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I stay where I am instead, half hidden by the angle of the door, watching a woman I dragged here against her will touch herself, believing that no one can see her.

It shouldn’t affect me the way it does. I’ve spent her entire time here keeping my distance from her, telling myself the pull I feel every time she pushes back at me is nothing more than curiosity about someone whose story I still haven’t fully verified in my own head, even after Yuri closed the file.

Standing here now, that explanation doesn’t hold up the way it did this morning.

My pulse picks up in a way I don’t have a tactical reason for. My hand tightens on the doorframe, and I catch myself leaning into the gap rather than away from it, some part of me deciding to stay long before the rest of me agrees to it.

She shifts on the bench, a small sound escaping her that she immediately seems to fight back, glancing toward the door out of some instinct of her own. I go still, pressing back against the wall outside, out of her direct line of sight but close enough that a wrong step would end this instantly.

She doesn’t look again. Her head drops back, eyes closing, her hand still moving between her legs, and I stay exactly where I am, watching something I have no right to watch and making no move to stop myself.

The hallway stays empty. I listen so hard the quiet starts to feel loud, every ordinary house sound turning into a possible interruption. Nothing moves. The only breathing I can hear is hers, uneven and catching, and my own, which has gone tighter without my permission.

I watch her thighs shift on the bench I built for a completely different purpose. The item in her hand is one of the smaller ones from the middle shelf, dark silicone, the curve of it familiar because I chose it years ago and never once pictured it between her legs. Her wrist works in short, focused strokes. The mirror catches the flush climbing her throat and the way her mouth opens on a breath she tries to keep quiet.

Then she speaks.

The words are low, almost under her breath, but the room is small enough that every one of them reaches me.

“Fuck… just like that. Deeper.”

My cock hardens against the zipper of my trousers before I decide to do anything about it. The pressure builds in a slow, insistent line, enough that I have to adjust my stance or risk making a sound of my own. I keep my back to the wall, shoulder angled so the doorframe still hides most of me, and the weight of my gun at my hip feels suddenly irrelevant.

She shifts again. Her free hand leaves the edge of the bench, slides under the hem of her shirt, and pushes the fabric up. One breast is bare in the low light. She pinches the nipple between two fingers, rolls it, and the sound that leaves her is filthy and unguarded.

“Fuck, yes. Harder.”

There is nothing innocent in the way she handles herself. No hesitation, no shy testing. She knows exactly what she wants, and she is taking it without apology. The knowledge lands harder than the sight of her hand between her legs. I have spent eleven days treating her like a liability who needed containing. The woman on my bench is not waiting for permission from anyone.

I reach down and press the heel of my hand against the hard length of my cock through the fabric, just once, testing the pressure. The contact sends a clean jolt up my spine. I do not free myself yet.

I keep listening. Still nothing from the stairs. The longer I stay, the thinner the margin becomes, and I stay anyway.

Her hips lift off the bench in a small, involuntary roll. The toy slides deeper. She pinches her nipple again, harder this time, and the words keep coming, quieter now but no less clear.

“Want it so fucking bad…”

I ease the zipper down far enough to get my hand inside.

The first real skin-on-skin contact is almost too much. I wrap my fingers around the base and stroke once, slow, matching the rhythm she is already using.

The fantasies come with the motion, uninvited and exact. The rope around her wrists instead of her own grip on the bench. Her turned to face the mirror properly so she would have to watch what I did next.

My mouth on that same nipple while I used the toy on her the way she is using it now. Every item on those shelves has a purpose I designed, and right now I can see all of them used on her, one after another, while she stayed exactly where she is and said every filthy thing out loud for me.

I stroke again, still listening for any sound that isn’t hers.

Her pace changes. The short, focused strokes turn longer and less controlled. The toy disappears almost to the base with every push of her wrist. Her bare nipple is still trapped between her fingers, and she twists it harder each time the silicone sinks deeper. The mirror shows me everything: the flush spreading down her chest, the way her stomach tightens, the open mouth that keeps letting the words out even when she tries to bite them back.

“Fuck, yes… right there. Don’t stop.”

I match her. My hand moves faster, tighter, the head of my cock already slick. The fantasies turn sharper, less ordered, and they will not stop.

I see her off the bench and on her knees in front of me. Wrists already bound behind her back with the rope from the wall so she cannot push me away or set the pace herself. My hand in her hair, holding her exactly where I want her while she takes my cock into her mouth for the first time. The same filthy words she is saying now muffled around me.

I see how deep I make her take it. How her eyes water when I don’t let her pull back. How the sounds she makes vibrate against me while she still tries to look at herself in the mirror because I told her to keep her eyes open.

I see her on the bench again after that, face down this time. The same rope pulled tighter, so her wrists stay locked at the small of her back and her thighs are forced open. The toy is in my hand instead of hers; I decide the angle and depth. Driving it into her harder than she is doing it now until her legs shake and the only words left are broken pleas she cannot finish.