck, it was everything—her breaking, right there. I cranked the wand up, pressed it firm, and she shattered—loud, messy, shaking hard against the cross, mirrors catching every twitch, every cry. I didn’t let up, watching her ride it, my own need clawing at me, cock aching as I pinned her there with ropes and will.

She went limp, panting, and I killed the wand, let it drop. My hands were on her again—cupping her face, kissing her hard, tasting her surrender, her heat. “We’re not done,” I muttered against her mouth, leash still tight in my fist. “Not even fucking close.”

“Not even Close”

Her lips quivered against mine, soft and swollen from the way I’d claimed them, her breath huffing out in shallow bursts as I pulled back. Kate hung there, lashed to the St. Andrew’s Cross, her body slack but alive—still trembling from what I’d just wrung out of her, ropes propping her up when her legs gave out. The red sconces bled light over her flushed skin, the choker biting into her throat, the leash swinging loose from my hand like a tether I’d kill to keep. The mirrors flung it all back at me—her surrender, my fixation, shadows twisting us into something I couldn’t peel my eyes off. This affair owned me, soul and all, and I wasn’t anywhere near done—not even fucking close.

I dragged my thumb across her cheek, smearing the sweat beading there, feeling her lean into it like she was starving for me as much as I was for her. “You’re still with me,” I muttered, voice ragged, clogged with shit I couldn’t spit out—how she’d gutted me, how this basement, this second, was the only thing keeping my head from caving in. Her eyes flickered open, dark and foggy, catching mine in the mirror, and fuck—that look was a match struck against the dry tangle in my chest.

“Yeah,” she whispered, voice cracked but solid, and it slammed into me—her trust, her heat, mine to take.

I stepped back, let the leash slide through my fingers ‘til it pulled tight, a soft yank tipping her head forward. Her shirt was still hiked up, jeans gaping, and I couldn’t hold back—my hands hit her waist, shoving the denim down her hips, past her thighs, ‘til it bunched at her knees. The air kissed her bare skin, and she shivered—a quiet “Fuck” slipping out as I peeled her underwear down too, leaving her wide open, fragile, flawless. The mirrors hit me from every angle—her legs splayed by the cuffs, body quaking against the cross, red light washing over her like she was some kind of sacrifice.

“You see that?” I said, voice low, stepping beside her, my hand trailing up her thigh—rough, slow, skirting her heat without diving in. “Look at yourself—fucking mine, Kate.” Her head lifted, eyes locking on the glass, and I saw it—how it sank into her, lit her up again. I pressed in, chest against her shoulder, my cock throbbing through my pants, grazing her hip as I leaned close, letting her feel what she’d done to me.

“Sebastian…” she breathed, barely a word, more a plea that snapped something loose inside me.

I dropped to my knees, hands clamping her hips, tilting her forward as far as the ropes would give against the cross. Her scent—hot, wet, frantic—flooded my head, and I didn’t wait—my mouth was on her, tasting her, tongue sliding into her slickness from below. She jolted, a sharp cry tearing out, and the mirrors caught it—her head flung back, mouth wide, ropes straining as she shoved into me. I didn’t ease up—licked her slow, then fast, sucking hard ‘til her thighs shook, gasps breaking into moans that ricocheted off the walls.

“Fuck—please,” she choked out, voice wrecked, and it drove me harder—hands digging into her, pinning her as I ate her alive. She was dripping, coming undone again, and I felt it swelling—her second crash, raw and sloppy, right there under my tongue. The mirrors showed it all—her face twisting, body bowing against the X, red glow making her look like she was burning up. She came hard, loud—a scream that ripped through the room—and I kept going, riding it ‘til she whimpered, too raw, pleading without words.

I pulled back, swiped my mouth with my hand, stood slow as my own need clawed at me—cock aching, heart slamming. She was panting, head drooping, the leash swaying where I’d let it fall. I snatched it up, wound it tight around my fist, tilted her chin with my other hand, forcing her eyes to mine in the mirror. “Look at us,” I said, voice gravel and fire. “Think I’m done with you?”

That was my signal. I hit the cuffs—ankles first, then wrists—unbuckling fast, catching her as she slumped into me, legs shaky as hell. The ropes left marks, faint red lines I traced with my fingers, possessive as fuck. She faced me now, close, her breath searing my chest as I kissed her hard—tasting her, tasting me on her, the affair’s dirt and heat in every gulp. “On your knees,” I said, voice low, tugging the leash down.

She sank slow, eyes locked on mine, and fuck—the sight of her there, collared, spent but still hungry—unraveled me. My hands fumbled at my belt, buckle clanking loud in the quiet, and I shoved my pants down, freeing myself—hard, aching, all hers. The mirrors framed it—her kneeling, me looming, shadows stretching us into something primal, something this mess between us had forged.

Her knees hit the foam mats soft, red light spilling over her as she stared up, eyes dark and steady despite the way her chest heaved from the cross. The leash hung slack, her lips parted like she could already taste me. I wrapped it tighter, pulled just enough to tip her head higher. Her gaze flicked down, then back up—a spark flaring that made my pulse hammer. The choker sat tight against her throat—my claim—and it drove me nuts, knowing she’d let me put it there.

“Sebastian,” she murmured, low and rough, hands twitching like she wanted to grab me but held back. That word—my name—was a torch to the fire in my gut.

“Open,” I said, voice like stone, stepping in, the tip of me brushing her lips. She didn’t flinch—mouth parting, warm and wet, taking me in slow, then deep, her tongue sliding in ways that buckled my knees. I groaned, loud and raw, one hand on the leash, the other knotted in her hair, guiding her—though she didn’t need it. She knew me, knew what I craved, and fuck, she delivered—sucking hard, cheeks hollowing, eyes flicking up like she dared me to break. The mirrors threw it back—every angle of her on her knees, head moving, my fist in her hair, red light twisting us into some dark, fucked-up picture. I saw her lips stretch around me, rope marks still on her wrists as she braced against my thighs. It was too much—her heat, her giving in, the moan vibrating through me. “That’s it,” I growled, hips rocking, pushing deeper, testing her. “Take it, Kate—fuck, take it all.”

She did—choking a little, a soft gag that made it hotter, eyes watering but holding mine. The sound—wet, desperate—filled the room, bouncing off the glass, and I was gone, lost in her, in us. My grip tightened, pulling her closer, and she pushed back—eager, starving, like she needed it too. It wasn’t just her yielding; it was her taking me, and that nearly tipped me over.

I yanked the leash hard, pulling her off with a wet pop—her lips shining, breath heaving as she stared up, confused but blazing. “Not yet,” I said, voice stretched thin, barely hanging on. “I want more.” I hauled her up by the leash—rough but steady—her legs wobbling as she stood. Her jeans were tangled at her knees, shirt bunched, and I didn’t fix it—just spun her to the spanking bench, bent her over it, her hands gripping the leather, body open for me.

The mirrors caught it—her arched, me behind, red light glowing on her skin. I fumbled for a condom, tore it open with my teeth—habit, whatever—and rolled it on, hands shaking with how bad I needed her. I lined up, brushed against her, and thrust in—hard, deep—a groan ripping out as she clenched around me, hot and tight and perfect. She cried out, loud, no holding back, fingers clawing the bench, the sound wrapping around us. “Yes,” she gasped, voice breaking, and I moved—pounding into her, relentless, leash pulling her back into every thrust.

The reflections multiplied it—side, front, every angle of her taking me, my hips slamming, sweat streaking down my back. She met me, wild, shameless, and it hit me—this wasn’t enough, not like this. I slowed mid-thrust, breath jagged, pulled out—her whine at the emptiness twisting me up, her head turning, eyes questioning in the mirror.

“Kate,” I said, voice hoarse, dropping the leash to grip her hips, holding her steady. “I want you—really you. No rubber. Just us.” My heart thumped hard, the weight of it crashing in—this affair, this trust, tipping into something new. “You okay with that?”

Her breath caught, and for a beat, I thought she’d balk—but she nodded, quick, sure. “Yes. Do it,” she said, soft but firm.

That was all I needed—heat, trust, her handing me this. I ripped the condom off, tossed it, lined up again—bare now, her warmth right there. I thrust in—slow, then hard—and fuck, it hit me like a train, raw and real, her heat swallowing me whole. I groaned, primal, leaning over her, teeth sinking into her shoulder—tasting her, marking her—as I sped up. “Mine,” I growled against her skin, voice shot, feeling her tighten, her breath stuttering like she was close again. “Say it.”

“Yours,” she moaned, loud, clear, and it broke me—shoving me over, spilling into her with a roar, body shaking as she followed, trembling, crying out beneath me. We stayed locked, panting, mirrors catching every shudder, every fall, ‘til I pulled out slow and sank to the floor, dragging her with me, leash tangled between us.

I kissed her—soft, fierce—tasting the wreck we’d made. “Not even close,” I muttered, breath hot against her lips, and her faint laugh—worn, satisfied—told me she got it

“Beneath the Surface”

Her laugh hung there, faint and worn, as we slumped together on the floor, the leash a twisted snarl between us. Kate’s head rested against my shoulder, her breath slowing, warm against my neck, and I could still taste her—our mess, our trust, that line we’d just blown past going bare for the first time. The mirrors glared back, red light glinting off the sweat slicking her skin, rope marks fading on her wrists, and it hit me hard—this wasn’t just fucking anymore. It was us, hacked out of the ruins of everything else, and I wasn’t letting it slip through my fingers.

I brushed a damp strand of hair off her face, my fingers sticking there, and she tilted her head—eyes half-shut but cutting, locking onto mine. “You okay?” I mumbled, voice rough, heavy with shit I couldn’t unpack—not just what we’d done, but the trust, the leap that had my chest caving in.

“Yeah,” she said, soft but steady, shifting to sit up, wincing like her body was bitching at her.

“You?” I nodded, tugging her closer, her heat anchoring me. “Better than okay.” Damn straight—better than I’d been in years, trapped behind that Costco meat counter, slicing roasts and ribs for assholes who didn’t even see me. That life—steady, dull as hell—kept the bills paid, propped up the lie of my marriage, but it wasn’t this. This was alive, a jolt to the chest, and it kicked off with her—Kate, the nurse who dragged fire through those endless shifts and still burned bright.

She worked at the hospital a few miles off—hands steady with needles, eyes sharp even after chaos chewed her up. I’d clocked it the first time we crossed paths—her on a break, me at lunch, grabbing coffee, both pretending we weren’t staring. Now here she was, bare and broken open on a basement floor I’d built with cash nobody knew about. The stocks were a fluke—dumb luck on tech and pharma that paid fat, money I’d stashed while my wife figured I was scraping by on butcher pay. That pile bought this—a nowhere house in a sleepy Michigan suburb, cheap enough to dodge notice, but with a basement too big for a state hooked on crawlspaces. Perfect. Close enough to our real lives, far enough from the bullshit.

“You’re quiet,” she said, her voice slicing through the fog, fingers doodling lazy patterns on my chest.

“Thinking,” I said, leaning back against the bench, the cold leather jolting my skin. “About how this kicked off—coffee, you in scrubs, me stinking of raw meat. And now…” I waved a hand at it all—the mirrors, the cross, the red haze—our secret scratched into this hole.

She smirked, faint but real, swinging a leg over to straddle me—jeans still tangled at her knees, her heat pressing close. “You built this with Costco cash?”

I laughed, low and rough, hands landing on her hips. “Nah—stocks. Side gig she doesn’t know about.” My wife, I meant, and Kate got it—her own marriage a ghost she barely mentioned. “Enough to snag this dump. Big basement, middle of nowhere—just for us.”

Her eyes roamed, soaking it in—not just the gear, but the why behind it. “Smart,” she said, leaning in, lips grazing mine. “And crazy.”

“For you,” I shot back, kissing her deep, slow—tasting the grit and spark she hauled in from those shifts, three days a week, twelve hours each, stitching up lives while I hacked meat and buried cash. She eased off, forehead against mine, and I felt it—the weight she carried, how this place, this thing we had, was her lifeline too.

“Tuesday,” she muttered, voice low, cracking the door to her world. “Guy flatlined—pulled him back, but fuck, it sticks.”

I gripped her tighter, possessive, protective, even knowing she didn’t need saving—she was tougher than me, tougher than most. “You’re here now,” I said, voice dropping, thumb brushing her cheek. “With me.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, and that was it—our deal, our break from the hospital’s cold buzz and the butcher block’s blood. I pulled her down, kissed her again—softer, the heat still simmering, not dead. This house, this basement—it wasn’t just about the sex anymore. It was ours, a rope we’d knotted from secrets and spare change, and I’d be damned if I let it fray here.

“For Us”

Her laugh trailed off, soft and drained, as we slumped together on the floor, the leash a knotted mess between us. Kate’s head rested against my shoulder, her breath easing, warm against my neck, and her taste lingered—our chaos, our trust, that line we’d just smashed going bare for the first time. The mirrors stared down, red light catching the sweat on her skin, faint rope marks crisscrossing her wrists, and it sank into me—this wasn’t just a fuck anymore. It was us, clawed out of the shitpile of our lives, and I wasn’t letting it go.

I shifted, pulling back to see her, my hand cupping her face, thumb scraping along her jaw. Her eyes hit mine—worn but alive—and that pull yanked at me, the same one that started with stolen coffee looks and dumped us here, raw and unguarded in a house I’d bought with cash my wife’d never sniff out. “You gotta go soon,” I said, voice low, hating every damn word as it spilled out. Her shifts loomed—endless hours patching up wrecks at the hospital while I carved meat at Costco, both of us faking normal ‘til we could snatch this again.

“Yeah,” she muttered, rough, leaning into my hand for a beat before pulling back—practical, always, even now. She tugged her jeans up, wincing as the denim bit into tender skin, and I watched, chest tight, wanting to pin her here—keep us locked where the world couldn’t claw in. But it did. It always fucking did.

I hauled myself up, yanking my pants on, belt clanking as I buckled it—sharp, loud in the quiet. “Next time,” I said, half vow, half ache, snagging her shirt off the floor and tossing it over. She caught it, that faint smirk flickering as she slipped it on, the fabric swallowing the marks I’d left—marks I’d see every time I sliced tenderloin tomorrow, hands shaking like a junkie while I played it cool.

“Thursday,” she said, standing, smoothing her hair like she could wipe away our mess. “After my shift—off ‘til Sunday then.” Her voice held steady, but her eyes flicked to mine—a spark telling me she’d be counting the hours too.

“Thursday,” I echoed, nodding, already running it through—clocking out, dodging overtime bullshit, hauling ass to this quiet corner where the basement waited. The house was ours now, a secret I’d carved with cash I’d buried deep, its oversized basement a freak find perfect for us.

She grabbed her bag from the corner, slung it over her shoulder, and I trailed her up the narrow stairs—each creak dragging us back to the real shit. The air switched as we hit the ground floor—cooler, cleaner, stripping off the musk and heat we’d drowned in. I swung the door open—night poured in, the suburb dead quiet except for some mutt barking far off. Her car sat in the driveway, plain as hell, like it belonged—like we did.

“Text me,” I said, leaning against the frame, the leash still in my pocket, a heavy little secret against my thigh. “When you’re done—let me know you’re good.”

She nodded, stepping out, then turned back—her lips hit mine quick, fierce, a goodbye that didn’t feel done. “See you,” she said, voice soft, and then she was gone—sliding into her car, headlights sparking as she peeled out. I watched ‘til her taillights blinked out around the corner, the street empty again, like she’d never been here.

I shut the door, locked it—the silence dropped like a weight. Downstairs, I’d clean up—wipe the bench, coil the ropes, kill the red lights—but not now. I stood there, her taste still sharp on my tongue, her marks tattooed in my head. Thursday—she’d be back, and I’d be waiting, counting hours behind the butcher counter, that stock cash burning a hole in my life, all for this.

For us.

“Too Near the Edge”

Tuesday afternoon, and I was chest-deep in the basement, the air thick with leather and a sour whiff of oil as I cranked a bolt tight on the spanking bench. Kate was miles off, drowning in hospital chaos, her next shift dragging ‘til Wednesday night—Thursday dangling out there, a taunt, our next grab at this. I’d ducked out after Costco, fed the wife some line about an errand—clean, easy, no one else in it ‘cause there never was. No buddies to lean on, no one knew about this but Kate, and that’s how it stayed—locked down, just us. This place was ours, hacked out with half the stock cash I’d scored—the other half dumped into the marriage, that patio set and outdoor fireplace she’d gone nuts over last summer, ‘cause I still gave a damn, even if our bedroom was a dead zone.

The red lights were dark, mirrors blank—just me and the wrench’s clink, Kate’s taste from Sunday flickering in my head, her rope marks haunting me like a ghost I couldn’t shake. I’d been down here fiddling, keeping it primed—months of sneaking off after shifts, weekends too, hammering the cross, bolting the bench, rigging the swing, every piece a secret scratched out with sweat and half my stash. Today was maintenance—tighten the bench, oil the hinges—but my hands moved quick, clock pounding in my skull. My phone buzzed on the bench, cutting the quiet, and I snatched it, expecting her. Nope—wife’s name blinked up, a soft nudge, not a kick. I sucked in a breath, answered smooth as I could. “Hey, you good?”

“Where you at?” she said, gentle but edged, like she’d been waiting. “You’ve been gone a lot—figured you’d be home by now.”

She wasn’t wrong—I’d been a ghost, slipping out too much, building this dungeon plank by plank over months. I leaned on the bench, kept it slick. “Yeah, out grabbing stuff—working on something special for you. Lost track.” It rolled out easy, hooked to half-truth—half the stock cash was hers, and I’d been chasing deals for that patio set, cushioned chairs, fire pit she’d flipped for, a surprise to spark her up soon.

A pause—faint rustle over the line, probably stirring dinner. “Special how?” she asked, curious now, a lift in her tone. “You’ve been off on your own so much—barely see you anymore.”

My pulse kicked, but I leaned in, voice warm. “You’ll love it—piecing it together slow, making it right. Wanted to surprise you.” I chuckled, soft, seeing her face when she’d spot it—the backyard lit up, chairs she’d melt into, cash making her grin while I kept this half-smoldering with Kate. “Wrapping up—home soon.”

She hummed, pleased, not pushing. “Okay—sounds sweet. Dinner’s waiting, so don’t drag.” She hung up, and I let out a slow breath, wrench slipping in my hand as I dropped it. She’d clocked it—months of me vanishing, nailing this place together—and I’d slid past it clean. The patio wasn’t bullshit, just a cover, and it’d keep her happy while I clung to this, the other half, with Kate. But that tone, that quiet prod—she was watching now, and I couldn’t pull it any tighter.

I texted Kate, fingers steady: “Wife’s asking about me being gone—covered it, but she’s noticing. Watch your end.” Her reply snapped back: “Shit. Cybrus grilled me today—‘whose friend?’ again. Said gym, but she’s nosy. You good?” I fired off: “Yeah—handled it. Thursday’s on—stay sharp.”

I scanned the room—bench half-oiled, tools sprawled, cross-hulking—and her words sank in, dinner waiting, suspicion brewing if I stalled. No time to fuss—I grabbed the wrench, twisted the last bolt hard, metal squeaking under the strain. The oil can tipped as I smeared a quick streak on the hinges, slick catching the dim light, and I chucked the rag, wiped my hands on my jeans. Tools clattered into my bag—screwdriver, pliers, all of it—months of work glaring back, the leash from Sunday coiled on the bench like a jab. Kate’d be here Thursday, and it’d be set, but tonight, I had to bolt.

My head churned as I moved—her voice looping, “barely see you,” soft but loaded. I’d been solid at this, the loner game—no pals to fuck it up, no loose threads—but building this ate time, too much damn time, and she’d felt the hole. The patio’d patch it—chairs dropping tomorrow, fire pit next week—half the cash for her, proof I still cared, while this half fueled the fire I couldn’t kill. Cybrus sniffing Kate’s tracks, my wife tallying my hours—it was wobbling, and I had to hold it steady, keep her beaming, keep this ours.

I zipped the bag, killed the lamp—basement dropped into shadow, cross fading, mirrors blind, Kate’s echo stuck in the dark. I crept upstairs, pulse thumping, the ground floor’s hush mocking me—suburban peace cloaking my split. I peeked through the blinds—street dead, truck out front, safe for now, but I’d need a new play next time. Keys in hand, I locked up quiet, slipped out fast, fired the truck with a low growl, easing off like I’d never been here. The drive home blurred—my head spinning, her waiting, dinner cooling, Kate’s text searing, Cybrus digging.

Thursday, we’d pivot—new moves, tighter lies. I’d play the loner, nod at Costco, hack meat like my mind wasn’t here, keep her glowing with patio dreams while she watched and Kate dodged. This was us, and I’d bullshit like a champ to keep it.

“Sparks We Don’t Light” 

Wednesday evening, and I was home, truck parked dead center in the driveway like it belonged, no shadows to duck tonight. The house hit me with her cooking—roast chicken, potatoes, a warm smack as I stepped in, shrugging off my Costco jacket. She was in the kitchen—apron tied, hair pulled back, stirring something on the stove—and fuck, she looked good, soft and solid, the woman I’d loved for years even if our bedroom was a cold, empty shell. I dropped my bag by the couch, the wrench from yesterday a dull weight inside, and leaned in the doorway, watching her move—steady, simple, a life I could still touch.

“Hey,” I said, voice low, crossing over. She glanced up, a smile flickering—real, not fake—and I slid my arms around her waist from behind, chin on her shoulder. Her warmth seeped into me, familiar, safe, and I kissed her neck—soft, no fire, just muscle memory. She leaned back, humming low, her hand brushing mine, and for a second, it was us—easy, good.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” she said, tilting her head just enough to catch my eye. “You’re early—thought you’d be out again.”

I grinned, letting her go, propping against the counter. “Nah—wanted to be here tonight.” It wasn’t a lie—after yesterday’s near miss, her voice still echoing in my skull, I needed this, needed her, even if it didn’t burn like Kate did. The affair was a blaze I couldn’t kill, but this—this was home, and I wasn’t ready to watch it fall apart.

She plated the chicken, and we sat, forks clinking through the quiet. She talked—her day, the neighbor’s damn dog yapping too loud, some grocery sale—and I nodded, laughed when she did, my hand grazing hers across the table. It was warm, effortless, the kind of love that didn’t need big words, just time. But then her foot nudged mine under the table, playful, and I felt nothing—no kick, no hunger, just a hollow spot where that used to live. I squeezed her hand, smiled, and she smiled back—clueless—and fuck, I hated that gap. Loved her, wanted her happy, but couldn’t cross it.

Dishes done, we sank into the couch—her legs over mine, some cooking show she liked flickering on the TV, all bright lights and noise. I rubbed her calf, half there, my head drifting back to the basement, Kate’s ghost hovering, ‘til she shifted, pinning me with a look. “You’ve been sneaky lately,” she said, teasing, but her eyes carried that same curiosity from the call. “What’s this ‘special’ thing you’re up to?”

I grinned—real this time—reaching for my bag. “Caught me,” I said, pulling out the notebook—rough sketches, nothing slick, just pencil scrawls I’d hacked out over weeks. “Been planning something for us.” I flipped it open, slid it to her—backyard drawings, curved patio set, cushioned chairs circling an outdoor fireplace, notes scratched about string lights, a planter she’d like. “Been chasing deals, piecing it slow. Thought it’d be our spot, you know?”

Her eyes sparked, fingers tracing the lines, and she laughed—soft, bright, a sound I’d been missing. “Seb—this is gorgeous. A fireplace? Really?” She leaned into me, head on my shoulder, and I wrapped an arm around her, chest tightening with something good, something I could still give her.

“Yeah,” I said, voice low, pointing at the sketch. “Stone base, big enough for those marshmallow nights you’re always on about. Chairs here—comfy ones, not crap—and lights up top to make it glow. Been grabbing bits here and there—almost done.” True enough—chairs shipped yesterday, fire pit next week, a surprise to keep her lit up while I kept the rest raging with Kate.

She turned, kissed me quick—sweet, no depth—then pulled back, grinning. “You’re too good to me,” she said, and I laughed, kissing her forehead—the warmth there real but flat, no flame to chase. We stayed like that, her flipping through the sketches, tossing questions about colors, me spinning plans—plants maybe, a little table—while the TV buzzed and her hand rested on my chest. It was love, clean and steady, but when she yawned, stretched, and headed to bed, I didn’t follow—watched her go, the ache settling in. She’d sleep, I’d crawl in later, and nothing’d happen—no heat, no tug, just silence.

I sat there, notebook open, her smile stuck in my head, Kate’s text from yesterday scorching my pocket: “Cybrus grilled me—stay sharp.” Thursday loomed—her, the basement, the fire I couldn’t fake here. I’d play the loner, nod at Costco, hack meat like my mind wasn’t there, keep this home shining with patio dreams—half my world holding steady while the other half hid. This was my life, sliced clean, and I’d grip both ‘til they snapped me.

“Rust in the Gears” 

Thursday slammed in like a steady thump, counting down to her—Kate, the basement, the fire I’d been chasing all week. I’d been at Costco since dawn, hacking meat with half my head, the other half snagged on her text from Tuesday: “Thursday’s on—stay sharp.” Clock crept toward three—my early out set, fed the boss some line about a delivery, smooth as hell, no one to call bullshit since I kept my own company. Bag was packed, wrench stuffed in from Tuesday’s scramble, ready to peel off to the house where she’d be waiting—post-shift, scrubs still humming with hospital grit. Then my phone buzzed, sharp against the counter as I wiped blood off my hands, and I grabbed it, expecting her usual “on my way.” Nope—gut punch instead: “Can’t make it—Cybrus got too close, asking too much. Distracting her now—sorry. Thursday’s off.”

I stared at it, thumb frozen, frustration twisting tight—not pissed at her, just this gnawing, restless itch I couldn’t claw out. Cybrus—Kate’s work buddy, too damn sharp, poking where she shouldn’t, forcing Kate to duck and dodge, leaving me strung out and dry. Two hours yawned ahead, a hole I’d carved for her now flapping empty, and I leaned on the counter—meat ignored, apron streaked red. Shit. I tapped back fast: “Shit—okay, handle it. Stay safe—next time.” No reply—she was probably weaving some yarn to throw Cybrus off—and I jammed the phone in my pocket, jaw locked.

Clocked out early anyway—boss didn’t flinch, used to my quiet slips—and hit the parking lot, truck growling low under my boots. Two hours. Frustration buzzed—not hot enough to blaze, just a dull, steady grind, like a glitch I couldn’t patch. I’d been counting on her—on us—tonight, the basement’s dark tug, her skin under my hands, the leash, the cross, all that heat we’d stacked Sunday, stoked Tuesday, now snuffed out cold. What’s gone? Her voice, low and rough, breathing my name. The way she’d push back, hungry, matching every move. That bare moment Sunday, trust cracking us wide—lost tonight, choked by Cybrus’s damn questions. I gripped the wheel, staring through the windshield, road blurring as I swung toward home—not the house.

Two hours—what the hell do I do? Could head home, kick off the patio gig—chairs shipped yesterday, piled in the garage, fire pit due next week. Drag out the sketches, set the first stones, surprise her early, snag that smile I’d caught last night. Or chores—lawn’s a jungle, gutters clogged, crap I’d let rot while I built the basement. Maybe unearth the old gaming rig—that dusty PC in the spare room—Fallout, some shooter I’d ditched years back, controls still wired in my head if I blew the dust off. Or—fuck—maybe tonight could be one of those rare ones, like before the bedroom went dead. Her on the couch, legs over mine, that nudge under the table—could I nudge it back, find a flicker, make it more than routine? I wanted her, loved her, but the spark wouldn’t catch—not like with Kate—and that chewed at me, the gap I couldn’t jump.

Truck rumbled on, streets slipping past, thoughts churning hard. Kate’s out there, dodging Cybrus—her bestie, yeah, but too nosy for her own good—and I’m here, stuck. I’d built that basement for us—months of sneaking, bleeding into it—and tonight was supposed to be ours, her breath on my neck, mirrors throwing back every twitch, that jagged edge we chased. Now it’s just me, two hours swinging loose, rolling home to her—to the wife, the love, the quiet. Patio? Could haul the chairs out, break dirt, sweat it out—give her something real tonight, that glow I’d scratched out. Or the rig? Fire it up, sink into a wasteland or a firefight, controller in hand—something mine, something solo, like always. Or her? Catch her off guard, pull her in, see if there’s heat left to tease out—rare as hell, but maybe, if I pushed.

I turned onto our street, frustration still humming—a low buzz under my skin—not mad, just antsy, missing Kate, missing us, but here anyway. The house loomed, warm light leaking from the windows, her shadow shifting inside, and I killed the engine, sat a beat, hands on the wheel. Two hours. Could be patio, gaming, chores, her—something to plug it, something to hold me ‘til Kate’s back. I grabbed my bag, stepped out, boots crunching gravel loud in the hush, night ahead a blank slate.

“Embers in the Quiet” 

Thursday evening, and I was home before the sun sank, truck rumbling into the driveway two hours early—Kate’s bailout still a dull scrape under my skin, but here I was, not there. The house glowed soft, her shadow dancing through the curtains, and I grabbed my bag—wrench from Tuesday a mute lump inside—stepping in like I hadn’t just sidestepped another life. She was in the kitchen, apron on, humming some half-familiar tune, and the smell of garlic and bread hit me—home, steady, her. I dumped the bag by the door, boots scuffing the floor, and she turned—eyes popping wide, a grin cracking fast.

“You’re early,” she said, voice light, teasing, wiping her hands on a towel as she stepped close. “What’s this—Costco run out of meat?”

I chuckled, low, leaning on the counter, arms crossed. “Nah—boss let me duck out. Thought I’d shake you up, keep you guessing.” I shot her a smirk, and she laughed—bright, tugging me in—swatting my arm with the towel.

“Well, you’re screwing with me,” she said, stepping into me, her hand brushing my chest, warm through the shirt. “Dinner’s not done—guess you’re stuck waiting, big guy.” Her eyes danced, playful, and I snagged her wrist, pulled her in, kissed her quick—soft, no heat yet, just us.

“Worth it,” I mumbled, letting her go, the back-and-forth easy, a thread I’d let fray lately. “Got time tonight—figured I’d kick off that backyard thing, get ahead.” Her grin stretched, that glint from last night flaring up, and I felt it—something solid, something I could hand her, even with Kate’s fire still smoldering in my ribs.

She nodded, shooing me off. “Go on then—don’t torch the place before I feed you.” I laughed, grabbed my bag, headed to the garage—chairs stacked there since yesterday, sketches burned in my head, a shot to sweat out the buzz still humming from Kate’s text: “Cybrus got too close—Thursday’s off.”

Outside, the air was cool, dusk creeping in, and I hauled the chairs out, setting them rough where the patio’d bend—stone base next, fire pit later, her “marshmallow nights” starting to shape up. I snagged a shovel from the shed, dug in—the rhythm settling me, dirt stacking as I hacked out the outline. Two hours—could’ve been her, the basement, that edge. Kate’s voice, her push, the leash—all choked out tonight, and here I was, spade in hand, building something else. Not anger—just a restless drone, dull but nagging, and this, her surprise, smoothed it some.

The back door squeaked, and she stepped out—iced tea in hand, barefoot on the grass. “Thirsty?” she called, voice soft, and I straightened, swiping sweat off my brow, turning to grab it. Then her eyes hit me—deep, aching, a look I hadn’t caught in too damn long, not since the days we’d fall into bed without a word. It stopped me dead—shovel hit the dirt, tea forgotten in my grip. Fuck—the backyard can wait. She couldn’t—not with that look, not now.

I dropped the glass, stepped in, hands finding her waist, pulling her close—slow, careful, testing. “You keep looking at me like that,” I said, voice low, rough, “and this dirt’s not moving.” She didn’t pull away—her breath snagged, eyes locked on mine—and I kissed her, not light this time, deeper, chasing that faint glow I’d glimpsed. Her hands slid up my back—hesitant, then sure—and I felt it—a flicker, thin but real, something we hadn’t brushed in years.

Kate’s out there, dodging Cybrus, and I’m here, holding her. The thought flashed, then faded—she was here, now, her warmth against me, and I wanted it, wanted her, this rare split in the silence. I bent, scooped her up—arms under her knees—her laugh sharp and bright against my neck as I carried her in. Dirt flaked off my boots, streaking the kitchen floor, but I didn’t give a damn—her arms looped around me, her weight real, solid, and I hauled her upstairs, bedroom door banging wide as I set her on the bed.

She pulled me down, hands clawing at my shirt, and I kicked off my boots, jeans hitting the floor fast—hers followed, apron long gone, just us now, skin on skin. It wasn’t the dungeon—no cuffs, no leash, none of that sharp, twisted edge I hunted with Kate. This was softer, slower—her breath warm against my jaw as I kissed her deep, hands roaming her sides, her hips, curves I’d traced years back. Heat built, steady, not wild—her fingers dug into my shoulders, a quiet moan slipping out as I moved over her, into her, the rhythm climbing, urgent but gentle.

It wasn’t Kate’s fire—just embers, glowing, enough to warm us. Her legs hooked around me, pulling me in, and I buried my face in her neck—tasting salt, feeling her arch, soft gasps filling the room—not screams, not that feral rush, but something ours, real. I held her tight, bed creaking under us, and when it broke—her trembling, me right behind—it was a wave, not a snap, washing through, leaving us tangled, panting, her hand in my hair.

I rolled off, pulled her close—her head on my chest, dirt smudged in the hall a mess for later. Kate’s out there, basement dark, and this—this is here. Softer, yeah, not the dungeon’s roar, but alive, a beat I hadn’t felt with her in too long. The backyard could wait—she couldn’t, and tonight, that held.

End of Part I