By the time they reached the festival gates, Eli already felt old.

Mina didn’t. She wore a white dress that clung to her hips and moved like smoke in the breeze. Her boots were scuffed, her nails chipped, but she walked with the loose confidence of someone who knew eyes were on her and didn’t care. Or pretended not to.

They passed security. Someone handed them a paper map and a wristband, neither of which they looked at. The music was already loud, distant bass thudding like a pulse underfoot.

“This is wild,” she said, smiling. “It smells like teenagers and weed.”

He smiled back, though his chest was already tight.

By five o’clock, she was tipsy. By seven, drunk enough to flirt.

She danced in the gravel near the second stage, arms raised, hips loose. Two younger guys circled her like they’d found a rare animal. She let one of them feed her a sip of something red and sweet from a plastic bottle. Laughed when he tried to say something in broken English. She didn’t lean away when his hand brushed her lower back.

Eli watched from behind his sunglasses. Pretending to scroll. Pretending not to care.

When she finally came back to him, her skin was damp with sweat and sun.

“You okay?” he asked.

She shrugged, breathless. “Just having fun.”

They moved toward the hill stage as the light shifted—lavender clouds, haze drifting low over the trees. People were spinning in place. Kissing on blankets. Screaming for no reason.

“This feels like a different country,” she said.

“It feels like college,” he said. “Except with worse knees.”

She laughed, then leaned in close and said, “Let’s make a rule.”

“What kind?”

“Festival rule. Just for tonight. What happens here…”

“…stays here,” he finished.

“Exactly,” she whispered, and kissed his jaw. Her lips were cold from the drink.

They found the VIP bar behind the stage—roped off, quieter, older crowd. Real liquor. Real glasses. Less sweat.

That’s where they met him.

The Dutchman.

He was standing alone at the corner of the bar, sipping something dark and neat. Leather jacket unzipped. Silver hair combed back without vanity. He didn’t smile when they walked up. He just looked at Mina like he was recognizing her from somewhere private.

“You’re not from here,” he said to her. Not a question.

“Neither are you,” she said.

He nodded once. Signaled the bartender without turning. “A double,” he said. “For the woman.”

She accepted it without looking at Eli.

The Dutchman told stories. Some true. Some not. Something about riding a tour bus through Serbia with a punk band that only played one chord. Something about an afterparty in Berlin where a drummer collapsed inside a bass drum and stayed there until morning.

Mina laughed. She touched his arm once. He didn’t flinch.

Eli said nothing. Just watched the way her mouth changed when she smiled at the stranger.

After the second drink, the Dutchman leaned in and said something close to her ear. She tilted her head. Smiled wider. Said nothing.

Then he looked at Eli.

Not aggressive. Not friendly.

“Do you ever share something beautiful,” he said, “just to see what happens?”

Eli didn’t answer.

The Dutchman reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded strip of plastic.

A wristband. Bright blue.
“Backstage pass,” he said. “If she wants it.”

He didn’t hand it to Eli. He held it out to Mina.

She took it with two fingers. Let it dangle.

Eli watched her thread it around her wrist. Tighten it.

The Dutchman turned and walked away.

Mina looked at Eli once, raised an eyebrow—You coming?

Then she followed.

Eli followed her.

They followed the Dutchman past security, through a side gate, and behind the hill stage.

It was quieter here. Cooler. The music faded to a dull thump under their feet. The crowd noise disappeared completely, swallowed by the trees and fencing.

Floodlights buzzed overhead. Power cables coiled like snakes along the dirt. A row of trailers stood against the fence, anonymous and temporary.

The Dutchman stopped at one near the middle. Pulled the door open without knocking.

“Inside,” he said.

Eli stepped in after Mina.

The front room was spare—a couch, a mini fridge, two empty bottles on a folding table. A guitar case in the corner. The place smelled like sweat, old carpet, and something sharper. Cologne, maybe. Or sex.

There was a thin partition down the middle, and behind it, a second room—barely visible through a half-open door.

The Dutchman moved toward the back, then paused, leaned against the partition, and poured himself a drink from a bottle already waiting.

He offered it to Mina.

She took it, sipped, then laughed at something he murmured too low for Eli to catch.

She was still laughing when he touched her waist. Just a fingertip along the hem of her dress. Casual. Familiar.

Eli didn’t speak.

She turned slightly, still holding the drink. Let the Dutchman’s hand settle on her hip. Her eyes flicked toward Eli—half a second, maybe less. Not to ask permission. Just to check he was still watching.

Then she turned back and kissed the man.

Not a peck. Not a tease.

She kissed him open-mouthed, wet and slow, pressing into his chest as his hand slid down over her ass.

Eli’s breath caught. He felt it in his throat and groin at the same time.

She broke the kiss, bit her lip, and whispered something against the Dutchman’s jaw.

He responded with a nod. A gesture toward the other room.

Then, to Eli: “You stay here.”

And to Mina: “Come.”

She didn’t look back this time.

She followed him through the door.

It didn’t close all the way.

Eli sat down slowly. The couch sighed beneath him.

From the other room: the clink of ice. A low laugh. Her voice again, hushed and playful.

Then her tone changed. Softer. Needier.

“You’re already hard.”

The Dutchman didn’t answer. Or maybe he did, but Eli couldn’t hear.

There was a rustle—fabric, shifting. A sharp breath. Then again, deeper.

The couch creaked under Eli’s weight as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. He moved to a chair in the corner and discovered he could see a mirror in the other room. Reflecting his wife and the older stranger.

The mirror showed the Dutchman standing, unbuckling his jeans. Mina was on her knees in front of him, her white dress pulled up to reveal her lace panties. He watched them kiss again, tongues moving together hungrily. She ran a hand up the Dutchman's chest, her nails scratching lightly over his skin.

Eli felt himself grow hard as he watched. His breath quickened, and he couldn't take his eyes off the scene unfolding before him. It was like some twisted fantasy come to life; one he had never dared to admit even existed inside him.

A soft moan. Hers. Honest.

He closed his eyes. Every sound was clearer now. Every breath from that room mapped directly onto his skin.

Wet rhythm. Low grunt. The way her voice caught as it built. In the mirror, he saw his wife straddle the stranger.

Then:

“You want it inside?” the man asked. “Do you want my cock inside your married little pussy?”

In the mirror, Mina was nodding yes. Pushing her dress up further to expose her lace panties, dripping with arousal. She licked her lips and gazed up at the Dutchman with raw need. "Yes," she breathed, reaching down to rub herself through the damp fabric. "Put it inside me. Fuck my married pussy." The Dutchman flicked open his belt, shoving his jeans down around his thighs. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, already leaking precum. Mina moaned at the sight, wrapping her fingers around his shaft and stroking him slowly. She pumped his length, marveling at how big he was compared to Eli. "You're so much bigger than my husband," Mina purred, rubbing the swollen head of his cock against her clothed slit. "He'd never be able to fill me like this."

The Dutchman pushed her panties to the side and thrust into her, stretching her walls around him. Mina cried out, a sound Eli had never heard before. He watched her ride the older man, back arched, hair falling wild around her shoulders. Her dress slipped down, baring one breast. The stranger took it in his mouth, biting softly until she gasped again.

Eli was breathing hard now, matching her rhythm. Matching the stranger’s. His cock strained against his jeans, aching, and he let himself touch it, just a little. Just enough to feel the heat.

“I’m so deep inside you,” the Dutchman said, his voice thick. “Do you like it? Better than your husband?”

“Yes,” she moaned. “Yes. So deep. So fucking deep.”

She was bouncing on him now, fast and unrestrained, her voice rising with every thrust. Eli could see the flush spreading across her chest, and then he realized the stranger wasn’t wearing a condom. It hit him like a shockwave, low and brutal. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t decide if the intensity of it was horror or lust. Raw and dangerous. Bare.

The thought made him shudder, and he couldn’t tell if it was fear or desire. In the mirror, Mina was lost in it, lost in him, her eyes closed, her mouth open. He couldn’t look away. Her body jerked, and she cried out again, louder.

“I’m going to come,” she gasped. “I’m going to come on your cock.”

The Dutchman grabbed her hips and drove into her, harder, harder. She came with a sobbing noise, clutching at his shoulders. The man didn’t stop. He kept fucking her through it, relentless and impersonal.

Eli watched, dazed, his hand moving against himself through his jeans. The world was narrowing to that room, that mirror, that moment. He was nothing but eyes and cock and the pounding of his own heart.

The Dutchman grunted, low and urgent. "Where do you want it?" he asked, hands tight on her hips.

Mina gasped, grinding down on him. "Inside," she cried, desperate. "Inside me. Come inside my pussy."

Eli’s body jolted. He felt the words hit him everywhere at once, like a punch. Like a drug.

The Dutchman thrust deep and held there, groaning, spilling into her bare. Her head fell back, and he watched her shudder around it, around him, riding the pulse of it as it filled her. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Her eyes were wild and unfocused, like she’d forgotten where she was.

The Dutchman pulled out slowly, his cock glistening with their mixed fluids. Mina staggered back, her legs trembling as she braced herself against the wall. The Dutchman zipped up without a word, grabbed his bottle, and walked out, leaving the trailer in silence.

The door opened with a soft creak.

Eli didn’t look up at first. He heard her bare feet on the thin carpet. Heard the trailer shift slightly under her weight.

Mina stepped back into the room. Hair messy. Lipstick mostly gone. Dress wrinkled and damp at the waist.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just walked over to the mini fridge and took one of the beers. Opened it. Drank.

Then she turned to Eli.

Her legs were bare now. No panties. Just skin and the faint sheen of sweat and slick between her thighs. A few drops uf the strangerzs cum still clung to the inside of her thigh.

He stared at her. She let him.

“You’re hard,” she said, quietly.

He didn’t respond.

She stepped closer. Not seductive. Not ashamed. Just slow.

“He came in me,” she added. Like she was reporting the weather. “A lot.”

Eli looked at her face. She was glowing, flushed, and radiant in a way he hadn’t seen in years.

She straddled him without asking.

The beer was still in her hand, cold against his chest. She leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“You didn’t stop me,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“You could’ve.”

“I know.”

She reached down, pressed her palm over the bulge in his jeans.

“Still want to pretend it’s a game?” she asked.

He shook his head.

She slid his zipper down. Her hand slipped inside.

When she guided him into her, he felt the heat, the wetness, the slick mixture of her and the man she’d just fucked.

She exhaled against his cheek as she sank onto him.

“There’s still time,” she said.

“For what?”

She smiled. Not cruel. Not kind.

“To make it yours.”

The morning light came slow and grey through the canvas.

Mist curled around the trees. Distant bass still echoed from the far fields—some DJ refusing to stop. Or maybe time just stretched here.

Eli lay on his back in the tent, staring at the nylon ceiling. His shirt was somewhere outside. His jeans bunched at his ankles. His body ached in strange places.

Beside him, Mina slept.

Or pretended to.

Her thighs were still sticky. She hadn’t cleaned up. Her wristband—the blue backstage one—was torn but still on.

Eli watched the rise and fall of her breath. Soft. Steady.

He reached out and touched the curve of her hip. She didn’t move.

His fingers grazed lower, to where their fluids had dried against her skin. Hers. His. The Dutchman’s. Mixed and cooling.

She murmured something without opening her eyes. Rolled toward him. Pressed her face into his neck like nothing had happened.

Like they hadn’t crossed a line hours ago and kept walking.

A breeze moved the flap of the tent. The sunlight caught the edge of something white, plastic.

A pregnancy test, still sealed. Someone had slipped it into his backpack during the night.

He didn’t know if it had been a joke. A message. A warning.

He didn’t ask.

He closed his eyes. Pulled her closer.

And held her like she still belonged to him.