The mattress dips under my weight as I lean back against the headboard, laptop balanced across my lap like a guilty secret. Lana left about an hour ago—off for a long-overdue day with her sister. Shopping bags, coffee, maybe a rom-com matinee. The kind of ordinary, grounding afternoon she rarely gets. I'm glad for her. She deserves the normalcy.
Meanwhile, I'm already halfway undressed, sweatpants shoved down to my ankles, hand wrapped loosely around myself, thumb scrolling through the familiar grid of thumbnails on her studio's site.
One catches my eye: "Blonde Bombshell & Redhead Take a Facial Flood." The preview image shows Lana on her knees, face already streaked and glistening, lips parted in that dazed, blissful way she gets. A sliver of auburn hair peeks into frame beside her—another woman, kneeling close.
I click before I can talk myself out of it.
The video loads. Lana fills the screen first, wearing only a sheer white tank that clings to every curve, smiling like she's sharing a private joke with the camera. Even here—surrounded by half a dozen men already hard and waiting—she looks impossibly radiant. My chest tightens at the sight of her.
"Ready to give us that nice warm shower, boys?" she teases, voice light and playful. "We've been such naughty girls today."
I start slow, no rush. The house is silent except for the faint hum of the laptop fan and her voice spilling from the speakers. I want to stretch this out.
On screen, Lana drops to her knees. The camera shifts, revealing the redhead settling beside her—back turned at first, that distinctive auburn hair cascading down her shoulders. Lana tugs the tank over her head; her breasts spill free and she giggles, the sound bright and carefree even in this context.
She reaches out, wrapping elegant fingers around two thick shafts, stroking with the easy confidence of someone who's done this a thousand times. Her mouth closes over a third, taking him deep until her throat visibly works and saliva trails down her chin in shiny strings.
The wet, choking sounds fill the room. My grip tightens instinctively.
One man groans, hips jerking. "Fuck—gonna paint you both."
The first load hits Lana's cheek in thick ropes. She closes her eyes, tilts her face up like she's accepting rain, and whispers, "Thank you," so sweetly it sends a shiver racing down my spine.
She moves seamlessly to the next, letting him fist her hair and fuck her mouth with short, brutal thrusts. Her eyes water, mascara beginning to run, but she adjusts, finds the rhythm, gurgles around him like it's nothing.
I match the pace on screen without thinking—faster now, breath coming shorter. The chorus of grunts and slaps builds. Another man finishes across her forehead; she smiles through it, serene and filthy.
She pulls back briefly, opens wide, tongue out. "Ahh," she purrs.
They unload in waves—ropes across her cheeks, her lips, dripping into her hair. She laughs softly, a satisfied little sound, as the last spurt lands on her tongue.
The sight tips me over. My body locks up; I come hard, spilling across my stomach and chest in pulsing waves. "Shit—" I hiss through clenched teeth, riding it out while the video keeps playing.
Breathing ragged, I watch the aftermath. Lana scoops a thick strand from her cheek and sucks it off her finger with a contented hum, like tasting icing.
Post-nut clarity creeps in fast. Shame follows right behind—hot, familiar, crawling under my skin. What kind of man does this? Gets off watching the woman he loves get used like that?
Then the camera pans right.
The redhead's face fills half the frame—sharp cheekbones, green eyes half-lidded under streaks of white, lips parted in minimal satisfaction.
Morgan.
My heart slams against my ribs.
I freeze, tissues forgotten in my fist. It's her. Unmistakably. The same woman who sat next to me at Starbucks, gushing about my fanfiction, scribbling her number on a napkin.
"What the actual fuck," I whisper.
I lean in, studying her now with horrified fascination. Where Lana had been vibrant—moaning, giggling, alive—Morgan moves like a machine. Precise. Efficient. No wasted motion. She strokes, sucks, tilts her head at perfect angles, but her expressions are flat. Minimal sounds: a flat "Yes." A quiet "More." No pleading, no ecstasy, no warmth.
It's clinical. Professional to the point of boredom. Like she's clocking in, executing technique flawlessly, and waiting for the shift to end.
Yet there's a strange pride in it—quiet arrogance in how perfectly she performs without ever seeming to feel it. A craftsman who mastered the craft years ago and now finds it beneath her.
My spent cock twitches again, traitorously interested. Seeing her—the enigmatic "fan" who knew my unpublished work—naked, glazed, kneeling beside Lana—it's a sick cocktail of dread and heat I don't want to examine.
I slam the browser closed, scrub my hands over my face, then wipe frantically at my stomach with the tissues like I can erase the last ten minutes.
Coincidence? It has to be. The industry isn't that big. They were co-stars once; Lana mentioned retiring colleagues. Morgan fits the description.
But the timing. The Starbucks encounter. Her reading my exact stories—unpublished ones. Knowing details no casual fan should.
My pulse won't slow.
I stare at the darkened screen, the room suddenly too quiet, too empty.
What the hell is going on?