It had been more than three hours since she'd left, and already that old, restless tension had crept in—a prickling anticipation beneath his skin, as familiar as the hush of their apartment when she was gone. He found himself, not for the first time, half-admitting he relished these hours: imagining her somewhere in the world, caught in the open space of possibility. Sometimes it amazed him, this hunger for what he couldn’t witness—and how neatly it had settled into the unhurried rhythm of their lives.

She was his lovely, caring wife—the very heart of his world. Her laughter brightened the darkest days, and her gentle touch soothed his soul. But on those evenings, she was free to explore beyond the boundaries of their shared love. Or, as she liked to tease him: playmates. Each brought her something different, a flavor of experience he couldn’t quite grasp. She never gave names—only hints—and from those, he’d built them up in his mind.

There was the first. She spoke of the way he lifted her with ease, held her pressed high against the walls. She’d come home, sometimes moving tenderly, a faint smile lingering as she mentioned how he never seemed to tire, how he drove into her again and again until her voice went ragged. From these fragments, the husband imagined him, a man whose strength and stamina left her aching in ways that lingered, subtle reminders lasting long after the night had ended.

There was the second. She spoke of silk blindfolds, whispered instructions, champagne savored from her hot body. Decadent sweets melting on her tongue in some high hotel suite, laughter muffled by the hush of plush carpets and city lights beyond thick glass. He left no marks—only rules, anticipation, the taste of extravagance lingering until morning. From these hints, the husband imagined a man with immaculate cuffs and effortless control, whose power played out in luxury and glittering restraint

There was the third. She never said much about him. The details were always missing, and that was what intrigued him most. He didn’t know what exactly happened between them, only that it seemed to go beyond sex—into something deeper, something he couldn’t reach or understand. There were no stories, no signs, nothing to hold on to. Just the quiet sense that with this man, she became softer, more herself.

Tonight, she wouldn’t say which one she was visiting. The uncertainty settled into him like a slow ache. He tried not to picture her with them, but the images came anyway, sharp and insistent. Her body in rough hands, refined hands, tender hands—flushed and gasping at quiet praises he never gave. Every minute she was gone, he replayed the scenes in his mind, caught in a mix of jealousy and something darker: the humiliating truth that maybe she needed them more than she needed him.

He heard the door and sat up, heart skipping. She entered quietly, the hush of the outside world falling away. She looked tired, but something glimmered in her eyes—a secret, maybe, or just the glow of cold air flushed across her cheeks. She kicked off her heels, set her coat aside, and met his gaze.

“Could you pour me a glass of wine?” she asked softly, settling onto the couch, tension in her shoulders. “And… maybe a quick massage?”

He obliged, anxious but eager, pouring rich red into her glass, then kneading her shoulders as she closed her eyes. “How was it?” he dared to ask, voice careful.

She shook her head, a strained smile at her lips. “Not tonight. I’m not in the mood to talk about it. Some nights, it feels easier, but tonight…” She trailed off. “I want to protect you. Us.”

He tried to understand—tried to believe it wasn’t about him—but a heavy silence hung between them. Later, she drained her glass and stretched. “I’m going to take a hot bath,” she said. “Maybe after, if I find the courage, I’ll tell you.”

He waited, quiet and restless, while the apartment filled with the faint sound of running water. When she returned, skin flushed, hair damp, the air seemed crackling with possibility. He didn’t ask; he couldn’t. His eyes begged for the story he needed.

She curled up beside him, wine glass in one hand, her eyes shining with a secret smile. She let the silence stretch before speaking. “If you really want to know…” Her voice was soft, playful, a touch cruel.

He nodded, breath tight.

“He didn’t waste time,” she began, her words careful, sparing no detail. “As soon as I walked in, he looked at me with that quiet, dark hunger and asked: ‘Did you come here to be fucked?’ I said yes. He wanted to hear how badly I needed it, how much I wanted him. I begged for it—maybe too eagerly.”

She watched his face, saw the flush rising, the hope and ache painted plainly.

“He nodded at my bed and said, ‘Lay down. You can beg as much as you want… but I’m not going to fuck that sweet little pussy tonight. No, all I want is your mouth. That’s all that gets fucked tonight.’”

She let the moment hang, let him writhe in the image. Then, more quietly: “He told me to close my eyes. I heard his belt, the soft fall of fabric. And then his scent—thick, masculine, inescapable—washed over my face before I ever felt his skin.” She drew a breath, reliving the performance for him. “He pressed himself to my lips, slowly at first, almost gentle. But soon he was pushing deeper, harder, not stopping when I coughed or choked. I could feel him everywhere: the taste, the weight, his balls pressing into my face, his scent in my nose, the way I could see nothing but his body, his ass tensing each time he thrust.”

She dropped her gaze, letting a shiver flutter through her. “He held himself there, deep in my throat, until my eyes watered and I fought for breath. Every time he pulled out, I gulped air—then he’d fill me again, even deeper. I felt so utterly used. Completely his. And though I’m ashamed to say it, I loved it.”

She turned to him, her voice trembling with cruelty and satisfaction. “I hope you’re happy now. I hope you go and touch yourself to this, because I won’t take you in my mouth again. It would ruin the memory of this night. But now you have it—all yours to keep, to imagine, to crave. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Silence pressed around them. He couldn’t speak, caught off guard by her confession—by how openly she admitted letting herself be used, and how much she enjoyed it. The details stung him: the ease with which she’d given in, the raw pleasure she took in surrendering. He tried to process it, but couldn’t quite reconcile the woman beside him with the one in that stranger's bed.

He slipped from bed and padded into the kitchen. Her phone buzzed quietly, screen glowing with messages that hinted at whispered secrets—flashes of laughter and a plan for their next meeting. This was her true secret. Each Friday, while he waited at home for his bedtime story, she was out sharing laughter and wine with her best friend in their little Italian restaurant.

It was the best deal: every week she gave him the dream he craved, the fantasy so expertly drawn that even she sometimes wished it were real. The story mattered more than the truth. And she, the only keeper of what really happened, relished how perfectly she delivered both the lie and the longing, over and over again.