The Consequences Of Your Actions

Pristine Edge drags Jimmy up those front steps like a prisoner on his way to the gallows. Her face is hard. Fed up. She jabs a finger at the door. "Knock." She's pissed. Last night her useless stepson and his idiot buddies wrapped the neighbor's place in toilet paper, and now she wants blood—or at least a sorry that sounds real. New neighbors, she keeps saying, like saying it enough might force the kid to care. The door cracks. Charlotte Sins stands there in cut-offs and a smirk, beckoning them inside like she's the cat that caught the mice. The living-room air feels thin. Pristine elbows Jimmy again, spits the order one more time, and the kid mumbles something dead behind the eyes. Charlotte's smile dies. "Not good enough," she says, cool as ice. She folds her arms. "The only apology I'll take is between your legs." Jimmy blinks like he's been slapped. Pristine stares at him, jaw set, then sighs. "Do it." Her voice leaves no room. He swallows hard, already hard, and steps toward the stranger on the couch. Every thrust is part penalty, part hunger. Charlotte takes him angry, greedy, hips snapping, nails biting his shoulders. Pristine watches a second, judging, then yanks off her blouse and drops to her knees beside them. "Harder," she growls, guiding his hand to Charlotte's throat. The lesson turns filthy fast—mother and neighbor swapping spit and spit-roast commands, teaching him the difference between an apology and a real fucking mea culpa. Sweat-slick skin, curses, creaking leather, and finally laughter—dirty, satisfied—because now everything is square again.