She came home wrong

The mattress still holds the shape of where Suzie should be. John lies in the hollow she left behind, naked, one arm flung over the empty side like he could will her back by touch. The clock on her nightstand glows 1:17 a.m. Her last text sits open on his phone: Staying at Lisa’s, love you.

He has reread it twenty-three times tonight, thumb hovering over the heart he sent back, the one that now feels obscene.

He is half-dreaming of ordinary things (her laugh in the kitchen, the way she kisses his cheek before work) when the front door clicks. His heart lurches so hard it hurts. One set of footsteps: slow, careful, guilty. The stairs sigh under weight that knows exactly how much noise is safe to make. John sits up, sheet clutched to his waist like a child hiding. The bedroom door opens a careful inch, then wider, and hallway light slices across the bed.

Suzie stands there in a dress he has never seen, red so dark it drinks the light. Her hair is wrecked in a way that is never accidental. Her mouth is swollen, lipstick half gone, the lower lip caught between her teeth like she’s tasting someone else. John’s throat closes. He tries to summon anger, anything that resembles a husband, but what floods him is a sick, electric heat that pools low in his belly and drags a helpless throb from his cock.

Suzie steps inside and shuts the door with two fingers, as if loud noises might shatter what’s left of them. The click of the latch sounds like a bone snapping. “Hi, baby,” she whispers. The words tremble, but her eyes do not. They are bright with fear and something fiercer, something that looks a lot like triumph. John’s mouth works soundlessly. His chest is a trapped bird, wings beating against ribs.

Tears, actual tears, prick hot at the corners of his eyes before he has even decided he is allowed to cry. He should scream. He should stand up. He should demand to know whose scent is already reaching him across the room, whose fingerprints are probably still warm on her skin. Instead his voice comes out small and cracked: “You said… you were with Lisa.”

Suzie’s smile is tiny, heartbreaking - merciless. She walks to the foot of the bed, her heels left abandoned in the hallway like evidence. The red dress clings to places he suddenly realises he no longer owns. “I lied,” she says softly, as if in confession. Then softer still: “I brought something home for you.” The air leaves John’s lungs in a sound that is half sob, half moan.

His cock jerks hard against his stomach, rigid now and aching, betraying him so completely that shame pours over him like scalding water. He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, trying to stop the tears, trying to hide the erection, trying to hide from the fact that both are happening at once. He shakes, but is harder than he has ever been in his life.

Suzie watches him break open in real time and does not look away. She curls her fingers into the hem of that stranger’s dress and waits - patient, radiant, and cruel. “Stay right there, John,” she says, voice barely above a breath. “Don’t move until I tell you.” John’s tears spill over. Helpless, he nods; he’s already lost.

Choose your ruin, baby

Suzie lowers herself to her knees between his spread thighs. Her red dress rides high enough to reveal faint finger-shaped marks on their soft skin. She watches him cry and throb, and hate himself for both. “You need to understand how long I’ve known,” she says, her voice low, almost tender. John’s breath hitches.

“Four years ago, baby. That night you got drunk on our anniversary and thought I was asleep.” She leans in until her lips brush the shell of his ear. “You opened your laptop and typed the words yourself: ‘wife comes home full of cum.’ You clicked video after video, hand moving so fast I thought you’d hurt yourself. You came whispering my name while some stranger on the screen filled a woman who looked nothing like me.”

John makes a wounded sound and tries to turn his face away, but she doesn’t let him. “I watched the whole thing in the dark, John. I felt the bed shake when you came, and I pretended I was still asleep because I was terrified of what it meant.” Her fingers trace the tears on his cheek. “But I never forgot. Tonight I just… lived one of them.”

His sob is guttural and raw. “Every time you kissed me after that,” she whispers, “I wondered what you would taste like with another man still on my tongue. Every time you fucked me, I pictured you on your knees instead, cleaning me while I told you his name.” John’s cock jerks so hard it slaps his stomach, leaving a wet streak.

“I didn’t plan this,” she says, almost apologetically. “But when he touched me tonight, when he took me to the hotel room and bent me over the bed and pushed inside raw, all I could think was: John wants this. My sweet, faithful husband has been begging for this in the dark for years.”

She cups his face with both hands, forcing his red eyes to hers. “So here are the rules, love.” She recites them slowly, like wedding vows in reverse. “One: say stop and we never speak of this again. I’ll delete his number, we’ll pretend I was at Lisa’s, and your secret dies with me. Two: you stay right here, you obey every word, and I give you the exact thing you’ve stroked yourself raw to for half a decade.”

Her thumbs wipe fresh tears from his cheeks. “Tell me which rule, John. Tell your wife which fantasy you want to live now that it’s real.” He is shaking so hard the headboard taps the wall. His voice, cracked and wet, is barely a thread. “Rule two.” A pause. Another tear. “I want rule two, Suzie… please.”

She exhales like she’s been holding that breath for four years. “Good boy,” she whispers, branding him with her words. “Hands on the sheets. Don’t move until I say.” She sits back, thighs spread over his shins, her dress stretched obscenely across her breasts. The room smells of cologne that isn’t his, sex that isn’t his, and the ruin of every promise they ever made.

First taste of another man’s night

Suzie rises from the bed, slow and deliberate, the red dress clinging to every curve and every secret bruise. She turns her back to him, gathers her wrecked hair over one shoulder, then glances back. “Unzip me, John.”

His hands shake so badly he nearly stumbles off the mattress. Naked, rigid, tears still drying on his cheeks, he steps behind her. The zipper is tiny and silver. He draws it down, inch by inch. The rasp is loud in the hush. The dress parts, revealing her spine: pale, perfect. It’s dotted with faint red ovals: fingerprints, mouth prints, a map of where someone else gripped her too tight. The scent rolls out: her perfume, that foreign cologne, and something darker, saltier. His breath catches and his cock jerks hard against his stomach.

Suzie lets the straps slide off her shoulders. The dress catches on her hips for a heartbeat, then drops, pooling at her feet like spilled blood. She steps out of it and turns.

Only then does the full picture hit him. She wears only a black lace bra with a front clasp and a matching thong so delicate it is almost nothing. The gusset is soaked through, dark and clinging, the wetness wicked up the front panel in an obscene stain. Beneath the sheer lace, he can just make out the thin landing strip she never had before tonight. She waxed for someone else. She dressed for someone else. She came home dripping for him.

John makes a broken sound: half sob, half prayer. Suzie steps closer until the heat of her body brushes his chest. His hands hover, aching as they remember the rule. “On your knees,” she whispers.

John drops so fast his knees crack against the hardwood. Now he is eye-level with the soaked lace, the thing he begged for in the dark. His silent, unstoppable tears start again. Suzie threads her fingers through his hair, gentle, almost loving. “Look at me, baby.”

He lifts his face to hers and looks into her eyes, glassy with power.

“I want you to smell him first,” she says. She guides him forward until his nose presses against the drenched gusset. The scent floods him: her, sharp and sweet, and him, thick, unmistakable, foreign. John groans, a sound torn from the marrow. His cock leaks steadily onto the floor between his knees as Suzie’s thighs tremble.

“Good,” she breathes. She steps back half a pace, just enough to give herself room. Very slowly and deliberately, she reaches behind her back, unclasps the bra herself, and lets it fall open. Her breasts spill free: heavy, flushed, and marked with faint purple crescents where teeth worried the skin. John stares, hollowed.

Suzie threads her fingers into his hair and draws him gently upward from his kneeling position until his mouth reaches the level of her breasts. “Kiss them better,” she whispers. “Kiss every place he tasted me tonight.” John’s mouth finds the first bruise, and he sobs against her skin, lips trembling. His tongue flicks out to trace the damage like he can erase it, own it, even survive it. Suzie’s head falls back and her fingers tighten in his hair. “That’s it, baby,” she sighs. “Start cleaning up your wife.”

She lets him worship her breasts for a long, shuddering moment, then eases him back down to his knees with a soft, guiding pressure. He sinks willingly, forehead brushing her stomach, hands still obediently at his sides.

Descent in three movements

One

Suzie steps back just far enough that John has to crawl one desperate shuffle forward on his knees to keep contact with her skin. She lets him, then stops him with a single finger under his chin. “Hands behind your back.” John obeys instantly, crossing his wrists at the small of his spine. The position arches his chest and thrusts his cock up like an offering. A thin strand of precum stretches from the tip to the floor and breaks.

Suzie circles him slowly, barefoot, breasts swaying with each step. She stops behind him, bends, and speaks against the shell of his ear. “He held me just like this,” she whispers. “Hands behind my back while he kissed these marks into me.” She drags a fingernail down John’s spine, mimicking the path. “I kept thinking how pretty you would look in the same position.” John shudders so hard his shoulders jerk.

She walks back around to face him and hooks her thumbs into the waistband of the soaked thong. She pauses. “Ask.”

His voice is gravel and tears. “Please, Suzie… let me take them off.”

She smiles: a vicious smirk. “Teeth.”

John leans in, lips trembling, and catches the lace between his front teeth. He pulls down slowly; the fabric peels away from her skin with a wet sound. The thong drags over her hips, down her thighs, catching for a moment on the slick mess between her legs before it drops to her ankles. She steps out and kicks it aside, now naked except for the faint bruises and the thin strip of hair pointing like an arrow to what another man has already claimed tonight.

Two

Suzie threads her fingers through his hair again, gentler this time. “Sit back on your heels. Hands on your thighs. Palms up.” He obeys. His cock juts obscenely, wet and angry-red. She stands over him, feet planted on either side of his knees, and lowers herself until her freshly waxed pussy hovers an inch from his lips. The scent dizzies him: her arousal, another man’s cum already starting to slip free - the truth of everything she did. “Look at me while you wait,” she says.

John’s eyes flick up, tears spilling the second they meet hers. “Tell me what you are.”

He tries to speak; only a broken breath comes out. She waits, holding his eyes. “I’m…” His voice cracks. “I’m the husband who gets to clean you up after.”

“Louder.”

“I’m your cuckold,” he says, louder, and shame floods his face crimson. “I’m the man who jerks off to this and now gets to live it.”

Suzie’s breath catches - pleasure, not pity. “Good boy.”

She sinks lower. Her slick lips brush his mouth once, twice, painting him. “Open.”

His tongue slides out, trembling. She lowers herself fully onto his face.

Three

Suzie rides his mouth slow and deliberate, thighs framing his head, fingers tight in his hair. Every grind pushes more of the mingled mess onto his tongue. He swallows reflexively, repeatedly, tasting another man’s cum: thick and unmistakable. She leans forward, breasts swaying, and watches his cock bob untouched beneath her. “Hands off yourself,” she warns, voice husky. “That belongs to me tonight.” John whimpers into her but obeys, fingers digging into his own thighs hard enough to bruise. She rides harder, clit dragging over his nose. His chin glistens. “Look at me,” she gasps. His eyes (red, wet, utterly destroyed) lock on hers. “This is what you begged for in the dark,” she says between breaths. “Another man’s cum on your tongue while your wife gets off on your shame.” John moans into her, a sound of pure surrender, his hips jerking helplessly. She reaches down, cups his jaw, forces his mouth open wider. “Swallow every drop he left in me, baby. Every single one.” Her thighs start to shake. “Don’t you dare come yet,” she warns, voice fraying. “You come when I’m empty and not a second sooner.” John sobs into her pussy, tongue fucking deeper, desperate, devout, ruined.

Swallow him while I come

Suzie’s whole body is trembling now. Her thighs locked tight around John’s head, and her breath came in sharp, open-mouthed gasps. She drags his face upward by the hair until his nose is buried against her clit and his tongue is as deep as it can reach. “Stay right there,” she pants. “Don’t move. Just drink.”

She rolls her hips in slow, filthy circles, fucking herself on his mouth. Every grind forces another thick pulse of the other man’s cum onto John’s tongue. He swallows convulsively, tears streaming sideways into his hair. His cock leaps untouched beneath her while a steady ribbon of precum drips to the floor.

“He came so much, John,” she says, voice breaking open. “He held me down and just… poured it into me. I felt it hit places you never reach.” John moans into her: a wrecked, animal sound. His hips jerk helplessly, trying to chase friction that isn’t there. Suzie leans forward, braces one hand on the bed behind him, and looks straight down between their bodies. She watches as his cock bobs, leaking and suffering. “Look at you,” she whispers, simultaneously reverent and cruel. “So hard for another man’s mess.”

She grinds harder and faster, her thighs clamping tight. “I’m close, baby. When I come, you swallow everything I give you. Everything he left and everything I add. Understand?” John’s answer is a desperate nod against her clit, tongue still buried inside her. Her back arches. Her free hand claws into his shoulder for balance. “Fuck… now—”

Her orgasm hits like a seizure. She screams his name (John’s, not the other man’s) and her pussy clamps down, squirting hard against his tongue. His mouth is flooded with heat and salt and her. Another thick rush of the stranger’s cum follows, forced out by her spasms, sliding straight down John’s throat. He keeps gulping, choking on it, eyes rolling back. His body shakes with the effort of not coming. Suzie rides the last waves, grinding slow, milking every drop onto his tongue until she is empty and shaking.

Only then does she lift off him. John’s face is wrecked - his chin, cheeks and nose glistening, his lips swollen, his eyes red and glassy. He is gasping, trembling on the edge of tears or climax or both. Suzie cups his wet cheeks with both hands and forces his gaze up to hers. “Come for me, John. Right now. On the floor. Show me what tasting him does to you.”

A brief touch is all he needs. His hand flies to his cock, jerks once, twice, and he erupts with a broken cry that sounds like her name and like surrender. Thick ropes spurt across the hardwood, some striping her calves, most pooling between her bare feet in pearly streaks. His whole body convulses, hips bucking into his fist. Fresh tears spill from his eyes as the pleasure rips him apart.

Suzie watches every second, her eyes shining and lips parted. She watches until the last shudder leaves him slumped forward, forehead against her thigh, and utterly spent. She strokes his hair, gently now, almost loving. “Good boy,” she whispers to the ruined husband at her feet. “Such a good boy for me.”

Welcome to the rest of your life

The room holds nothing but wet breathing and the faint drip of what’s left of John on the floor. Suzie sinks down slowly, knees sliding in the mess he made, until she is sitting in front of him on the hardwood. She pulls his head into her lap like he is something precious that just survived a car crash.

John’s face is still slick with her, with him, with tears. His shoulders jerk with aftershock sobs he can’t control. Suzie strokes his hair, his cheek, traces the corner of his swollen mouth. Her voice is soft now, almost the old Suzie, but not quite. “You did it,” she murmurs. “You swallowed every drop he left in me. You came so hard just from tasting him on your wife.” John makes a broken sound and tries to hide against her thigh. She doesn’t let him. “Look at me.” He does, lifting his eyes - red, wrecked - terrified of what he will see. She is smiling: small, tender, and utterly merciless. “I’ve never come that hard in my life,” she says. “Not with you. Not with anyone.” His breath catches on a sob that sounds almost like pride.

She leans down, first kissing his wet forehead and then his salt-bitter lips. She tastes herself, tastes the other man, tastes John’s shame - and hums like it is the sweetest thing she has ever had. “I need you to know something,” she whispers against his mouth. “This isn’t over.” John’s spent cock gives a pathetic twitch against his thigh, already trying to rise again. Suzie sees it. Her smile widens.

“I’m going to shower,” she says, “and then I’m going to text him that I’m free next Friday. Same hotel. Same room.” She cups John’s cheek, thumb tracing the slick on his lower lip. “And you’re going to be right here waiting when I come home full again.” A tear rolls off John’s lashes and lands on her wrist. “Tell me you want that,” she says, soft but relentless.

John’s voice is barely air. “I want it.”

“Louder, baby. I need to hear it from the man whose cum is cooling between my toes.”

He swallows. “I want it, Suzie. I want you to do it again. I want to clean you every time.”

She kisses him once more: slow and deep, claiming him. Then she stands, pulling him up with her. His legs almost buckle. She steadies him, pressing her naked body to his to let him feel that she is still trembling too. “Next time,” she whispers into his ear, “I’m bringing you his cum in a condom so you can drink it straight. Would you like that?” John’s answer is half sob, half moan, and one hundred percent yes.

Suzie smiles against his neck. “Good boy.” She steps back, leaving him swaying, then walks toward the bathroom. At the doorway she pauses. Her eyes glance at the floor, then at him. “Leave the mess till morning,” she says. “I want to see it when I wake up. I want to remember what my husband looks like when he finally gets everything he ever wanted.”

The bathroom light clicks on. Water starts running. John stands in the wreckage of their marriage, naked, shaking, tears drying on his face, cock already half-hard again, and knows, with absolute clarity, that he will never want to be saved.

Room 612 is already waiting

John doesn’t move. He stays in the middle of the bedroom, barefoot, in the cooling puddle of his own surrender, and stares at the empty doorway where Suzie disappeared. The shower runs for a long time. When it finally stops, the bathroom door stays open. Steam drifts out like smoke after a fire. Suzie appears in the frame wearing nothing but an oversized towel, her hair dripping and skin flushed pink from the heat. She leans against the jamb and watches him for a long moment. She’s quiet, almost shy, except her eyes are still bright with what they just did.

Suzie lifts her phone, and the screen lights her face as she types. John’s heart starts hammering again. She turns the phone so he can see. A single message, already sent:

"next friday. room 612. leave the door on the latch and the lights low.

my husband wants me even fuller this time.”

Three dots appear almost instantly.

“tell your husband i’ll make sure he has to work for it”

A wicked curve carve across Suzie’s lips. She looks up at John. He is shaking again. His eyes threatening tears even as his cock is already stiff and aching against his stomach. Walking slowly over to him her towel slips lower with every step until it drops entirely. She stops inches from him, reaches down, and wraps her fingers around his fresh erection: gently, possessively. “Seven days,” she whispers, thumb sweeping over the wet tip. “Seven days of you being the perfect husband at dinner, at work, in our bed.” She squeezes once, just enough to make him gasp. “And every single night you’ll fall asleep remembering how another man tasted on my tongue… and how hard it makes you.”

John’s knees buckle. She catches him and pulls him close, letting him bury his face in her damp neck. “I love you,” she murmurs into his hair, voice trembling with truth and ruin. “I love you so much it hurts. And I’m never, ever letting you go back to pretending.” Her phone buzzes again against the floor where it fell. She doesn’t even look. She just holds her wrecked, weeping, impossibly hard husband in the wreckage of their bedroom and smiles into the dark. Next Friday is already here.