The Landlord's Terms Chapter 2 (fm:cuckold, 3948 words) [2/2] show all parts

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The taboo was no longer a shameful secret scrawled in an old journal. It was real. It was a shared memory, a line we had crossed together.

When she finally woke, her green eyes found mine immediately. There was no shame in them, no regret. Just a quiet, searching look.

"Are you okay?" she whispered, her voice husky with sleep.

"I think so," I answered honestly. "Are you?"

She nodded slowly, a small, thoughtful smile playing on her lips. "It was... a lot. He was disgusting, Mark. The way he looked at me." She shivered slightly, but then her eyes met mine again, and I saw that familiar, wild spark. "But you... the way you looked at me when I came back. The way you touched me... I've never felt anything like that."

That conversation set the tone for the week. We didn't talk about the journal again. We didn't need to. It was like we had a new, unspoken language. A shared glance across the dinner table, a lingering touch as we passed in the hallway—it was all freighted with the memory of what had happened. Our sex life, which had become a comfortable, loving routine, was now charged with a desperate, almost feral energy. Every time we touched, it was with the memory of Henderson's grimy hand on her perfect ass, and the knowledge that this transgression, this shared secret, had uncorked something primal in both of us.

But we weren't the only ones who had changed. Henderson had, too.

He was bolder now. The subtle, creepy leering was replaced with an open, possessive gaze. When he saw Chloe in the hallway, he'd let his eyes crawl over her body, from her feet all the way up, a slow, deliberate inventory that ended with a smug, knowing smirk. He started calling me "buddy" and "pal," his voice dripping with a condescending familiarity that made my skin crawl. He knew he had touched her. He knew he had gotten away with it. And he knew, somehow, that it had affected us. He was a dog that had tasted blood, and now he was circling, waiting for another opportunity.

His constant, irritating presence was a low-grade fever in our lives. He'd find excuses to knock on our door—a noise complaint from a nonexistent neighbor, a question about the building's ancient plumbing. Each time, his eyes would flick past me to find Chloe, and he'd make some inane comment, his words aimed at me but his gaze fixed on her. He was marking his territory, reminding me of his power, of the fact that he could intrude upon our sanctuary whenever he pleased.

And every time he did, every time I saw that leering smirk, I felt that same toxic cocktail of rage and arousal bubble up inside me. I hated him. I hated his wheezing laugh, the way his stained shirt pulled tight across his paunch, the proprietary way he looked at my wife. But God help me, a dark, shameful part of me was thrilled by it. The fantasy was no longer confined to the pages of a book or the shadows of a dream. It was walking our halls. It was knocking on our door. And it was just getting started.

The email arrived on a Thursday afternoon, a single, sterile paragraph that felt like a death sentence. The big freelance project I'd been banking on, the one that was supposed to cover our rent for the next three months, had been unceremoniously killed. Budget cuts, corporate restructuring—the excuses were just noise. The floor didn't just drop out from under me; it evaporated.

Panic, cold and sharp, seized me. I stared at the screen, the words blurring together. Rent was due in a week. We didn't have it. My mind

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Merlin writes Mon 30 Jun 2025 20:45:

Loved it. I hope he can watch next time. Can't wait to read more.

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