The new neighbor 9

A few nights later, the house was finally quiet. The kids were asleep, and a sense of domestic peace had settled over us. I was in bed, half-watching some show on my phone, when Kelly walked into the room.

“Close your eyes,” she said, her voice a playful whisper. I did as I was told, and when she told me to open them, my jaw nearly hit the floor. She was wearing a stunning, black lace lingerie set, complete with a garter belt and stockings. It was a classic, beautiful look, a world away from Kristen’s modern turquoise ensemble.

“I thought we could have a little fun tonight,” she said, a sultry smile on her face as she put on a slow R&B playlist. She began to give me a lap dance with me sitting at the edge of the bed. Her movements graceful and loving, her eyes locked on mine. She was trying so hard, and she was breathtakingly beautiful.

But she wasn’t Kristen.

As Kelly moved her hips, my mind betrayed me. I saw blonde hair, not brunette. I saw a strappy, modern turquoise bra, not classic black lace. I saw the wild, hungry look in Kristen’s eyes as she rode me on this very couch. My focus drifted, my expression went blank. I was there, but I was also a million miles away, back in my own bed on a sunlit morning.

Kelly, who knew me better than anyone, noticed immediately. She stopped, the music still playing softly in the background. She stood up from my lap, a look of hurt and confusion on her face.

“Brian? Where are you right now?” she asked, her voice sharp with an edge of attitude. “Because you’re clearly not here with me.”

Her words snapped me back to reality. The accusation, the truth in her eyes, it ignited a volatile mixture of guilt, frustration, and self-loathing inside me. I couldn’t scream at Kristen. I couldn’t scream at myself. So the raw, chaotic energy found a new target.

I stood up, my expression hardened. I grabbed her arm, not gently, and pulled her toward me. “I’m here,” I growled, my voice a low, dangerous rumble.

I didn’t wait for a response. I scooped her up and tossed her onto the bed. The aggression she saw in my eyes seemed to both frighten and excite her. I ripped my clothes off and was on her in an instant, puller her delicate panties to the side.

I began to pound into her relentlessly. This wasn’t lovemaking; it was a punishment. Every thrust was a desperate attempt to pound the memory of Kristen out of my head. I was rough, fast, and deep, my frustration and guilt fueling a savage rhythm. I saw Kelly’s face contort, but it wasn’t with pain; it was with a shocking, escalating pleasure.

It wasn’t enough. I needed more. I pulled out of her, reached into the nightstand, and grabbed the bottle of lube. She watched, her eyes wide, as I slicked my cock and then her tight asshole. Without a word of warning, I pushed inside her. She cried out, a sharp gasp that quickly turned into a low, guttural moan. I began to pound into her ass with the same relentless fury, gripping her hips hard, leaving fingerprints on her skin.

She was screaming now, not in protest, but in pure, unadulterated ecstasy. “Oh my god, Brian!” she cried out, her voice breaking. “Yes! Just like that!” She arched her back, trying to take me deeper. “I love being your only slut! God, I love your cock!”

Her words were daggers of irony, twisting in my gut. Your only slut. The phrase echoed in my head as I felt my orgasm building, a violent, unstoppable wave. I drove into her one last time and came deep inside her asshole, my body shuddering with the force of the release.

Afterward, we stumbled into the shower together. The aggression was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out tenderness. We kissed under the hot water, our bodies slick with soap, my hands gently tracing the marks I’d left on her hips.

“I love you so much,” she whispered, her head resting on my chest. The steam swirled around us, creating a false sense of intimacy. “I love when you take control like that. It makes me feel so… owned.”

I held her close, the water washing over us, but it couldn’t wash away the filth I felt inside. She thought my aggression was a sign of a deep, possessive passion for her. She had never felt more desired, more certain of my love. And I had never felt more like a monster. The gut-wrenching guilt was a physical thing, a cold, heavy stone in the pit of my stomach.