The Entry

The Entry

Patricia feels the nerves rising in her chest as she approaches her husband’s office.
She knows she shouldn’t be here.
Checking up on him.
But it’s late - again.
It’s always late on a Friday.
And she’ll be here too.

She just wants to kill the thought in her head.
They’re busy, that’s all.

She rehearses her excuse:
I was passing by… thought I’d ask if you picked up the paint from B&Q - or do you want me to?

Her hand hesitates on the front door handle.
Her breath catches.

Before she sees them -she hears them.
Low voices.
And Catherine’s laugh.

Not loud.
Not nervous.
Soft.
Confident.

Patricia’s stomach drops.

She pushes the door open.

John looks pale - like he’s been caught in a lie he hadn’t prepared for.
Catherine sits perched on the edge of his desk, stilettoed feet planted either side of him, claiming the space, claiming him, like she’s been doing it for months.

Catherine turns, meets Patricia’s eyes, and doesn’t even pretend to be startled.

“Oh. You.”

John stammers, “W–what are you doing here? We were just tidying up before—”

Catherine laughs. A low, amused exhale.
“Give her some credit, John. We’re all adults here.”

She never breaks eye contact with Patricia as she slides down from the desk.
Slowly.
Deliberately.

Then she moves closer to John - too close - her body brushing his, her perfume filling the room.

Patricia’s breath snags.

Catherine sinks into John’s chair, one leg draped carelessly over his lap, skirt sliding indecently high.
Her fingers trace his jaw… then lower… chest… stomach… belt… the involuntary bulge beneath the fabric.

Patricia is frozen.
Horrified.
Because John’s body reacts.

Not with fear.
Not with resistance.

With want.

Catherine curls her fingers into his shirt and whispers something against his neck, lips grazing skin.
John’s eyes close - just for a second - but long enough.

Then Catherine turns her head toward Patricia.
A quiet smile.
Beautiful.
Cruel.

“You’re here to check up on us, aren’t you? To see what we do every Friday… when the rest of the factory’s gone home?”

Patricia tries to speak, but nothing comes.

Catherine rises and gestures for John to lean back - their little ritual, polished by repetition.

His desire is no longer a secret.

She hooks a thumb under her panties, slides them down her legs with slow, practiced elegance, and steps out of them.
Black.
Skimpy.
Dropped on the office floor like a gauntlet.

Then she lifts her skirt, climbs onto him, and straddles him.

No hesitation.
No shame.
Only inevitability.

Patricia watches her sink down slowly - tight, deep, claiming him inch by inch.
A choked sound escapes John’s throat - part breath, part surrender.

Catherine gasps too, a sound she tries to swallow, and then her hips begin to move.
A slow, devastating rhythm.

Patricia can’t move.
She stands just inside the door, cold all the way to her bones.

John doesn’t push Catherine away.
He holds her.
Fingers digging into her thighs.
Needing her to keep going.

Patricia watches her husband’s face change.

The guilt dissolves.
The shock fades.

Hunger takes its place.

Catherine leans close to his ear, whispers something meant only for him.
His whole body responds - jaw tightening, breath shuddering, hips rising.

She unbuttons her blouse.
Opens it.
John’s mouth finds her breast like a man who’s done it a hundred times - eager, greedy, practiced.

Patricia feels something break.

Catherine tilts her head back, lips parted, breath catching in those soft, involuntary noises that reveal everything.

Her pace slows - deeper, slower - imprinting herself on his body, on his memory, on Patricia.

John grips her hips, pulling her down hard, needing all of her.

That is the worst part.

Not that Catherine is riding him.

But that he is meeting her.
Rhythm for rhythm.
Breath for breath.

As if his body knows hers better than it knows his wife’s.

Catherine’s eyes open and find Patricia.

No taunt.
No smirk.
Just calm possession.

Patricia finally whispers, “Stop.”

John hears her.

He just can’t obey.

Catherine turns her head, voice soft, almost helpful:

“If you want him to stop, tell him.
You’re his wife, after all.
If he asks me to, I will.”

A pause.

Patricia opens her mouth -
but nothing comes.

Because she sees the truth:
he’s already too far gone.

Catherine leans to John’s ear, lips clear enough for Patricia to read:

“Look at your wife.”

John forces his eyes open - broken, aroused, trapped -
and looks straight at Patricia
while Catherine keeps moving on him, slow and relentless.

He doesn’t last.

He can’t.

Not when she whispers, low and final:

“Now look at me.
And cum for me.
-In front of her.”

Patricia sees the moment it hits -
his jaw tight, breath ripped from him, hips jerking helplessly.

Catherine slams down one last time and holds him there, deep, taking every shudder of his climax with a soft, satisfied exhale.

Engineered.
Executed.
Perfect.

When it’s over, Catherine doesn’t move from his lap.
She rests her cheek against his, stroking the back of his neck—almost tender.

Patricia turns away, hand to her mouth, tears hot and sudden.

Behind her, Catherine’s voice - gentle, lethal:

“That was even better than usual.
Your wife should visit more often.”

——————————-

Catherine finally lifts herself off him, slow, unhurried.
John slumps back in the chair, chest heaving, eyes glassy.
She stands, smooths her skirt over her hips, retrieves her panties, and steps into them with elegant ease.

Patricia watches, shaking.
Catherine fixes her blouse, one slow button at a time.

“If it’s any consolation, darling,” she says softly,
“you didn’t lose him tonight...”

A pause hangs between them.

“You lost him in Bath.”

Patricia freezes.
“Bath? The conference?”
Her voice cracks.
She looks at John - begging for a denial.

He has none.

Catherine finishes the last button, voice even:

“He begged for me that night.
I let him finish in my mouth.
His body shook so much…I thought he might pass out.”

Patricia gasps in horror, a tear runs down her left cheek.
John’s eyes shut - shame too late.

Catherine slips her bag over her shoulder.

“Go home,” she says.
“He’ll follow once he can stand.”

She starts toward the door.

Pauses.

Turns back.

“Oh - almost forgot.”

She returns to the desk.
Opens the drawer.
Takes out John’s diary.

Patricia’s breath catches.
She doesn’t look at John.
She looks at Patricia.

She flips to today’s date.

“You like reading this, don’t you?”
Her voice is soft, despite the barbed comment. Almost fond.
“You search it for reasons. For clues. For reassurance.”
She picks up John’s pen and lets the moment stretch.
“You won’t have to anymore.”

And then, as Patricia watches,
Catherine writes her name:

Catherine.

Neat.
Elegant.
Unmistakable.

Beneath it:

Third time this week.

Then a single, small x.

A lover’s mark.
A signature.
A truth Patricia cannot un-know.

Catherine closes the diary gently.

“There,” she says, a fragile pause for effect.
“Now next time you go leafing through his life…
you’ll know exactly what my name means.”

Then she walks out, heels clicking against the office floor,
leaving John and Patricia in the wreckage.

There are betrayals you argue about.
And there are the ones you witness.
The ones you can’t un-see.
The ones that were already happening long before you walked into the room.
The ones you’ll never forget.