Meeting Emma
Thursday
"Did you iron my shirt?" His voice carried from the bedroom, too loud for the narrow hallway of our Utrecht apartment.
He knows I didn’t. He just wants to hear me say it.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, stirring honey into my tea, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make his shoulders tense when he appeared in the doorway. Dark circles under his eyes. Collar uneven. "No," I said, watching his throat move as he swallowed. "But you’ll find one pressed and hanging in the wardrobe. Third hanger from the left."
Our flat smelled like rain and the bitter coffee he’d spilled earlier—typical for a Thursday. The city outside was all muted greys and bicycle bells, students dodging busses while I traced the rim of my mug with one finger. He likes it when I make him wait. Likes it more when I’m right.
The bed creaked as he sat down to lace his shoes. Fifteen years together, and he still flinched when I stepped behind him to straighten his tie. "Claire texted," I said, feeling his pulse jump under my fingertips. "She’s bringing wine tonight."
And her mouth. And her hands.
He nodded, eyes fixed on the floor.
Good boy.
I let my fingers trail down his spine before stepping away, savoring the way his breath hitched. The kettle whistled again—a sharp, impatient sound—and I poured him a cup, black, no sugar, just how he hated it. He took it without complaint, the steam curling around his stubble as he drank. Perfect.
Outside, a bus screeched to a halt, its horn sounding like a reprimand. The scent of wet pavement seeped through the cracked kitchen window, mingling with the burnt toast he’d forgotten in the toaster. I plucked it out, scraping the char into the sink, and handed him the pale, limp remains. He ate it in three bites, eyes darting to my lips when I licked a drop of honey from my thumb.
"Your meeting’s at ten," I reminded him, tapping my nails against the counter. Late enough for him to squirm. He checked his watch, then his phone, then his watch again—a nervous tic I’d catalogued years ago. "I know," he muttered, but his shoulders slumped when I didn’t offer the usual reassurances.
The front door clicked shut behind him, and I waited until his footsteps faded on the stairs before smiling. Claire’s wine is the least of what he’ll taste tonight.
I grabbed my coat—structured, camel wool—and stepped into the brisk Utrecht morning. The bike lane beside our building was already packed with students wobbling on rented OV-bikes, their backpacks slung carelessly over one shoulder. I adjusted the strap of my leather briefcase, the weight of my iPad and company laptop a familiar pressure against my hip. Power suits me better than him.
The bicycle ride to my office was through crowded streets. I caught my reflection in a window—sharp cheekbones, lips a deliberate shade of crimson—and exhaled slowly, slipping into the rhythm of my other world. Management is just another kind of dominance. More subtle, but no less satisfying.
By the time I swiped into the glass-fronted building near the Jaarbeurs, my caffeine had kicked in and my team was already huddled around the conference table. Their chatter died when I entered. "Good morning," I said, not raising my voice. They straightened. Like puppets. Like him.
Mira, my newest hire, ducked her head as I passed—a quick, instinctive gesture that made my pulse quicken. Interesting. I set my coffee down deliberately on the polished table, letting the silence stretch until Liam, our perpetually late developer, cleared his throat. "Sorry, the sprint report isn’t—"
"Finished?" I finished for him, tapping one nail against the porcelain cup. "I know." The team exchanged glances. They think I’m clairvoyant. Good. Mira’s knee bounced under the table, her pen tapping a frantic rhythm against her notepad. I leaned forward, just enough to make her breath catch. "But it will be by noon, won’t it, Liam?"
He nodded, Adam’s apple bobbing. Just like home.
I sipped my coffee, watching Mira’s fingers tremble as she scribbled notes. The scent of her perfume curled into the air, too sweet, too eager. I could ruin her. The thought flickered, unbidden, and I filed it away for later.
Outside, the Utrecht skyline blurred behind a sudden downpour. Someone gasped as thunder rolled over the city. I didn’t flinch. "Let’s begin," I said, and twenty pages slid obediently across the table toward me.
Mira’s presentation was flawless—too flawless. Her voice barely wavered as she clicked through slides, but her knuckles blanched around the laser pointer. She’s rewritten this four times. Maybe five. I let my gaze linger on the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath her pearl necklace. When she mispronounced "KPI" for the second time, Liam snorted.
I didn’t reprimand him. Just tilted my head, watching Mira’s throat work as she swallowed. "Interesting choice," I murmured, tapping the slide where she’d italicized the wrong metric. Her pen slipped, rolling toward my coffee cup. The team held their breath as I caught it midair—slowly, deliberately—before placing it back in her damp palm. Her fingers twitched. Like a mouse under a cat’s paw.
The meeting dissolved into spreadsheets. Mira’s jasmine perfume thickened with her sweat, sharp and floral under the sterile office lights. When she reached for the water pitcher, her sleeve rode up, revealing three parallel scratches along her wrist—fresh, uneven. Not from paperwork. I exhaled through my nose, suddenly aware of my own nails digging into my thigh. Across the table, she shivered as if sensing my stare.
The clock hit noon. Liam’s report materialized in my inbox with a soft chime. I stood without comment, letting my hand brush Mira’s shoulder as I passed. Her breath hitched—a tiny, broken sound—and I smiled. She’ll be at Claire’s wine tonight. Whether she knows it or not.
Rain streaked the office windows as I closed my door, muffling the hum of keyboards. My phone buzzed against the mahogany desk: Claire’s name, followed by a single emoji—a peach. Subtle as always. I traced the fruit’s curve on the screen, imagining the press of Mira’s teeth against it.
Mira knocked forty-three minutes later. Her blouse gaped at the collar where a button had slipped its thread. Rushed. Flustered. Perfect. "You wanted the revised projections?" Her voice cracked on the last syllable.
I didn’t reach for the folder. "Sit." The chair creaked under her weight. Outside, a siren wailed toward the station. She clutched the papers to her chest like armor.
Too easy.
Leaning back, I let my gaze drop to her scratched wrist. "Working late?"
Her pulse jackrabbited beneath the pearls. "My—my cat."
"Mm." I licked my thumb, slow, watching her pupils dilate. "Claws like that… must be a stray." The folder slipped from her grip, papers scattering at her heels. She made a frantic grab, but my heel pinned a spreadsheet to the floor. "Leave it."
Her knees hit the carpet. The scent of roses mixed with panic clung to her skin as she reached for the document. My toe hooked under her chin, tilting her face up. A drop of sweat slid down her temple.
Exactly where I want her.
The intercom buzzed—Liam asking about Q2 deliverables. Mira flinched. I kept my foot in place, pressing "Ignore" with my thumb. "Tell me," I murmured, "do you always tremble this much… or just for me?"
Her lips parted. No sound came out.
Downstairs, the receptionist laughed at some joke. A tram rumbled past. But here, in this moment, the world had narrowed to the ragged hitch of Mira’s breath and the heat radiating from her flushed skin.
I lifted my foot. "Claire’s bringing a 2015 Bordeaux tonight. Eight sharp." Standing, I smoothed my skirt and stepped over the abandoned papers. "Wear the pearls."
Her whimper followed me out the door.
I wonder if she'll come wearing anything at all beneath that blouse.
The elevator's mirrored walls reflected my smirk as I straightened Claire's favorite cuffs in my briefcase—the ones with the fur lining she'd teased him about last time. My phone buzzed against the leather. His contact photo—a deliberately unflattering shot of him mid-sneeze—flashed on screen. Right on cue.
"Early?" I answered, watching raindrops race down the tram windows.
Static. A swallowed breath. "The—the client canceled." His voice dipped into that register I'd trained out of him years ago. "Should I—"
"Harness," I interrupted, stepping over a puddle as the doors slid open. A cyclist swerved, spraying water that missed my stockings by centimeters. Idiot. "And start the duck confit. Claire likes it crispier than you do."
A beat of hesitation. I could see him in our kitchen, fingers twisting the hem of his shirt. "What about—"
"Pearl buttons," I said, watching a trio of students scramble from the bike lane. One dropped her umbrella, revealing a familiar scratch mark beneath her sleeve. Mira's work. "And chill the Sauternes this time, not the freezer. Like last week."
His sharp inhale crackled through the speaker. He remembers the punishment. "Yes," he rasped. Footsteps echoed—too fast, too eager—followed by the clatter of a dropped pan.
I smiled. Let him fumble. The canal house gables blurred past as I turned onto Oudegracht, my heels clicking against wet cobblestones. "Double the olives in the tapenade," I added, just as the scent of Dutch pancakes wafted from a nearby stall. "Mira's vegetarian."
A choked sound. Papers rustling—he was checking the meal plan pinned to our fridge. Good. "She's—coming?"
I paused beneath a dripping awning "Does that make you nervous?" The question hung between us, heavy as the antique collar in my dresser drawer. A bicycle bell chimed twice—code from the bakery owner that my order of bitterballen was ready.
His silence was answer enough.
"Six thirty," I said at last, tossing a coin to the vendor without breaking stride. "Kneepads." The call ended mid-gasp.
A text popped up immediately—Claire, this time. Found yr kitten crying in the loo. Shall I warm her up for u?
The first raindrops hit my neck as I thumbed back a single character: ✓
Across the Oudegracht, a curtain twitched in our living room window. Right on schedule.
I let myself in silently, toeing off my heels where the parquet met the Persian runner—just far enough that he’d have to crawl to retrieve them later. The dining table gleamed under the low-hanging fixture, silverware aligned with military precision. Almost. A single mote of dust drifted lazily above the third-place setting—Mira’s seat—caught in a slant of late afternoon light.
His shoulders tensed before I even touched him. The scent of burnt garlic clung to his apron strings as I slid a hand between his thighs from behind, fingers finding the familiar shape beneath worn cotton. Warm. Heavy. Mine. "How," I breathed against his ear, squeezing just enough to make his knees buckle, "are you planning to clean that?"
The feather duster clattered to the floor as his hips jerked. "Polish cloth," he gasped, fingers splaying against the tablecloth to steady himself. "Microfiber—Christ—"
I tightened my grip, watching the tendons in his neck stand rigid. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, tracing the same path Mira’s had hours earlier. The duck confit sizzled ominously in the oven. Let it burn.
"Again," I murmured, twisting my wrist. His choked moan harmonized with the timer’s shrill beep.
The doorbell rang.
Claire’s laughter trickled through the foyer, followed by the hesitant click of Mira’s flats. I released him with a pat—barely harder than one might give a misbehaving dog—and smoothed his apron over the unmistakable tent beneath. Let them see.
"Darling," Claire purred, pressing a burgundy-stained kiss to my cheek. Her teeth grazed my earlobe as she handed me the wine. "Someone’s been naughty."
Mira stood frozen in the doorway, clutching a hostess gift with white-knuckled intensity. The pearls lay stark against her flushed throat—exactly four millimeters higher than I’d specified in my invite. Deliberate.
I licked a drop of Cabernet from my thumb, never breaking her gaze. "Welcome," I said softly, "to the main course."
Mira's chair legs scraped violently against the hardwood as she jerked backward—but Claire's manicured hand caught her wrist mid-flight, nails digging into those fresh scratches. Perfect pressure. The girl whimpled, frozen between terror and something far more interesting.
The oven timer beeped again—insistent, mocking—and Claire sighed dramatically, snapping her fingers toward the kitchen without looking. "Duck, darling." His bare feet slapped against tile, harness straps creaking under the strain of his erection. Mira made a sound like a deflating balloon when he shuffled past, head bowed, his thighs gleaming with the sweat of interrupted punishment.
"The Sauternes," I reminded him. His shoulders hunched further.
Claire leaned in, her Chanel No. 5 drowning out Mira's roses as she plucked an olive from the tapenade with her teeth. "So," she murmured around the pit, "does he plate on his knees, or—"
A glass shattered in the kitchen. Predictable. I exhaled through my nose, watching Mira's pupils swallow her irises whole. The girl was trembling so violently her pearls clicked against the table edge.
"Breathe," I commanded—just as he reappeared, balancing three duck breasts on a tray clutched to his chest. The seared skin glistened. The harness didn't.
Claire traced the rim of her wineglass. "Presentation needs work."
Mira made another strangled noise when he sank to his knees between us, offering the tray like a sacrament. His erection brushed my calf—unmistakable, shameless—and Claire smirked, dragging a fingernail through the reduction sauce before painting it across his collarbones.
"Open," I told Mira, sliding a forkful of crisp skin between her lips before she could protest. Her teeth grazed the tines. The duck was—
"Overdone," Claire announced, tossing her napkin onto his head like a shroud.
A pearl clattered to the floor as Mira choked.
I smiled, catching Claire's gaze over the wreckage of our first course. She'll break prettier than the china.
His whimper was the only prayer that night.
The duck fat glazed his fingertips as he arranged the porcelain just so—Claire’s portion angled toward her like an offering, Mira’s quivering with microgreens I knew she wouldn’t eat. He folded himself into the seiza position between our chairs, spine bowed enough to display the welts from last Thursday’s crop. Good boy.
Claire swirled her wine, watching a drop slide down Mira’s water glass. “The Époisses,” she mused, tapping her fork against the rind, “is almost as ripe as your husband.”
I laughed softly, dragging a fingertip through the reduction pooled near his knee. He shivered. “Mm. Though Mira might prefer something… fresher.” The girl’s knife screeched against her plate.
Claire’s heel found his thigh. “Remember that absurd little paddle from Antwerp?”
“The one with the—?”
“—brass studs, yes.” Her teeth flashed. “Left such delicious dimples.” Beneath the table, his breath hitched against my stocking.
Mira’s napkin fluttered to the floor. When he scrambled to retrieve it, Claire caught his ear between her toes. “Ah-ah,” she chided, pressing down until his whine harmonized with the clatter of silverware. “We’re discussing you.”
I sipped my Sauternes, watching Mira trace the condensation on her glass. “Perhaps—” the girl jumped as my shoe grazed his ribs “—we alternate.”
Claire’s eyes darkened. “Elaborate.”
The ice in my drink cracked. “Fifteen with the studs,” I murmured, twisting my napkin into a makeshift blindfold, “then our kitten gets his tongue.”
Mira’s fork clattered against bone china.
“Generous,” Claire purred, plucking an olive from his mouth with her fingers. “Though I’d start with—”
The doorbell rang.
His choked moan drowned out by the peal—again—and Claire’s groan of annoyance. Mira froze, her pulse visible beneath pearls.
I didn’t move. “Answer it.”
The harness creaked as he crawled toward the foyer. Claire leaned in, her whisper hot with promise: “Bet you five euros it’s the neighbor complaining about the—”
A familiar giggle sliced through the hallway.
Liam.
Mira’s wineglass tipped, staining the linen crimson.
Claire licked her lips.
And so the menu expands.
Mira lunged for the spilled wine with her napkin, fingers shaking so badly she smeared burgundy across the linen in frantic arcs. A single drop clung to her pearl button before splashing onto the silk blouse beneath—a dark blossom spreading between her breasts. Claire made a soft tsk sound through her teeth, reaching past me to catch Mira’s wrist mid-swipe. “Darling,” she murmured, thumb gliding over the girl’s fluttering pulse, “you’re making it worse.”
I stood without a word, trailing my fingers along the mahogany sideboard until they closed around the chilled Sauternes bottle. The liquid glugged obscenely as I poured a fresh inch into Liam’s waiting glass—the one Mira should’ve been using. Let her choke on the symbolism.
Claire released Mira’s wrist with a shove toward the kitchen. “Laundry room. Now.” The girl stumbled over his abandoned kneepad, her blouse gaping where the wine had loosened the fabric. Through the sheer material, the outline of her bra emerged—lace turned translucent by the stain, the cups clinging to her nipples like second skins. Disgusting.
I clicked my tongue. “That too.” Mira froze, fingers hovering at her buttons. Behind her, Liam’s delighted giggle morphed into a cough when Claire glared. Poor boy—always half a beat behind.
The faucet screeched on in the kitchen. His shadow bobbed behind the frosted glass—washing duck fat from his hands while Mira peeled her blouse off with trembling fingers. The bra followed, landing on the tiles with a wet slap. Claire caught my eye, mouthing Three guesses who scratched her as she flaked salt onto Liam’s plate with deliberate cruelty.
A whimper carried from the laundry nook. The washing machine beeped—the delicate cycle, how fitting—followed by the unmistakable sound of Mira fumbling with the detergent pod. Liam leaned forward, elbow knocking over Mira’s abandoned silverware. “So,” he stage-whispered, “is the dress code always this—”
Claire silenced him with a grape stuffed between his teeth. “Hush, puppy.” Her fingers lingered on his chin, sticky with wine. “Big dogs eat last.”
The dryer hummed to life. Mira’s footsteps faltered at the threshold—barefoot now, her slacks clinging to damp thighs, arms crossed over breasts that rose too quickly with each breath. Pathetic. I sipped my wine, letting the silence stretch until her nipples peaked against her own wrists.
“Better,” I conceded, nodding toward the stain-free placemat. “But…” Claire’s shoe scraped backward, revealing the forgotten bra puddled near the oven. Mira’s gasp mingled with the timer’s final bleep.
The duck was cold.
The night was just beginning.
Claire’s fingers tangled with mine as I led her upstairs, leaving behind the wreckage of dinner—the shattered glass, the spilled wine, the lingering scent of duck fat and desperation. Behind us, the clatter of dishes and hushed whispers formed a symphony of submission. Let them drown in it.
The bedroom door clicked shut. Claire didn’t wait, pressing me against the wood with her full weight, her lips tracing the shell of my ear before biting down just hard enough to make me hiss. "You’re cruel," she murmured, fingers already working the buttons of my blouse. "Leaving them like that."
I arched into her touch, smiling against her throat. "They’ll survive."
Downstairs, the faucet ran. A dish clinked against another—too carefully, like they were afraid to make noise. Good. Claire’s teeth found my collarbone as my hands slipped beneath her waistband. "How long?" she breathed, nails scoring my hips.
"As long as it takes."
Time blurred. The only sounds were our breathing, the occasional creak of the bed, and—eventually—the hushed scuffle of footsteps below. The boys would be done by now, Mira trembling between them, all three kneeling in the dim kitchen light, backs straight, palms resting on thighs. Waiting, wondering, aching.
Claire’s fingers twisted in my hair as she came, muffling her groan against my shoulder. I licked the salt from her skin, imagining Mira’s pulse fluttering beneath her pearls, Liam’s nervous swallow, his choked whimper when he realized there was no chair left for him.
"They’ll be ready," Claire murmured, rolling onto her side, her thigh draped possessively over mine.
I traced the curve of her hip with my thumb. They’d better be.
The silence stretched—punishment enough. Then, finally, I slid from the bed, straightening my skirt with deliberate slowness. Claire watched, propped on her elbows, lips swollen, eyes dark with anticipation.
"Shall we?"
Her smirk was answer enough.
Downstairs, the air was thick with the scent of lemon-scented cleaner and sweat. Three pairs of eyes snapped up as we descended—Liam’s wide with fear, his jaw clenched, Mira’s lower lip caught between her teeth, his shoulders trembling beneath the harness straps.
Claire clicked her tongue.
Now the real fun begins.