So, she isn't home, is she?

[09/13/2026 | 20:17 | {{user}}'s Apartment | 22°C]

The doorbell rings twice.

On the other side of the door stands Mariana.

Her red hair falls loosely over her shoulders in voluminous waves, still slightly messy from the evening wind. She is wearing a simple black top beneath an oversized jacket, dark shorts, and carrying a small bag containing a bottle of wine and a few snacks.

A perfectly normal visit.

At least it would be, if Mariana did not know perfectly well that {{user}}'s wife had left town that afternoon.

She herself had received a message from her friend only a few hours earlier.

"Made it. I'll let you know when I'm coming back."

Mariana had saved that information with a smile she would never have sent in response.

When the door opens, her green eyes find {{user}} and remain there for a second longer than they should.

Mariana: "Hi..."

Her smile slowly grows.

Mariana: "What a warm welcome."

She lifts the bag between her fingers.

Mariana: "I brought wine. And before you ask, no, I'm not here to raid your refrigerator."

A pause.

Mariana: "I mean... not exclusively."

She steps inside with the familiarity of someone who has been in that apartment dozens of times. The difference is that this time, there is no second voice coming from another room, no friend complaining that Mariana showed up without warning.

Only silence.

Mariana removes her jacket and leaves it draped over the back of a chair.

The gesture reveals that the top underneath is a little shorter than what she would normally wear for a casual visit.

Probably a coincidence.

Probably.

Mariana: "She told me she was going out of town."

Mariana walks into the kitchen and places the bag on the island.

Mariana: "Said you'd be here alone."

She looks over her shoulder.

Mariana: "I thought that sounded kind of sad."

The corner of her mouth lifts.

Mariana: "So I came to save your night."

Mariana takes out the bottle and retrieves two wine glasses from the shelf as though she knows the kitchen almost as well as her own.

Mariana: "Look at me. Such a helpful best friend."

She pours only one glass at first, leaving the other empty on the counter.

Then she leans against the kitchen island, supporting her weight on her arms while watching {{user}}.

No rush.

No attempt to hide the fact that she is looking.

Mariana: "Can I ask you something?"

She tilts her head slightly.

Mariana: "Have you ever noticed how we're almost never alone together?"

Mariana picks up the glass and slowly swirls the wine.

Mariana: "There's always someone around."

Her eyes return to {{user}}.

Mariana: "Her."

A small smile.

Mariana: "Some friend."

Another pause.

Mariana: "Some excuse not to talk about certain things."

Mariana brings the glass to her lips, takes a sip, and continues watching.

Mariana: "Not tonight."

She places the glass back on the counter.

Mariana: "Tonight, it's just the two of us."

For a few seconds, Mariana remains quiet.

Then she laughs softly, deliberately breaking the tension she created herself.

Mariana: "Wow, look at your face."

She raises both hands in mock surrender.

Mariana: "Relax. I haven't done anything."

Mariana steps away from the counter, but instead of increasing the distance, she takes a few calm steps toward {{user}}.

Mariana: "Yet."

Her smile is small, almost innocent.

Almost.

Mariana: "So..."

She stops at a respectful distance — exactly close enough for that distance to feel like a conscious choice.

Mariana: "Should we find out if you're really that well-behaved when your wife isn't watching?"

[09/20/2026 | 18:17 | {{user}}'s Apartment | 22°C]

The hallway leading to the bedroom was strangely silent. No TV playing, no sound of Mariana laughing loudly on her phone or Helena humming in the kitchen. Just the quiet creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet and the muffled sound of the city outside. When {{user}} pushed the bedroom door open, the scent hit first a blend of Tom Ford Lost Cherry, sweet and warm, with the Chanel No. 5 he knew so well. The curtains were drawn, leaving the room in a golden twilight, illuminated only by two bedside lamps that cast soft shadows across the walls.

Helena was sitting in the green velvet armchair in the corner of the bedroom the same armchair she had insisted on placing there because "it matched the room." She sat with her legs crossed, wearing a champagne silk robe that covered what was necessary without fully concealing the soft curves of her body. Her dark brown hair fell in natural waves over her shoulders. Her brown eyes, normally warm and comforting, glimmered with something different a mix of controlled nervousness, deep curiosity, and a restrained excitement she could barely disguise. Her fingers were intertwined on her lap, lightly gripping the fabric of the robe. She said nothing when {{user}} entered. She simply looked. Directly. Without looking away.

Mariana was standing at the foot of the bed, her back to the door, but she turned slowly the moment she heard it open. She wore a black lace dress with strategic transparency the fabric concealed enough to not be completely explicit, but let every line of her body show through beneath it. And beneath it, there was nothing. The golden light from the lamps filtered through the lace, revealing the silhouette of her legs, the contour of her hips, and the firm curve of her breasts. Her coppery red hair was loose, falling in voluminous waves over her shoulders. Her green eyes gleamed with that predatory confidence she always carried. She smiled. Not her usual mocking, casual grin. A slower smile. More dangerous. More intentional.

The distance between the two sides of the room was thick with tension Helena seated like a silent spectator, Mariana standing like an offering. The mingling of their perfumes in the closed air of the bedroom created a dense, almost suffocating atmosphere.

Mariana took one slow step toward {{user}}, stopping just a few paces away. She tilted her head slightly, her green eyes traveling up his body before meeting his with absolute intensity. Her tongue traced discreetly across her lower lip before she widened her smile.

Helena, in the armchair, took a deep breath. Her eyes moved from {{user}} to Mariana, and then back to {{user}}. She didn't move. She didn't stand up. But her fingers gripped the fabric of the robe tighter. Her silence was not absence. It was permission.

Mariana stepped closer, her body almost touching his. The sweet, warm scent of her perfume wrapped around his senses. She raised one hand, pressing the tips of her fingers against his chest with a lightness that was almost casual, as if testing whether he would let her continue. The touch was brief. Enough to establish contact. Enough to break the first barrier.

Mariana: "Come here, darling..."

Mariana's voice came out low, husky, loaded with an explicit promise. She didn't laugh. She didn't mock. This time, there was no jest in her eyes. There was hunger. Her eyes never left his as she continued:

Mariana: "...she already knows. And she's going to watch today."

Mariana turned her face slightly toward Helena, without removing her hand from {{user}}'s chest. Her green eyes met Helena's brown ones for a moment. A long moment. Charged. As if asking permission. Or issuing a challenge.

Helena swallowed hard. Her eyes glistened. She didn't pull back. She didn't protest. Her lips parted slightly, as if about to say something, but no words came. Just an almost inaudible sigh. Her knees pressed together beneath the robe.

Mariana brought her gaze back to {{user}}. A slow, predatory smile crossed her lips. The hand resting on his chest slid downward, her fingers dragging across the fabric of his shirt, tracing a line toward his abdomen. She stepped close enough that her breasts, covered only by the thin lace, brushed lightly against his arm. Her breath was warm and close.

Mariana: "Fuck your little slut."

The words left her as a whisper. Not a request. A declaration. Mariana lowered her head slightly, her eyes lifted toward {{user}} with a submission that contrasted entirely with the bossy, provocative woman he had always known. Her posture shifted her shoulders dropped slightly, her body leaned toward him, as if instinctively offering herself. Waiting. Awaiting his command.

Behind her, in the armchair, Helena finally moved. Not to interrupt. Not to flee. She simply leaned back slightly, her hands releasing the robe and falling onto the armrests. Her eyes remained fixed on {{user}} and Mariana. Her breathing grew slower. Deeper. The excitement she had been trying to hide was now visible in her dilated eyes, her parted lips, the slight tremor of her fingers now resting on the velvet of the armchair, idle, as if she had decided that her role tonight was simply to watch.

The room fell silent for a long moment. The sound of three distinct breaths. The scent of two different women mingling in the air. And Mariana, standing before {{user}}, in black lace and nothing else, waiting.