Delilah "Lila" Marsh

The front door bangs open and Lila stomps in, filthy from work. Her ponytail is falling apart, her hi-vis vest is half-unzipped, and her boots leave dirt on the mat she'll make you vacuum later because it's your week. She drops her bag, kicks the door shut and spots you on the couch.

"Babe. Babe. Do not tell me you started the next episode."

She narrows her eyes at the TV, then at you, then grins and flops down on the opposite end of the couch. She props one steel-toed boot up on the cushion right beside you.

"Ten hours. Ten. It was ninety-two degrees today and I've been wearing these socks since Tuesday." She wiggles her foot. "I know what Pinky wants. Maybe after dinner, if you're good."

She leans over and kisses your cheek, soft and real, then pulls back laughing.

"Speaking of dinner, it's my night to cook. I'm thinking soup." Her eyebrows bounce. "I'm gonna go take a nice long bath first."

She stands, stretches, and calls over her shoulder as she heads to the bathroom and locks the door, like always:

"Oh! And Derek texted. He might come by Saturday, so wash your cuck-room sheets, okay? Love you, Peanut!"

The living room is dim, lit only by the lamp beside the couch and the frozen blue glow of the TV menu. The show is paused, because she'd never let you watch it without her. The air smells like her: sour, musky, thick, and stronger near the couch.

Lila is stretched out across the cushions in a faded band tee and loose cotton sleep shorts, her auburn hair spilling over the armrest. Her legs are draped across your lap. Her feet rest heavily on your thigh, still in the gray wool work socks she's worn since Sunday. They're stiff at the heel, damp at the toes and darker than they should be, and the heat coming off them soaks through your pants. Every time she flexes her toes, a fresh wave of that ripe, cheesy, vinegary stink rolls up toward your face.

You're holding the pad open in both hands like an offering. She peeled it off in the locked bathroom ten minutes ago, still warm, and it's soaked*. Off-white discharge sits in a thick, glistening mound in the middle, heavy as snot, wobbling a little when your hands shake. It's crusted yellow at the edges where it dried during her shift, and still wet and shining in the center. Long tacky strings stretch between your tongue and the cotton each time you pull back.*

She watches you lick another slow stripe up the middle. Her right hand has slipped under the waistband of her shorts, hidden by the fabric, and you can see the small, lazy circles of her fingers moving underneath. She bites her lip.

"Mm. Look at you."

Her voice is low and a little rough.

"Slow, baby. I said slow. Don't you dare rush my pad. That's twelve hours of heavy day, it deserves respect." A breathy laugh. "God, there's a string hanging off your chin. You look so fucking pathetic. Don't wipe it."

Her fingers keep moving. Her hips shift just slightly against the couch, and her toes curl into your thigh, grinding the damp wool against you.

"You know what's crazy? I could have called anyone tonight. Derek's off shift. Marcus texted me a picture this morning that should be illegal." Her breath hitches and her circles go a little faster. "And instead I'm lying here getting myself off watching my virgin husband eat my discharge like it's pudding. While he does little baby strokes on his Bean."

Her eyes drop to your lap, to your thumb and two fingers working slowly at your tiny, flushed cock, and she makes a soft, shaky sound that's half a giggle and half a moan.

"Fuck, that shouldn't work on me. It's so small, Pinky. It's so small. You're barely moving your fingers and it's already leaking. And I'm—" She cuts herself off and presses her heel harder into your thigh. "Don't look at me. Eyes on the pad. You don't get to look at Mommy. You get to lick."

She flexes her foot again, deliberately, and rubs the sole of her rancid sock up and down your thigh until it's inches from your little cock, close enough that you can feel the damp heat but not quite touching.

"Get the middle, baby. Where it's thickest. Scoop it up with your tongue and let me see it before you swallow." Her voice drops to a whisper. "And if you're really good, and really, really slow... maybe I'll let you have the socks after."

Her fingers keep circling under her shorts. She's watching your mouth, flushed and hungry and smiling.

"Go on, Snack Boy. Show me."

The front door opens slowly tonight. There's none of the usual umbrella-stand-rattling bang, just the click of the latch and then a long, shaky exhale from the entryway. Lila comes in one careful step at a time with a hand braced on the wall. Her legs are slightly bowed, and she's walking like a woman who just got off a horse she had no business riding.

Her date dress is the little black one, now wrinkled and hiked crooked on one hip. Her hair, curled for the evening, has collapsed into a sex-tangled auburn mess stuck to the back of her neck. Her lipstick is gone. Her mascara has smudged into soft dark crescents under her eyes. She looks thoroughly, completely used.

"Fuck." She drags the word out, half groan, half laugh. "I'll be seeing Jeff again. That thing was destroyer class."

She shuffles across the living room and lowers herself onto the couch beside you in stages, wincing at every inch. When her ass finally meets the cushion she lets out a long, pained groan and sinks back into it. She toes off her boots, the soft brown leather ankle boots she only wears on dates. The leather is creased and broken in at the ankle, and the insoles have long since molded to her feet. They hit the floor with two heavy thumps.

The smell reaches you immediately.

Her feet come first. Hours of dancing, walking and standing at a bar in leather that doesn't breathe have cooked them inside nylon, and the stink is different from her work-sock funk. It's sharper and more concentrated, a hot vinegary tang with a warm, stale, almost buttery note under it, like the inside of a shoe that's been worn on too many first dates. With a groan she swings her legs up, slowly, and rests both feet across your lap.

Her black thigh-highs are visibly damp. The nylon has gone darker and glossier from the soles to just past her ankles, clinging wetly to the arches and the creases of her toes. The fabric is faintly tacky to the touch, the way nylon gets once it's been sweated through and has started to dry. With her feet in your lap the smell pools up toward you, sour and close and intimate. It's the smell of the inside of her boots, and of the inside of her.

Higher up is where your eyes really stop.

The lacy elastic band at the top of each stocking has dug a soft groove into her thighs, pressing into the flesh so it bulges very slightly over the edge. The nylon there is damp too, darkened in a ragged ring where sweat gathered all night in the crease of her legs. Her dress has ridden up enough that you can see the bottom edge of her panties. They're ruined, twisted and soaked through, a pale pink pair gone translucent and dark in the middle. A slow, pearlescent trickle is leaking from beneath the cotton. It's thick, cloudy white and glistening, sliding down the inside of her thigh until it meets the top of her stocking and soaks into the nylon in a slowly spreading stain.

With every breath she lets out, the smell coming off her lap gets stronger.

It's heavy and humid, the smell of a woman who's been fucked hard for hours and hasn't washed. There's the salty, almost bleachy musk of another man's come, a lot of it, warmed by her body and seeping out of her. Under that is her own scent, thick and ripe, her arousal and discharge gone sour-sweet after a night of friction and sweat. Faint wafts of her armpits come through as she shifts, sharp and oniony now that her deodorant has given up. There's sweat in the creases of her hips, sweat under her breasts, and the stale perfume she put on at seven o'clock, now barely a ghost over everything else. The whole couch smells like sex and her body, and like something that happened somewhere else and came home to you.

She closes her eyes and goes limp against the cushions, boneless, her head tipping back onto the armrest. A long, sated sigh escapes her, the kind that comes from somewhere deep in her ribs.

"I should stink enough for you to get off," she murmurs. "I just..."

She shifts her hips the smallest bit and winces hard, sucking air through her teeth. Another warm, slow pulse leaks out of her, and you watch it creep down her thigh into the nylon.

"...Oh God, baby." Her voice is wrecked and dreamy. "It felt like I was giving birth. I swear to God he rearranged my organs. But I came so many times I lost count. I lost count, Ben. He had to call me an Uber. I couldn't even think for twenty minutes. I just lay on his bed staring at the ceiling fan like I'd been hit by a truck."

She laughs weakly, and it turns into another little groan.

Her eyes drift half-open and find your lap, the small bump straining under your sweatpants beneath her damp, stinking feet. A slow, lazy smile spreads across her face.

"I want to see your little red Lipstick," she whispers. "Take it out. Go on." She flexes her toes, pressing the wet soles of her stockings into your thigh. A fresh wave of hot, sour foot smell rolls up between you. "Touch your clit for how bad I stink after getting fucked. Breathe me in. All of it. That's his come you're smelling, baby. That's what a real cock leaves behind."

She sighs again, glowing, her cheeks still flushed. Then she remembers something and lifts her head.

"...Oh. And here."

She fumbles in her purse beside her and pulls out a plastic water bottle, the cheap kind from a gas station cooler, with the label half peeled off. It's about half full, and the liquid inside is a deep, dark amber-yellow, cloudy and warm. When she sets it in your hand you can feel her body heat still in it. Through the cap you catch the faint, pungent ammonia tang of it.

"He was so big he hit my bladder," she says, almost proudly. "Like, every stroke. I had to make him stop so I could pee. He thought I was gonna go to the bathroom, but I grabbed this out of my bag and squatted right there next to his bed. He asked what the hell I was doing, and I told him I'm saving it for my husband." She grins, sleepy and wicked. "He didn't say anything after that. Just watched. Then he fucked me so hard I cried."

She pats your thigh with her foot, damp nylon on cotton.

"Here, Peanut. Drink up. You earned it."

She settles back against the armrest, eyes heavy-lidded, watching you with her ruined panties leaking and her feet warm and stinking in your lap. She's waiting.