Done For Love

AUTHOR'S NOTE/CONTENT WARNING: This is, if you couldn't tell by now, the third chapter to a cheating/NTR series. You have been warned.

Anyways, thank you for 50 followers -- and, as always, for reading!

==

"Ungh..."

With a final, strained grunt, Tray stroked one last spurt of cum out onto Irina's face.

It was done.

For the next minute, all she could do was simply sit there, listening to their heavy breathing take over the room. Her racing mind tried to catch up with the gravity of what had just taken place, but frankly, it was more immediately concerned about the sheer amount of ejaculate oozing down her skin. Its powerful scent invaded her nose with every breath. When she tried breathing through her mouth instead, its taste exploded across her tastebuds. Her eyelids were plastered shut, drowned in layers of sticky liquid with no hope of prying themselves free.

She reflexively reached up with her hands to wipe it off but stopped herself. A shred of her conscience, inexplicable in the heat of the moment, reeled at the idea of touching Tray's essence of her own volition. Deep down, she knew it made no difference -- she'd just let him give her afacial-- but the excuses were already mounting.

Shehadn't been the one to touch any part of him.

Shehadn't made him cum.

So, if shedidwipe his cum off now, wouldn't she, in a sense, be breaking her own rules?

Before the dilemma could trap her for another moment, she flinched at the sensation of another's touch. With a pinky, Tray carefully swept his own load off her eyes. They slowly opened as if waking, taking in his image after the lull of blindness. That made the second time he'd broken the no touch rule, but she wasn't about to punish him. He wore that same knowing, revolting grin as he held the cum on his finger up to her face. "Want it?"

She turned her nose down, and he shook his finger clean with a laugh. Almost immediately, her gaze wandered to his still-naked bottom half. His silhouetted cock hung flaccid in the lamplight once again, its completely hard form a fever dream of a memory. The only evidence of the excessive release it had experienced a mere minute ago was a pool of leftover cum gathered at the tip. As she stared, his member convulsed with another throb, and it fell in a thick drop, slapping audibly against the carpeted floor.

Her heart leapt, and her rebellious pussy hummed in appreciation.

She also really,reallyhad to throw up. "...Where's the bathroom?"

"Down the hall, to the left."

She was out the door in a heartbeat. She didn't pay any mind to the fact that she was dripping wet, nor Tray's chuckle as he noticed the stains on the carpet where she'd knelt. The gaze of the camera beat down on her in the fluorescent hallway, and though she had a contingency for the evidence, she couldn't help but worry about what she looked like in the footage.

The bathroom door slammed shut behind her, and she headed straight for the toilet, not sparing the mirror even a glance. She retched and retched over the clear water, her nausea hitting a violent peak as Tray's taste echoed again in her mouth. The regret was hitting her just as her logical side had warned, but nothing could've prepared her for how sickening it would actually feel.

What had she done?

What had shedone?

She held onto the porcelain rim, bracing herself, berating herself for ever going through with this.

Worst of all, despite all her retching, she wasn't actually throwing up.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't expel Tray's seed. It had defiled her inside and out. It clung to her face even from this angle, refusing to let go. The several mouthfuls she had swallowed had already settled in her belly, sating her. It felt warm and comfortable like a hot drink on a frigid day. Her body didn't want to let go of it, and she couldn't bring herself to force the reflex with a finger.

After only managing to cough up her own spit into the toilet, she finally stood and turned to look at herself in the mirror. She looked about as unrecognizable as she expected -- painted, as Tray promised. Her eyes were clear, but her tears fell into a dense, virile white, absorbed into a salty mixture. The fluid flowed lazily down all her features like candlewax, and it fought gravity at her chin, where only a few heavy drops separated to stain the neckline of her dress. The stray ropes which landed in her dark hair had settled well enough to pass as highlights if she didn't look hard enough.

Her hand idly wandered up to her cheek, and this time, she didn't stop it from gathering up a glob. She brought it up to her eyes and, for what must've been another minute at least, just stared.

What on Earth am I gonna do?

The thought began with deeper meaning at first. A dread, a panic. A desperate plea for some sort of plan that would fix all of this, and fast. But as she stared at her finger, her shaken mind, still favoring the simpler problems, just ended up wondering how she'd clean up all this stuff.

She'd seen cum before -- Flin's in person, and other men's through her online "research" as a gated trophy daughter. All of it had been varying degrees of runny and cloudy. This semen, on the other hand, was impossibly thick, and it reallywaspure white. Even the small amount on her fingertip stuck relentlessly to her skin, and no matter how close she looked, it remained bright and opaque like glue, packed full of genetic material. If not for the distinctly intense taste and smell, she couldn't possibly have been convinced it was the same substance.

She glanced again at her glazed face in the mirror. For all of that to come from one set of balls, to be forced out of one penis, to be spurred on by one orgasm... It wasn't normal, and it couldn't have been healthy. Yet, there Tray stood, tall and muscular and...

She lurched forward, hacking and spitting into the sink as his taste met her tongue again. In the midst of her pondering, her cum-covered finger had taken the opportunity to wander inside her mouth without her consent. Maybe the seed looked a little too much like vanilla icing. Maybe -- terrifyingly -- a part of her was still curious. Either way, the taste had completely lost the head-spinning quality she'd first experienced now that the moment was gone. She couldn't believe she'd actually tried it again, let alone swallowed it minutes ago.

Luckily, the shock of the moment was enough to kick her back into gear. An obscene amount of water and paper towels later, she was back in Tray's office, just barely holding herself together as he lounged in his chair with his arms crossed behind him. The lights were on -- the real overhead ones this time.

She shivered. Had even the lighting been set up from the start?

"Took you long enough," Tray scoffed as he stood back up. His pants were back on -- thank god. "Have fun in there?"

"Fuck off, asshole. You know why I'm still here. The deal."

He whistled amusedly at her curt response as he showed her his phone screen. The picture of her bent over looking at Flin's work was already in the trash, and with one more tap, Tray deleted the evidence for good. After that, he reached into his desk and pulled out a thick, jet black roll of tape. The moment he held it out to her, she snatched it away as if waiting a second longer meant death. "Swiped it from security. It's got the whole day of the building on it -- well, 'cept the rest of the night starting now, but there's no tape for that anymore anyway. Secret's safe with us."

At the door, she stopped with her back to him, unable to hold her tongue. As always, when his domineering side was nowhere to be seen, it was quite easy to tell him off. Maddeningly so. "No. There is no 'secret.' You can think whatever, but as far as I'm concerned, the moment I'm out of this door, nothing happened. Now, are you happy? Is Flin's precious job alright?"

"Oh, more than. You passed with flying colors. And the board will forget all about Flin's transgression, I promise you that. I'm a man of my word."

She stood still a moment longer, not believing him yet not knowing what else to say.

"A shame you'd rather forget, though. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were enjoying yourself for a moment there."

"Shut up!"Her shout pierced the office, though made dull by the carpets. The wall clock ticked on. She straightened herself up and, not waiting for a response, pushed herself out of there -- forever, never to see Tray again. She clutched the tape in one hand on her escape through the building, fingernails digging into the plastic. She had no intention of watching the thing. It could burn for all she cared. Itshouldburn.

The rest of KF Designs blurred past, and she soon stood back in the crisp, outside air. It was still dusk, but even in twenty minutes -- ithadbeen twenty minutes somehow -- night had fast approached. Her car sat undisturbed in the parking lot, still radiating heat from the drive it never should've taken.

When she got in and started it back up, the rest of her sense, locked inside throughout the ordeal, instantly rushed back into her head -- first to berate her thoroughly once more, then to ask if she'd at least covered her tracks. She couldn't believe herself. After betraying her husband in such a way, she had the gall to worry about him finding out. Still, she was sure she had cleaned herself up well enough in that bathroom. Save for the stains she couldn't get out of her dress, there wasn't a drop left on her.

She dropped her head to the steering wheel and sobbed.

It didn't feel that way.

===

Flin heard Irina open the front door again about an hour after she first left, just as she said she would.

He hadn't been able to sleep. He was damn tired -- he was always tired nowadays -- but real, active sleep hardly ever graced him anymore unless his wife was in bed with him. Especially not tonight. Not after all the stupid things he'd said to her.

It wasn't for a lack of trying. If he could've buried all his woes in his slumber where they belonged, he would've started last month. Then, at least, he wouldn't have to still feel so guilty about everything. Unfortunately, as it was, that was even more of a dream than the idea of sleep itself. So, after tossing and turning in bed following Irina's departure, he'd sat up and stared idly at her contact on his phone, trying to think of ways to make things right.

None of this was her fault. She was just trying to help him. Damn it all, that had been all she'd done over the past few weeks. It killed him just thinking about how it must've looked from the outside: her, desperately tending to his every need and desire, and him, not even registering any of it as he moped about. Heknewthat was how it looked to her. But it wasn't true. She was the most important thing in the whole universe to him. No, shewashis universe. She didn't need to do any of these flashy things to remind him of that. Just her presence made it feel like everything would be okay in the end.

So why, oh why, was it so hard to get that across? Why did he stand in his own way like this? He needed this job, but he needed her more. Even if he didn't deserve her.

His nagging half told him to call her. It was the sensible thing to do: call her and apologize right away. Listen to what she had to say. But he knew Irina better. She was mad at him. That was why she'd opted to go to the store at such a ridiculous time. She needed to clear the air on her own. He couldn't even blame her. If he was her, he knew he'd rather do anything than be around someone who said they were a burden.

Still, her contact shone out into the dark bedroom like a spotlight, and the urge remained. Even though he'd decided against it, for that hour, it quietly sat there like an omen, whispering.

It was when he finally heard the front door open again that he first felt it: an unease, a pit in his stomach. He couldn't explain it. All he knew was that for some reason, he suddenly very much regretted not listening to the nagging urge to call.

It came in waves. The plastic rustling of grocery bags came muffled through the walls, and the unease settled, appeased by the fact she hadn't lied. Then, it rose again as her footsteps and shadow passed the bedroom door in favor of the bathroom. The sound of the shower starting filled the house, and he started vacantly at the ceiling, listening to the rushing water in the plumbing concealed just beyond.

Don't worry. It was just a grocery trip. She always showers late.

The consoling logic came like reflex, but he couldn't help that seed of doubt. It had been there since the dinner with Tray, fostering paranoia deep within. Maybe that was why he snapped today. After all, of all the thoughts that tortured him most since the funeral, one stood out above all the others:

It had happened to Kanan the same way.

He remembered it all too well. How could he not? They talked about their love lives as much as anything else. By college, it had become a sort of running gag the two of them poked fun at -- Flin, the quiet, reserved one, had bagged a beautiful girl of his own while Kanan, by far the better-looking and more outgoing of the two, struggled to land even a single date. Even as the young, hot CEO of an up-and-coming graphic design firm, he was handily the unluckiest guy Flin knew when it came to romance.

That was, until he finally did get lucky. A woman, stunning in her own right, came into his life last year. A lover just for him, just as Irina was for Flin. Everything seemed great. They looked happy together. Flin, blind with pride, decided to be happy for him. His best friend was finally growing up.

Then, Tray happened. And though it was never publicly acknowledged, everyone at the company knew it.

Ever since then, Flin's mind hadn't once stopped searching for things he could've done to prevent that humiliating heartbreak. Signs, red flags, little moments that stuck out in hindsight. If he'd gotten there faster, warned Kanan about the seduction taking place right under his nose, been there for him more in the aftermath...

But in reality, he knew deep down that none of that would've changed anything. He'd noticed nothing because therewas nothing.The two really had been in love until that bastard went and corrupted it. And by the time he met his best friend for the last time in that office, his soul had already gone and died as a result. His body just didn't catch up until a week later.

The running water above him stopped, and he shut his eyes as the bathroom went silent. When Irina softly opened the door to sneak in, he was already turned over, pretending to sleep. He didn't want to worry her. He didn't want to worry himself.

So, he let the consoling voice go on. It washed over every suspicion, numbing them like anesthesia. It wrote off every thought of Tray instantly. He'd already nipped that problem in the bud. That man wouldn't be coming back to this house. Not ever. There was nothing to worry about.

The bed bounced lightly as Irina got under the covers. After it settled, he turned and spooned her in the dark, taking a deep breath as his hand silently found hers. Her hair was still slightly damp, and she smelled absolutely heavenly.

As he felt sleep finally make its approach, he trashed the seed of doubt into the depths of his subconscious. He had no need for it.

No. Not for his wife. She would never. Even if she was mad, Irina loved him.

If only he'd known just how much.

===

At first, the following morning greeted Irina just like any other. Flin's work alarm rang out, waking them both before the sun could peek through the blackout curtains. She sat up with a wide stretch, sharing a slurred "good morning" with her husband, and then opened her eyes.

That was the last time she'd ever know the peace of an oblivious waking mind.

It felt more like death than remembering. The moment the cool air met her naked eyes, the events of the previous night rushed into her mind all at once, discordant and incoherent. The headache came immediately, and the realization soon after. She raised a hand to her face, driven by the memory of being covered in seemingly endless waves of semen, only to meet her own clean and smooth skin. Even as she rubbed it in disbelief, the warm, sticky sensation of Tray's cum somehow remained alongside the reality of the present.

Eventually, over the coming minutes of waking and getting ready, it did fade. The headache did not. It persisted through getting dressed and brushing her teeth, beating right behind her eyes as she zoned out in front of the mirror. No real thoughts came with it aside from the blank, undeniable acceptance that yesterday really had happened.

She'd expected it to be worse than this. Perhaps it was just because she was delirious, but last night, the guilt had been so unbearable she ugly cried the whole way home, then again as she fell asleep holding Flin's hand. Now that the tears had run dry, though, it had settled into something akin to emptiness. Sure, what she'd let Tray do was awful. But it was a fact. And it was in the past. She'd ripped up the tape and thrown her dress in the wash last night, and that was that. In a way, her earlier rationalization during the drive last evening hadn't been entirely wrong. As long as she just didn't poke this empty feeling, it wasn't so bad.

She quickly found this strategy had its limitations. The numbness always peeled away like paper in the rain when she laid eyes on Flin. It left her mad. Not furious like she'd been after dinner, nor sexually agitated.

Just...mad. At him. At herself. At everything and everyone.

She made breakfast -- simple bacon and eggs -- and turned from the counter to see him finally walking out of the bathroom, yawning in his well-ironed suit. She gripped the plates so hard she felt she might shatter them.

He glanced at her sheepishly as he entered the living room, none the wiser. "Hey."

"Hey."

He was as bad as ever at dealing with awkward situations. It normally would've been cute, but it wasn't this time. The air was still heavy with yesterday's "fight," and though Irina struggled to even call it that, whatever it had been obviously still bothered Flin. The guilt was plain on his face this morning.

The two of them sat and ate silently at the dinner table, letting the rising sun tint the room orange before he finally mustered the courage to say anything. "I'm sorry about what I said yesterday."

"It's fine."

She didn't mean to shut him down. Really, it was just that she didn't know how else to respond. His fit and all the things he'd said to her during it seemed laughably trivial now. The fact she'd even been remotely affected by them, let alone enough to cave to Tray's twisted, blatantly illegal offer, frankly amused her in hindsight. What kind of a wife was she?

Her face had broken into a stupid grin before she knew it, and naturally, Flin interpreted it as a sarcastic sign of anger. "No. It's not fine," he urged, taking her hand from across the table. "I've really been terrible to you lately. An apology is the least you deserve."

"Flin, just drop it already. I appreciate the fact that you're sorry, but it's not like you were all wrong. You need your job. And I won't be getting in the way of it anymore. I promise." She covertly wrapped an arm around her stomach under the table. The moment her last words passed her lips, the few bites of eggs and bacon that she'd taken threatened to come back up. She figured her face must've gone green, but Flin somehow didn't notice, and she managed to collect herself before the nausea made her vomit.

Don't poke it.

Her husband went on, still oblivious. "You don't have to promise anything. Rina, you've done more for me than I can possibly begin to express. Please, let me make it right."