Ethan waited until after dinner to bring it up.
They were sitting in the living room, the remnants of takeout containers scattered across the coffee table, the TV humming low in the background. Leah had just curled up on the couch, glass of wine in hand, wearing soft cotton shorts and a hoodie too big for her. A few strands of hair had fallen loose from her bun, framing her face with an effortless softness.
She was beautiful. Not in the curated, Instagram-perfect way—but in the real, grounded way that sneaks up on you. Her body was thick in the right places, all curves and warmth, but she never played it up. She dressed down, always modest, as if she didn’t realize what she was hiding. Years of subtle self-downplaying had turned into habit.
And Ethan?
He was the opposite.
A little too proud of himself. Thought he aged like whiskey when he was closer to room-temp beer. He carried himself like he still had it—flirting with waitresses, smirking in mirrors, flexing out of habit. In his mind, he was just underappreciated. In reality, he was coasting.
He cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something kind of… different?”
Leah looked up, curious. “Sure.”
“I read this article today,” he said, keeping his tone casual, like it was something he’d just stumbled on. “About couples who open their marriages. Said it helped them feel more connected. More honest.”
Leah stared at him, wine paused at her lips. “Open their marriage?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Like, explore. Date other people. Just… with boundaries.”
She didn’t laugh. She didn’t respond right away.
“Where did you read that?”
“Reddit, I think,” he lied. “One of those relationship forums.”
Leah set her wine down. “And you thought of us?”
He shrugged. “It’s not that I’m unhappy. I just… thought maybe it could be something worth talking about. People say it brings them closer.”
Leah didn’t say anything for a long moment. When she finally did, her voice was quieter.
“Are you not attracted to me anymore?”
“What? No—God, no. Leah, you’re beautiful. You’re gorgeous. This isn’t about that. I just thought—maybe we’ve gotten a little... routine. You know?”
She looked away. “So your solution is to fuck other women?”
He winced at the bluntness, even though that had absolutely been part of the fantasy.
“It’s not like that,” he said. “It would be mutual. You could do it too.”
She laughed once—bitter, disbelieving. “Oh. How generous of you.”
They didn’t talk much for the rest of the night.
Leah disappeared into the bedroom early. Ethan stayed on the couch, replaying the conversation. Wondering if he’d just made a mistake—or planted a seed.
Maybe both.
He had no idea what he’d just started.
The next evening, Leah was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner, when Ethan brought it up again.
He’d waited a full day, giving her just enough space to think she might have moved on from it. She hadn’t. Not even close.
“So… did you think more about what I said?” he asked, leaning against the counter like it was casual.
She didn’t stop chopping. “Yeah. I thought about it.”
“And?”
She sighed, setting the knife down. “I think it’s a really shitty idea.”
Ethan laughed, a little too loudly. “Okay. Why?”
She turned to him, arms folded. “Because we’re not broken. We’re just… tired. Like every couple gets. You don’t fix that by sleeping around.”
“It’s not sleeping around,” he said, inching closer. “It’s exploring. Reconnecting. People do it all the time.”
She gave him a flat look. “No. Men do it, and drag their wives along for cover.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” she snapped. “Be honest, Ethan. If I said yes, you think you’d be the one getting all the action, don’t you?”
He paused, just for a beat. That was enough.
“I think it could be good for both of us.”
“You think anyone’s lining up for me?”
He waved his hand, dismissive. “You’re beautiful, Leah. Obviously. You’ll be fine.”
It didn’t land like he thought it would.
She stared at him for a long moment. “You haven’t touched me in two weeks, Ethan.”
He flinched.
She softened, just barely. “I’m not saying no because I’m insecure. I’m saying no because I don’t want this. Because I love you. Because I thought we were still in this together.”
Ethan looked at the floor. “I just… I don’t know. I thought it might help.”
Leah shook her head. “You thought you’d get to fuck new girls while I stayed home.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Silence fell between them. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Then Ethan said, carefully, “Can’t you at least try?”
She stared at him. Not with anger—but disbelief. Then hurt. Then something else.
Resignation.
“Fine,” she said quietly. “I’ll try it.”
Ethan blinked. “Really?”
“I said I’ll try. Don’t make me regret it.”
She turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving him stunned—excited, already picturing what doors might open.
Leah, on the other hand, went straight to the bathroom, locked the door, and sat on the edge of the tub. Her chest was tight. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry.
She just sat there, feeling hollow.
Not because she wanted to do this.
Because she was realizing something she hadn’t been ready to admit.
He’s already gone looking.
This wasn’t about helping their marriage. This was about Ethan. His ego. His boredom. His need to feel wanted again.
And what terrified her most wasn’t the idea of him sleeping with other women.
It was the creeping thought, quiet and uninvited, that maybe she wanted to feel wanted too.
And maybe… if someone else saw her, touched her, chose her—
She might never want to go back.
Ethan couldn’t stop smiling.
He sat at the kitchen table the next night, phone in hand, swiping through profile pictures with a growing sense of anticipation. The setup process took him less than ten minutes. Profile photo, some half-clever lines he copied from Reddit, a few flattering angles from an old trip to Vegas. That was all it took.
He was already getting matches.
Leah sat on the couch in the next room, nursing a glass of wine and scrolling through her own phone, pretending not to notice him chuckle every time his screen lit up.
“People are quick on these apps,” he said, too loudly.
She didn’t respond.
He came around the corner with his phone. “Look at this one. Cute, right?”
Leah looked up briefly. “She’s twenty-two.”
“So?”
“She probably thinks you’re her friend’s dad.”
Ethan frowned, but brushed it off. “You’re gonna see. It’s fun.”
She gave a tight smile, then turned her screen off.
Her profile was still empty.
It took Leah three days to build hers.
She kept rewriting it, then deleting it. She hated all her photos—too posed, too mom-ish, too soft. She hated what it felt like to even need attention from strangers. It made her feel pathetic. Like a version of herself she never thought she’d become.
But she’d said yes.
Fine, I’ll try it.
So she did.
She used a photo from last summer, one where she wasn’t trying too hard—just natural, standing in the sun in a simple dress, hair down, smile soft. She didn’t look like someone trying to impress. She looked like herself.
She almost didn’t post it.
But then she did.
And the matches started almost immediately.
The first message came within minutes. Then five more. Then ten.
She ignored them at first. Then opened a few. Then replied.
Most were crude. Predictable. But a few were charming. Funny. Confident. And one in particular—a man named Marc—wrote something that made her pause.
"Not gonna lie, I was about to swipe past until I saw your eyes. They don’t belong on here. They belong across a candlelit table while you tell someone what you’re really thinking."
It wasn’t just flattery.
It was presence.
She saved the message. Then closed the app. She didn’t reply. Not yet.
That night, Ethan came to bed late, grinning like he’d just discovered a secret.
“Three matches asked for my number,” he said. “One of them wants to grab a drink.”
Leah lay with her back to him. “That’s great.”
“You get any interest yet?”
She hesitated. “A few.”
He chuckled. “Told you.”
She didn’t tell him about Marc.
Didn’t tell him that something had shifted.
That for the first time in years, she wasn’t wondering if she was enough.
She was wondering if maybe—just maybe—she’d been more than enough all along.
Leah waited three days before replying to Marc.
She told herself it was caution, nerves, logic. But the truth was simpler: part of her didn’t trust how much she wanted to reply. There was a flicker in her belly every time she re-read his message, the kind she hadn’t felt in years—an old, soft ache that had gone quiet in her marriage.
But eventually, on a quiet afternoon while Ethan was out running errands, she opened the app and typed:
“Thank you. That was unexpectedly thoughtful. Most men don’t get past the photo.”
He replied less than a minute later.
“Most men don’t deserve to.”
Their conversation flowed effortlessly. He wasn’t just smooth—he was attentive. Curious. He asked questions that weren’t just small talk. He made her laugh without trying. He called her Leah every time he responded, and somehow, that mattered.
By the end of the night, she’d agreed to meet him for coffee. Just coffee. Safe. Public. Casual.
She didn’t tell Ethan.
She got ready slowly.
Not out of seduction. Out of uncertainty. She wore a soft black blouse, dark jeans, minimal makeup. She checked herself in the mirror three times—not because she thought Marc would judge her, but because she would.
What am I doing?
That voice was still there.
But another voice—quieter, older, deeper asked:
What if this is the first real choice you’ve made in years?
Marc was already seated when she arrived. He stood when he saw her—an old-school gesture that made her blush unexpectedly. He looked better in person. Tall, confident posture, slight gray in his stubble. He wore a fitted black jacket, smelled faintly of sandalwood.
“Leah,” he said warmly. “I’m really glad you came.”
She smiled before she could stop herself. “Me too.”
They talked for two hours.
It didn’t feel like flirting. It felt like being seen. He asked about her passions, her work, her marriage—gently, carefully. She admitted things she hadn’t even said out loud to herself. That she felt invisible sometimes. That she used to feel vibrant. That somewhere along the way, she’d become someone she didn’t recognize.
Marc didn’t offer solutions. He listened. And when he touched her hand, briefly, across the table, it didn’t feel like a come-on.
It felt like validation.
When she got home, Ethan was sitting on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling with a deep frown.
I “Hey,” he said. “Where were you?”
“Coffee.”
“With who?”
She hesitated. Then told the truth.
“His name’s Marc. He’s… kind.”
Ethan looked up sharply. “Wait, you met someone already?”
Leah nodded, slowly. “We just talked.”
His mouth opened like he wanted to protest—but nothing came out.
She walked past him into the bedroom.
What she didn’t say—what she couldn’t say—was that Marc had made her feel more alive in two hours than Ethan had in the last two years.
And that terrified her.
Because now, she knew.
The part of her that once felt dead?
It was only sleeping.
And it had started to wake up.
Leah took her time getting ready for her second coffee with Marc.
It wasn’t a date. Not technically. Just another casual chat. But she still stood in front of the mirror longer than usual, holding two different tops against her chest.
One was soft and flowy. Safe.
The other—a deep burgundy blouse with a slightly lower neckline and fitted sleeves—hugged her in ways she hadn’t indulged in for years.
She put it on.
Then she pulled her hair down from its messy bun and started again—soft curls, carefully tousled. She applied makeup with deliberate lightness, just enough to brighten her cheeks and bring out her eyes.
When she looked in the mirror afterward, she paused.
She looked... radiant.
Not flashy. Not overly made-up. Just present. Like a woman who hadn’t disappeared inside her marriage. Like someone who still existed.
She almost smiled.
Ethan barely noticed when she walked out of the bedroom.
He was too busy on his phone, grumbling about one of his matches canceling last minute.
“She said her kid got sick,” he muttered, not looking up. “Probably a lie.”
Leah grabbed her keys. “I’m heading out.”
“Where?”
She hesitated. “Coffee.”
He finally glanced up—and something flickered behind his eyes.
“You look nice.”
“Thanks,” she said simply.
Then she left.
Marc greeted her with that same quiet warmth, standing as she approached, pulling her chair out like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You look incredible, Leah.”
She felt her cheeks flush. “Thanks.”
Their conversation picked up where it left off. They talked about music. Memories. Places they’d once dreamed of seeing. Marc leaned in when he spoke, genuinely engaged, and when she laughed, he smiled like it mattered.
At one point, he reached across the table and gently brushed a stray curl from her cheek.
The touch lingered.
So did her breath.
They didn’t kiss. Not yet. But the energy pulsed between them now. Unspoken. Unrushed.
When she walked to her car, she checked her reflection in the window.
She felt beautiful.
Not because Marc said so—but because she believed it.
Back home, Ethan was on the couch again, eating takeout.
“Another coffee?” he asked flatly.
She nodded, hanging up her coat.
“You’re really into this guy, huh?”
“I like talking to him.”
“Anything happen?”
She turned, looking at him calmly. “Would it matter?”
He blinked.
Because he didn’t know the answer.
Later that night, Leah took longer in the bathroom. Moisturized. Brushed her hair out. Changed into a silk sleep shirt instead of her usual worn T-shirt. Nothing dramatic—but intentional.
Ethan watched her move through the room like something unfamiliar. He noticed the subtle perfume she never used anymore. The quiet confidence in her posture. The softness in her lips.
He wanted to say something. To connect. To flirt.
But the words didn’t come.
Because for the first time, he realized:
He wasn’t the reason she looked like that.
Ethan made his move on a Thursday night.
Leah had just stepped out of the shower, towel-wrapped and fresh-faced, humming softly as she walked into the bedroom. Her skin was still pink from the steam, soft and glowing. Drops of water clung to the slopes of her breasts beneath the thin cotton towel, and her thick thighs peeked out from the gap as she moved.
She had always been beautiful—but lately, something had changed.
She stood taller. Walked slower. Her curves didn’t shy away anymore. Her full hips swayed as she moved, her ass round and high, framed by the edge of the towel like a dare she didn’t know she was making.
Or maybe she did.
She bent slightly at her vanity, dabbing her skin with lotion, her breasts pressing forward. The towel shifted just enough to reveal a glimpse of the swell beneath.
Ethan watched, throbbing behind his jeans, jaw tense.
They hadn’t had sex in over a month. He hadn’t tried—not really. But now, watching her bare legs glisten, watching the towel cling to her ass as she moved—it was unbearable.
Something flared inside him. Insecurity. Want. Control.
He stepped behind her and placed his hands on her hips, gently but with purpose.
“You look really good tonight,” he said, voice low.
She met his eyes in the mirror. “Thanks.”
His hands slid up slowly, fingers tracing the edge of her towel, grazing the warm skin just beneath it. Her ass was full and firm under his palms. He wanted her. Needed her.
She stiffened.
“Ethan…”
“I miss touching you,” he whispered, lips near her ear. “I miss us.”
His tone tried for seduction. But it came out like pleading.
She removed his hands calmly, firmly. “I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired.”
Her face sharpened. “Don’t make this about me.”
“I’m your husband,” he said, frustration tightening in his throat.
“And you’re the one who wanted other people.”
That ended it.
She walked away, drying her hair, her thick ass swaying with each step.
Ethan stayed where he was, humiliated and hard, burning with denial and regret.
Two days later, Leah got a message from Marc:
“Would you want to do something not-coffee? I found a lounge with a live DJ. Intimate, but safe. I’d like to see you let loose a little. No pressure, promise.”
She stared at the message for a long time before replying:
“Okay.”
She got ready slowly that night—deliberately.
The black dress she hadn’t worn in five years came down from the hanger. It was sleek, sleeveless, and clung to her body like it had been sewn on. It hugged the generous curve of her ass, the swell of her full breasts, the softness of her belly in all the ways she used to hide. A high slit revealed her strong thighs with every step.
She slid into her heels—strappy, high, with a soft golden buckle at the ankle—and spritzed herself with perfume: musky, warm, slightly sweet. The kind that stayed on skin and sheets for hours.
She curled her hair just enough to give it bounce. Her lips were painted a dark, glossy red. Her earrings shimmered every time she turned her head.
When she walked past Ethan, he stood abruptly.
His eyes scanned her from head to toe. The dress. The heels. The way her chest rose beneath the neckline.
“Where are you going dressed like that?”
She grabbed her clutch without looking at him. “Out.”
“Out where?”
“Dancing.”
He blinked. “With him?”
She paused at the door. Looked back—not with cruelty. With clarity.
“You said I could try.”
Then she left.
The lounge was low-lit, amber-toned, buzzing with soft bass and swaying bodies.
Marc was waiting at the bar in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, eyes lighting up when he saw her.
“Wow,” he whispered, stepping in close. “You’re stunning.”
She felt her stomach flutter. “You clean up okay too.”
They shared two cocktails. Laughed. Teased. And when the music deepened—low, sensual, magnetic—Marc held out his hand.
“Come dance with me.”
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
On the dance floor, the beat pulled them together. Marc’s hands rested on her hips, guiding her confidently. Her ass pressed back into him as her body found the rhythm, slow and heavy. His breath was at her neck. His hand slid along the open skin of her back, fingers splayed, claiming space that hadn’t been touched in too long.
When he kissed her—deep, open, slow—her lips parted instantly.
She melted into it.
Into him.
She came home after midnight.
Heels in hand. Hair tousled. Skin glowing.
Ethan was still up, sitting on the couch, the TV off.
He looked at the clock. “It’s late.”
Leah walked past him calmly. “I know.”
“Did you…” He couldn’t finish the question.
She paused in the hallway. Turned back, voice even.
“I danced. I kissed. And I felt alive.”
Ethan stared at her—at her red lips, the faint smudge on her chest, the way her body still radiated heat.
And for the first time, he realized:
She wasn’t his anymore.
Not completely.
And she was only just beginning.
Ethan tried not to show it, but he was unraveling.
Leah was glowing these days—there was no other word for it. She dressed better, stood taller, carried herself like she knew eyes were on her. And they were. The barista who smiled too long. The neighbor who lingered. The way she laughed in the mirror while getting ready, not even noticing that Ethan was hard behind her, silent, wanting.
That Friday night, Ethan watched her from the hallway.
She stood in the bedroom in just a bra and panties—black lace that cupped her breasts perfectly, lifted them just so. Her waist curved into thick, soft hips, her ass full and plush, barely contained by the thin material. She looked like a goddess who didn’t even realize it.
Then she slipped on a green wrap dress—deep, sleeveless, clinging to her like liquid. The low neckline exposed the soft swell of cleavage, and when she turned, the slit rode high up her thigh.
Ethan’s mouth went dry. His cock pulsed beneath his jeans.
“Where are you going dressed like that?” he asked.
“Marc’s,” she said, adjusting an earring.
He stared, stunned. “Are you going to sleep with him?”
She paused. Her voice was calm.
“I don’t know.”
Then she left.
Marc’s apartment was warm, filled with soft jazz and the scent of roasted garlic and red wine. He welcomed her with a smile and a slow, appreciative kiss to the cheek.
Dinner flowed easily—conversation, eye contact, little touches that lingered longer than they needed to.
Later, on the couch, the air changed.
Marc touched her knee—gently at first. Then more firmly. His hand slid up her thigh, thumb stroking just under the hem of her dress.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
She nodded.
His kiss was soft—measured, almost reverent. His hand cupped her cheek as he kissed her again, deeper now. She moaned softly into his mouth.
The first time he touched her breasts, he did it like he’d been thinking about it for hours. Her nipples were already hard, pushing against the lace, and when he pulled the cups down and took one into his mouth, she gasped aloud.
She hadn’t felt wanted like this in years.
They moved to the bedroom.
Her dress slipped off easily. She stood before him in her lingerie, breath heavy, unsure for the first time in a long time.
He looked at her like she was a meal—eyes roaming from her bare shoulders to her thick thighs.
“You’re stunning,” he whispered.
She smiled shyly, flushed.
Then he kissed her again—this time rougher, hungrier.
She felt herself melt beneath him as he guided her to the bed.
He undressed with quiet confidence.
And when his boxers came off—her breath hitched.
Oh my god.
He was huge. Thick. Long. The kind of size she’d only imagined—never experienced.
She swallowed hard.
“I don’t know if I can take you.”
Marc smiled. “You can.”
He climbed onto the bed, spreading her thighs gently. His mouth found her inner thigh, then her center. He kissed her there slowly—his tongue tracing soft, relentless circles.
She writhed beneath him, fingers digging into the sheets, hips grinding toward his face. When she came, she cried out—loud, messy, unrestrained.
He gave her no time to recover.
He moved up her body, kissed her mouth, let her taste herself on his lips.
Then he pushed inside—slowly.
She gripped the sheets again, her whole body stretching to take him. Inch by inch.
It felt like he was splitting her open.
But god… it was so good.
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes rolled back.
She had never been filled like this before—so completely possessed.
Marc growled against her neck. “You feel like heaven, Leah.”
He thrust slowly at first, grinding deep into her. Then faster—stronger. Her breasts bounced with each movement, her moans getting louder, more broken.
When she came again, she clung to him, her legs trembling, nails digging into his back.
But he wasn’t done.
He flipped her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up, and entered her from behind with one smooth stroke.
The sound she made wasn’t polite.
It was primal.
He gripped her ass, pounded deep, and whispered filthy praise into her ear.
By the time he finished—exploding inside her with a long, guttural groan—Leah’s body was shaking.
Used.
Stretched.
Changed.
He curled beside her, pulling her into his chest.
And Leah?
She didn’t feel shame.
She felt alive.
For the first time in years, her body wasn’t just something Ethan ignored or wanted to possess.
It had been worshipped.
And she knew—down to her bones—that nothing Ethan could ever offer would compare.
Ethan couldn’t sleep.
He checked his phone every few minutes. No new messages. No read receipts. No sign of Leah.
Her last text had come at 9:13 p.m.
“I’m staying late. Don’t wait up.”
That had been five hours ago.
He stared at that message like it was a ticking clock. Imagining things. Seeing her wrapped around that other man, face flushed, legs shaking. Imagining her moaning into someone else’s mouth, while he sat here on the couch in the dark, hard and humiliated and completely alone.
He checked the apps. Again. Swiped aimlessly.
Nothing.
The last five women he matched with had ghosted after two messages. One had said, “You seem sweet, but I’m looking for someone with more… spark.” Another unmatched as soon as he said he was married.
The dates he had managed to land were disasters. One was on her phone the entire time. One showed up late and left early. One stared blankly as he tried to make her laugh, only to say, “I don’t think I’m feeling this. Good luck though.”
He hadn’t kissed anyone.
Hadn’t even touched anyone.
And meanwhile, Leah…
She came home just after 6 a.m.
Her hair was messy. Her makeup faintly smudged. She looked like she’d slept well. Glowing, satisfied, pulled back together but still… undeniably used.
Ethan was waiting.
She looked at him. Calm. Unapologetic.
“You stayed out all night,” he said quietly.
“I did.”
He swallowed. “Can we talk?”
She nodded and sat on the edge of the bed, crossing one leg over the other.
He couldn’t meet her eyes.
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“This—this whole open marriage thing. I thought it would help. But it’s… it’s destroying us.”
There was a long pause. She exhaled slowly.
“No, Ethan. It’s destroying you.”
He looked up. “That’s not fair.”
She held his gaze. Steady. Gentle. Unflinching.
“I was hesitant. I said no. You pushed. You told me to try.” Her voice softened, but not with sympathy. With certainty. “So I did. And now you want to shut the door because you don’t like where it’s going.”
He stood, voice rising. “Because you’re not just dating, Leah. You’re gone. You don’t come home. You don’t touch me. You don’t see me.”
She blinked slowly.
“I see you, Ethan. More clearly than ever.”
He flinched.
And then she said it.
Quiet. Deadly.
“Marc ruined me for you.”
The air went still.
“I didn’t plan it,” she said. “But what happened between us last night… it changed something. I didn’t know my body could feel like that. I didn’t know I could feel like that. What he gave me—what he took from me—it’s something I never even knew I was missing.”
Ethan’s face drained of color.
“He was bigger. Stronger. Slower. He knew how to handle me like I was something valuable and breakable at the same time. And when I came—when I shook under him—I realized…”
She leaned in.
“You’ve never done that for me. Not once.”
Ethan’s mouth opened.
No words came out.
Leah stood, walked past him calmly, and began undressing. Not to seduce. Just to be herself again.
He stared at her bare back, her curves, the marks still faint on her hips.
He felt small.
Insignificant.
Like the punchline of his own bad joke.
