Every day, I wake up and repent for my terrible kinks.
Working on: Sinful Roseblade
Morning fogged the windows.
The room was too warm. The blanket clung damply to the skin, like it had never fully dried in the sun.
Wenser sat on the windowsill, one leg braced against the edge. The mist on the glass had been wiped away by his hair and the skin of his back.
Naked, Iris still knelt on the floor, buried in the damp heat between Wenserâs thighs.
The slick flesh between his legs clung to the womanâs tongue, wet and greedy, like it wanted to swallow her whole.
Through the crack of the open window, cool air slipped inside. One of the manâs long, slender hands rested atop the womanâs head. Tilting his head slightly, eyes half-lidded, he gazed at the flowerbeds outside.
After the nightâs heavy rain, the flowers outside drooped low. Every now and then, rainwater spilled from the petals, letting the stems slowly lift again.
Wenser stroked Irisâs head again and again. His lower stomach tightened. The flushed slit between his legs grew wetter, slickness smearing against the womanâs lips.
They woke over an hour later than Iris normally would for the bakery. And they had only just finished fucking.
Emma reached for her motherâs door several times, only to stop herself before touching it. Last night, Winser had caught her peeking. Then she had that dream.
God. That was her motherâs lover.
How could she dream something like that?
She sat at the dining table in the front room and drank five glasses of water. She wanted the door to open. She wanted it to stay shut.
Finally, the door opened.
Emma saw her mother's face â slightly drained of color, without much animation.
A strange smell drifted from the room. Thick. Damp. Completely wrong inside their home. Emma held her breath. She knew what the smell was.
Her mother said good morning in the usual way and went to the stove and began making breakfast.
After a while the door opened again.
Winser came out wearing a nightgown. It fell to just below his knees.
At a glance, wearing it, he had something of a woman's softness.
The nightgown was familiar. Emma didn't need to think about whose it was.
Emma only glanced up once before meeting Winserâs eyes. She froze. But he merely looked away, calm as ever, like nothing had happened.
At the stove nearby, Iris moved through the breakfast preparation with practiced ease.
Winser broke the silence. He sat down at the table, propped his head on one hand. The lacing at the chest of the nightgown hadn't been tied; it hung open and loose, showing a wide expanse of his chest.
"I usually sleep without clothes. I borrowed something of your mother's. You don't mind?"
What was there to mind? Their arrangement â Emma didn't think she had the standing to weigh in on the details.
"Of course not." She couldn't stop herself from asking: "Have you and my mother known each other long?"
Winser's fingers caught a strand of his hair and wound it in slow circles. He looked relaxed, like he was in his own home. "Oh yes, a long time. Love at first sight, actually."
Emma had never seen him near her mother. She turned it over, wondering if she had missed something, and found she couldn't make herself believe that her mother had met someone like this, somewhere Emma didn't know.
He looked like the kind of man who drifted from bed to bed and never stayed anywhere long. There was something restless about his face, too. The kind of restlessness that moved easily through lovers and left just as easily.
Emma began to worry for her mother. She expected she would be hurt. But the mage's appearance was, undeniably, very good. Even his strange choice to wear a nightgown struck Emma as no stranger than anything else about him.
"How long are you planning to stay? If you aren't serious, please don't play with my mother's feelings. You'll make us the talk of the neighborhood." Emma's expression was not pleasant. She didn't soften the words.
"You seem quite hostile toward me," Winser said. "But don't worry, I won't harm either of you. Think of me as a lost mage with nowhere to go and a kind household that took him in. How does that sound?" He let the strand of hair fall from his fingers and tucked it behind his ear.
Emma felt something twisting inside her. Wrong. This mage was only amusing himself. Even sleeping with her mother felt casual to him. Like passing time. If that was the case, then what difference was there between their home and a brothel? He treated them like stray cats someone fed when the mood struck.
Winser showed no interest in Emma, whose face had gone red. He stood from the table in a good mood and went to stand beside Iris at the stove, watching the woman cook.
Bacon. Eggs. Sliced bread, spread with whatever she liked. A glass of milk. A simple breakfast.
Over by the stove, things between Iris and Winser were easy. At the table, Emma felt she was the one who didn't belong.
At breakfast, Emma noticed that the mage ate very little. He took one bite and didn't touch anything after that. The glass of milk went untouched entirely.
Her mother asked carefully whether something was wrong with the food. The mage smiled and kissed the woman's cheek and said it was the best breakfast he had ever eaten.
Emma thought this was an obvious performance. Watching her mother brighten completely from a single sentence made her angrier.
He had appeared in their home. Entered her motherâs room. Slept in her motherâs bed. Fucked her mother.
He had invaded their home.
And still he sat there smiling like he belonged.
Emma's appetite was gone by the middle of breakfast. She kept her eyes down and tried not to watch them.
Her motherâs breasts swayed beneath the dress with every laugh, pale skin spilling above the neckline. A dark bite mark rested there, impossible not to see.
Emma hated this mage. She was certain of it.
What she found harder to accept was that at night she dreamed of him again.
After that, Emma didn't only hate the mage. She also hated sleeping.
Winser stayed with the mother and daughter for a week. On the day the assignment finished, Ian found him.
When Ian arrived, his master had a woman pressed against the wall.
Winser acknowledged Ian's presence with some consideration â he released the woman's throat, swallowed the blood in his mouth, and looked up.
"How did the assignment go?"
"Without difficulty, Master."
Winser set the woman down. She was making sounds. He patted her on the backside and Iris folded at the waist against the wall.
He pushed back into the warm body and worked at an unhurried pace, tossing the identity card to Ian.
Ian understood. He began logging the completed assignment. Without Winser's instruction to leave, he stayed, even as a bystander to what was happening in front of him.
Semen slid down the womanâs thick thighs and ass. Wenser glanced at Ian and slowly pulled a nasty smile across his face.
"Hey. Little dog. Lick Iris's ass clean."
After that night, Winser was gone.
Iris lost every memory of those days. Only Emma remembered Winser.
Everyone asked Iris about the man. They had seen the mark on her chest. They had never once seen his face.
Iris said it was a mosquito bite. Her expression was completely natural. And in that period there had genuinely been no man seen near Iris, so people gradually accepted it.
Emma looked at her mother, who knew nothing, and said nothing.
Winser was like a beautiful dream gone rotten. Brief. Strange. Wet with something hard to name. And after waking, the memory stayed sealed away somewhere deep, like a locked box half-buried in water.
A friend asked Emma: "Come on, tell me honestly. Was that really a mosquito bite?"
Emma said: "Yes. Summer's here, so there are more mosquitoes. This annoying summer. I think I prefer rainy days. I'd be glad if the rain just didn't stop."
Her friend said: "You've always hated rainy days. You used to say clothes never dry and everything smells damp."
Emma said: "Did I? I don't remember."
