Letting Off Steam
By LilDean.
She didn’t laugh. That was my first clue that something was wrong. Kelya always laughed at my dumb microwave facts—even the one about how popcorn pops in reverse if you film it at 10,000 frames per second. Instead, she just dropped her bag on the floor like it weighed a thousand pounds and walked straight past me toward the fridge.
She stood there in the kitchen light, shoulders slumped, but even exhausted, she looked like something out of a magazine. The kind of face you’d see on a billboard—high cheekbones, full lips, those blue eyes that could stop traffic. Her brown hair was pulled back in a messy bun, loose strands framing her face like she’d been running her hands through it all day. I’d seen her like this a hundred times, but it still hit me sideways sometimes. How someone could look that good after eight hours in an office cubicle, I’d never understand.
The fridge light caught the sharp angle of her jawline as she tilted her head back to chug straight from the orange juice carton—unfiltered, pulpy, the kind I hated but kept buying just for her. A drop escaped the corner of her mouth, tracing down her throat in a slow, sticky line that made my fingers twitch. I wanted to lick it clean. Wanted to press my mouth against the hollow where her collarbones dipped beneath her blouse, to taste the salt of her skin after a long day.
Four years together, and I still don’t know how I got lucky enough to have her. Kelya wasn’t just beautiful—she was the kind of person who remembered your coffee order after hearing it once, who’d stop mid-sentence to pet a stray cat, who’d text me random heart emojis during meetings just to watch me blush when I checked my phone. We balanced each other out in stupid, simple ways: she’d drag me to parties where I’d stand awkwardly by the snack table, and I’d drag her to bad sci-fi marathons where she’d fall asleep on my shoulder halfway through the second film. Her laugh sounded like someone shaking a jar of honey—slow at first, then unstoppable. Mine sounded like a bicycle tire deflating. She never seemed to mind.
Kelya wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a faint orange streak across her wrist. She exhaled sharply through her nose—the kind of breath people take when they’re trying not to scream. “You ever want to staple someone’s tie to their desk?” she asked, voice flat.
I leaned against the counter, watching her throat work as she swallowed another gulp of juice. “Only every Tuesday,” I said. “And Thursdays. And that one Wednesday when Dave from accounting microwaved fish.”
Kelya slammed the orange juice carton down hard enough to make the fridge shelves rattle. “Three years,” she said, voice tight like a guitar string tuned too high. “Three goddamn years of flawless performance reviews, and today? Today, Mark calls me into his office to say my ‘presentation lacked gravitas.'” She hooked her fingers into air quotes, knuckles going white. “Gravitas. Like I’m some fucking Shakespearean actor instead of a marketing analyst who just wants to sell people overpriced yoga pants.”
I reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear—one of those useless, tender gestures that never fixed anything but sometimes made her shoulders relax just a fraction. Her skin was warm under my fingertips, the kind of heat that built up after hours of gritted teeth and forced smiles. “Mark’s a dick,” I said, thumb tracing the curve of her earlobe. “Remember when he tried to convince HR that ‘casual Friday’ meant wearing his college fraternity T-shirt with dress slacks?”
Kelya exhaled through her nose again—that sharp, controlled sound—and leaned back against the fridge. The orange juice carton sat half-crushed in her hand, pulpy liquid threatening to spill over her fingers. “Men,” she said, voice low and venomous, “are universally, cosmically bastards.” She punctuated it by tossing the carton onto the counter with a wet splat. “Except,” she added, glancing at me sideways, “maybe you. Jury’s still out.”
I opened my mouth—probably to say something stupid like gravitas is Latin for bullshit—but Kelya was already pushing off the fridge and stepping into me, her forehead dropping against my chest with a quiet thud. She smelled like orange pulp and exhaustion, her breath warm through my shirt. “I know,” I murmured into her hair instead, because sometimes the only thing to say was nothing at all. My hands found her hips automatically, thumbs brushing the dip of her waist where her blouse had come untucked. “But I’m bastard-adjacent at best. Exhibit A: I still cry at that one insurance commercial with the golden retriever.”
I could feel the tension coiled tight in her shoulders, pressing into my chest like a live wire. “What can I do?” I murmured into her hair, fingers tracing idle circles on her lower back. “Tell me how to make this better.”
Kelya sighed against my chest, the sound muffled and warm through my shirt. “Just let me…” Her fingers curled into the fabric at my sides, gripping tight like she wanted to tear something apart. “I need to let off steam. Like, really let off steam.”
Her grip on my shirt tightened, knuckles pressing white against the fabric. For a second I thought she might actually rip it—Kelya had that wild, coiled energy she got when her patience snapped, like a rubber band stretched too far. Then her hands slid up my chest, pushing me backward until my hips hit the edge of the counter. “You know what I need?” she muttered, breath hot against my collarbone. The orange juice stain on her wrist glowed under the kitchen lights as she reached behind her head and yanked the elastic from her hair. Brown waves tumbled down around her shoulders like she’d uncorked something. “I need you to shut up and let me take this out on you.”
I nodded, swallowing hard. “What’ve you got in mind?”
Kelya hesitated, her fingers still tangled in my shirt. The fridge hummed behind her, the only sound in the sudden quiet. When she spoke, her voice was lower, rougher—like gravel dragged through honey. “Mark,” she said, thumb brushing my bottom lip, “has a small dick temper. You know the type. All bluster, no follow-through.” Her teeth flashed in a sharp, humorless smile. “He’s nothing like you.”
Her thumb lingered on my lip, sticky with orange juice residue, and I could taste the faint tang of pulp when I swallowed. “Yeah?” I said, voice catching as her other hand slid down my stomach. “What’s that mean, exactly?”
Kelya’s fingers paused at the button of my jeans, her thumb still pressed to my lip. The kitchen light caught the flush creeping up her neck—uncharacteristically hesitant for someone who usually took what she wanted with both hands. “I know it’s stupid,” she muttered, avoiding my eyes. “But I keep picturing you—undressed, touching yourself—while I imagine you’re him. Like I’m pulling his strings instead of the other way around.” She swallowed hard, her throat working. “Would that be… too weird?”
I shrugged, feeling the counter’s edge dig into my lower back. “It’s just roleplay, right?” My voice came out softer than I meant it to, like I was trying to convince myself as much as her. “If it helps you decompress after dealing with that asshole all day, why not?”
Kelya’s smile flickered to life—small at first, then widening into something almost childish in its relief. She bit her lower lip, a habit she’d had since college when she was nervous or excited, and her fingers loosened their death grip on my shirt. “Okay,” she breathed, stepping back just far enough to rake her eyes down my body. “But you have to promise—everything I say is about Mark. Not you. Never you.” Her voice hitched on the last word, like she needed the reminder as much as I did.
I nodded, my throat suddenly dry as pavement in summer. “Yeah,” I managed, fingers already fumbling at my belt. “Okay. Mark.” The name tasted bitter on my tongue, but I repeated it anyway, watching Kelya’s shoulders relax a fraction as she turned toward the couch.
I nodded, slower this time, letting my fingers hover at the hem of my shirt before pulling it over my head. The fabric caught briefly on my wrists—a stupid, awkward moment that made Kelya’s mouth twitch, like she was fighting a smile. She sank onto the couch with a sigh, knees falling open just enough to make my pulse jump. The way she looked at me then—eyes half-lidded, lips parted—wasn’t the hungry stare I was used to. This was something sharper, more calculating. Like I was a chess piece she’d decided to sacrifice.
My jeans pooled around my ankles like deflated balloons, and for a second I just stood there—bare, ridiculous, pulse hammering in my throat. The apartment air smelled faintly of burnt popcorn and Kelya’s shampoo. Then she tilted her chin toward the hardwood floor between the couch and coffee table. “Down,” she said, not unkindly, but with the same tone she used when telling the neighbor’s terrier to stop barking at pigeons.
My knees hit the hardwood with a dull thud that vibrated up my thighs. The floor was cold against my bare skin, the kind of cold that made you aware of every inch of contact—ankles, shoulder blades, the dip of my lower back where it arched slightly off the ground. Kelya hadn’t specified how to lie down, so I arranged myself like a crash test dummy mid-experiment: knees bent, feet hovering awkwardly in the air like I was pedaling an invisible bicycle.
The hardwood pressed into my shoulder blades like a grid of icy pins as I settled onto the floor. My dick—already half-hard from Kelya’s glance—twitched against my thigh in the cool apartment air. “Like this?” I asked, lifting my knees higher until my thighs trembled slightly with the effort. The position left me absurdly exposed, hips tilted up, balls drawn tight against my body like I was offering myself up on some sacrificial platter.
She smiles—slow at first, then widening until her teeth caught the dim light from the overhead lamp. “It’s perfect,” she murmurs, dragging her gaze down my sprawled body like I’m a menu she’s about to order from. I lift my head off the hardwood just enough to see her perched on the couch like some kind of disheveled queen, one slim leg crossed over the other. Her bare foot dangles in the air, toes flexing with restless energy, the chipped blue polish on her nails glinting like little warning lights.
Kelya’s foot sways like a metronome set to the rhythm of my heartbeat—slow at first, then accelerating when she uncrosses her legs and plants both feet flat on the floor with deliberate slowness. The hem of her skirt rides up just enough to reveal the pale skin above her knee, and I can see the faint indentation where her pantyhose had dug in earlier. She leans forward, elbows on her thighs, chin propped in one hand like she’s about to grade a term paper. “You look good like this,” she muses, tapping her lower lip with one finger. The orange juice stain on her wrist has dried into a faint rust-colored crescent. “Vulnerable. Exactly how Mark should look.”
“Show me,” Kelya said, voice low and edged with something that made the hair on my arms stand up. Her foot nudged my thigh—not hard, just enough to make me jump. “Slow. Like you’re embarrassed of it.”
Kelya’s foot pressed down on my thigh, pinning me to the hardwood like a butterfly under glass. “Go on,” she murmured, tilting her head. “Show me what Mark’s working with.” Her voice dripped with mock sympathy, the kind you’d use on a kid who dropped their ice cream cone.
My fingers closed around myself—tight at first, then loosening to match the slow, uneven rhythm of my heartbeat. The apartment air was cool against my flushed skin, making every stroke feel sharper, more exposed. Kelya’s gaze burned hotter than any touch as she watched my hand move, her breath hitching just once before she caught herself.
I started moving my hand, slow at first, the way you’d touch something fragile—like handling a baby bird or the stem of a wine glass. My dick looked even smaller in my grip, flushed pink against my pale thigh, and Kelya’s breath hitched in that way I knew meant she was biting back laughter. “Oh my god,” she finally gasped, covering her mouth with one hand like she’d just witnessed something tragically adorable. “You look like a—” She dissolved into giggles, shoulders shaking. “Like a middle schooler who just discovered his dick for the first time. All nervous and—” She gestured vaguely at my trembling knees. “Jesus, the way your thighs keep shaking. Pathetic.”
Kelya’s laughter bounced off the kitchen tiles like pennies in a tin can—bright and sharp and just slightly cruel. My hand stuttered around myself, fingers clumsy with the heat creeping up my neck. “You think this is funny?” I managed, voice cracking halfway through. My dick twitched in my grip like it was trying to answer for me.
“Funny?” Kelya’s foot pressed harder into my thigh, her toes digging crescent moons into my skin. Her laughter died abruptly, replaced by something darker—a tone I’d only heard when she’d caught our landlord trying to raise rent illegally. “No, Mark, it’s fucking tragic.” She leaned forward, strands of hair falling into her eyes like prison bars. “You couldn’t even pretend to be good at this, could you?”
Kelya’s foot slid higher up my thigh, her toes brushing the sensitive skin near my hipbone—a cruel tease of contact that made my breath hitch. “Oh, don’t stop,” she purred, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “This is exactly how I pictured Mark—all red-faced and desperate, jerking off like a teenager who just found his dad’s Playboy stash.” She bit her lower lip, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and hunger. “God, you’re perfect for this. You even sound like him when you’re embarrassed—that little whimper? Textbook small-dick energy.”
My hand kept moving—slow, jerky strokes that felt more like punishment than pleasure. The hardwood dug into my shoulder blades with every uneven shift of my hips, but I didn’t stop. Kelya’s gaze was a physical weight, pressing down on me harder than her foot still planted on my thigh. ‘Mark,’ I reminded myself, swallowing the tight lump in my throat. ‘She’s mocking Mark, not you.’ The name tasted like battery acid, but I clung to it like a life raft. Every time her lips curled in that cruel little smirk, every time her breath hitched like she was holding back laughter—it wasn’t about me. It couldn’t be.
Kelya’s foot slid down my thigh, pressing just hard enough to leave a temporary imprint of her toes on my skin. “Tell me, Mark,” she drawled, dragging her gaze up my body with deliberate slowness. “Does your wife know you spend your lunch breaks jerking off in your office?” Her voice dripped with faux concern, the kind reserved for roadside accidents and failing restaurants. “Or does she think you’re actually working during those two-hour ‘business lunches'”
I swallowed hard, letting my fingers stutter against myself in a deliberately clumsy rhythm. “She—uh—she thinks I’m closing deals,” I stammered, pitching my voice higher like some cartoonish office drone. My thighs trembled under Kelya’s unwavering gaze. “Important… uh… synergy stuff. Very busy. Lots of… graphs.”
Kelya’s laugh was sharp as a paper cut—bright and sudden and just painful enough to make me flinch. She uncrossed her legs slowly, letting one foot trace idle circles on my stomach while the other nudged my wrist, urging my hand to move faster. “Graphs?” she repeated, eyebrows arching like two perfect question marks. “Oh, I bet you’re good at graphs, Mark.” Her foot pressed down harder, pinning my hips to the floor. “Let me guess—tiny little bar charts that barely fill the page? Pitiful scatter plots with no correlation?”
Kelya’s toes curled against my stomach, pressing just hard enough to make me gasp. “Oh wow,” she cooed, leaning forward with her chin propped on one hand like she was watching a particularly pathetic magic show. “You’re so close already? That’s—” Her voice cracked with suppressed laughter. “Christ, that’s just sad.”
“Oh god—what if—what if someone walks in?” I stammered, craning my neck toward the door like some terrified intern might burst through any second. My hand faltered around myself, fingertips brushing sticky precome as I squeezed my thighs together in a poor attempt at modesty. “Janet from—from accounts receivable could come by with the quarterly reports—”
Kelya’s grin widened at the edges like a freshly opened wound. “Oh no,” she murmured, pressing her bare foot flat against my stomach and pushing until my back arched involuntarily off the hardwood. “Wouldn’t want Janet to see your little secret, would we?” Her toes flexed against my abs, blunt nails scraping skin as she feigned sudden realization. “Wait—do you like that idea? The risk?” She cocked her head, watching my hips stutter. “Does it turn you on, Mark, imagining your sweet little intern walking in on you like this?”
I nod, mimicking Mark’s shaky corporate stammer, my voice pitching higher like a man whose dignity is slowly being siphoned out through his tie knot. “I—I should be so embarrassed,” I whine, hips jerking up into my own clumsy grip. The hardwood floor feels like ice against my bare back, every splinter and knot in the grain suddenly hypervisible. Kelya’s foot presses harder against my stomach, pinning me down with her toes splayed wide like she’s trying to stamp out a cigarette.
“Come on, Mark,” Kelya taunted, her toes pressing harder into my stomach until I could feel each individual nail. “Bet you can’t even last five more strokes.” Her voice was honey poured over broken glass—sweet and sharp all at once. “Three. Two—”
“Wait—no, please—” I gasped, bucking under Kelya’s foot like a pinned insect, my free hand flailing toward hers in a pathetic pantomime of resistance. My fingers brushed her ankle, damp with sweat and the faint sticky residue of spilled orange juice, before she kicked my hand away with a scoff. The protest died in my throat, turning into a choked moan as my hips jerked involuntarily.
Her laughter cracked through the room like lightning—bright, electric, unpredictable. It wasn’t cruel, not really. It was the sound of tension finally snapping, the release of a rubber band stretched too tight all day. I watched her face transform, the sharp edges of her anger softening into something wild and alive. Her nose scrunched, her cheeks flushed, and suddenly she wasn’t picturing Mark anymore. She was just Kelya, laughing so hard she had to press a hand to her stomach like she might burst.
“Almost there, Liam,” Kelya teased, her foot pressing harder into my stomach as she watched my hand move faster. But then—something shifted. Her laughter hitched, her voice softening just a fraction as she leaned forward, her hair brushing my knee. “Come on, baby,” she murmured, and it slipped out before she could catch herself—the nickname she’d called me since our second date, the one that never belonged to Mark.
“God, look at you—already?” Kelya’s voice was all syrup and knives, her foot still pressing down on my stomach as she leaned forward, her hair brushing my knees. “What a fucking joke,” she sneered, but there was a catch in her throat, a hitch where the name Mark should’ve been—except it never came. “Can’t even hold out like a real man, can you—Liam?”
The orgasm hit me like a snapped rubber band—sharp, sudden, and with an almost painful intensity. My back arched off the hardwood floor so violently I heard my spine pop, toes curling against nothing as my thighs trembled like overcaffeinated jackhammers. Cum streaked across my stomach in uneven spurts, warm and sticky against my heaving abdomen, some droplets landing as high as my collarbone. My hand kept moving through it, a messy, overstimulated glide that made me whimper through gritted teeth.
Kelya’s laughter spills over me like sunlight through broken blinds—warm patches alternating with sharp edges. Her foot slides off my stomach, leaving a phantom imprint of pressure as she collapses back onto the couch, shoulders shaking. “Oh god,” she gasps between breaths, wiping at her eyes with the orange-stained wrist. “That was—” Another peal of laughter cuts her off, her knees drawing up as she hugs them, bare toes curling into the couch cushions.
“Are you laughing at me,” I gasped, still twitching from the aftershocks, “or Mark?” My voice came out hoarse, like I’d been shouting instead of whimpering.
Kelya’s laughter dissolved into breathless giggles as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing the dried orange juice stain further across her wrist. “Both,” she admitted, kicking her legs out straight on the couch, toes wiggling in the air like she was testing each muscle for residual tension. “But mostly Mark. Definitely, Mark.” She reached down, her fingers brushing sticky streaks across my stomach as she dragged a fingertip through the mess I’d made. “This, though?” She held her glistening finger up to the light, mouth quirking. “100% Liam. No one cums that prettily unless they’re genuinely into humiliation.”
There was something undeniably electric about seeing Kelya like this—shoulders loose, lips still curled in that self-satisfied smirk, her fingers absently twirling a strand of brown hair around one finger. The kind of confidence that usually took her three tequila shots to achieve was radiating off her now, effortless as the way she stretched her arms above her head like a cat in a sunbeam. I watched, still panting on the floor, as she tilted her chin down at me and arched one eyebrow. “You’re staring,” she said, voice low and amused. “Like you’ve never seen me ruin a man before.”
“You’re really hot when you’re ruthless,” I chuckled, still sprawled on the hardwood like a discarded towel. My chest rose and fell unevenly, skin cooling where the air hit sticky trails of come. Kelya rolled her eyes—but I caught the way her lips twitched, the corners fighting a smile as she grabbed a tissue from the coffee table.
Kelya’s fingers were unexpectedly gentle as she dabbed at the mess on my stomach, the tissue catching the worst of it with careful precision. There was something almost surgical about her movements—like she was cleaning up a spilled latte rather than my come. “I hope I wasn’t too mean,” she murmured, her thumb brushing a sticky spot near my hipbone. The way she said it made it sound like a genuine question, like she’d just realized halfway through that this might have been more than just roleplay.
“You were a little bit too mean,” I mumbled, staring at the ceiling as Kelya’s fingers stilled against my skin. My voice sounded foreign—smaller than it should’ve been, like I’d shrunk three sizes during the whole performance. The words tasted sour in my mouth, but I couldn’t swallow them back. “And now I just… I don’t know. Feel not enough for you.”
Kelya’s eyebrows shot up so fast I thought they might disappear into her hairline. For a terrifying second, she just stared—mouth slightly open, fingers frozen mid-wipe against my hip—and I braced for the awkward backtracking, the pitying reassurance. Then her hands were on my face, pulling me up so hard my knees scraped the hardwood, and her mouth crashed into mine like I was oxygen and she’d been drowning.
Kelya’s kiss tasted like citrus and desperation, her teeth catching my lower lip hard enough to make me gasp. She pulled back just far enough to glare at me, her fingers digging into my jaw like she could physically wrestle the insecurity out of my skull. “You idiot,” she hissed, her breath warm against my wet lips. The overhead light caught the furious sheen in her eyes—not angry tears, but something fiercer, like molten metal poured into a mold. “You think I’d waste four years on not enough?”
Kelya’s hands slid from my face to my shoulders, her grip softening as she exhaled sharply through her nose—the way she always did when I was being particularly dense. “I literally mocked your dick,” she said, voice cracking halfway between exasperation and amusement, “because I was picturing Mark’s dumb, insecure face on you.” Her thumb brushed my collarbone, sticky with drying sweat. “Not because I actually think—” She broke off, shaking her head so hard her hair whipped her cheeks. “Jesus, Liam. You really thought I meant you?”
I sighed—long and ragged, like I’d been holding my breath underwater for the entire conversation. The tension leaked out of my shoulders, pooling onto the hardwood beneath me. “Fuck,” I muttered, pressing my forehead against her knee. “You sounded so real.”
Kelya’s laughter bubbled up like soda fizz, her fingers tangling in my hair as she tugged my head back to meet her gaze. “Of course it sounded real, dumbass,” she snorted, her thumb swiping at the corner of my eye where sweat had gathered. “I was picturing Mark’s stupid face on your stupid body.” Her grin softened at the edges, turning into something warmer, more familiar. “But this?” Her hand slid down to cup me, her touch impossibly gentle compared to the sharp press of her foot minutes earlier. “This is mine. And I love it. Every ridiculous inch.”
Her kiss tastes like victory—the kind that leaves your lips tingling and your chest tight. When she pulls back, she doesn’t go far, her forehead resting against mine, her breath warm and uneven. “Thank you,” she murmurs, and it’s not just politeness. There’s weight to it, like she’s handing me something fragile. “For playing him. For letting me… get it out.” Her thumb brushes my cheekbone, smearing sweet. “I needed that.”
Kelya’s fingers curled around the hem of her blouse with the same deliberate confidence she’d used to pin me to the floor—only now, there was no mockery in her movements, just quiet certainty. The fabric rode up inch by inch, revealing the smooth plane of her stomach, the delicate indent of her navel, then finally the lace-edged cups of her bra, pale pink against her sun-kissed skin. My breath caught somewhere between my ribs as she unhooked the clasp with one practiced flick of her wrist, letting the straps slide down her arms like silk ribbons. “See?” she murmured, her voice softer now, stripped of its earlier edge. “Time to remind you.”
Kelya’s hands were everywhere at once—pushing, pulling, claiming—as if she needed to rewrite the memory of every cruel word with her touch. The transition from hardwood to bed was a blur of stubbed toes and bitten-off curses, her nails scoring crescent moons into my hips as I fumbled with the condom wrapper. She laughed against my mouth when my fingers trembled, tearing it open with her teeth before rolling it down me with agonizing slowness, her thumb pressing deliberately at the oversensitive head just to watch me shudder.
The bedframe slammed against the wall with the rhythm of a malfunctioning metronome—too fast, too erratic, the screws groaning under the strain. Kelya’s thighs clamped around my hips like a vise, her nails digging fresh crescents into my shoulders as she arched up with a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. “Fuck—right there—” Her voice cracked on the last syllable, her head thrashing against the sweat-damp pillowcase. I could feel the exact moment she came—not just in the convulsive clench of her around me, but in the way her entire body lit up, skin flushing from collarbones to forehead like someone had flipped a switch under her skin.
The second time Kelya cums, it’s with my name ragged between her teeth—not Mark’s, not some corporate ghost, just Liam—and she says it like she’s reminding herself, like she’s scrubbing away the last traces of that imaginary bastard with each thrust. Her thighs tremble around my waist, sticky with sweat where our skin keeps catching and pulling apart, and when she collapses backward onto the mattress, her hair fans out like a shattered halo. I watch, mesmerized, as a single droplet of sweat slides from her temple down to the hollow of her throat, catching the lamplight before disappearing into the mess between us.
The sheets stuck to us in damp patches, twisted around our legs like we’d fought a losing battle with them. Kelya’s breath warmed the hollow between my collarbones, her fingers tracing idle patterns through the mess on my stomach—her own come mixed with mine now, indistinguishable. “You know,” she murmured, her pinky circling the base of my soft cock with absurd tenderness, “this ridiculous little thing is my favorite dick in the entire world.”
God, I love that girl.
The End.
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