Shattered And Drowning 2

Author's note- Hey everyone!

Just a quick note: This is actually Chapter 8 of the story, but for some reason, Chapters 9 and 10 were uploaded before it! So, I'm just posting it now so you can catch up. I will make sure such mistakes won't happen in future.

Hope you enjoy!

MJ

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The scalding water cascades over me, a relentless torrent that does nothing to cleanse the images seared into my brain.

My mind is reeling, spinning with the images seared into my brain. The gasps, the moans, the raw, animalistic sounds, the utter depravity of what I witnessed.

Of what I allowed. What I craved, in the darkest recesses of my soul.

I scrub at my skin, hard, as if I can erase the memory with sheer force. But the scene is indelible, branded onto my consciousness.

I can't stop thinking about it. Can't stop picturing Emma's face glazed in cum, her lips swollen and streaked with spit. The way she looked at me afterward, dazed and debauched.

Ashamed. Guilty.

I replay the scene after Marcus finished, after he'd painted my wife with his seed as if she were a canvas for his pleasure.

"You can go clean up in the bathroom, sweetheart," he'd said, his voice still ragged from his climax.

Emma, seemingly jolted out of the trance she'd been in, had rushed off without a word, leaving the two of us alone.

Marcus had turned to me then, his dark eyes searching mine.

"Was that alright?" he'd asked, his voice low and husky.

Alright?

The word echoed in my mind, absurd and incendiary.

I had no answer. What could I possibly say after witnessing what I'd just seen?

I vaguely remember snapping at him, the sound of my own voice raw and unfamiliar, but the specifics are lost to me now, swallowed up by the rising tide of my own shame

But he just smiled gently.

"I understand, Mike. It's a lot to process," he said gently. Then, his gaze had fallen to the obvious bulge in my jeans. "Why don't you go home and talk to her? I think you both need it."

With that, he'd retreated to his bedroom, leaving me alone with the aftermath of our encounter.

Emma emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, her face scrubbed clean, but her eyes still holding a distant, haunted look. She avoided my gaze, her silence speaking volumes.

Not knowing what else to do, I simply turned and left, Emma trailing behind me like a shadow. The elevator ride down was agonizing, the silence thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. We didn't look at each other, didn't speak.

It was as if we were strangers.

Once we were home, I immediately sought refuge in the shower, hoping the it would somehow wash away the stain of the evening's events.

But the cold water did little to quell the fire raging within me. My cock remained stubbornly erect, a constant reminder of the scene I'd witnessed, of the desires that had been awakened within me. My mind raced, a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

How could I have let that happen? Why didn't I stop them?

Images flash before my eyes, vivid and disturbing. Marcus, his powerful body pressing Emma against the couch, his dark hands roaming her skin, his cock disappearing into her eager mouth.

Stop it. Stop thinking about it.

I shake my head, trying to banish the thoughts, a string of curses escaping my lips.

I stumble out of the shower, my skin prickling with goosebumps. I dried off roughly, pulling on the first clothes my hands found.

Emma is lying on the bed, changed into a fresh set of pajamas, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

Our gazes meet and for a long moment, neither of us spoke.

"Mike..." Her voice, small and broken, reaches me from across the room, a fragile thread of hope in the vast emptiness.

I turn to face her, my throat constricting. I didn't want to talk. I didn't know how to begin to untangle the mess we'd made.

"We need to talk," she whispers.

"Not now," I mutter, turning away from her.

"But Mike..."

"We'll talk in the morning." I snap, harsher than I intend.

"Please," she begs, tears welling in her eyes. "We can't just..."

"I SAID

NOT NOW!

"

The words explode from my mouth, fueled by a rage I didn't understand, a rage that is as much directed at myself as it is at her.

Emma flinches back as if I've slapped her. A flicker of pain crosses her face.

A stab of guilt lances through me, but it quickly submerges by the icy torrent of my own turmoil. I can't comfort her, not now. Not when I am barely holding myself together, when the ground beneath my feet feet like shifting sand.

I need time to process, to understand what has happened and what it means for us.

I climb into bed, turning my back to her, and close my eyes, hoping for sleep to offer a temporary escape from the turmoil within. But it is no use. The sounds of her soft sobs fill the room, each one a dagger to my heart.

I knew I could have stopped it. I could have grabbed Emma and left at any moment. But I hadn't. And now, we were both left to deal with the consequences.

Anger simmers beneath the surface, directed at her, at Marcus, but mostly at myself.

Somewhere between her sobs and my own self-recrimination, I drift off to sleep, the events of the night replaying in my dreams, a haunting reminder of the choices we'd made and the uncertain path that lay ahead.

***

Morning sunlight streams through the gaps in the curtains, painting the bedroom in a soft, deceptive golden light. For a brief, excruciatingly beautiful moment, as I crack open my eyes, I'm suspended in a blissful void. Then, like a cruel jolt of electricity, the memories come crashing back, shattering the fragile illusion of peace.

It feels as if I'm waking from a nightmare, a surreal and disturbing dream. But as the details sharpen, the images sear into my consciousness with agonizing clarity, I realize it is more like a waking nightmare, a horror show playing on repeat in my mind.

I sit up in bed, my head pounding, my stomach churning with a mix of nausea and regret.

Everything in the room feels alien, distorted. The familiar furniture, the photographs on the dresser, Emma's favorite throw pillow tossed carelessly on the floor...

I blink, trying to shake off the daze.

She isn't beside me in bed. I hear the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen, the familiar sizzle of breakfast being prepared. Groaning, I drag myself out of bed and stumble to the bathroom.

The cold water I splash on my face does little to chase away the lingering haze of the previous night. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, searching for a familiar landmark in the hollow-eyed stranger looking back.

Nothing feels real.

I go through the motions of getting ready for work, my body moving on autopilot, my mind still reeling from the images playing on a loop in my head.

Emma is in the kitchen when I emerge from the bedroom. Her back is to me, her shoulders hunched slightly, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. I watch her for a moment, taking in the familiar contours of her body, the way she moves with an easy grace, and a fresh wave of nausea washes over me.

"Hi," she says softly, turning as she senses my presence.

Her eyes meet mine, and I see the rawness in their depths, the remnants of tears, the flicker of uncertain hope.

"Hey." My voice is rough, unused.

"Breakfast is almost ready... "

"I'm not hungry." I turn away from her, unable to bear the weight of her gaze, the unspoken questions that hang heavy in the air between us.

"Wait." She moves towards me, her hand reaching out as if to touch me, then falling back to her side. "We need to talk."

"Not now, Emma," I say, my voice strained, a flimsy shield against the torrent of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

"But Mike, please... " she pleads, tears welling up in her eyes.

I stride out of the apartment, my heart a drumbeat of panic in my chest. I don't look back. Don't allow myself to see her face.

I didn't know what to do, what to say, how to fix this. All I knew is that I needed to escape, to get away from the suffocating reality of our shattered world.

The last thing I hear before the door slams behind me is the sound of Emma's sobs. Broken and wretched.

***

The office walls seemed to close in on me, the sterile environment suffocating. The day passes in a haze, my mind a chaotic jumble of thoughts and emotions.

Emma's texts—a steady stream of questions, apologies, pleas for me to come home— go unanswered.

Even a message from Marcus, a single line of text I don't dare to open, sits unread in my inbox.

I vaguely recall Sheila, my secretary, hovers at my door, her voice a distant drone as she attempts to discuss some upcoming project. I nod vaguely, offer cursory responses, praying she doesn't notice the way my hands tremble, the film of cold sweat on my skin.

My mind kept returning to those images, those forbidden scenes that played on repeat like a broken record. A tightness constricted my chest, a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil within.

Why didn't I stop it?

The question hammers in my skull.

Why did I let it happen? Why did I let it go so far?

And why, God help me... why did it make me feel the way it did? So alive, so electrified. So fucking aroused, I thought I might die from it.

Because despite the horror, the shame, the sense of violation... there was also a thrill, a rush of adrenaline, a raw, primal excitement that had nothing to do with love or tenderness. It was pure, unadulterated lust, fueled by the taboo, by the shattering of every boundary I'd ever known. And it was intoxicating.

As the day wears on, the weight of these unanswered questions became unbearable.

I can't go home, can't face the wreckage of what we've become. Instead, I find myself drawn to a dimly lit bar, seeking solace in the numbing embrace of alcohol.

My phone buzzes incessantly, but I ignore it, each vibration a painful reminder of the reality I am trying to escape. I order another drink, the amber liquid burning a path down my throat, offering a temporary anesthetic to the pain that is eating me alive.

"Rough day, huh?"

I look up, blinking blearily. The bartender is watching me, his eyes sympathetic. Understanding.

I laugh, the sound harsh and humorless. "You could say that."

He nods, wiping down the bar with a rag. "Woman troubles?"

I snort, taking another swig of whiskey. "Something like that."

"Ah." He gives me a knowing smile, a look that says he's seen it all before, heard every variation on this familiar tune. "Marriage, huh? It's never easy."

The words are meant to be comforting, I know. I wanted to laugh, to tell him that my problems were far from ordinary, that they were twisted and perverse in a way he couldn't possibly comprehend.

"No," I agree, my voice hollow. Empty. "It's really isn't."

The bartender hums, setting a fresh drink in front of me. I didn't ask for it, but I'm not about to turn it down.

"Want to talk about it?"

For a moment, I'm tempted. Tempted to spill my guts. To unburden myself of the shame and the sickness, the dark desires eating me alive.

But I can't. I won't.

I shake my head, tossing back the whiskey. "Thanks, but no. Just... just keep them coming, yeah?"

He nods, sensing my resistance, and retreats to the other end of the bar leaving me to my misery.

I drink.

And I drink, and I drink. Trying to drown out the images in my head, the phantom sensations on my skin.

The ache in my cock, the clench of my gut. The need, the hunger.

The craving for more, even as it destroys me.

The room swims, faces blur, and for a while, I can almost pretend that none of it ever happened. That Emma is at home waiting, that Marcus is just a neighbor, that the dark, twisted hunger gnawing at my insides is nothing more than a figment of my alcohol-soaked imagination.

But it's a lie. A flimsy, temporary delusion that shatters with a start when the bartender clears his throat pointedly.

I lose track of time. Lose myself in the haze of alcohol, the blessed numbness.

It's only when the bartender clears his throat pointedly that I realize how late it's gotten.

"Last call, buddy. You need me to call you a cab?"

I blink, focusing on his face with effort.

The bar, once crowded and noisy, is now nearly empty, the remaining patrons murmuring drunken farewells. My gaze falls to my phone, the screen lit with a barrage of missed calls and unread messages, all from Emma. 10:30 pm.

Emma. Fuck

She must be frantic by now, sick with worry, imagining the worst.

"Shit." The word escapes my lips in a harsh whisper.

"Everything okay?" The bartender's voice is closer now, his concern evident.

"Yeah... I... I need to get home."

He raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You sure you're okay to drive?"

I'm not. I'm really, really not.

But I need to go.

"I'll walk," I decide, tossing some bills on the bar. Probably too much, but I don't care.

I just need to get out of here. Need to move, to breathe.

"Be careful out there, man. And hey..." He pauses, his expression softening. "Whatever it is, I hope you work it out."

I pause, my throat tight.

"Yeah," I manage, my voice rough. Broken. "Me too."

And then I'm stumbling out into the night, into the cold and the dark.

I can't keep running away, not like this.

I had to face her, to talk to her, to figure out what the hell we were going to do.

***

The apartment is silent when I returned, the only light emanating from the bedroom door. I push it open, and there she is, curled up in bed, her face stained with tears, her eyes puffy and swollen from crying.

For a moment, I just stand there, watching her sleep, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest a counterpoint to the chaos thrumming in my veins.

Then, the memories came flooding back, each one a sharp shard of glass piercing through my soul. Emma on Marcus's lap, her lips welded to his. Emma on her knees before him, her mouth working magic on his monstrous cock.

And then, the images morph, twisting into something darker, more depraved. Fantasies of what else might have happened, of what could still happen—

Fuck. It hurts.

The pain is visceral, a knife twisting in my gut. It rips through the fabric of my being, leaving me raw, bleeding, a hollow shell of the man I thought I am.

My stomach lurches. Bile rises in my throat, a bitter taste of self-disgust. I think I might throw up.

But then I feel it. The familiar, insistent pressure in my groin, the ache of a need that transcends logic, that mocks the turmoil in my soul.

The lust for my wife, for her body, overwhelmed the nausea, pushing it aside with a raw, primal urgency.

I haven't come since last night. Haven't been able to, despite the relentless ache that's been plaguing me all day. It's as if my body, betrayed and confused, is searching for a way to reconcile the conflicting signals, to ground itself in the familiar.

I didn't quite understand it, but in this moment, nothing else mattered.

I approach the bed, my movements driven by a force I barely recognize, my mind a blur. Pulling back the covers, I reveal her sleeping form, vulnerable and unaware. She's wearing the same sapphire blue nightgown from this morning, the silky fabric clinging to her curves, a visual trigger that sends a jolt of electricity through me.

My fingers tremble as I reach out to trace the line of her hip, the curve of her waist. She stirs slightly, a soft moan escaping her lips, a sound that fans the flames in my blood.

I gently massage her breasts, feeling the familiar swell, the hardening of her nipples beneath my touch. She moans again, a low, throaty sound that makes my cock throb. Her legs part instinctively, a silent invitation that makes my head spin.

As I continue to caress her, my mind raced with thoughts of the past few weeks, of the fantasies I'd indulged in, of the insecurities that had plagued me.

It is as if a switch had flipped in my brain, my thoughts and emotions merging into a singular, all-consuming desire.

I slide my fingers inside her, finding her clit. Circling it just the way she likes, the way that makes her shatter.

She stirs, her lashes fluttering. Confused, disoriented.

"Mike...?"

I don't answer. Can't form words past the lump in my throat, the roaring in my ears.

I'm too far gone. Too lost in the madness, the sickening swirl of lust and shame and despair.

"Mike, what—"

I surge forward, claiming her mouth in a brutal kiss. Swallowing her gasp, her questions.

She stiffens for a moment, startled. Tries to speak, to push me away.

But I won't let her. Can't.

She seems confused at first, her body tense beneath mine. But then, she melts into me, surrendering to the onslaught. Kissing me back with a desperate hunger, a wild abandon.

Our mouths clash violently, our tongues tangling in a desperate dance. I groan into her mouth, my hands roaming her body, squeezing her breasts, kneading her flesh..

I rip off my pants, my cock springing free, hard and aching, desperate for release. Then, without hesitation, I thrust into her.

"Ughh...."

Her body tenses, and I hesitate for a fraction of a second, a spark of guilt flaring within me.

But I can't stop. Can't slow down, can't be careful.

But then, she relaxes, her hips rising to meet mine, her moans growing louder with each thrust. There is an urgency to our movements, a primal need that neither of us understood, but that consumed us both.

"Oh God, Mike..."

She meets me thrust for thrust, her body yielding to mine. Taking everything I give her, everything I pour into her.

All my rage, my pain. My sorrow, my sickness.

My love, twisted and tainted as it is.

She clenches around me, her pussy rippling. Milking my cock, urging me deeper.

I feel her shatter, feel her come apart beneath me. Her orgasm washes over her in waves, rippling through her body.

Leaving her boneless, breathless. A puddle of satisfaction, of sated bliss.

For a fleeting moment, I saw a flash of the image that had haunted me all day - Emma, her face covered in Marcus's cum.

But then, it is replaced by the sight of her now, her eyes glazed with lust, her body surrendered to my touch.

But it's not enough. Not for me, not right now.

I keep going, keep fucking her. Harder, faster. Ruthless, relentless.

She whimpers, overstimulated. Claws at my back, my shoulders.

Begging me with her body, her broken cries.

"Mike, ... I can't... it's too much..."

I silence her with another kiss, brutal and bruising. Swallow her protests, her pleas.

I'm too far gone to stop. Too lost in the haze of lust, the red mist of madness.

Reason has fled, replaced by a raw, animalistic need.

I groan, my thrusts growing faster, harder.

She whimpers, her legs wrapping tightly around my waist, her arms clinging to me as if she were drowning.

And then, through the haze of my own need, I hear it. A gasp, a broken cry laced with a pleasure that feels both familiar and disturbingly different.

"Yes... uhhhh...

Mikeeee

..."

I pour myself into her, my release a violent eruption that mirrors the chaos within me. She cries out again, her body convulsing around mine as she reaches her climax again, a final, shuddering release that leaves us both trembling in the aftermath.

I collapse against her, my breath ragged, my heart pounding a frantic tattoo against my ribs. The room spins, the boundaries between pleasure and pain, love and hate, blurring into a sickening haze.

As the echoes of our passion fades, a profound sense of emptiness settled over me.