Sort Me Out Bonus – The Maintenance Visit

🔥 The Maintenance Visit 🔥
An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Sort Me Out

Thank You for Reading! 💙
You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve survived the walkthrough, the trash bags, the hair tuck, the “good girl,” the studio floor, the balcony journals, the thumb on the lip, the car, Quinn’s white sheets, the gallery wall, and a maintenance binder that became a love letter. Thank you for giving Mars and Quinn your time.

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⚠️ Content Warning: Extremely explicit FF sexual content including oral sex, manual stimulation, praise kink, power exchange dynamics, dirty talk, body worship, organizational terminology used as foreplay, and emotional intensity. Set six weeks after the epilogue. Quinn’s POV. Readers 18+ only.

The Maintenance Visit

Set six weeks after the epilogue. Quinn’s POV.

The text came in at 4:47 PM on a Wednesday.

Emergency. Come over. Bring your label maker.

I stared at my phone, then at the client whose pantry I was halfway through reorganizing — a perfectly pleasant woman named Diane who was watching me with the patient expression of someone who could tell I was no longer fully present.

“Family emergency?” she asked.

“Something like that.” I set down the bin I was holding. “Diane, I’m going to ask Tate to finish this session. They’re ten minutes away and they know the plan.”

“Of course. Go.”

I went.

Mars’s apartment was fourteen minutes from Diane’s townhouse. I made it in eleven, which was a violation of several traffic laws and all of my personal driving standards, but the word emergency from Mars Castillo activated a part of my nervous system that did not care about speed limits.

I took the stairs. Third floor. Knocked once.

Mars opened the door in a paint-splattered sports bra and cutoff shorts. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a clip that was losing the war. She had cadmium orange on her collarbone (permanent, endemic, beloved) and a streak of phthalo blue across her stomach and an expression that was not, in any clinical sense, an emergency.

“Hi,” she said. Bright. Bouncing slightly on bare feet. “That was fast.”

“You said emergency.”

“It is an emergency.”

I looked past her into the apartment. The apartment was fine. Better than fine — the apartment was holding beautifully, the systems I’d built functioning exactly as designed, the weekly reset clearly having happened recently because the surfaces were clear and the kitchen gleamed and the studio door was open revealing organized shelves and canvases in progress.

“Mars. What is the emergency.”

She stepped aside. Let me in. I walked past her into the living room and scanned the space with the automatic, diagnostic sweep that I would probably do in this apartment for the rest of my natural life, regardless of whether I was being paid for it.

Everything was in order. Everything was—

“The bedroom,” Mars said behind me.

I walked to the bedroom. Pushed open the door.

The bed was unmade. Spectacularly unmade — sheets tangled, duvet on the floor, pillows in a configuration that suggested either a restless night or a deliberate act of chaos. There were clothes on the floor (her jeans, a flannel, what appeared to be my grey T-shirt that she’d stolen and never returned). The candle on the nightstand was lit — sandalwood and vanilla, the scent that had become synonymous with this room and everything that happened in it.

And on the bed, in the center of the wreckage, was a single item.

The maintenance binder. Open to a page I didn’t recognize.

I picked it up. Flipped to the marked page. It was a new page — handwritten, not typed, in Mars’s looping, chaotic script. She’d added it to the binder herself, tucked between the bedroom maintenance checklist and the monthly reset schedule.

The header read: Supplementary Maintenance Protocol — Bedroom Zone

Frequency: As needed (minimum weekly)
Duration: Variable
Required personnel: Quinn Ashford (non-negotiable)
Objective: Comprehensive stress relief and connection maintenance through physical recalibration of both parties

Procedure:
1. Quinn arrives.
2. Quinn assesses the condition of the bedroom occupant.
3. Quinn determines the appropriate maintenance approach (see appendix for options).
4. Quinn executes the maintenance with her characteristic thoroughness.
5. Both parties confirm successful completion.
6. Repeat as needed.

Appendix A: Maintenance Options
– Standard maintenance (tender, slow, Sunday morning energy)
– Deep clean (intensive, thorough, leave-no-surface-untouched energy)
– Emergency intervention (immediate, against the nearest wall, “good girl” energy)
– Custom protocol (Quinn’s discretion — she’s the professional)

Note: The bedroom occupant is ALWAYS available for maintenance. The bedroom occupant thinks about maintenance constantly. The bedroom occupant wrote this at 2 AM because she couldn’t sleep because she was thinking about maintenance.

Signed: Mars Castillo, Bedroom Occupant
Date: Today
Status: Urgent

I read it twice. Then a third time. My face was doing something I couldn’t control — a slow, spreading heat that started at my ears and moved inward, a flush that was half laughter and half arousal and entirely the result of being in love with a woman who expressed her desire through organizational parody.

“Well?” Mars was leaning in the bedroom doorway. Arms crossed. Trying to look casual and failing spectacularly — her chest was rising and falling too fast, her eyes were too dark, and there was a specific quality of tension in her body that I’d learned to read like a language. The tension that said: I want you and I’m pretending I’m not dying from it.

“This is not standard binder format,” I said. Calmly. Holding the binder. Deploying the professional voice because I knew — I knew — what it did to her when I went clinical in a charged context. “The appendix lacks specificity. The procedure section is vague. And ‘as needed’ is not a measurable frequency.”

“Are you critiquing my supplementary maintenance protocol?”

“I’m noting areas for improvement.”

“Noted. Are you going to execute the protocol or just audit it?”

I set the binder down on the nightstand. Carefully. Precisely. The way I set down every tool before beginning work — deliberate, intentional, each action a choice.

Then I turned to face her.

Mars was still in the doorway. Sports bra, cutoff shorts, bare feet, paint everywhere. Her hair was escaping the clip in dark spirals around her face. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth. She was trying so hard to maintain the bit — the playful, maintenance-protocol energy — and the trying was visible because Mars couldn’t hide anything, had never been able to hide anything, wore every feeling on her body like paint on a canvas.

“Assessment,” I said. Low. The voice. Her voice — the one I’d discovered in an entryway, the one that lived beneath my composure, the one that belonged to her. “The bedroom occupant appears to be in a state of elevated need.”

Her breath hitched. The laugh she’d been holding collapsed into something hungrier. “Elevated need is accurate.”

“Recommended intervention?” I crossed the room. Slowly. The Quinn walk — measured, intentional, each step a choice. I stopped in front of her. Close. Six inches. The distance that had become our starting point, our launch pad, the gap between composure and combustion. “Standard, deep clean, emergency, or custom?”

“Custom.” Barely a whisper. “Quinn’s discretion. She’s the professional.”

“The professional recommends—” I reached up. Pulled the clip from her hair. Let it fall — the full, dark cascade of curls, tumbling past her shoulders, chaotic and alive. She shivered as my fingers moved through the released strands, finding the nape of her neck, resting there. “A combination approach.”

“Combination?”

“We start with the emergency protocol.” I gripped the back of her neck. Not hard — firm. A hold that said I’m here and I’m in charge and you’re about to stop thinking. “And then—” I pulled her forward, closing the six inches, my mouth finding the spot below her ear that made her spine dissolve. “We transition to the deep clean.”

“Oh fuck,” she breathed.

“Language.”

“I will use whatever language I want while you’re doing that to my neck—”

I bit down. Lightly. Just enough to make her gasp and grab my waist for balance. Then I kissed the spot — tongue, warm, slow — and felt her knees buckle slightly against me.

“Bedroom,” I said against her skin. “Now.”

She pulled back. Looked at me with blown-wide, black-dark eyes. “What happened to assessment?”

“Assessment complete. Diagnosis: the bedroom occupant has been thinking about this since two AM and is approximately thirty seconds from climbing me like a tree.” I walked her backward toward the bed. Slow. My hands on her waist, her body yielding to the direction, her feet moving in the practiced choreography of two people who knew each other’s bodies the way they knew their own names. “Treatment plan: immediate, thorough, and—” I pushed her gently onto the bed. She fell back against the tangled sheets, hair fanning out, paint-streaked and beautiful and mine. “—comprehensive.”

“I love the treatment plan.”

“The treatment plan loves you.”

I climbed over her. Knees on either side of her hips. Hands on either side of her head. The position that was ours — the one from every bedroom, every couch, every horizontal surface we’d christened in six weeks of making up for three weeks of restraint. Mars looked up at me with her full attention, undivided, undefended, the eyes of a woman who had learned to trust being seen.

I kissed her. Deep, unhurried, tasting the coffee she’d been drinking and the faint salt of the pretzel she’d eaten at 3 PM (I knew her eating schedule better than she did; this was not compulsion, this was love). She opened for me immediately — lips, tongue, the soft sound she made at the back of her throat when the kiss shifted from greeting to intent.

My hands found the hem of her sports bra. Pulled it up and over her head in one efficient movement. Her breasts spilled free — full, heavy, her nipples already hard from the kissing or the anticipation or the two AM maintenance protocol fantasy she’d been marinating in — and I cupped them both, thumbs circling, and she arched into my palms with a moan that echoed off the walls.

“What does the emergency protocol involve, exactly?” she gasped.

“Rapid assessment of the occupant’s most responsive zones.” I pinched lightly. She yelped. “Targeted stimulation of the identified areas.” I rolled both nipples between my fingers and her hips bucked off the bed. “And the deployment of verbal reinforcement at peak arousal.”

“You mean—”

“I mean I’m going to make you come with my mouth while telling you how good you are. That’s the emergency protocol.”

“I need this protocol laminated and hung on the wall.”

“I’ll add it to the binder.”

I slid down her body. Hooked my fingers in her shorts and underwear and pulled both off in one smooth motion — efficiency, always efficiency, even in this — and settled between her thighs. She was already wet. Soaked, actually, the evidence of two AM fantasies and a fake emergency and the particular, Pavlovian response her body had developed to the sound of my professional voice in a sexual context.

I pressed my mouth to her inner thigh. Kissed. Traced a line upward with my tongue — slow, deliberate, mapping the terrain with the focused attention that Mars had once described as “you organize my body the way you organize closets and it’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to any human.”

“Quinn, please—”

“The protocol specifies comprehensive assessment before intervention.”

“The protocol was written at two AM by a horny insomniac, it does not specify—”

I put my mouth on her and she stopped talking.

The sound she made was not a word. It was the sound of a woman who’d been thinking about this for hours — maybe days, if I knew Mars, and I did — and was finally getting what she’d been craving. A broken, high-pitched, involuntary sound that traveled through her body and into mine and settled in the base of my spine like a chord struck on a piano.

I worked her with the thoroughness she’d requested. Tongue flat, then pointed, then circling — reading her responses the way I always did, the way my brain couldn’t help but do: cataloging, calibrating, optimizing. She was louder today than usual — the buildup, the protocol game, the anticipation — and every sound she made fed back into my technique, amplifying, refining.

My fingers joined my mouth. Two, sliding inside her with the ease of a body that knew mine and opened without hesitation. I curled them forward, found the spot, pressed, and Mars’s whole body levitated.

“Right there — Quinn, right there, don’t stop, don’t—”

I didn’t stop. I built the rhythm — tongue on her clit, fingers inside her, the synchronized pattern we’d perfected over weeks of practice. The practice was the relationship’s secret weapon: we knew each other’s bodies now with the fluency of long acquaintance, the muscle memory of repeated attention, the specific, irreplaceable intimacy of two people who had studied each other with the kind of focus that most people reserved for their professions.

She was close. I could feel it — the tightening, the trembling, the way her hand found the back of my head and gripped.

I lifted my mouth just enough to speak. Against her, the vibration making her keen.

“You’re so good,” I murmured. “You did everything right. You made the binder entry. You lit the candle. You called me home.” A kiss to her clit. She shuddered. “Good girl, Mars. Come for me.”

She shattered. The orgasm tore through her with a force that bowed her back and clenched her thighs around my head and pulled a scream from her throat that she didn’t even try to muffle — she’d stopped trying to muffle them weeks ago, the inhibition dissolved by the repeated experience of being with someone who wanted to hear every sound.

I held her through it. Drew it out. Gentled my mouth as the waves subsided, pressing soft kisses to her thighs, her hip bones, the soft curve of her belly that was my favorite geography on any human body.

She was boneless. Spreadagled on the unmade bed, chest heaving, eyes closed, a lazy, devastating smile on her face.

“Emergency protocol successful,” she said weakly.

“Phase one complete.”

Her eyes flew open. “Phase one?”

I climbed back up her body. Kissed her — letting her taste herself, which she always responded to with a sound that undid me — and settled my weight against her. The contact — my clothed body against her naked one — produced a friction that made her hips roll involuntarily.

“I’m still dressed,” I observed.

“You’re still dressed.”

“The protocol specifies comprehensive maintenance of both parties.”

Mars’s eyes went dark. The post-orgasm softness sharpened into something hungrier, more focused. She reached for my shirt — my work shirt, the linen, the professional armor — and pulled it over my head with none of my efficiency and all of her enthusiasm.

“Your turn,” she said. And rolled me over.

* * *

Afterward — long afterward, after Mars had taken me apart with her mouth and her hands and the chaotic, intuitive genius that I’d stopped trying to organize and started simply surrendering to — we lay in the wreckage of the bed. Sheets on the floor. Pillows relocated to unknown coordinates. The candle still burning, the sandalwood threading through the air.

Mars was on my chest. Standard configuration. Hand fisted in my bra strap because we’d only made it halfway through undressing me before things had escalated beyond the capacity for fine motor skills. Her hair was everywhere. There was paint on my ribs — transferred from her stomach during a particularly vigorous moment that had involved the headboard and some creative physics.

I reached for the binder on the nightstand. Opened it to Mars’s supplementary page.

“I have notes,” I said.

“You have notes.“

“The protocol has been field-tested. Revisions are warranted.”

“Quinn Ashford is giving me performance notes on sex.”

“I’m suggesting amendments to a maintenance document.” I pulled a pen from the nightstand drawer — because Mars kept pens everywhere now, in every drawer, on every surface, the creative equivalent of fire extinguishers — and wrote beneath her entry:

Addendum (Quinn Ashford, Maintenance Professional):

Protocol field-tested on [today’s date]. Results exceed projected outcomes. Recommend the following amendments:
1. Frequency upgraded from “as needed” to “mandatory, minimum twice weekly.”
2. Emergency protocol to include a 15-minute post-maintenance assessment period (cuddling).
3. The bedroom occupant is advised that fake emergencies, while effective, will result in escalated maintenance procedures at the professional’s discretion.
4. The professional would like to note, for the record, that she loves the bedroom occupant beyond any measurable metric and intends to maintain her indefinitely.

Signed: Quinn Ashford, Maintenance Professional
Status: Ongoing
Prognosis: Excellent

I showed it to Mars. She read it. Her face went through the entire emotional spectrum — amusement, tenderness, the bright sting of tears she blinked back — and she took the pen from my hand and wrote one more line at the bottom:

Bedroom occupant concurs with all amendments. Especially #4.
Also: the professional has paint on her ribs and the bedroom occupant is not sorry.

She set the binder back on the nightstand. Pressed her face into my neck. Breathed.

“Quinn?”

“Mm.”

“Same time next week?”

“I’ll put it in the shared calendar.”

“I never open the shared calendar.”

“I know. I’ll also text you. And call you. And show up at your door with the label maker.”

“That’s three redundant notification systems.”

“I believe in thorough coverage.”

She laughed against my throat. I felt it vibrate through my chest — the full-body, involuntary Mars laugh, the one I’d been collecting since day one, the one that still, after six weeks, after everything, made my ribs feel too small for what they were holding.

I held her tighter. Pressed my mouth to her hair. Breathed turpentine and coconut and sandalwood and the specific, irreplaceable scent of home.

The apartment was quiet. The good quiet. The full quiet.

The maintenance was complete.

Until next time.

With love,
Aurora North