Chapter 103 : Daylight Decisions
New York, Queens – Alex's POV
The warm, wet pop of her mouth releasing me still hung in the air. Wendy knelt there on the rug, a portrait of messy, smug satisfaction. My cum glistened on her chin, her lips were swollen and red, and her eyes held a victorious, dazed light. The scent of sex and my release was thick, primal, hanging between us.
I looked at her. Really looked. At the proud tilt of her head, at the way her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, at the streak of white clinging to her brown pigtail. The coil of heat in my gut, momentarily slackened, pulled taut again with a sudden, fierce yank.
My sister.
The thought wasn't a barrier anymore; it was fuel. It was the secret truth that made her submission under the desk not just erotic, but transcendent. She had offered herself completely, hidden from the world, and taken everything I gave her.
It wasn't enough.
A calm, deliberate certainty settled over me. My voice, when it came, was low, quiet, a rumble that cut through the humid air. "Stand up."
Her triumphant expression flickered, replaced by a flash of curiosity, then a slow-dawning understanding. She didn't question it. She pushed herself up off her knees, her movements slightly unsteady. She started to wipe her mouth again, a nervous, self-conscious gesture.
"Leave it," I said, and the command stopped her hand mid-motion.
I stood up from the chair, my sweatpants and boxers still tangled around my thighs. My cock, spent just moments ago, was already thickening again, heavy and full, glistening with her saliva and the remnants of my own release. I reached for her, my hands closing around her upper arms. They were so small in my grasp. So breakable. So mine.
I pulled her to me, not for a kiss, but to turn her. With a gentle, inexorable pressure, I spun her around so her back was to my chest. Her breath caught—a soft, sharp intake.
"Alex…?" Her voice was a whisper, laced with excitement, not fear.
"You had your fantasy," I murmured into the shell of her ear, my lips brushing her skin. My hands slid down her arms, over the thin cotton of her t-shirt, to her hips. I splayed my fingers across the low waistband of her tight jeans. "Now you get mine."
I didn't fumble with the button or zipper. I simply hooked my thumbs into the denim and the flimsy cotton of her panties beneath and pushed them down in one hard, decisive motion. The fabric rasped over her hips, her thighs, her knees, pooling at her ankles. The afternoon light caught the perfect, pale globes of her ass, the delicate curve of her spine, the shadowed dip at the small of her back.
She gasped, her hands flying back instinctively, trying to cover herself. I caught her wrists easily in one of my hands, pulling them behind her back, holding them there. My other hand slid around her front, palm flat against her lower belly, feeling the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath the skin. I pulled her flush against me. My hard length pressed into the cleft of her ass.
"Bend over," I instructed, my voice barely more than a breath. "Put your hands on the desk."
She obeyed. A shiver ran through her whole body as she leaned forward, her upper body lowering until her palms were flat on the cool, polished wood of the desk she'd just been under. Her back arched beautifully, presenting herself to me. Her pigtails fell forward, framing her face. From this angle, I could see everything—the pink, glistening folds of her pussy, already wet from her own arousal and the thrill of what was happening. She was exposed, vulnerable, and utterly, breathtakingly perfect.
I kicked her jeans and panties aside. My own clothes I shoved down past my knees, just enough. I stepped closer, my thighs brushing the backs of hers. My hands returned to her hips, gripping the bone, anchoring her. I leaned over her, my chest against her back, and nuzzled her neck. "You're mine, Wendy. Say it."
"I'm yours," she breathed out, the words trembling. "Always."
I didn't tease. I didn't prepare her with fingers. She was soaked, ready, her body humming with anticipation. I guided myself to her entrance, the broad, slick head nudging against her. I felt her muscles clench in anticipation, then relax in invitation.
"Look at me," I commanded, echoing the words from that first night.
She turned her head to the side, her cheek resting on the desk. Her eyes, wide and dark, found mine over her shoulder. They were full of trust, of love, of a desperate, hungry need that mirrored my own.
I pushed forward.
It wasn't a slow slide. It was a deep, claiming, singular thrust that buried me inside her in one smooth, relentless motion. My hips met her ass with a solid, wet smack of skin on skin.
Her mouth fell open in a silent scream. Her eyes flared, then squeezed shut as the feeling of being utterly filled, stretched, overwhelmed her. A deep, guttural moan tore from her throat, long and ragged. "Ahhh—! Alex!"
She was so tight. Unbelievably tight, a hot, velvet vise clamping down on me, welcoming me, trying to keep me. I held still, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, feeling her inner muscles flutter and spasm around my length. The fullness was absolute. I was in her, part of her, in a way that felt more profound than any previous time. This wasn't in a bed, in the dark. This was in the daylight, at my desk, a raw and open claiming.
"All of me," I growled, my voice thick. "You take all of me."
I began to move.
My pulls were slow, almost complete withdrawals, leaving just the tip inside before I drove back in with that same deep, solid thud. Each stroke was a punctuation, a reaffirmation. The wet, rhythmic sounds filled the room—the slick schlorp of her arousal, the meaty impact of our bodies, her choked, whimpering cries.
My grip on her hips tightened, surely leaving marks. I fucked her with a controlled, possessive intensity, each thrust aimed deep, seeking the very core of her. Her small body rocked forward with the force, her palms slipping slightly on the desk. Her moans became a continuous, broken stream.
"Oh god… oh fuck… it's so deep… you're so deep…"
She was losing herself, her words dissolving into wordless sounds of pleasure. Her back arched further, pushing her ass back against me, meeting my strokes. I could feel the tension coiling in her, a spring winding tighter and tighter.
One of my hands left her hip and snaked around her front, sliding down through the damp curls until my fingers found her clit. It was a hard, swollen nub, throbbing with her heartbeat. I pressed my thumb against it, rubbing in firm, tight circles, in time with my thrusts.
The effect was instantaneous.
Her whole body went rigid. A sharp, strangled cry ripped from her, muffled as she bit down on her own forearm. Her inner muscles clenched around me in a rapid, violent series of spasms, a milking, rhythmic pulse that stole the breath from my own lungs. Her climax rolled through her, a visible tremor that started in her belly and radiated out to her shaking limbs. Warmth flooded my cock, her release joining the slick mess between us.
I didn't stop. I couldn't. Her climax only drove me on, her tight, fluttering channel pushing me toward my own edge with terrifying speed. My rhythm became harder, faster, less controlled. Smack. Smack. Smack. The desk creaked in protest. My thumb kept working her oversensitive clit, wringing every last shudder from her as I chased my own release.
"I'm gonna fill you," I grunted, the words raw and guttural. My vision started to tunnel, everything narrowing to the feeling of her heat, her tightness, the sight of her bent and trembling beneath me. "Gonna pump you so full…"
She could only whimper, a high, desperate sound, completely surrendered.
The climax hit me like a freight train. It wasn't a peak; it was an eruption. I slammed into her one last, final time, burying myself as deep as I could possibly go, and held.
My body locked. A harsh, animal sound tore from my throat.
The first ejaculation was a voluminous, scalding SPLURT deep inside her womb. A thick, liquid punch that made her sob and convulse again. I felt it, a hot flood claiming her deepest space.
The second was a massive, sustained gush. GLORCH. It felt endless, a reservoir emptying directly into her. Her belly, pressed against the desk, must have felt the warmth, the weight of it.
The third was a series of heavy, wet pulses. Splurt… splurt… splort… Each one a deliberate, claiming deposit. I was painting her insides white, seeding her with a possessiveness that went beyond skin. A thin, pearly trickle immediately began to seep out from where we were joined, dripping down her inner thighs, onto the floor.
My strength gave out. I slumped over her, my weight pressing her into the desk, my body still jerking with the last aftershocks. I was buried inside her, still pulsing weakly, still claiming her. Our sweat-slicked skin stuck together. The only sounds were our ragged, gulping breaths and the wet, sticky drip of our combined release onto the wood below.
Time stretched, suspended. The afternoon light felt hotter, more intimate.
Slowly, carefully, I pulled out. The sound was a wet, sucking pop that seemed obscenely loud. The moment I was free, a rush of my cum followed, a thick, warm stream that flowed out of her and joined the puddle on the floor. She winced, a sharp gasp escaping her at the sudden emptiness, the sudden, shocking spill.
I straightened up, my legs shaky. I looked down at her. She was still bent over the desk, her body limp, trembling slightly. My release was leaking from her, a blatant, physical proof of what we'd just done. Of what I'd taken. Of what I'd given.
I reached out, my fingers gentle now, and touched her lower back. "Wendy."
She didn't move for a moment. Then, with effort, she pushed herself upright. She turned to face me, her movements slow, languid. Her face was flushed, her eyes glassy and unfocused. My cum was smeared across her thighs. She looked utterly wrecked. Utterly claimed.
A slow, dazed smile spread across her swollen lips. She took a wobbly step forward, closing the small distance between us, and leaned her forehead against my chest. Her hands came up, her fingers intertwining with mine at our sides. A silent, profound connection.
The moment doesn't linger.
It settles.
Wendy stays there for a few seconds longer, breathing evening air back into herself, then straightens with a small nod—more to herself than to me. There's no need to say anything. Whatever needed to be crossed has been crossed deliberately, and neither of us feels the urge to over-define it. She gives my hand a final squeeze, then slips past me toward the bathroom, leaving the room quiet again.
Not emptied.
Balanced.
I sit back down at the desk, not immediately returning to work, just letting the hour reassert itself. Outside, the city continues in its usual rhythm. Inside, the apartment holds its shape. Nothing fractures. Nothing rushes to fill space that doesn't need filling.
That becomes the pattern for the days that follow.
Rehearsals begin to stack.
Not dramatically—just more frequently, more consistently. Dazzler starts spending time with The Mary Janes outside of performance contexts, which is always the real test. It's one thing to align on stage or in theory; it's another to share rooms, half-formed ideas, fatigue, and disagreement without friction.
She integrates quietly.
The first few sessions are cautious but open. Different temperaments surface in small ways—some analytical, some instinctive, some quietly enthusiastic—but the structure holds. Dazzler listens more than she speaks, not because she's unsure, but because she's mapping the group dynamic. Gwen leads naturally when direction is needed, not by volume but by clarity. MJ anchors discussions when they drift, pulling focus back to structure and intent. Darcy injects chaos in small, deliberate doses—questions that unsettle habits without derailing progress.
Dazzler finds her place between those poles.
She doesn't compete for attention. She contributes when it matters. Her input sharpens rather than expands, trimming excess rather than adding layers. When something doesn't work, she says so plainly, without apology or defensiveness. When something clicks, she lets it stand without embellishment.
That restraint earns trust faster than enthusiasm ever could.
I'm present for some rehearsals, absent for others. When I am there, I don't comment unless asked. My role isn't creative direction—it's stability. Logistics, timing, making sure rooms are available when needed, that equipment works, that no one is forced to choose between momentum and exhaustion.
That's enough.
Dazzler notices it.
Not explicitly, not with thanks—but with ease. She stops scanning for tension that isn't there. Stops bracing for conversations to turn transactional. When she stays late, it's because the work is moving somewhere interesting, not because she feels obligated to push through.
Visibility follows naturally.
Nothing goes viral. Nothing spikes overnight. But people start showing up earlier to rehearsals that are technically closed. Musicians linger nearby, listening through walls. A few familiar faces appear more than once. Conversations shift from who is that to have you heard her play with them yet.
The Mary Janes feel it too.
Not as pressure—more like traction.
There's a sense that something is coalescing without being forced into shape. The sound tightens. Transitions smooth out. Dazzler's presence doesn't overshadow; it refracts, bending energy in new directions without changing its source.
Public attention grows the way it should: slowly enough to be managed.
Outside of music, life continues to distribute itself evenly.
MJ and May remain steady. Their needs shift day to day, but nothing tips into urgency. There are appointments, adjustments, conversations about timelines that don't feel like countdowns. I show up when needed, step back when not, keep continuity intact without hovering.
Darcy oscillates between rehearsal intensity and curiosity about everything else that's moving. She asks questions—about the platform, about Valve, about whether visibility is something to prepare for or simply accommodate. I answer what's relevant and let the rest resolve itself.
Gwen stays aligned without requiring constant recalibration. We talk when it matters, not because silence needs filling. When rehearsals run late, she updates me without apology. When I'm buried in work, she doesn't read distance into it.
That trust is doing a lot of quiet work.
Wendy integrates into this rhythm without disruption.
She doesn't compete for space. She claims time when it makes sense, presence when it's natural. Sometimes she sits in on rehearsals, silent and observant. Other times she stays home, working on her own things, greeting everyone later with familiarity instead of curiosity.
Rosalie notices the expansion.
More people in and out. Later hours. Music bleeding softly through walls. She tracks it the way she tracks everything—without alarm, without denial. At some point, she stops adjusting for it, and that's when it becomes real.
Acceptance by omission.
The platform work continues alongside all of this.
Agents run. Reports come in. Valve discussions progress at a measured pace—technical exchanges, clarifications, documents that get refined rather than rewritten. Nothing requires a dramatic pivot. Infrastructure planning inches forward. Locations get narrowed. Constraints sharpen.
Everything moves.
Nothing collides.
Dazzler's name starts appearing in contexts that aren't just rehearsal schedules. A mention here. A question there. Someone asking if she's confirmed for an upcoming date that isn't official yet. Gwen deflects without dismissing. MJ notes patterns. Darcy enjoys the early signs of gravity without trying to accelerate them.
No decisions get rushed.
That's the throughline.
By the time it's clear that a public concert is no longer a possibility but an approaching fact, the groundwork is already laid. Rehearsals have done their work. Trust exists where it needs to. Roles are understood without being locked in.
I stay where I've been all along: present, attentive, unforced.
Whatever comes next—whatever visibility brings—it won't arrive into chaos.
It will arrive into something that already knows how to hold weight.
And that makes all the difference.