2:03 a.m.

I’m awake—again.

It’s become a ritual now. The stillness of the house, the soft snore beside me, and my body’s quiet ache. I roll onto my back, thighs pressed together, trying to ignore the heat building low in my belly. I already know it won’t go away until I let it.

My fingers reach for my phone almost on instinct. I scroll through the same familiar pages, letting the flicker of dim light paint shadows across the ceiling. I don’t touch myself yet. I wait. I let my pussy throb, slick and needy, while I tease myself with the thought of what I might find.

Eventually, I land on a video that makes my breath catch. A man getting edged—over and over—until he’s shaking, desperate, dripping. When he finally cums, it’s violent, raw, visceral. His whole body convulses and I moan softly, letting my fingertips circle my clit.

The orgasm builds slowly, like a fire crawling up my spine. I keep my movements light, teasing, soaking myself in my own desire until I finally let go. My hips lift from the bed, toes curling, breath caught. I come hard—but quietly. Always quietly.

I glance over at my husband. He’s fast asleep, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. The orgasm helped… but it didn’t satisfy. Not really.

I open Twitter. Scroll. Refresh.

That’s when the message comes in.

“Wyd”

My stomach flips. The universe knew exactly what I needed in that moment and sent it to me.

My pussy is still pulsing, wet from release—and the thrill of being wanted again. But do I really want to open that door right now?

I type slowly, glancing at my husband as I click send.

“Chillin.”

The response is immediate.

“Come through.”

Of course.

I hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He’s probably drunk. It’s late. I’m still coming down from my orgasm high.

“Probably not,” I reply.

“I don’t feel like moving.”

Technically true. But also? My husband’s in bed beside me. We just fucked a few hours ago. I should sleep. I need to sleep.

The typing bubble appears again.

“I’m horny as fuck. Haven’t had any since I seen you for your birthday.”

That night replays in my mind. He came in less than five minutes. No load left in me. No dripping mess to bring home. I still got reclaimed by my husband, sure—but it wasn’t the same. He misses that. He’s told me.

The bubbles return.

“I’ll blow in you first.”

Oh. He’s learning.

My husband’s words echo in my head from earlier at dinner—how he teased me, told me I wouldn’t get his cock again until I brought him back something to play with. The hunger in his voice, the promise in his eyes. He wants this. Wants me marked.

I nudge him gently.

“Babe,” I whisper. “He just messaged me…”

His eyes open instantly. He already knows. He smiles—eager.

“Go,” he says. “I’ll be waiting when you get back.”

“I don’t know… it’s late.”

He pulls me close and kisses my shoulder. “Go. Let him fuck it into you. Bring it back to me.”

My breath catches. Fuck. He knows just how to talk to me.

I text:

“I’m getting ready.”

His reply:

“Can I treat you like a whore?”

“You do everything I say from the time you walk in the door.”

Of course. The usual. It’s what he’s liked since we were teenagers.

“Yes. ETA 13 mins.”

The drive is a blur—except for the growing tension between my legs and the phone pressed to my ear. My husband is talking, voice low and rough, already hard just thinking about what I’m doing. He tells me how he’s going to fuck me when I get back. How wet he expects me to be. How messy.

I switch to FaceTime as I pull up.

The door swings open before I can even knock. He’s already waiting. Towering beside me. Hungry.

He grabs me by the wrist and pulls me inside. The door slams shut behind me.

He doesn’t say a word—just grips the back of my head and pushes me straight onto his cock.

There’s no warm-up. No teasing. Just the thick, salty weight of him hitting the back of my throat.

I gag, but he doesn’t stop.

His hand fists in my hair, guiding my head like I’m nothing but a toy to use. He pulls back just enough for me to gasp, then thrusts forward again, harder this time. The sound is obscene—wet, raw, messy. My throat stretches, eyes rolling back as drool spills from my lips and drips to the hardwood floor.

He growls, hips slamming forward, cock hitting the back of my throat again and again. My mascara runs. My jaw aches. But I moan around him, addicted to the way he uses me.

Spit strings from his cock to my chin every time he pulls back. I’m a mess. He loves it.

He grabs both sides of my face and starts fucking it relentlessly—his pace brutal now. My nails dig into his thighs as I try to breathe through my nose, but I don’t stop him. I take every inch, every thrust, every degrading moan he grunts above me.

“Fuck, you were made for this,” he pants, his cock twitching. “So fucking filthy.”

Just when I think he’s about to cum down my throat, he pulls out with a slick pop and yanks me to my feet.

“Upstairs. Now.”

The bedroom smells like sex the second we walk in—musky, masculine, warm. He throws me down on the bed, flips me onto my back, and drags my head over the edge. My legs still trembling from the brutal blowjob.

He stands at the edge of the bed, grabs my face again, and shoves his cock back between my lips.

I open wide, taking him as deep as I can while rubbing my clit in slow, desperate circles. I’m soaked, pussy practically begging to be filled—but I want to savor this.

He notices my fingers.

“No,” he growls, slapping my hand away. “You don’t get to touch yourself.”

His fingers replace mine, plunging deep without warning. I scream around his cock as he curls them just right, hitting that spot over and over. My thighs quake. My body fights it—but I can’t stop the orgasm building in me like a tidal wave.

He pulls out of my mouth, flips me over, and drags me on top of him.

“Ride it.”

I sink down, gasping as he stretches me open. He fills me in a way no one else can—thick, deep, unrelenting. I grind my hips, slow at first, letting the pressure rise. Then I bounce, harder and faster, tits bouncing, ass slapping against him in rhythm.

“Look at this fucking fat ass,” he groans, grabbing my hips. “You want me to fill it, don’t you?”

“Yes—please,” I beg, breathless. “I want it. I want your load. Fill me up.”

His hands grip tighter as he thrusts up into me, matching my rhythm.

“Take it. Take all of it. Fuck—”

I fall forward, my hands on his chest, grinding through the climax as he cums deep inside me—thick, hot, and perfect. I moan his name, cunt squeezing around him, milking every drop.

We lay there for a moment, still connected, panting.

Then he speaks.

“When do I get to fuck you with your husband?” he asks, voice low and smug. “Instead of him just watching like last time?”

I laugh, soft and wicked, already getting up and slipping my panties back on.

“We’ll see,” I smirk, grabbing my keys and phone. “He’s waiting.”

The night air hits my skin as I walk back to my car, legs weak, thighs sticky.

I slide into the driver’s seat, still aching, still dripping.

My phone buzzes. It’s my husband.

“You on your way?”

I bite my lip, smiling.

Time to get reclaimed.

The second I walk through the door, he’s waiting—shirtless, eyes heavy, cock already hard beneath his boxers.

His voice is low and thick with need. “Come here.”

I drop my keys, my bag, my thoughts.

His lips crash into mine before I can speak, kissing me like he’s starving—his tongue greedy, hands exploring every inch of me. The kiss is deep, dirty, and full of intention. He pulls back only long enough to look into my eyes.

“Did he fill you?”

I nod, breath shaky. “I’m still dripping.”

He groans like he’s in pain, grabbing my hand and dragging me to the bedroom.

“Lie down. Legs open. Now.”

I obey, my heart pounding as I stretch out for him.

He spreads me with his thumbs, eyes locked on the slick mess between my thighs. “God, look at you… soaked in someone else’s cum, waiting for me.”

Then he lowers himself and devours me.

His mouth is ravenous—tongue plunging deep, licking every drop of me and the other man from my pussy like it belongs to him. He moans into me, shaking his head, tasting everything.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “Always fucking mine.”

He licks up and over my clit, then rises to kiss me, and I taste it—us. His cum. Mine. Mixed. Warm. Salty. Messy. Intimate.

I moan into his mouth, and he kisses me harder, like he’s trying to fuse us back together.

“You taste like heaven,” he whispers against my lips. “Like a filthy, perfect dream.”

Then he lines himself up and thrusts inside me in one deep, punishing stroke.

I gasp—his cock filling me like it always does, hitting the places no one else can.

His hands wrap around my throat, not tight, just enough to hold me still as he fucks me slow and deep in missionary.

“Fuck, this pussy,” he groans, head falling to my neck. “So fucking tight. So fucking mine.”

I clench around him, and it’s enough—I cum immediately, crying out, legs shaking.

“That’s it,” he says through gritted teeth. “Give it to me. Again.”

He keeps going, rolling his hips with perfect precision, dragging orgasm after orgasm out of me until I can barely breathe.

“Baby,” I whimper. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, pulling out and flipping me onto my stomach. “You’ll take every last inch.”

He slams back into me from behind, rougher now, holding nothing back. His hand wraps in my hair and pulls hard, forcing my back to arch as his other palm lands on my ass—loud, sharp, stinging.

“Say it,” he demands, panting. “Whose pussy is this?”

“Yours,” I sob. “Always yours.”

“Damn right.” He pounds into me, sweat dripping from his chest onto my back. “You were made for me. Every inch of you. No one will ever fuck you like I do.”

“No one else can,” I moan, throwing it back on him, needing more.

He grabs my throat again, pulling me back against him as he fucks me harder, deeper. “No one will ever feel like this. No one will ever know how good your mouth is. How warm your pussy gets when you know I’m about to fill it. You make me so happy, baby. You fucking wreck me.”

I shudder, overwhelmed by praise and pleasure, and cum again—screaming his name.

He follows—growling, shaking, releasing deep inside me—pushing every last drop in.

We collapse together in a sweaty, tangled mess.

Time slows. His breathing slows.

He sits up on the edge of the bed, and I crawl into his lap, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. I kiss along his neck, his jaw, his collarbone. I trace my fingers down his arms, slow and loving, feeling the heat of him, the strength.

I run my fingers softly across his biceps, rubbing his shoulders, kissing the curve of his neck.

“I love how safe I feel here,” I whisper.

He exhales, wrapping his arms around my waist, head resting on my chest.

“You don’t even know,” he murmurs, voice heavy. “I could die like this. You make everything worth it.”

I just keep touching him, kissing him, grounding us both.