The next morning unfolded just like any other—or at least it seemed that way. I woke up to the familiar clatter of kitchen utensils and the faint aroma of breakfast drifting into the bedroom. She was already up and moving, her rhythm calm and practiced, as if nothing at all had changed.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, sat up slowly, and stretched before heading to the bathroom to freshen up. On the way, I passed her in the hallway. She smiled at me, soft and welcoming, and I gave her a quick nod.
I stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, mind still half-asleep. But something caught my eye.
There it was again—the hole. Not big enough to be alarming, but definitely too precise to be an accident. I remembered noticing it once before, back when I first pointed it out to her. I had assumed it might be for some piping or structural reason, but I also knew what lay just beyond that wall—the neighbor's bathroom.
Back then, I told myself it was fine. That it was sealed on the other side.
But today, for some reason, it wasn't the hole itself that unsettled me. It was the board now covering it. A simple wooden piece, snugly placed to block it from our side. I hadn't put it there.
So she must have.
Maybe she just wanted a little extra peace of mind. Maybe she felt uncomfortable having an opening—no matter how small—connected to another house. That seemed reasonable and rational. I stared at it for a moment longer, then let it go.
I stepped under the water, trying to wash away the tension from my shoulders.
Breakfast was good—simple, but warm and filling. I told her I had a lot on my plate today, that I really needed to focus, and I'd be heading straight to the room. We didn't talk much apart from this and maybe that was for the best. I didn't want to fall into overthinking again. Not today. I was going to focus. Just get through the work, and everything else could wait.
Once I settled into my desk, the hours melted away. Reports, spreadsheets, endless messages. The clicking of the keyboard became a kind of white noise, a rhythm I could lose myself in. I didn't even notice when she slipped out to the old man's house. She must have left quietly, like she always did. Still, I caught a glimpse of her from the window across the way.
She was moving around inside, the curtains thankfully left open. That one small thing—being able to see her now and then—helped keep me grounded. It reassured me that she was there, that things were still normal.
An hour passed.
Then a gentle knock came at my door.
I looked up and found her standing there, holding a plate of food with a soft smile that reached her eyes. That moment, fleeting and simple, hit me with an odd wave of emotion. Gratitude, maybe. A sense of peace. She didn't need to do any of this, but she always did.
Sometimes I really wondered what I had done to deserve someone like her.
And yet, even as I smiled and thanked her, I felt that small shadow of uncertainty still flickering at the edge of my thoughts. It never truly disappeared. Not completely.
But for now, I pushed it away again. Work demanded my attention—and I couldn't afford to slip.
By the time I wrapped up my work for the day, my shoulders were aching and my eyes were sore from staring at the screen too long. I leaned back in the chair, stretched, and took a long breath. I needed air—real, open air—and maybe a change of scenery to help shake off the weight pressing down on me lately.
I stepped out of the room and found her in the kitchen.
"Let's go out for a bit," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "Just a walk. I need some fresh air."
She looked up and smiled. "Sure," she said softly, wiping her hands and slipping on her sandals.
We headed out together, walking in no particular direction, just letting our feet guide us. The cool breeze kissed my skin, refreshing and light. It felt like it was washing something off me—the lingering overthinking, the doubts, the tension. For a little while, I let myself breathe again.
We stopped by a corner stall and shared some ice cream. She laughed when mine started melting faster than I could eat it, and I couldn't help but smile at the sound. It was good to see her like that—relaxed, playful. Just… us.
As we turned a corner to head back home, a voice called out from behind.
"Hey!"
I turned and saw Ray walking toward us, his hand raised in greeting. He looked different today—lighter, more casual, more like how he was the first time we met.
"Good to see you two," he said, stopping in front of us. "You know… I realized something."
"What's that?" I asked, still catching my breath from the walk.
"It's kinda rude of me," he said, flashing a half-smile, "you guys already invited me over, and I haven't returned the favor yet."
He looked at both of us, then back at me. "I know it's a little late, but I'd love to have you both over for dinner tomorrow. My treat."
His tone was warm, casual, and familiar. It threw me off, in a good way. I nodded, a bit caught off guard.
"Yeah, sure," I replied. "That sounds nice."
We exchanged numbers.
Ray smiled, and walked off with a wave.
As we turned and continued our way back, I couldn't help but replay his voice and expression in my mind. He felt… normal. Approachable. Not like that night when he was at our house and something about him felt off. Maybe I had just imagined it. Maybe it was my own tension coloring things that weren't really there.
After all, he was the only one around here who seemed remotely grounded in this strange, half-silent neighborhood.
We got back home, changed, and went through the usual nighttime routine. By the time we were in bed, my body felt heavy, but my mind was strangely quiet for once.
Just as I was fading into sleep, I felt her hand wrap around my cock.
Not gentle. Not shy. Firm, hot fingers gripping me like she knew exactly what she wanted. I turned my head and saw her already half-naked, eyes burning in the dim light, her breathing heavy.
Without saying a word, she shoved the blanket off, got between my legs, and stuffed my cock into her mouth. She was ravenous. Her lips slid all the way down until my tip hit the back of her throat. She didn't hold back. She gagged on me, spit dripping everywhere, her hand pumping whatever her mouth couldn't reach.
"Fuck—" I hissed, grabbing the sheets.
She moaned around my cock like she was in heat. Wet slurping, her tongue swirling all over me, loud and messy. She wasn't teasing me—she was using me. Her eyes stayed locked on mine, daring me to stop her.
Then she pulled off with a wet pop, straddled me fast, and grabbed my cock with one hand. She didn't even guide me carefully. She just lined it up, lowered herself, and shoved it in—wet, hot, and so fucking tight it made my back arch.
"God, yes," she groaned, and immediately started riding me like a woman possessed.
There was no tenderness tonight. No slow grinding. Just pure, raw hunger. She bounced on my cock fast, aggressive, her hips slamming down with a wave that made the headboard thump against the wall. Her tits bounced wildly under her shirt, the slap of our bodies echoing through the room.
But she was going so hard, so high with every bounce—too high.
My cock slipped out.
Her rhythm broke.
She grunted in annoyance and reached down to grab me, repositioning it, stuffing me back inside her dripping pussy like she didn't want to waste a second.
She started again. Rougher. Faster.
She was moaning louder now, eyes clenched, sweat glistening at her collarbone, her ass smacking down on my thighs.
But again—my dick slipped out.
Her pussy was so wet, and the way she bounced—fast and long—meant I couldn't stay buried deep the way she clearly needed. The moment she pulled up too far, I'd slip out again, and again.
And every time it happened, I could see her frustration.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. Her hips jerking in annoyance. She didn't say anything—but I felt it. She wanted more. Harder. Deeper.
I tried to grab her waist, help her keep rhythm, but she slapped my hands away—not angrily, just impatiently, like I was interrupting her focus.
It hit me then: she wanted this rough. She wasn't chasing connection—she was chasing release.
I'd never seen her like this. We always made love. Passionate, slow, with kisses, eye contact, hands holding each other. This wasn't that. This was animal. Her body needed to cum so badly, she was using mine like a tool.
She grunted as she dropped down on me again, her pussy clenching tight, dripping all over my cock, soaking the base. She growled under her breath and bounced even faster, trying to ride through her frustration.
But I couldn't take it anymore. She was too tight, too wet, too fucking wild.
"Shit—I'm gonna—"
I exploded inside her, cock twitching hard as I emptied every drop into her pussy.
She froze.
Her body stayed tense on top of me, and for a moment, she didn't move.
I felt her walls flutter around my cock, but she hadn't finished. I knew that. She didn't need to say a word—her heavy breathing, the stiff set of her shoulders, and the way her hands clenched the sheets told me everything.
Slowly, she pulled off me. I watched my cum leak from between her lips, glistening down her inner thighs. She lay beside me quietly, her face turned away.
I turned to her, brushing a hand down her side. "Was that... okay?"
She looked at me, her expression softening a little. "Yeah. Of course," she said with a small smile. "I really needed that."
But something in her voice felt off. Not cold—just... unfinished.
Then she leaned in, kissed my cheek, and got up to go to the bathroom.
I watched her walk away, legs trembling slightly, shirt clinging to her damp skin. I heard the lock click behind her.
And then I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, heart still pounding.
It was the first time I'd ever seen her like that.
And the first time I felt like I couldn't give her what she really wanted.