He told his wife he was working late. I watched his truck pull into my driveway at 11:47 PM, headlights cutting through the dark like a confession. I was already naked. Already had a sloppy wet pussy. Already waiting.
He didn’t even make it to the bedroom — pinned me against the hallway wall, his wedding band cold against my thigh as he grabbed it and shoved his cock inside me. I wrapped my legs around him and bit his neck hard enough to leave a mark he’d have to lie about tomorrow.
“You’re so much tighter than she is,” he groaned.
I smiled against his mouth. I know.
After he left — reeking of my perfume, her favorite — I drove to the bar downtown. Still swollen. Still hungry.
A stranger bought me a whiskey neat. Dark eyes, strong hands, no ring. I didn’t ask his name. Took him to the bathroom, locked the door, hiked my dress up, and bent over the sink.
He fucked me like he’d never see me again — because he wouldn’t.
I watched us in the mirror. Mascara smudged, lips swollen, another man’s wife still warm on my skin while a stranger split me open.
He finished. I straightened my dress. Walked out without looking back.
Two men in one night. Neither of them mine.
And I’ve never felt more powerful.
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