My keys clatter in the dish by the door. I drop my purse on the bench—muscle memory. A decade of repetition dressed as devotion. Ten years of meeting the same hazel eyes across the dinner table; of the same cock filling my holes in the dark.

Bored doesn’t even scratch the surface.

I find him on the couch inside, the TV glow turning him into something unreal. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t greet me. Maybe he’s bored too. Maybe he’s forgotten how to notice me.

Tonight, I’m going to remind him.

My thighs are slick, heat pulsing between them as I cross the room. No panties. He doesn’t know that when I left I was wearing them, and now I’m not. He doesn’t know whose cock is responsible for the obscene mess leaking out of me with every step.

I drop to my knees. Wedge myself between his. He glances down—one brow arched—then back to the screen. I smile sweetly, drag the neckline of my dress low, let my tits spill into the light.

Now he looks—really looks. Now I have his attention. His pajama pants tent as my palm slides over him—a twitch, a pulse, a lazy stirring. My pussy answers with a throb so sharp I have to bite my lip to swallow the moan. I feel the drip between my thighs—warm and sticky.

My smile stays in place as my hand dips into his pants, fingers curling around the hardening length of him. Hard, but not rock solid. His flesh is warm, but not hot.

I lick my lips, free him, and drag my tongue along the underside of his shaft, holding his gaze like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe on a different night, it would be.

How long has it been since I’ve tasted him? Months, at least. I half expected he’d invited his slutty assistant to crawl under his desk to service him.

But now I want to. He’s freshly showered, smells like rain and clean heat. Tastes like salt and skin. It makes my mouth water.

I, on the other hand, am far from clean.

My gaze stays fixed on him as I take him deeper—inch by inch, until my throat tightens and his hand finally finds my hair. A moan leaves him, low and unguarded. The sound of a man remembering he has a wife who knows how to swallow. His breath hitches like he needs this. Like he’s been waiting to see me on my knees for him.

He’s not small, but he is decidedly average. And after the cock I swallowed earlier, in the back seat of another car in a darkened parking lot, his is almost disappointing. Still, I suck with enthusiasm, moaning softly as his grip tightens in my hair.

He pushes me down until my nose presses against him, his inhale sharp and sudden. Saliva gathers at the corners of my mouth, my choke breaking loud and wet. The sound he makes—low, guttural—coils tight in my core. His cock leaves the vice of my mouth with a loud pop, glazed with my spit. I don’t wipe away the mess on my chin; I let it glisten in the low light, gather on my chest, bead between my breasts.

When I stand another drip traces a slow finger of obscenity down my thigh. I bite back a smile, teeth catching my lip instead. Will he know when I sink onto him? Will he notice how wet I am—too wet? Does he remember that I’ve never been this soaked for him unless it was his cum dripping out of me?

You’re still leaking out of my cunt when I take him in. I kiss him hard, wishing it was you. Wishing it were your cock filling me instead.

I ride him like it is. Grind my clit against him on every downstroke. My head tips back, nails biting into his shoulders. I can feel you in every stroke—the way your cum coats his cock, the way it slicks my cunt and slides between us.

It builds fast. My orgasm hits before I can warn him, and my body goes rigid. My pussy clenches hard around him, and he groans. He grips my hips, fingers settling into the bruises you left, and fucks into me until I’m gasping, chasing the edge.

“Cum for me.” My lips graze his throat, heat ghosting over his skin. “Go on. Fill me up.”

He doesn’t know I said the same thing to you. Doesn’t know that, despite the ring on my finger, he’s just another cock finishing in the same hole you’ve already ruined. He buries himself deep and pumps me full like he owns my pussy. And maybe in his mind, he does.

Then he pulls me down against him, lips finding mine. I let him. He kisses me softly, sweetly. Like I’ve given him something precious.

Would he kiss me like this if he knew I’d swallowed your tongue first?

I can still taste you. Still hear the sound you made when you came—low, rough, right before you filled me exactly the way I’d asked for. I’d cum so hard for you I was still shaking when you gripped my throat, just below my jaw, and kissed me.

“You’re going to take your husband’s cock tonight,” you’d said, voice like smoke and edged like a blade. “And my cum’s going to be dripping out of you while you do.”

You’d shown me my panties, balled in your fist.

“These are mine now,” a flash of teeth—white, dazzling. Predatory. “Try not to lose it all in the car, okay sweetheart?”