The house was dim and still. Alex sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, bare feet flat against the cool wood floor. His shirt clung slightly to his back—whether from the heat or the pressure building in his chest, he couldn't be sure.

His wife was preparing.

He tried not to check his phone again. Tried not to look at the time.

You agreed to this. You talked about it. You planned every detail, every boundary, he thought silently.

Still, the knot inside him refused to ease.

The bathroom door opened above him. He heard the soft thud of her bare feet on the carpet, then the creak of their bedroom floorboard near the dressing mirror. He didn’t move. He just listened—closely, as if her movements could speak for her mood.

She had bathed for a long while, soaking in the lavender salts he’d bought her last Christmas. She always took her time with that part—sinking in until the water crept up to her collarbones, letting the heat blur the edges of her thoughts. She liked to let go of whatever the day had left on her skin.

Now she came in wrapped in a towel, seated herself calmly at the dressing table. Her long, dark hair hung in damp waves down her back. The lamp cast a warm amber halo around her, catching the fine sheen of lotion she’d smoothed over her arms and thighs. Her back was straight, but he saw the tiny tremor in her fingers as she lifted the eyeliner brush.

She saw him in the mirror.

“You’re watching,” she said softly, not pausing her hand. “We agreed…”

His voice was low. “I like watching you become her.”

She arched a brow. “Her?”

He moved closer, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. “The woman who will walk out of this house is different. Not just my wife. Not only. Tonight, you’re something else.”

She smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Not yet.

Her gaze returned to the mirror. Eyes narrowing, she drew a line of black kohl with slow, practiced precision. She’d gone darker than usual, bold lashes, red lips, sharp cheekbones carved with subtle shadows. It transformed her. She was still Katherine. But more.

“Do you want to watch the whole thing?” she asked, her tone carefully neutral.

He nodded. “All of it.”

She stood then, unwrapping the towel from around her body and letting it fall to the carpet. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t hide.

His breath caught.

Her skin glowed—freshly scrubbed, moisturised, smooth. Between her thighs, bare and soft, he could see the careful effort she’d taken. No nicks. No missed spots. He could almost feel the smoothness beneath his own fingers, but he didn’t move to touch her.

Still, he leaned toward her instinctively, fingers twitching with the desire to feel her heat.

“No,” she said. Her voice was firm, but not unkind. “It’s not yours yet. I want him to touch it first.”

She walked past him—deliberate, slow—and opened the drawer where she’d placed the black lacy thong. She held it up between her fingers, tilting her head like she was appraising a piece of art.

“It’s small,” he murmured.

“That’s the point,” she whispered, her tone low, dark with promise. Like she was already picturing how the stranger’s hands would peel it from her body.

She stepped into it, pulling the delicate lace up over her hips and adjusting it so it sat just right. He watched the fabric stretch across her, barely concealing the cleft of her lips, the curve of her ass.

She turned slightly, running a hand down her stomach. “Take a picture?” she said, holding out her phone to him. “It’s for you. When the time comes, you’ll know. Right now… I’m sending it to him.”

He hesitated. “Are you serious?”

The flash clicked.

She held the pose a moment longer, then crossed the room to take her dress from the hanger. Red. Satin. Not quite short enough to be obvious but clinging in all the places that mattered. She stepped into it, lifted the straps onto her shoulders, and smoothed her hands down her waist.

“Zip me up,” she said, eyes on the mirror.

He moved behind her. His fingers brushed the bare skin of her spine as he drew the zipper up, and she didn’t lean away. If anything, she leaned ever so slightly back into him—just enough for him to feel the heat of her skin through his shirt.

He wanted to pull her close. To stop this.

Instead, he asked, “Do you want to tell me anything before you go?”

She turned to face him fully. Her expression had changed—still soft, but steadier. Sure. She pressed her palm to his chest, just above his heart.

“I’ll message you the moment I arrive at the wine bar,” she said. “And again when we go to the hotel. I’ll keep my promise.”

He nodded. “You’ll send photos?”

She smiled then, this time letting it reach her eyes. “You’ll see everything.”

His throat tightened. “Will it be him? The one you were texting last week?”

“No.” She returned to her dressing table and spritzed perfume at the hollow of her neck. “Someone new. I want this to be clean. A first, in every sense.”

He stepped closer. “And how do you feel right now?”

She met his gaze in the mirror.

“Excited,” she whispered. “Nervous. Alive.”

Then, quieter still—so quiet he almost missed it: “And guilty. But not the bad kind.”

He touched her waist lightly, fingers resting just at the hem of her dress. “You don’t have to go.”

“I know.”

The tension between them was taut as wire. Neither moved. Both knew how close they were to unravelling it all, right there. But she didn’t ask him to stop her. And he didn’t tell her not to go.

Instead, she walked downstairs, heels clicking softly against the wood. She paused at the door, keys in hand. The taxi was already waiting in the drive.

He followed her to the front step, the night air brushing against them like a third presence.

She got in, leaned out just once to kiss his cheek—light, almost chaste. But her fingers brushed his as she pulled away, lingering for a heartbeat with something unsaid.

“Midnight,” he reminded her.

She nodded. “Midnight.”

The engine started, its headlights swept across the lawn as she drove off.

She didn’t look back.

His pulse thudded in his ears, low and heavy.

The night had begun.

The silence in the house pressed in like fog. Alex closed the door behind him slowly, deliberately, and leaned his weight into it. The cool of the wood met the heat of his palm.

She was gone.

Her perfume still lingered in the air, floral, faintly sweet, mixed now with a subtle trace of sweat and the ghost of warm skin. He stood motionless in the hallway for a moment before drifting back to the living room like a man in a trance.

The sofa greeted him with soft creaks as he sat, phone in hand. Still humming from the weight of what they had set into motion.

He tapped the side of the phone, waking the screen. A new message glowed there.

Leaving now. I’m wet already. Just for you.  

She had deliberately sent a copy to him.

And just beneath it, an image she had sent. A shot from behind the driver’s seat in the taxi. Legs parted slightly, red dress bunched up on her thighs. wet knickers. The subtle glisten where her thighs met, catching the light from the dashboard. Just enough to make his throat tighten.

He didn’t touch himself.

Not yet.

His fingers trembled faintly as he set the phone down beside him, screen-up, waiting.

Fifteen minutes passed.

Then it buzzed again.

At the wine bar.
He’s better than his profile. His voice... I liked the way he spoke to me. Calm. Slow. Not shy. I need that tonight.

No photo of him, just a hand, on hers, she with a smile. She was lit in amber from the bar’s pendant lamps, glass of Rioja in hand. Her smile was quiet, unguarded, natural. Her deep hazel eyes caught the light just enough to sparkle.

His chest constricted.

Was this the moment she stopped being only his?

His hand hovered over the phone. He didn’t respond.

The next came just after 9:30.

A voice note.

He played it, thumb pressed against the speaker, holding the phone like it might crack if he dropped it.

“Leaving the wine bar. I can feel my pulse in places I didn’t even know had a pulse. I’m wet and nervous. My nipples are hard—and not from the cold. I know I want him. But I won’t. Not until I know you’re still with me.”

The sound of her breath at the end—the faint catch of her voice in her throat, was almost too much. He played it again.

And again.

Her words curled inside him like smoke. He leaned back on the sofa, head against the cushion, eyes closed. He could see her so clearly now, walking out of that bar, the sway of her hips, the way her heels clicked on the pavement. Dress sliding up just a little more with each step.

And he wondered: How far will she go before she checks to see if I’m still watching?

His phone buzzed.

We’re there.

He stared at the message. That was all it said. We’re there.

He didn’t reply.

Instead, he sat motionless, letting the words sink in. His heartbeat so hard it echoed in his ears.

He remembered the night she’d first asked: What if I let someone else fuck me?

He’d said yes.

So long as he could fuck someone too. They’d agreed.

But she had been the first to act.

And now she was in a hotel room with a man he had chosen.

His phone lit again. This time, two images.

He opened the first.

No top, bra gone, her breast full and hard, her nipples erect and full. A man's hand on one, a nipple between his fingers.

The second picture delivered a punch to his chest.

Katherine, naked, lying on the bed. thighs parted, lace thong drawn to the side. Her Lips glistened, a man’s fingers holding them apart so he could see the glistening pink inside. She was already wet. More than wet. Soaked.

The second photo caught her. The phone’s camera was angled just enough to tease, not enough to reveal the man with her. The photos were for him. Just him.

Before he could respond, another message came through.

Alex’s throat went dry.

And then, a video.

It loaded slowly, his connection sluggish, or maybe it was just the weight of the moment dragging every second out. The preview image was enough to raise goosebumps on his arms. 

She took it as he hovered over her. He was large, a girth she might not take, her legs were wide, slowly he pushed against her and entered her. He heard a cry, one of pleasure not pain. She jerked her hips up to meet him and for him to enter her fully.

Slow, confident. Not fumbling. This was no longer theory. No longer fantasy. This was Katherine, his Katherine, reaching for another man’s cock.

The video ended, Just a tease.

He swore softly under his breath.

Later, he could not tell how long, a message came.

His hands are in my hair, my body wrecked. He asked if you watch these while stroking yourself. Should I tell him the truth? 

Alex didn’t hesitate.

Yes. Tell him I watch. Tell him I want to see everything.

A minute passed before her reply arrived.

Oh Hell, he doesn’t get soft, he wants me again.

And with it: a second video.

She’d set the phone on the bedside table, angled carefully toward the bed, a voyeur’s view, deliberate and wide enough to capture everything, but not him.

The lens focused on her bare back, her skin flushed and glistening. Katherine was on her stomach, a pillow wedged beneath her hips to lift and open her. Her legs were parted, wide, welcoming, utterly exposed. Her thighs trembled faintly, and her slick folds glistened where they were stretched around his cock, the mess of their bodies visible even in the soft lamplight.

He watched as the man pushed his big cock inside her. He was deep inside her.

Thrusting with hard, unrelenting strokes that pushed her forward on the mattress with each motion. His hand gripped her hair at the base of her neck, twisting just enough to arch her back and keep her pinned, her cheek mashed against the bed. Every time he drove into her, the sound was unmistakable, flesh slapping flesh, the wet, obscene echo of her body yielding to him over and over.

Katherine groaned into the fabric, the sound muffled but unmistakable, part desperation, part pleasure. Her hands clawed at the bedding, white-knuckled, trying to find something solid to hold on to as he rode her.

She wasn’t passive beneath him. She moved with him, hips grinding back to meet his thrusts, even as her body quaked under the weight of his rhythm. The way she writhed was feral, like she couldn’t take another inch but begged for it anyway.

Her mouth was open, lips swollen and slick with sweat, mascara smudged beneath her lashes. Her hair fell wild around her face, strands sticking to the sheen of moisture on her cheeks. Her eyes, when she managed to open them, held nothing but dazed hunger, the kind of look that said she didn’t care who she was any more, only how deeply she could be filled.

He pulled back, slowly at first, letting the stretch linger, then slammed into her again with such force her body jolted forward, and her mouth opened in a silent cry. He leaned over her then, his chest against her back, his hand sliding down beneath her belly to cup her, fingers slipping between her slick folds to rub her clit in tight, purposeful circles.

She gasped, sharp, ragged. Her entire body clenched, her thighs shaking violently.

“Oh—God—fuck—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

He didn’t. His pace only grew more savage, his breath hot against her ear as he grunted with each thrust. Her body began to buck, her hips rising off the bed, caught in a tide of sensation she couldn’t fight. Her orgasm hit like a tremor—full-body, uncontrollable, her muscles locking, voice breaking into something between a scream and a sob.

And still he didn’t stop.

Katherine croaked at him “Come in me.”

The man froze.

“What?” he asked.

She held his gaze. “Do it. For him. He told me I could decide.”

That wasn’t the full truth.

But it worked.

He was chasing his own edge now, rhythm faltering only when he growled low in his throat and drove into her hard, once, twice more, then buried himself deep, his whole body going still.

Katherine moaned again as she felt the warmth spread inside her, thick and heavy, leaking slowly from her as he pulsed against her womb.

She collapsed beneath him, panting, trembling, utterly undone.

And the phone, still recording, captured every second. Every thrust. Every cry. Every filthy, perfect moment.

Alex watched, heart pounding.

Then, nothing. The video stopped. No messages. No voice notes. Silence. The quiet stretched like a wound in him.

Until the phone rang.

He snatched it up.

And from the other end of the line, a breathless voice:

“Alex... Alex...” Her voice was breaking, trembling with pleasure. “I’m... I’m thinking of you.”

Not his name.

Her husband’s name.

His name.

The man with her didn’t exist in that moment. She was calling out to him.

And it was that truth, not the images, not the sounds, that finished him.  

Then she said, “I'm coming home now,” and blew a heart emoji

Twenty minutes passed in silence.

Alex stared at the final video, unmoving.

His wife, full of another man, whispering, “I’m coming home now.”

Her hair was tangled, her cheeks glowing, her body still twitching from aftershocks. Her voice—gentle, wrecked—tore something open in him.

And yet, he was still hard.

Still waiting.

She was no longer just Katherine.

She was the woman who had gone out into the world and given herself to another. And come back to him. 

The taxi slowed into the curve of their street. Katherine sat with her thighs pressed tightly together, her fingers curled in her lap, eyes fixed on the soft glow of their front window.

Her body ached.

Not the kind of ache that passes quickly, but the deep, used, pulsing ache of a body stretched and filled and emptied. Her skin still tingled from where he’d gripped her hips. Her scalp prickled where he’d pulled her hair. Her thighs were sticky, and despite the quick rinse she’d taken at the hotel, she could still feel the slick warmth of him leaking out, slowly, in a humiliating, thrilling drip.

And that was what she was bringing home to Alex.

She stepped out onto the gravel. Her heels clicked softly against the stones, and the night air closed around her like a secret.

Her heart beat harder as she climbed the steps. Each movement, each lift of her knee, each soft swing of her hips, reawakened the soreness in her. She could feel how different her body was now. How open. How changed.

She unlocked the door quietly and stepped inside.

The house was still.

Not empty. She felt him. The presence of him. Somewhere just beyond the shadows.

She closed the door behind her gently. It clicked shut with a weight that made her stomach tighten.

And then she just stood there. Just inside the door. In her heels. Her red dress. No knickers. Her inner thighs still wet.

Her breath came uneven.

She didn’t call out for him. Didn’t move forward. She didn’t need to. She knew he was waiting.

What will he see first? she wondered.

The smudged lipstick? The sweat-damp hair? The glow in her cheeks? Or the scent?

She knew it clung to her, the scent of sex. Not perfume. Not lotion. Sex. Her, and the man she’d left behind. The man who’d fucked her until she cried into a pillow. Until her legs stopped responding.

She inhaled slowly.

Then walked toward the kitchen.

The soft knock of her heels on the floor seemed too loud in the stillness. Her hand gripped the edge of the counter as she entered.

And there he was.

Alex.

Leaning against the counter, arms crossed, his shirt unbuttoned, chest rising and falling in measured breaths. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just looked at her.

She stopped in the doorway.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she reached back and pulled down the zipper of her dress. It slid lower, catching on the curve of her spine, until she shrugged the straps off her shoulders and let the dress slide to the floor.

She stood there, naked, used, radiant. Legs slightly apart. Her skin flushed. Her breasts rising and falling with each breath. Her nipples still tender from where they’d been kissed, pulled, sucked.

His eyes lowered.

To the slick shine between her legs.

She didn’t flinch.

She watched his jaw clench.

Still, he said nothing.

So she stepped forward. One step. Then another. Until she stood before him. Close enough for the heat of his body to reach her skin. Close enough to see the way his eyes darkened.

Then she whispered, “I didn’t clean up. I wanted you to smell it on me.”

He swallowed.

“Katherine…” he began.

But she touched his lips.

“No,” she whispered. “Don’t say anything yet.”

Her hand moved down to his chest. She could feel his heart pounding beneath her palm.

“I let him finish in me,” she said softly. “I asked for it.”

“I heard,” he replied.

Alex’s breath left him in a slow exhale.

She leaned in close, her mouth to his ear.

“And while he was still inside me, I was thinking of you.”

He closed his eyes.

She kissed his throat. Then his collarbone.

“He was rough,” she murmured. “Pulled my hair. Fucked me hard. Just like I asked. I came three times.”

She paused.

“And still, I came home to you.”

His hands moved finally. One slid around her waist. The other cupped her hip, thumb grazing the curve of her ass.

Then lower.

He touched her, between her thighs. Found her wet. Not just her. Him.

She felt the moment his breath hitched. The moment he felt the proof.

Her hand covered his.

“I want you to taste it,” she whispered.

He dropped to his knees.

The tile was cold, but her heat poured down over him. He spread her thighs, lifted one leg onto the counter behind her. Her scent hit him full-force—heady, raw, unmistakably fucked. His fingers parted her.

She was still open. Still leaking. Her body bruised where he had taken her.

He pressed his mouth to her.

She gasped.

His tongue found everything, her arousal, the man’s cum, the taste of hours of sex. He didn’t hesitate. He devoured her, moaning softly into her folds as he licked and kissed and cleaned her like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, trembling.

Her body began to quake again.

She came with a sob, high and broken, her whole body tightening as his mouth worshipped the mess inside her.

When she opened her eyes, he was still there—kneeling, mouth wet, eyes closed.

She pulled him up to her. Kissed him deeply.

She tasted it, too.

And she didn’t flinch.

He kissed her like he was starving for something he’d never dared admit.

Katherine melted into it, her fingers tangled in his hair, the taste of herself—of what she’d done—still warm between their lips. She didn’t apologize. Didn’t hold back. She kissed him harder, deeper, her body pressing against his, slick and still trembling.

Alex pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes glassy but sharp.

“Upstairs,” he said. It wasn’t a suggestion.

She nodded, silently.

He took her hand and led her, still naked, up the stairs. She didn’t reach for her dress. She didn’t need it. She wanted to walk through their home like this, marked, open, used. Wanted to feel each step remind her of what she'd done.

The bed was still unmade from earlier. Sheets half-drawn back. The room smelled faintly of lavender, sweat, and now, him. The other man. He lingered in her body. She could feel it still with every subtle shift of her hips.  

Alex didn’t ask her to lie down.  

He did.  

Flat on his back, jeans finally pushed down and kicked aside, his cock rigid against his stomach. She crawled over him slowly, eyes on his, her breath shallow, her skin flushed.

She straddled him, her knees pressing into the mattress.

For a moment, she hovered, her wet hole glistening just above the tip of him.

Then she sank down.

They both gasped.

He filled her so differently. She was sore, stretched, sensitive, and he didn’t push fast. She took him slowly, inch by inch, the tight heat of her body wrapping around him like she was reclaiming the space. She leaned forward, chest to chest, her hair falling in a curtain around their faces.

“I’m still full of him,” she whispered.

He grunted, eyes darkening. His hands gripped her waist. He bucked up into her, hard, and she moaned, head falling to his shoulder.

“I want that,” he growled. “I want all of it. All of you.”

She rode him, slow at first, drawing her hips back and forward in smooth, wet circles. Her breath caught with each stroke, the oversensitivity making everything sharper. Every slide of him inside her reignited the aching heat between her legs.

But it wasn’t just about the sex any more.

It was about coming back.

She watched his face, studied every shift in his expression—the mix of pain, lust, possessiveness. His fingers dug into her thighs. His eyes never left hers.

And she gave him everything.

She told him what the other man had done. In low, trembling detail. How he’d bent her. How he’d pinned her. How it had felt to be filled while Alex watched from home. How she'd whispered her husband’s name with another man’s cock inside her.

He growled, low, primal, and flipped her onto her back, pushing into her harder now, thrusting with a frantic urgency.

“I need you to come again,” he panted. “For me this time. Around me. With me.”

She nodded, breathless.

Her legs wrapped around him, drawing him deeper, her nails raking down his back.

It didn’t take long.

The last orgasm tore through her like a wave, shuddering, unrelenting. Her cries filled the room. Alex followed with a groan, his body tensing as he emptied himself inside her.

For a moment, neither moved.

Their breath filled the space between them. Skin on skin. Heartbeats slowly finding rhythm again.

Katherine stroked his back gently, her body limp, raw, sated in a way she hadn’t expected.

He kissed her shoulder, her neck, her cheek.

And finally, her mouth.

This kiss was different.

It was soft. Anchored. A homecoming.

“I’m still yours,” she whispered.

“I know,” he murmured against her lips. “You always were.”