The Lake

Part One

1730 - Eastern Spanish Texas.

Padre Castillo lashed the reins and dug in his heels as he rode like all the devils of hell were chasing him into the night.

Because, Lord have mercy, he truly believed that they were.

Mission San José de los Nazonis was lost. The flickering flames in the darkness behind him were a testament to that fact; devils danced in those fires, and he had failed in his sacred duty to bring holy salvation to the Indians of Spanish Texas. 

The Navonis tribe had been amenable to his early attempts to preach the gospel and teach them proper ways. They had listened attentively and even shared their campfire with him for a few weeks. Communication hadn’t been easy, but the Franciscan Order had chosen well in selecting Padre Juan Castillo to spread the good word on the frontier.

In a few short years, he had gathered converts, built a stone church and a humble friary, and begun teaching the nomadic natives how to till the earth and cultivate crops in the Lord’s name.

After they had endured bands of raiding Apache and a deadly measles epidemic, praying and singing psalms together as a devout congregation, Padre Castillo had thought there was nothing that could test their faith.

Had Satan below been watching and laughed at his foolish pride?

His dark hair and black cassock flapped in the wind of his panicked flight as the high-pitched warcries and thundering hoofbeats seemed to grow louder. Nearer. Hot on his heels.

“Pater noster, qui es in cœlis; sanctificetur nomen tuum,” The fleeing priest intoned, clutching the leather satchel slung over his chest closer. “Adveniat regnum tuum; fiat voluntas tua…”

The Lord’s Prayer could ward away evil. He knew that to be true in his very bones, but wasn’t sure it would work if one were carrying the earthly manifestation of diabolical wickedness on them. 

An arrow whistled by his shoulder, and Padre Castillo risked a glance back at his pursuers. The waxing moon cast its silvery illumination on five huge, mounted figures, their long hair whipping like frenzied serpents behind them, their bronzed skin turned ghostly in the celestial light.

Heaven’s mercy, but they resembled nothing so much as demons, riding him down with feral snarls twisting their once noble faces.

“Sicut in cœlo, et in terra. Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie,” He ipanted, spotting a copse of red cedar and conifers, then wheeling his steadfast gelding towards it. “Et dimitte nobis debita nostra…”       

He prayed that he might lose them in the trees, for beyond lay a mighty gorge with no means of descent for miles in either direction. If they cornered him there, Padre Juan Castillo would have no other choice but to commend his soul to the almighty and make a leap of faith into the rushing river below.

For it was not only his soul hanging in the balance that night but that of the entire Navonis tribe.

Present Day - Moorfield, Texas.

“Now, I know you two said you were looking for something peaceful.” Chirped the real estate agent, “but I’m telling y’all—Moorfield doesn’t merely meet expectations. It exceeds ‘em.”

The SUV rolled off the highway and onto a gleaming asphalt road that wound like a ribbon toward the lake. The sun was dipping low, casting long amber streaks over the glassy waters where Ally Creek met the shoreline. Eliza watched cattails blur past the window, her reflection pale and pensive in the glass.

“This here’s Patriot Lane,” the agent went on, tapping her French-tipped finger on the GPS screen. Her name tag, pinned to her pearl-pink blouse, read Tammy Gresham, Licensed Realtor – DreamTex Homes. “Runs all the way to the waterfront promenade, but we’re headed up to your cul-de-sac. Cedar Point Estates—our premier enclave. Gated, landscaped, full of friendly folks. You’re gonna love it.”

Tammy, whom Eliza and her newlywed husband, Mason, had previously communicated with via email, turned out to be a well-put-together woman of middling years. Her burgundy hair was styled in a glamorous updo like a 1950’s Hollywood starlet. A pastel green pencil skirt and matching blazer clung to her eye-catching figure in a manner most distracting.

Eliza had caught Mason’s gaze straying to the rear vision mirror, angled toward Tammy’s lush expanse of cleavage, more than once.

The road curved, flanked by trimmed hedges and pristine sidewalks. Rows of houses unfolded before them, similar in their differences. A dozen modern farmhouse variations, all matte whites and muted greys, each front yard manicured like a diorama. On the porches, couples rocked in chairs. Weathervanes spun slowly in time with the breeze. And the people waved, always beaming.

“I didn’t expect it to be so… new,” Eliza murmured.

“It is new! Founded five years ago,” she said. “Before that? Only pine scrub and marsh. The developers brought in architects from Austin, civil engineers from Houston, and boom! A planned community built from the ground up. All modern infrastructure, too—fiber internet, solar-ready rooftops, private security, HOA-managed utilities. It’s not just livin’ here, honey. It’s thrivin’.”

Eliza looked toward the lake. The water seemed too still and dark at its center. A flat, unnatural dimness that didn’t quite reflect the bright summer sky.

“Looks like Pleasantville,” Mason murmured.

Tammy laughed. “We do get that a lot. But trust me, it’s real. No special effects. Simply good planning and better people.”

Eliza’s gaze lingered on a trio of women pushing identical strollers along a crosswalk. Straight-backed, they sauntered in lock-step, almost interchangeable in their floral frocks, pearl necklaces, and lace gloves. The babies were dressed in matching sun bonnets. All three mothers turned and smiled in unison.

“Creepy,” she said under her breath.

Mason squeezed her knee. “You wanted quiet, love.”

“I wanted affordable,” she whispered. “I didn’t ask for spooky.”

“I like how the town honors the local history,” Tammy continued. “They kept it close to the old maps. There was a Franciscan Mission upstream back in the Spanish days—burned down or got lost. No one really knows. My husband says the natives believed it was cursed, but that’s silly campfire talk.”

Mason raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t in the brochure.”

“Please,” Tammy laughed. “You know how stories get in small towns. Bored teenagers with active imaginations, and some creek water make for great ghost stories.”

They passed the town square—bare brick buildings arranged in perfect symmetry, like Monopoly pieces. A community garden bloomed behind iron fencing. Children laughed on a playground. The musical jingle of an ice cream van played somewhere beyond the rows of model homes.

“There’s nothing spooky about Moorfield these days.” Tammy said, turning the SUV up a cul-de-sac bordered with maple saplings. Faces peeked from cottage windows as they passed. “We’re flourishing. Growing quicker than any other town in the state.”

Eliza shifted uncomfortably. “Doesn’t that seem… fast?”

Tammy gave her a look in the mirror—pleasant, but a little too practiced. “That’s progress, honey. Some places get forgotten. Others bloom.”

She pulled into a broad driveway bordered by two symmetrical maple saplings. “And voilà! Here we are. Three bedrooms, two and a half baths, lake access, and a detached studio for your work. Plus, the neighbors are lovely. They’re already planning a little welcome brunch for y’all.”

Eliza stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. The air smelled clean—too clean. Not pine, not water. Simply… neutral.

The wind picked up gently, and the distant call of a bird echoed across the lake.

Tammy stood between them, smiling so wide it almost hurt to look at. “Welcome to Moorfield.”

Eliza hesitated. Something about it felt… wrong. Not hostile, not yet. But off. The quaint country atmosphere didn’t feel peaceful.

She was attuned to such things.

“Now, the removalists arrived yesterday and moved all the boxes and furniture to the assigned rooms.” Tammy said, producing a ring of keys from her handbag. “I sent a few of my boys to set up your bed and other essentials to ease you through the transition. There’s a welcome basket filled with goodies in the kitchen, along with local take-out menus on the refrigerator. I recommend Danny’s Smokehouse. The barbeque pork ribs are to die for.” 

“Uh, thanks.” Mason said, as she pressed them into his hand, then seized them both in a warm embrace. “Oh, you don’t have to–”

Eliza squirmed in the older woman’s arms, uncomfortable with the sudden intimacy. 

“Nonsense, you’re one of us now—a member of our community.” Tammy crushed them to her generous bosom. “We’re awfully neighbourly ‘round these parts, as you’ll soon learn.”

“She was nice.” Mason remarked, stacking plates in a cupboard. “Very, um… friendly.”

The removalist had done a commendable job. Cardboard boxes littered the home, but everything was in the correct place as indicated by the scrawled lettering on the lids. 

They were currently in the kitchen, unpacking cookware and utensils.

“You think so?” Eliza picked through the gift basket, examining a bottle of rosé. “She didn’t come across as too friendly?”

Mason paused, giving her a wary glance. “Did you get a bad vibe off her?”

As a Sensitive, his wife had a sixth sense about people and places. 

He’d been sceptical upon first acquaintance, but humored the cute brunette’s quirky nature in the hope of scoring. Eliza was a catch. Her firm, pert breasts, slim build, and tight little ass were blood in the water for a retired skirt-chaser like him. Pretty and petite, with a keen mind and a take-no-shit attitude. 

She was ten pounds of pure dynamite in a five-pound sack. 

After their first six months of dating, Mason had become a believer. Eliza read people and situations with unerring accuracy.

“I got something,” she hedged, setting the wine aside like it might bite her. “Not from her exactly… but around her. Like static in the air. Humid, but not from the weather.”

Mason closed the cupboard and leaned against the counter. “You think it’s the town?”

“I don’t know.”

He offered a crooked smile, trying for levity. “Well, if it’s haunted, it’s haunted by middle-class aspirations and matching mailbox numbers.”

She didn’t laugh.

“I think we’re both exhausted,” he said, staring out the glass doors at the water. “New place, big move, weird vibe. That’s normal. I mean, I feel a little unsettled too, but maybe that’s what starting over feels like.”

Eliza joined him, arms folded tight. Her reflection in the glass was pale and tense, jaw tight, jade-green eyes scanning the treeline.

“It’s not the move,” she said. “It’s something else. Something I can’t put a finger on.”

Mason hesitated, then reached over and took her hand. 

“Well,” he said, gently, “whatever it is, it picked the wrong couple. We’ve handled worse.”

She squeezed his hand, and for a moment, the tension between them eased. They stood in silence, listening to the hum of cicadas.

“I’m not unpacking anymore tonight,” she decided. “Let’s order something and watch a movie. I need… I need to not feel this place for a while.”

“Pizza it is,” Mason agreed. But even as he pulled out his phone, his eyes kept drifting to the glass door. Outside, the lake remained calm, dark as obsidian.

The light of the next day did wonders to banish Eliza’s misapprehensions. As though the golden morning rays swept away the shadows. It helped that they had plenty to occupy them as the world was transformed by the rising of the sun. 

She and Mason were setting up the detached studio as a shared office. There was plenty of space, and working remotely was one of the primary reasons for abandoning big city living.

They’d been existing paycheck to paycheck in San Diego. Treading water without getting anywhere before something had to give. 

And honestly, neither of them would miss the climbing rental prices, crime rates, and horrendous traffic.

“We should position your desk facing south, love.” Mason suggested, slicking back his dark hair. “The spectacular vistas would only distract me.”

He wore faded jeans and a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, given the labors ahead, but looked no less handsome for the rugged garb. Eliza watched him lug boxes and furniture, marveling at his lean musculature and roguish good looks.     

A sheen of perspiration already polished his coppery skin; summer in Texas didn’t pull any punches. The day warmed quickly, and she fought the urge to fan herself like a fainting southern belle. 

“Have you noticed how the house is laid out to face the water as much as possible?” She asked instead. “Floor-to-ceiling picture windows and glass doors on the south end?”

“Makes sense when you consider the lakeside view.” Mason shrugged, his broad shoulders bunching. “What’s special about the front yard? Nothing out there but a boring lawn, flower gardens, and the street. Smart developers will always capitalize on the natural beauty of the region.”     

He should know. As a market analyst, Mason’s job predisposed him to interpreting the world through the lens of someone with something to sell.

As an internet psychic of some repute, Eliza held a different perspective.

She saw everything in a blending of holistic hues. Emotions and possibilities. Never clear. Always undefined. Yet with experience and effort, she could tease a thread from the infinite tangle of existence to glimpse a particle of the grand design.

To Eliza, their new home felt like one piece of a vast, intricate circuit—its purpose unknown. A single tile in a larger mosaic that hadn’t yet revealed its image—but the colors were strange, the patterns irregular, and she couldn’t shake the sense that something ran under it all.

Still, in the daylight, with songbirds in the trees and the scent of fresh-cut grass on the breeze, those thoughts receded. Mason’s optimism was like gravity—anchoring her, steadying her.

“We’re going to make this work,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “We’ve got time. We’ve got each other. We’ve even got central air. This could actually be nice.”

She smiled, genuinely. “It could, couldn’t it?”

Then came the chime of the doorbell.

Eliza blinked, glancing toward the house. “Expecting anyone?”

“Nope.”

They exchanged a look.

“Let’s go meet the neighbors,” Mason said, wiping his palms on his jeans.

“Whoever they may be,” Eliza murmured.

The sound of laughter reached them before they reached the front yard.

Mason paused, blinking into the warm Texas sunlight. The narrow strip of lawn in front of their house had been transformed. A long folding table draped in pink gingham cloth stood beneath a white gazebo. On it, crystal pitchers of lemonade glistened with condensation, flanked by platters of tea sandwiches, pies, and pastel-frosted cupcakes.

The residents of Cedar Point Estates had turned out in force.

Most were women. Beautiful women. Tall and curvy, or petite and prim—each was coiffed to perfection, as if they'd stepped out of a Sears catalog. They wore bright sundresses with cinched waists, wide belts, and peep-toe heels that sank lightly into the turf. Salon styled hair–ironed curls and victory rolls–framed faces locked into radiant, symmetrical smiles.

Very few men dotted the gathering. They stood on the periphery—quiet and neatly pressed, watching the proceedings like distant relatives at a wedding. Loafers polished. Shirts tucked. Hands folded politely. Grinning amicably.

“Well, hi there!” Called one of the women, waving a gloved hand. “Everyone, they’re here!”

The chorus of greetings swelled like a school musical.

Eliza stiffened beside Mason, her fingers twitching before she smoothed them over the front of her dusty Disneyland t-shirt, feeling underdressed. She plastered on a polite smile as her heart climbed into her throat.

Tammy Gresham emerged from the crowd like a debutante at a ball, elegantly attired in a navy vintamour A-line dress that snuggled her classic hourglass figure and tall pumps. She beamed from beneath a wide-brimmed sun hat.

“There they are! Our newest neighbors!” she announced, sweeping towards them with open arms. “Y’all didn’t think we’d let you settle in without a proper welcome, did you?”

Mason laughed, a little nervously. “We weren’t expecting—uh, this.”

“Well, surprise!” Tammy chimed, taking his arm and guiding him towards the crowd. Eliza frowned but tagged along. “Just a little Southern hospitality. We like to keep things warm and sweet around here. Like honey on fresh-baked cornbread.”

The ladies tittered on cue.

A statuesque blonde with candy-apple lipstick handed Mason a glass of lemonade and plucked invisible lint from his shoulder. “You’re even cuter in daylight,” she said with a wink.

“Um, thanks?”

A slender brunette, not much older than Eliza, looped her arm around his and leaned in conspiratorially. “You do anything handy, Mason? We’ve all got plenty of jobs that need a man’s touch.”

“What about these other guys?” He flushed, chuckling as he glanced at Eliza. “They look like a capable bunch.”

The gaggle of ladies giggled and the menfolk guffawed as though Mason had said something amusing. 

“Don’t bring us into this!” A burly middle-aged fellow catcalled. “The missus badgers me enough as it is.”   

Eliza didn’t laugh. She was scanning the crowd, trying to place the unease coiling in her gut.

The women were too perfect. Too poised. Not a smudge of mascara out of place. Not a crooked tooth among them. Their laughter seemed… timed. Their greetings too rehearsed.

The men, meanwhile, had returned to standing like lamp posts with idle hands and empty stares, nodding occasionally but saying little.

“Don’t you two make the dearest couple?” Tammy purred, slipping an arm around Eliza’s shoulder. Her perfume smelled of night-blooming jasmine.

Eliza pulled away slightly. “This was very thoughtful. But you didn’t have to go to so much trouble.”

“Oh, hush now, honey.” Tammy said, her tone light. “You’re family here. Everyone pitches in. We believe in building a tight-knit community, one casserole at a time.”

Eliza's eyes flicked to the tables—indeed, most of the food appeared homemade. Pies with lattice crusts. Deviled eggs sprinkled with paprika. Finger sandwiches arranged like spokes on a wheel. It all seemed too... curated.

Her spider senses were tingling like a five-alarm fire. 

“We wanted to help you get settled,” Tammy went on. “It’s important to put down roots. Deep ones. You’ll see—Moorfield grows on you.”

Eliza smiled thinly. “I bet it does.”

Like mold on cheese, she didn’t add. 

Behind them, Mason was laughing—genuinely this time—as one of the women offered him a slice of hummingbird cake. The blonde feeding it to him laughed, too, holding the small plate above the prominent shelf of her cleavage and tilting her pretty head just so. A voluptuous redhead with a frilly apron tied around her waspish waist brushed his arm with a lingering hand as she passed. 

They were circling him like man-eating butterflies.

Or a bunch of desperate housewives.

Eliza’s jaw tensed.

Tammy followed her gaze and patted her arm. “Oh, don’t worry, hon. The girls like to make newcomers feel special. And Mason’s such a catch! If I were ten years younger—” she sighed wistfully.

“Well, you’re not. “ Eliza feigned a smile that resembled a rictus grin, ignoring the sharp look Tammy shot her.

She felt like a guest at her own funeral.

“Mmm, that’s delicious,” Mason said, swallowing a mouthful of peach cobbler. “But I couldn't possibly eat another bite.”

The knockout blonde feeding him–what was her name again… Darcy? Marcy?–beamed in delight at his praise. She’d pressed in close, too close, practically painted her busty self against his side. 

The other ladies weren’t much better. Shoving and jostling each other, vying for his attention with offerings of home-cooked tidbits for Mason to sample.

“You must try my banana pudding. Won the blue ribbon at the county fair three years running.” Crooned the chestnut-haired beauty plastered to his other side. Her trim, yoga-fit body docked firmly against his other side as she raised a heaped spoon to his lips. “Say ‘ahhh.’”

“Ahhh~...”

Mason opened his mouth and accepted the spoonful of pudding, velvety and sweet with a hint of vanilla. He gave a pleased hum, which sent a ripple of giggles through the circle of women surrounding him.

“Goodness, you’re so precious,” purred the housewife holding the spoon. Her fingers lingered at the edge of his lips, dabbing a nonexistent crumb with a napkin. Her perky bosom squished against his arm, firm and warm and far too close for casual acquaintance.

He couldn’t remember her name either—Linda? Maybe Lana? They had all introduced themselves so quickly, and with such brilliant, dazzling smiles, the names blurred like watercolors.

Behind him, the redhead in a polka-dot dress massaged his shoulders and leaned in close. “You really are too polite,” she said in a lazy drawl. “A man like you could make a girl swoon.”

“I already did,” laughed the tall blonde. “Didn’t you see me trip over the sprinkler earlier? Entirely your fault, sugar.”

The others chuckled, arranging themselves artfully around him like flower petals drawn toward sunlight. Each one was immaculate: lip gloss gleaming, eyes alight with something that could be mistaken for hunger.

Mason laughed along, flattered and off-balance, glancing at the lemonade in his glass if only to give himself somewhere to look that wasn't a low-cut neckline.

“I’m starting to feel a little overwhelmed here,” he said. “Don’t your, uh… partners mind you all smothering the new guy?”

The response was instant. A ripple passed through the group—not panic, exactly, but a momentary stutter in the discussion. A blink too long. 

“Partners?” Repeated the redhead, as though he’d spoken in riddles.

“You know,” Mason said, chuckling nervously. “Husbands? Boyfriends?”

“Ohhh,” Probably Marcy gasped, tapping an elegant finger to her chin. “He means our men, girls!”

That set them all laughing again, high and lilting.

“Well, bless your heart,” said the stunning brunette who’d fed Mason earlier. Lana, he decided.  “Most of our men are absent a lot. Business trips, conferences, trade shows…”

“Oil rigs, consulting, real estate development,” another piped up.

“So boring,” Marcy sighed dramatically, twirling a golden strand of hair. “Always gone, always on the phone, always tired when they come home.”

“They don’t understand the importance of community like we do,” added the redhead. “That’s why we look out for each other. Keep things running on track.”

Mason chortled, but something about the way she’d said ‘we’ sounded decidedly loaded.

“Well, I hope to meet them sometime,” he said, keeping his tone easy. “You know, bust out the grill, watch a game, talk shop.”

Mason didn’t own a grill or follow sports, but it felt like the right thing to say. 

More tittering followed, but this time it seemed slightly relieved. Another of the neighbourhood beauties reached for his glass and topped it off with a distracting wink.

“You’re too kind,” she cooed. “We’ll be sure to let our husbands know you’re eager for some male bonding… whenever they’re… back in town.”

The emphasis in her tone left no doubt: they wouldn’t be back anytime soon.

Before Mason could reply, the curvy redhead took his hand, guiding him toward the folding chairs set in the shade of an old oak tree. A second bite of cobbler appeared before his lips. Someone fluffed a napkin into his lap, delicate fingers feathered his inner thigh.

And just like that, the conversation drifted elsewhere—returning to harmless flirtations and more proffering of baked goods, their brief moment of hesitation smoothed over by old-fashioned southern charm.

Mason was beginning to think this whole small-town living thing might not be so bad after all.

“I didn’t realize I needed to babysit you, Mason.”

Eliza slammed the desk drawer harder than she intended, sending a stack of notebooks skidding sideways. She snatched them back into place, not looking at him.

Mason raised his hands in mock surrender. “Whoa. Okay. Where’s this coming from?”

“You tell me,” she said, turning on him. “I spent the afternoon fielding veiled insults and passive-aggressive commentary while you were busy playing taste-tester to every woman in the street.”

He sighed and set down the extension cord he’d been wrestling with. “They were only being friendly.”

“No, Mason. They were being possessive. They touched you like you already belonged to them.”

“That’s a stretch.”

“You let them feed you.”

“I was being polite.”

Eliza crossed her arms, the humid atmosphere of the cluttered studio pressing in like a physical presence. “Tammy tried to sign me up for something called the Country Women’s Council. Kept going on about how good it would be for me and how they meet every Thursday without fail,” she said, mimicking Tammy’s saccharine drawl. “What even is that? A quilting cult?”

Mason sighed. “You’re being dramatic.”

She turned away, jaw clenched.

“You don’t feel it,” Eliza muttered. “This place... Something’s wrong here.”

He came up behind her, wrapping his arms loosely around her waist. She didn’t lean into him.

“Because the neighbours cooked us pie and threw a party?”

“Because everything feels staged. Like we’re walking through a perfectly arranged set. Too many smiles. Too much coordination. It’s not natural.” She pulled away from him, needing distance. “And the men—did you even notice them?”

Mason tilted his head. “Not really. They kept to themselves.”

“Exactly. I tried to talk to one. He just… grinned. Didn’t even greet me, Mason. I asked his name; Henry. I asked what he did for work; business. Did he care to elaborate? Nope. I joked about what big teeth he has, and he didn’t even blink. It was like trying to converse with a brick wall.”

Mason ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Okay, but I’m not responsible for our neighbours’ lack of social graces.”

“I’m not asking you to be. I’m asking you to take this seriously.” Her voice cracked, anger faltering into something more fragile. “I felt abandoned today because you weren’t there for me.”

His expression softened. “Eliza…”

Mason gently spun her in his arms. She let him take her hands, but didn’t relax.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel that way,” he said. “But babe, you know I’m not going anywhere. I love you. I’m not about to be lured away by a few bored housewives with fancy hair and a baking fetish.”

She huffed out a bitter laugh. “You looked like you were enjoying the attention.”

“Hey, I’m a guy. My ego’s not bulletproof. Their flattery landed.” He cupped her face, brushing his thumbs along her cheekbones. “But you’re the one I came here with. It’s you I’m building this life with.”

The heat between them cooled slightly, the tension ebbing from her muscles. She let her forehead rest against his chest.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” she murmured.

“I know.”

“I just… I don’t trust this place.”

“Then we’ll trust each other,” Mason said. “Deal?”

She nodded slowly, allowing herself to melt into him, but her gaze drifted to the window, where the lake shimmered beyond the trees. The studio smelled of cardboard and dust, of new beginnings. But in her gut, Eliza still felt uneasy.

Like they were pieces in a game, the rules of which she couldn’t comprehend.

She didn’t speak that thought aloud. Mason needed his optimism. He needed to believe they’d made the right choice.

Instead, she lifted her face and kissed him. Eager to cleanse any thoughts of other women from his recent memory. Impatient to mark her territory again. Earnest longing and the stuffy heat kindled the spark that always preceded their lovemaking. 

He groaned when she began unbuttoning his flannel, thirsty to reconnect with the firm flesh beneath.

Mason gasped into their kiss when Eliza yanked his shirt open. His wife rarely played the aggressor in the bedroom. 

Even on their honeymoon–an adventurous week in Cozumel, spent snorkeling the reef and exploring Mayan ruins–she’d seemed more taken by the local attractions than their after-dark activities.  

Eliza wasn’t a reluctant sexual partner by any means. Once she got going, Mason couldn’t wish for a more enthusiastic lover. But it usually took more effort on his part to crank her engine. 

This surge of blazing passion was quite out of character.

“Uh, love? Are you okay?” He asked as she tugged at his belt. “Not that I mind, but we could retire to a more comfortable–urk!”

In a heroic feat of dexterity, she tore the buckle free and whipped his jeans open in a single fluid motion.  

“I need this.” Eliza slipped a small hand into his boxers, mewling when she found his unfurling member. “And I think you need it too.”

Truthfully, Mason was still half-erect from their female neighbours’ flirtations. He was only mortal. So many gorgeous southern belles doting on him hand and foot, pressing their fascinating figures against him, hanging on his every word, had triggered a physiological reaction.  

Banishing the treacherous thoughts, he focused on Eliza. His wife. The woman he loved. The feisty pixie who’d stolen his heart and presently held his hardening prick in her pumping grip. 

“Does somebody want something?” Mason growled, pulling her into another tongue-fueled kiss. She never stopped stroking his growing length, even as he trapped her tinier form in a fearsome embrace. “They might still be outside, tidying up after the surprise party. What if they hear us?”

“Let them listen.” Eliza moaned, “I want the whole street to know you’re spoken for. My man. They can’t have you.”

She sounded breathless, yet her actions were insistent. Urgent in a way he’d never experienced before. 

Mason liked it, especially when she discarded the Disney t-shirt and sank to her knees. 

Eliza generally abstained from bras while at home. Her modest breasts sat high and perky, wonderfully shaped yet not large enough to need constant support. They were firm palmfuls, capped by raspberry nipples he could play with for days. 

“Oh, love. You’re going to–?”

“Yes. Now, stand there and let me do this for you.” Her jade eyes were smoky, bright with desire and a lingering glint of jealousy. “Someone needs reminding who butters their bread.” 

Mason’s breath hitched as Eliza’s tongue swirled around the sensitive ridge of his cock, her lips sealing tightly around him. Eliza didn’t perform oral sex often–begging off due to the difference in their sizes–but when she did, it was a borderline religious experience.

He was a well-endowed man. Not huge, but significantly above average. A fact made even more apparent in contrast to her sylphlike stature. 

Eliza’s silky-soft hands appeared tiny as they stroked his meaty length. Her small mouth and cupid-bow lips always struggled to accommodate his girth. She resembled one of Édouard Bisson’s nymphs. Naked and enchanting, except for a pair of daisy dukes hugging her pert rear.    

“Eliza,” he rasped, voice rough with arousal. “God, you’re incredible.”

Opening wide, her tongue extended like a spongy pink landing strip, before she took in his bulbous head. Her cheeks hollowed as she moaned.  Her mouth was a furnace of heat and moisture, her tongue dancing along his length with a skill that left him trembling.

“Mm-hmmm.” She hummed on his cock, the sound sending shivers up his spine. 

Her free hand reached up to cup his balls, rolling them gently in her palm as her head bobbed, taking in a fraction more of him with each pass. The sounds she made—the wet, sloppy noises of her mouth working him, the occasional gag as she took him deeper—were almost as intoxicating as the sensations themselves.

”Urk, ack, hurg!”

Eliza’s eyes met his, her jade orbs filled with a lustful need that mirrored his own. She was relentless, her movements quickening as she sucked with a fervor that left him gasping. Her suctioning lips and lashing tongue worked in sinful harmony to drive Mason closer to a rapidly approaching peak.

She had never sucked him so earnestly before–never attacked with such cock-gobbling ferocity. She gagged and slurped. Glorious as an avenging angel, intent on rescuing Mason’s soul by means of his throbbing erection.

“Oh-oh fuck! Love, that’s… that’s almost too much!” 

Mason’s hips jerked involuntarily, and Eliza let out a muffled groan, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure straight to his overactive loins. 

She didn’t pull away, though. Instead, she took him deeper, her impossibly snug throat relaxing to accept his pulsating prong. The sight of her kneeling before him, choking on his shaft, her brilliant jade eyes locked on him–was nearly too much to bear.

“Love,” he gasped, burying fingers in her brown hair. “I’m close. So fucking close.”

Eliza didn’t stop. If anything, she doubled down, pace quickening as she sucked him with a desperation that matched his own. Her dainty hands pumped in time with her plunging face, jerking off the beefy length she couldn’t swallow. Pressure built within Mason like a boiler, roiling in his center, until it finally burst.

“Ho-holy... SHIIIIT!!”

He erupted with a roar, packing her greedy gullet with waves of hot, sticky spunk. Eliza didn’t pull away. She gulped down every gooey spurt, squirming and shaking with ecstasy, lapping hungrily until he was finally spent. 

Mason staggered, blinking spots out of his vision. Eliza coughed and swatted tears off her cheeks as she released him, resting on her heels with a satisfied smirk.

“There,” she said, wiping spittle from her chin. “Now they’ll all know who you belong to.”

“Jesus, love. Where did that come from?” Mason stared at her, his chest heaving for breath. “I mean, you’ve been… different tonight. But this? This is something else.”

She stood, her movements graceful and deliberate as she closed the distance between them. Her fingers snaked up his chest, tracing the lines of lean muscles before she laced them behind his neck.

“Don’t play dumb, Mason. I saw the way they were looking at you tonight. Those wanton women, hanging on your every word, touching you like they had any right to.” Eliza’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of anger. “I know you said they were simply acting friendly. But is that what you call it when they’re practically throwing themselves at you? When they’re leaning over you, letting their cleavage do the talking?”

Mason’s treacherous mind leapt back to the image of Marcy’s big, sumptuous breasts nearly spilling out of the low-cut bodice of her party dress when she’d served him iced tea. Then the curvy redhead–what was her name again?–who had practically rested her bountiful bosom on his head while massaging his shoulders. 

Even chestnut-haired Lana, who boasted a slight figure on par with Eliza’s, hadn’t been shy about presenting her ample assets, filling out a sweetheart neckline most fetchingly.  

To his shame, Mason's softening cock underwent an unprecedented resurgence, returning to full mast.

“They’re not my wife.” He dragged Eliza against him, pushing his restored rigidity against her trim tummy. “You’re the only woman for me, love.” 

“Prove it. Make me believe.” 

Bending low, he nibbled her throat, sliding the denim cut-offs off her slender thighs. She kicked them away, squeaking delightfully when he seized her tight butt in a possessive grasp, then lifted. Those same thighs locked around his waist, and they staggered together, drunk on lust.  

She rubbed her inflamed clit across his turgid tip, leveraging her strict leglock to push off his hips and smear him across her moist entrance. 

Boxes toppled, spilling office supplies, as Mason crashed through the studio with Eliza clinging like a horny leech, necking and grinding in tandem. Stumbling over an upended chair before catching his balance, Mason breached her welcoming folds almost by accident, gliding in with a startled grunt of pleasure.

“Yeeesssss~...” Eliza hissed. “There’s my man. Give it to me, hubby. Give it to me hard! Stamp your claim on this pussy. Show me that I’m yours!”

Mason didn’t need extra goading. He gripped her tightly, fingers digging into her firm backside, thrusting in a rhythm that was both covetous and punishing. 

Each movement was deliberate, each pussy-pummeling blow delivered as a reminder of how much he craved her. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the studio, mingling with their ragged breaths and Eliza’s occasional shrills of rapture.

Sharp nails raked across Mason’s shoulder blades, leaving red trails that only spurred him on. Her ankles crossed behind him, pulling him in further with every thrust. Eliza’s head fell back, exposing the elegant column of her neck. Mason couldn’t resist a less-than-playful bite, marking her as his.

“Harder, hubby,” she demanded, in a breathless whisper. “I want to feel every inch of you.”

Mason eagerly obliged, increasing the intensity of his pounding penetrations until Eliza writhed in his arms. Her itty bitty titties careened against his chest, the fabulous friction sending jolts of electric bliss through both of them. He could feel her internal walls squeezing him, constricting with each energetic motion as she spiralled towards climax, juices squirting.

“Tha-that’s it,” she moaned, tremulous with carnal craving. “Like that. Aaaah! Don’t stop.”

It was a different brand of passion than they usually indulged in. Not the gentle, careful, are-you-okay lovemaking that had defined their newlywed sex life. So cautious and mindful of each other’s emotions. 

No, this was fucking. Rough and raw and utterly primal. Mason had been reduced to caveman, clubbing her slippery snatch with his indomitable dick and clawing her butt. 

“Jesus, love. I can’t think straight! You’ve got me so riled up–”

“Yes! Hyaa~... “Yes, yes. Like that. You feel soooo~ fucking good. Give it to me… Oooh! Give it to me!”

Staggering, he carried Eliza across the rear of the studio until they slammed into the glass sliding door. By some miracle, the glass didn’t break, and Mason pinned her arching back against it, railing her with everything he had. 

She yanked at his dark hair to run her warm tongue across his jaw, slim thighs clenching as though she would pinch him in half. Mason was hunched over her smaller form, relishing the molten heat of his wife’s clutching slickness when distant movement outside snared his attention. 

Through a sparse copse of conifers, he spotted people moving on the lakeshore, not forty yards away—familiar figures clad in scanty swimwear. 

Their brazen neighbours, who’d packed up brunch less than an hour ago, were frolicking in the sparkling waters. Laughing and splashing each other like sorority girls on spring break with nary a male to be seen. 

The variety of what might charitably be called swimsuits was as diverse as the feminine figure sporting them.

Mason’s rampant rod thickened, and his thrusts took on a frenetic energy at the captivating visions, romping merrily in the lake. Eliza gasped, uttering words he didn’t hear.

Blonde Marcy’s lean yet buxom beach bunny frame sported a plunging bikini top and cheeky bottoms of the palest blue, while the vibrant redhead, whose name Mason had forgotten, tossed her a beachball. That fiery-haired stunner whose substantial curves nearly spilled out of a green high-cut Brazilian microkini shrieked gleefully when lissome Lana intercepted the throw, attired in a black and white polka dot one-piece with frilly accents and a cute bow tied across her well-formed chest.        

Mason’s eyes widened as they cavorted like naiads in the lake. His hips pistoned harder at the sight of so much succulent feminine flesh on display. More women played around the central trio. Showstopping sirens of modelesque proportions, similarly garbed in scandalously brief beach fashion. 

He was enthralled by the view. 

Magnificent tits and asses of every size and shape bounced enticingly. Skin tones ranging from dark chocolate to ivory white glistened wetly in the sunshine. One of them bent over to adjust her sandal, her peachy butt on full display, while another tossed her gleaming auburn hair. They pranced and posed, flaunting their sexy bodies as though shooting a beer commercial.

“Christ, that’s hot.” He grunted, breath fogging the glass as he imagined charging down there and adding himself to the scene. Pictured them kneeling in awe of his steely shaft, offering themselves eagerly. “So fucking hot…”  

On the shoreline, sheltered beneath a beach umbrella, sat Tammy Gresham. Reclining in a folding chair, grinning from behind large sunglasses. Her conservative dress was replaced by a skimpy Lycra confection that criss-crossed the burgundy-haired realtor's extravagant contours in scarlet straps, barely covering her more sensitive bits.

She slipped a bottle of cola through a straw, completely content, watching the other belles play. The creamy skin of her devastatingly long legs glowed as she stretched them into the sunlight. 

Mason had a sudden urge to lick those impressive gams. To work his way up from her perfectly turned calves, over her knees, and seek the hidden treasure buried between those mouth-watering–  

“Yes! Fuck me, fuck me… mmmnph!! I’m going to cum!” Elated howls snapped Mason’s focus back to his wife, unravelling on his pile-driving prick. “Talk to me… Yaaah! T-tell me how much you want me.”

Returning to reality, he was almost shocked to find Eliza shaking through a monumental orgasm. Wailing and thrashing in his arms, all self-control lost.

Mason swallowed hard, forcing himself to look at her. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted as she panted, eyes dark with desire. “I want you so fucking bad,” he growled. “You’re mine, Eliza. All mine.”

She moaned, hips grinding against his as she quaked in his formidable grasp. “Yes, yes! I’m yours. Fuck me like you mean it.”    

The knowledge that he had brought Eliza to such heights of ecstasy ignited a foreign sensation in Mason’s chest. 

He felt strong. 

He felt powerful.

He felt in charge.         

“Cum for me,” Mason demanded, hoarse with desire. “I want to see you cum on my hard hubby cock.”

Eliza responded immediately. Her gushing cunt convulsed, clamping down on him as she cried out his name. 

“MAAAASON!!”

That was the final straw, and with a last desperate lunge, he exploded. 

A galaxy of stars danced in Mason’s vision as his throbbing balls unloaded for a second time. The mind-boggling torrent streaming out of him shouldn’t have been possible. Things like male refractory periods existed, although they seemed unimportant in the scalding heat of the moment.

Ignoring the pesky minutiae of biology and anatomy, he surrendered to the euphoric pleasure of release.     

For long moments, they stayed tangled together, breathless and trembling in the lingering haze of lust. Eliza melted against him, her cheek pressed to the crook of his neck, her breath warm and ragged.

“Mine,” she whispered, the word barely more than a tremor against his skin.

Mason held her tighter, but his gaze drifted inevitably to the lake.

The shoreline had fallen unnaturally still.

The women of Cedar Point Estates—those gorgeous, bombshell housewives in their provocative swimsuits—stood frozen in the shallows, their bodies half-lit by morning light. Not a single one moved. Not a blink. Even the breeze, as it lifted hair across their unreadable expressions, failed to stir them.

All except Tammy.

She tilted her head—only slightly—meeting Mason’s stare over the rim of her sunglasses with a knowing smirk, like she’d been watching the whole time. 

Like they all had.

Guilt clocked him like a punch to the jaw.

He’d been fucking his beloved wife—with her, in her—yet his eyes had strayed. His mind had wandered. Worse, he hadn’t just looked. He’d gotten off on it. Harder than he had any right to be. Like some sick voyeur, getting off to the crowd of silent, smiling strangers through the trees.

He’d cum like a goddamn freight train.

What the hell was wrong with him?

What the hell was wrong with this place?

He kissed the top of Eliza’s head, stroking the bare curve of her spine in slow, soothing passes.

“Yours,” he murmured, trying to anchor himself in her warmth, in her presence. “Always yours.”

“That was amazing,” she murmured, drowsy and sated.

Mason forced a brittle smile, arms tightening around her. “Yeah,” he said quietly, still staring out the glass door. “It was.”

But he couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d seen, what he’d done. 

And what, if anything, it meant.

To be Continued…