The morning light sliced through the blinds of Helena’s Elm Street apartment, carving jagged shadows across the cluttered living room like cracks in a broken mirror. The space which was once her haven, with its sleek gray couch, a teetering stack of legal thrillers on the glass coffee table, and a defiant fern basking in the corner now felt like a trap, the walls closing in with the weight of her shame.
Helena sat curled into a ball on the couch, her hair a wild snarl framing her pale face, her body swaddled in an oversized robe that grazed her skin like a taunt, amplifying the ache between her thighs.
She’d fired off a curt email to the hospital, claiming a migraine to skip work, but the lie was a flimsy veil over a brutal truth, she was wrecked, body and soul, from what happened at Tranquil Touch.
At first, she’d convinced herself it was a fevered dream, a twisted, shameful fantasy spun by stress. But the soreness in her muscles, the faint bruises on her hips, and the sticky pulse of pleasure lingering in her core screamed otherwise. It was real.
The orgasms. God, too many to count and it were real.
Helena gripped her head with both hands, fingers clawing into her scalp as if she could rip out the memories. They surged in vivid, relentless loops, warm sandalwood oil dripping down her skin, hands that kneaded her back with clinical precision before turning wicked, teasing flicks along her inner thighs igniting her pussy.
Her moans, muffled in the cradle, had spiraled into desperate cries as fingers plunged into her, thrusting and curling, her body arching as she squirted, helpless against the waves of ecstasy. And then that cock thick, merciless splitting her open, driving her to climax after climax, her tongue lolling as she begged, "More, harder, please," thinking it was some nameless masseuse. But it was Devon, the person she and Sophie were plotting to expose with the FHCA, the man she despised with every fiber of her being.
How had she missed his voice, his touch? How had her hatred melted into hunger, her pussy clenching around him, craving every thrust? Worse, he’d snapped a photo her, cum-streaked and broken.
"It was a dream," she whispered to the empty room, her voice cracking, raw from last night’s screams. "It had to be just a fucked-up nightmare." She rocked forward, hugging her knees, her thighs pressing together, sparking a traitorous jolt of arousal that made her gasp. "No, no, no," she muttered, shaking her head violently. "It wasn’t real. I didn’t want it." But her body laughed at her, the soreness a living memory of how she’d arched into him, how she’d begged.
"Goddamn it, Helena, what’s wrong with you?" she hissed, tears stinging her eyes. "You came for him. You fucking begged for Devon cock."
"He fucked you, and you... you enjoyed it? You’re supposed to destroy him, not..." The words trailed off into a sob, her hands trembling as she wrapped her arms around herself, the robe slipping to reveal a faint handprint on her hip.
She hated him, hated herself more, but the memory of that intensity, that all-consuming pleasure no one else had ever unlocked, lingered like a drug she couldn’t shake.
If that photo leaked, her career, her reputation, the FHCA case gone. But a darker whisper slithered through her.
You loved it. You’d kill to feel it again. "Shut up!" she snapped aloud, bolting upright, pacing the hardwood floor, bare feet slapping as she fought to drown it out. "He’s a monster. A fraud. I’m going to bury him."
Her phone’s shrill ring sliced through the silence, buzzing on the coffee table like a rattlesnake. The screen flashed Sophie’s name, and Helena’s stomach twisted into knots.
Confess? Spill the truth of the parlor, how she’d screamed for him without knowing it was him? Or bury it deep, shield their plan? "Fuck," she muttered, her finger hovering over the answer button, the ringtone a relentless jab. "What do I even say? ’Hey, Sophie, I fucked our enemy and loved it’?" She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "Yeah, that’ll go over great." Finally, she swiped, setting it on speaker, her voice scraping out with forced calm. "Hey, Soph."
Sophie’s voice crackled through, warm but laced with concern, the background hum of hospital chatter faint behind her. "Helena? Where are you? I didn’t see you at the morning briefing. Everything okay? You sound off."
Helena leaned back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers. The replay in her mind paused, replaced by the need to lie, to maintain the facade. "Yeah, just... not feeling great. Called in sick. Migraine or something. I’ll be back tomorrow."
A pause on Sophie’s end, then a soft sigh. "Aw, that sucks. Need me to bring over soup or meds after my shift? I can swing by. We’ve got that research deadline looming, but I can cover for you today."
Helena’s chest tightened, Sophie’s kindness a reminder of their bond. But telling her now? It would shatter everything. No, she decided, clenching her fist. Keep it locked away. "No, I’m good. Just need rest. Thanks, though."
Sophie chuckled lightly, though worry lingered in her tone. "Alright. But seriously, take it easy. Hey, quick check-in our plan’s still solid, right?"
Helena’s mind flashed back to the parlor, Devon’s cock pounding her, her screams of ecstasy but she shoved it aside, her voice firm with certainty. "Absolutely. The plan’s in motion. Nothing’s changed. We’ll take him down."
"Good. Stay strong. Call if you need anything." The line clicked dead, leaving Helena in silence, the weight of her lie settling like lead in her stomach.
She spent the day in a haze, pacing her apartment like a caged tiger, muttering to herself as the memories clawed back. "It wasn’t me. It was a dream, right? Just a sick fantasy." She stopped at the mirror, staring at her reflection, pale, haunted, eyes red from tears.
"You begged for it, you slut," she spat, then flinched, turning away. Coffee went cold, her phone untouched, FHCA files a blur on her desk.
A shower only worsened it, the hot water stirring the ache, her fingers lingering too long between her thighs before she yanked them away, cursing, "Fuck you, Devon." Lunch was a forgotten apple, her stomach roiling with guilt. But as dusk bled purple across the room, a fire sparked in her gut. Devon had broken her, but she’d weaponize that shame. The hospital gala was tonight.
Helena glanced at the clock: 6:15 p.m. The gala was kicking off, the hospital’s ballroom aglow with chandeliers and clinking glasses.