The Anniversary Weekend That Changed Everything

The invitation had arrived three weeks ago, embossed gold lettering on cream cardstock that screamed of old money and exclusive social circles. Marcus Harrington—Harvard roommate, former fraternity brother, and now wildly successful tech entrepreneur—was hosting his annual summer estate party, and this year marked a significant milestone. His parents had finally signed over the sprawling Hamptons property to him outright, and Marcus was celebrating by gathering his inner circle for a weekend of "decadent debauchery," as his handwritten note described it.

I stared at the invitation for a long time, turning it over in my hands, feeling the weight of the paper. Beside me on our modest Brooklyn apartment's worn sofa, my wife Elena was painting her toenails a shade of crimson that always made my pulse quicken. We'd been married for five years, together for eight, and I still couldn't believe she'd chosen me. A junior associate at a mid-tier law firm, barely making six figures, with a receding hairline and a gym membership I used just often enough to keep from completely losing my shape.

Elena, on the other hand, was magnificent. Twenty-eight years old, with the kind of voluptuous curves that made men walk into walls. She was Italian-American, with thick dark hair that cascaded in waves past her shoulders, olive skin that seemed to glow from within, and eyes the color of warm honey. Her breasts were heavy and full, a natural 34DD that she often complained about but that I worshipped nightly. She had the kind of body that filled out dresses in ways that made other women jealous and other men stupid.

"Are we going?" she asked, not looking up from her task, the small brush hovering over her pinky toe.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Marcus has... changed. The last time I saw him was at the reunion, and he was different. More arrogant. More... everything."

Elena finally looked up, her honey eyes meeting mine with a mixture of curiosity and something I couldn't quite place. "Different how?"

"He's bulked up. Started taking better care of himself after the divorce. And he's been with a different woman every time I've seen him. Models, actresses, socialites. He doesn't exactly live in our world anymore."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he's rich, Elena. Seriously rich. The kind of rich where people become accessories. I don't want us to be... I don't want you to be..."

She laughed, a musical sound that made my heart swell. "Worried he'll steal me away, David?"

I didn't answer, because the truth was humiliating. Marcus had always been better than me at everything—sports, academics, women. He was six-foot-two with broad shoulders and the kind of chiseled jawline that belonged on magazine covers. During our Harvard days, he'd slept with half our graduating class while I struggled to get second dates. The only reason we'd remained friends was because Marcus enjoyed having someone around who made him look even better by comparison.

"Come on," Elena said, standing up and walking over to me, her bare feet padding softly on the hardwood. She straddled my lap, her weight settling against me in that familiar way that never failed to arouse me. "It'll be fun. A weekend away. Fancy house. Free drinks. And I'll be with you the whole time. No one is stealing anything."

She kissed me then, deep and slow, her tongue exploring my mouth with the practiced intimacy of years together. I felt myself hardening beneath her, my hands automatically moving to grip her generous hips. She was wearing one of my old t-shirts and a pair of lace panties, and the combination of domestic comfort and latent sexuality was intoxicating.

"Okay," I breathed against her lips. "We'll go. But promise me—if it gets weird, we leave. No questions asked."

"I promise," she whispered, grinding down against my erection in a way that made me groan. "Now, are you going to take me to bed, or do I have to finish painting my toes first?"

I didn't let her finish painting her toes.

The drive to the Hamptons took three hours, Elena navigating while I white-knuckled the steering wheel through the Friday evening traffic. She'd dressed carefully for the occasion, choosing a sundress that I knew cost more than my first car—a flowing white number with a plunging neckline that showed off her cleavage and a hemline that stopped midthigh, revealing toned legs that I'd watched other men admire at every rest stop.

"Nervous?" she asked, her hand resting on my thigh.

"A little," I admitted. "Marcus has this way of making me feel like I'm still that awkward freshman who couldn't get a date."

"You're not that person anymore," she said firmly. "You're a successful lawyer with a beautiful wife who adores you. Remember that."

But when we pulled through the wrought-iron gates of the Harrington estate and saw the house rising before us like something from a movie set, I felt that familiar inadequacy creeping back. The mansion was sprawling, modern, all glass and steel and impossible angles. Valet attendants in matching uniforms rushed to take our bags. A string quartet played on the terrace. Beautiful people in expensive clothes drifted between rooms like exotic fish in an aquarium designed specifically for them.

"David!" Marcus's voice boomed from the entrance, and there he was, descending the marble steps with the fluid grace of a predator. He was even more imposing than I remembered, his body now packed with muscle that strained against a custom-tailored linen shirt. His dark hair was styled with casual perfection, and his smile revealed teeth that were suspiciously white and even. "And you must be Elena. David's told me so much about you."

He swept Elena into an embrace before I could react, his large hands spanning her waist as he pulled her against him. I watched her eyes widen slightly at the contact, at the sheer physical presence of him. He held her a beat too long, his head dipping close to her neck as if inhaling her scent, before releasing her and turning to me with a handshake that felt like it could crush bone.

"Good to see you, old friend," he said, clapping my shoulder with enough force to make me stumble. "Come, let me show you to your room. The party doesn't really start until sunset, but there are already some interesting people here. I think you'll find the weekend... educational."

Our room was on the second floor, overlooking the pool and the ocean beyond. It was larger than our entire apartment, with a king-sized bed that looked like it had never been slept in and a bathroom with a shower big enough for four people. Elena immediately began unpacking, hanging her dresses in the walk-in closet while I stood at the window, watching the other guests arrive.

There were maybe thirty people total, Marcus's inner circle of wealthy friends and beautiful acquaintances. I recognized a few faces from magazines—an actress from that streaming show everyone was talking about, a venture capitalist who'd made billions on some app I'd never downloaded, a model with cheekbones that could cut glass. And women. So many women, all of them stunning, all of them wearing clothes that left little to the imagination.

"David," Elena called from the bathroom. "Can you help me with this zipper?"

I found her in front of the mirror, wearing a black cocktail dress that I'd never seen before. It hugged her curves like a second skin, the back plunging so low I could see the top of her ass crack. The front was equally daring, a deep V that showcased her cleavage in ways that made my mouth go dry.

"When did you buy this?" I asked, my fingers fumbling with the tiny zipper.

"Last week," she said, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "Do you like it?"

"You look... incredible. Too incredible. Every man here is going to be staring at you."

"Good," she said, turning around and pressing herself against me. "Let them stare. I'm going home with you."

But as she said it, I saw something in her eyes—a spark of excitement, of anticipation for the evening ahead. She'd always been beautiful, but she'd never seemed to fully believe it. Tonight, though, she looked like she knew exactly what she was doing to the male population.

The party was in full swing by the time we descended the stairs. Marcus had transformed his living room into something between a nightclub and an orgy pit—dim lighting, pulsing music, and bodies pressed close together in ways that suggested the night might take interesting turns. Waiters circulated with trays of champagne and shots of something blue that glowed under the blacklights.

I lost Elena almost immediately to a group of women admiring her dress, and found myself cornered by a hedge fund manager named Chad who wanted to explain blockchain technology to me in excruciating detail. I nodded along, sipping my drink, my eyes constantly searching for Elena in the crowd.

I found her near the bar, laughing at something Marcus was saying. He'd positioned himself close to her, one arm braced against the wall behind her head, leaning down to speak directly into her ear. Even from across the room, I could see the way his body language claimed her, the way she tilted her head up to listen, her lips parted in a smile that seemed more genuine than the polite expressions she'd been wearing earlier.

When I finally extricated myself from Chad's monologue and made my way over, Marcus didn't move away. If anything, he seemed to angle his body more protectively around Elena, as if I were the intruder.

"David!" he said, his voice booming over the music. "I was just telling Elena about the gym I built in the east wing. State of the art. You should see it."

"I'm not much of a gym rat," I said, trying to position myself between them and failing.

"Elena was saying she wants to stay in shape," Marcus continued, his eyes never leaving my wife's face. "I told her I'd be happy to give her a personal tour. Maybe tomorrow morning?"

"That sounds lovely," Elena said, and I felt a cold pit open in my stomach.

The night progressed in a blur of alcohol and mounting anxiety. I watched Marcus work the room, always circling back to Elena, always finding reasons to touch her—a hand on her lower back as he guided her through a crowd, fingers brushing her shoulder as he pointed out some feature of the house, a lingering hug that pressed her full breasts against his hard chest. And I watched Elena respond to it, her pupils dilated, her laughter coming easier, her body angling toward him like a flower seeking sunlight.

By midnight, I was drunk enough to be honest with myself about what I was seeing. Elena was attracted to him. Of course she was. He was everything I wasn't—confident, powerful, physically imposing. He radiated the kind of alpha energy that made women instinctively submit. And the worst part was, I couldn't even blame her for responding to it.

"Let's go to bed," I said, finding Elena on the terrace, where she'd been talking to Marcus and two of his friends. "It's late."

"Already?" she pouted, her lower lip pushing out in a way that was usually adorable but now felt dangerous. "The night's just getting started. Marcus was going to show me the wine cellar."

"Another time," I said, perhaps too sharply. "I'm tired."

Marcus looked at me with something like pity in his eyes. "Of course, David. You two go get some rest. Big day tomorrow. Lots of activities planned."

He leaned in to kiss Elena's cheek, his hand "accidentally" grazing her breast as he pulled away. I saw her shiver, saw the flush that crept up her neck. She was drunk, I told myself. She didn't know what she was doing. But as I guided her upstairs, her body swaying against mine, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between us, some fundamental understanding that had been silently rewritten.

Our room felt different when we entered it, smaller somehow, the walls closer together. Elena immediately began peeling off her dress, letting it pool on the floor, standing before me in nothing but a black lace bra and matching thong. Her body was magnificent in the moonlight streaming through the windows, all curves and shadows, her nipples visible through the thin fabric.

"David," she said, her voice husky with alcohol and something else. "Do you think Marcus is attractive?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. "What?"

"I mean, objectively. Do you think he's good looking?"

"He's... he's a good-looking man, yes. Why are you asking me this?"

She crawled onto the bed, her ass raised in the air as she moved, the black lace of her thong barely covering her pussy. "I was just thinking about what he said. About the gym. About getting in shape." She rolled onto her back, her breasts spilling out of the bra cups. "Do you think I need to work out more?"

I was on her in seconds, my mouth finding hers, my hands roughly groping her tits through the lace. She responded eagerly, arching into my touch, but there was a desperation to it that hadn't been there before, as if she were trying to prove something to herself.

"You're perfect," I growled against her neck, my cock straining against my pants. "You're fucking perfect."

"Show me," she whispered. "Show me how much you want me."

I fumbled with my belt, my pants, finally freeing my erection. It was average—five and a half inches on a good day, decent girth but nothing that would make a woman gasp. Elena had never complained, had always seemed satisfied, but as I positioned myself between her legs, I couldn't help but wonder if she was thinking about Marcus, about what he might have beneath his tailored pants.

I pushed inside her, and she was wet, so wet, but not as tight as usual. She'd been aroused all night, I realized, her body preparing itself for something that hadn't come. For someone who hadn't come.

"Elena," I panted, thrusting into her with increasing desperation. "Tell me you love me."

"I love you," she moaned, her eyes closed, her head thrown back. "I love you, David."

But her hips weren't moving with me. She was lying still, accepting my thrusts but not participating, her mind clearly elsewhere. I felt the humiliation burning through me even as my orgasm built, the knowledge that I was using her body while she thought of another man. I came with a strangled cry, spilling my seed inside her with pathetic quickness, collapsing beside her in a sweat-slicked heap.

She didn't come. She never came when we had sex like this, fast and desperate and empty. But she didn't seem disappointed. She just kissed my forehead, whispered that she loved me again, and turned over to sleep.

I lay awake for hours, listening to her breathing even out, staring at the ceiling and hating myself for what I'd felt during those final moments. Because as pathetic as it was, as humiliating as it was to know my wife was fantasizing about another man while I fucked her, I had never come harder in my life.

I woke to an empty bed, the sheets beside me cold. The clock read 3:47 AM, and the house was silent except for the distant sound of waves against the shore. Elena's phone was still on the nightstand, her dress still on the floor. She couldn't have gone far.

I pulled on my boxers and a t-shirt, padding silently down the hallway. The party had clearly wound down—empty glasses littered the surfaces, the music had stopped, and the house felt hollow in the way that only large spaces can when emptied of people.

I found them in the library.

The door was ajar, just enough that I could see inside without being seen. And what I saw stopped my heart, then started it again at double speed.

Marcus was sitting in a leather armchair, fully dressed still, his legs spread in that dominant posture that seemed natural to him. And Elena—my Elena—was kneeling between his legs, her hair a wild tangle around her shoulders, wearing only the black lace thong she'd gone to bed in. Her bra was gone, her heavy breasts hanging free, nipples hard and dark in the dim lamplight.

But that wasn't what made my knees weak. It was what she was doing with her mouth.

Marcus's cock was enormous. I mean, truly, pornographically huge—a thick, veined shaft that must have been nine inches long, with a flared head that was currently disappearing between my wife's stretched lips. She was struggling with it, I could see, her jaw working to accommodate his girth, tears streaming down her face from the effort. But her eyes were closed in ecstasy, her hands gripping his thighs, her body language screaming submission and desire.

"That's it, Elena," Marcus was saying, his voice low and commanding. "Take it deeper. Show me how much you want this."

She moaned around him, the sound vibrating through his shaft, and he threw his head back in pleasure. I watched, frozen in the doorway, as she began to move, bobbing her head up and down his length, taking more of him each time, her throat bulging with the effort. She'd never been able to deepthroat me—I was too thick for her small mouth, she'd always said. But she was doing it for him, taking him all the way to the root, her nose pressed against his trimmed pubic hair, holding him there until she gagged, then pulling back with strings of saliva connecting her lips to his cock.

"Fuck, you're good at this," Marcus groaned, his hands finding her hair, guiding her movements. "Better than I expected. Does David know what a dirty little cocksucker he's married to?"

Elena pulled off him with a wet pop, her face flushed and messy, her eyes glazed with lust. "He doesn't know anything," she breathed. "He thinks I'm innocent. He thinks I'm his sweet little wife."

"And what are you really?"

"I'm a slut," she said, and the word sent a jolt through my groin. "I'm a slut for big cock. I've been dreaming about this since I saw you at the reunion, Marcus. I touched myself thinking about you. While he was sleeping next to me."

"Show me," Marcus commanded. "Show me how you touched yourself."

Elena sat back on her heels, her breasts heaving, and slid her hand into her thong. I could see her fingers moving beneath the lace, could hear the wet sounds of her arousal. She was soaked, absolutely dripping, her pussy making obscene noises as she frigged herself in front of another man.

"Look at me," Marcus ordered, and she obeyed, her eyes locking onto his massive erection. "Tell me how much bigger I am than your husband."

"So much bigger," she whimpered, her fingers moving faster. "He's tiny compared to you. I can barely feel him when he fucks me. But you... you would fill me up. You'd stretch me out. God, I want you inside me, Marcus. Please. Please fuck me."

"Not yet," he said, reaching down to slap his heavy cock against her cheek, leaving a wet smear of precum on her skin. "Suck my balls first. Worship them. Show me you understand who's in charge here."

Elena dove between his legs with embarrassing eagerness, her mouth finding his heavy sack, licking and sucking at his testicles with a devotion she'd never shown to any part of my body. She took one into her mouth, rolling it around with her tongue, then the other, her hand never stopping its movement between her legs.

"That's it," Marcus groaned. "That's a good little married slut. You know this is what you were made for, don't you? Not that pathetic husband of yours. A real man. A man who can actually satisfy you."

"Yes," Elena moaned against his balls. "Yes, please, I need it. I need you."

He stood up suddenly, his cock swinging heavily before him, and pulled her to her feet by her hair. She cried out at the rough handling, but her nipples were so hard they looked painful, and I could see a wet spot spreading on the front of her thong.

"Turn around," he ordered. "Bend over the desk."

Elena scrambled to obey, presenting herself over the antique mahogany desk, her ass raised high, her thong barely covering her swollen pussy lips. Marcus stepped behind her, gripping her hips, and with one brutal motion, ripped the lace from her body, leaving her completely naked and exposed.

"Look at this pussy," he said, running a finger through her folds, making her gasp. "Soaked. Absolutely dripping. You really are desperate for this, aren't you?"

"Please," Elena begged, pushing back against his hand. "Please fuck me. I need your cock. I need to feel full."

"Your husband's right upstairs," Marcus said, positioning himself behind her, his massive cock resting against her ass crack. "What would he think if he could see you now? On your knees for me, begging to be fucked like a whore?"

"I don't care," Elena sobbed. "I don't care about him. Just fuck me. Please, Marcus. Please."

He entered her in one long, slow thrust.

The sound Elena made was like nothing I'd ever heard from her—part scream, part sob, part animalistic groan of pure satisfaction. Her back arched, her fingers clawing at the desk surface, as Marcus buried himself to the hilt in her welcoming cunt.

"Oh god," she wailed. "Oh god, oh god, you're so big. You're so fucking big."

"That's it," Marcus grunted, withdrawing slowly before slamming back in. "Take it. Take all of it. This is what you've been missing, isn't it? This is what you need."

"Yes," Elena keened, her voice breaking. "Yes, yes, yes. Fuck me harder. Please, harder."

Marcus began to move in earnest, his hips slapping against her ass with wet, rhythmic sounds. The desk creaked beneath them, shifting with each thrust, and Elena's breasts swung wildly beneath her, her nipples dragging against the polished wood. She was incoherent now, babbling a mixture of English and Italian, cursing and praying and begging all at once.

I should have stopped it. I should have burst through the door, demanded to know what was happening, fought for my wife's honor. But I didn't. I stood there, my hand shoved into my boxers, stroking my own pitiful erection as I watched my best friend claim my wife in ways I'd never been able to.

"Look at you," Marcus taunted, his pace never slowing. "Look at how you take my cock. Your pussy is stretched around me, Elena. You're gripping me so tight. When was the last time David made you feel like this?"

"Never," she sobbed. "Never, never, never. He's too small. He can't reach the places you can. Oh god, right there, please, right there."

Marcus adjusted his angle, and Elena's reaction was instantaneous—her head thrown back, her mouth open in a silent scream, her whole body going rigid.

"There it is," Marcus said, his voice triumphant. "Your G-spot. The spot your husband can't find because he's not long enough to reach it. Can you feel me rubbing against it, Elena? Can you feel how deep I am?"

"Yes," she screamed, the sound muffled by her own arm as she bit down on her wrist. "Yes, I'm going to cum. Marcus, I'm going to cum on your cock. Please don't stop. Please don't stop."

"I'm not stopping until you're a quivering mess," he promised, his thrusts becoming harder, more punishing. "I'm going to fuck you until you forget his name. Until all you can think about is my cock. My cum. My seed filling your married pussy."

"Yes," Elena begged. "Yes, fill me. Please cum inside me. I want to feel it. I want to carry your cum inside me when I go back to him."

The words should have destroyed me. They should have been the end of our marriage, the end of my friendship, the end of everything. Instead, they pushed me over the edge. I bit down on my own hand to stifle my cry as I came in my boxers, my pathetic orgasm barely registering against the symphony of pleasure coming from the library.

Elena was cumming too, her body convulsing around Marcus's relentless cock, her screams finally escaping her throat in a continuous wail of ecstasy. She came for what seemed like minutes, her pussy clamping down on him, her juices running down her thighs, her whole body shaking with the force of her orgasm.

And still Marcus didn't stop. He fucked her through her climax, his stamina inhuman, his cock never softening. He pulled her upright, one hand gripping her throat, the other roughly kneading her breast, and continued to piston into her from behind, his hips a blur of motion.

"One more," he commanded. "Cum for me again, Elena. Show me what a greedy slut you are."

"I can't," she whimpered, even as her body began to respond. "It's too much. It's too intense."

"You can," he insisted, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in tight circles as he fucked her. "You will. Because you belong to me now. This pussy is mine. These tits are mine. You're going to cum when I tell you to cum, and you're going to take my load like a good little whore."

"Oh god," Elena moaned, her head lolling back against his shoulder. "Oh god, oh god, I'm cumming again. Marcus, I'm cumming again!"

Her second orgasm was even more violent than the first, her legs giving out beneath her, her whole weight supported by his hands on her throat and breast. She squirted, I realized with shock, a gush of liquid spraying from her pussy around his thrusting cock, soaking the desk and the floor beneath them. I'd never made her squirt. I'd never even known she could.

"That's it," Marcus growled, his own control finally breaking. "Take it. Take my cum, you cheating slut. Take it deep."

He slammed into her one final time, burying himself to the root, and I could see his balls tighten, could see the pulse of his cock as he emptied himself into my wife's unprotected pussy. He came for what seemed like forever, rope after rope of thick seed flooding her depths, filling her up in a way I never could.

When he finally pulled out, I saw the evidence of their union dripping from her swollen, gaping pussy—thick white cum mixed with her own arousal, running down her thighs, marking her as his. Elena collapsed onto the desk, her body twitching with aftershocks, her breathing ragged and desperate.

Marcus stood over her, his cock still half-hard and glistening with their combined fluids. He reached down and scooped some of his cum from her dripping cunt, bringing it to her lips. She opened automatically, sucking his fingers clean with a contented moan.

"Go back to your husband," he said, his voice soft now, almost tender. "Go back to bed with my cum inside you. And tomorrow, when he fucks you, I want you to think about this. About how I filled you. About how you'll never feel that full again unless it's with me."

"Yes," Elena whispered, her eyes closed, her face flushed with satisfaction. "Yes, Marcus."

I stumbled back to our room, my legs weak, my boxers soaked with my own cum. I barely made it to the bed before I heard her footsteps in the hallway, the soft click of the door closing, the rustle of fabric as she climbed back into bed beside me.

She smelled of sex and sweat and another man's cologne. Her body was still radiating heat, her skin damp to the touch. She curled against me, her back to my chest, and I felt the wetness between her legs soak into the sheets.

"David?" she whispered, her voice thick with exhaustion and satisfaction.

"Yes?" I managed, my throat dry.

"I love you," she said. And then, softer, almost too quiet to hear: "Thank you for waiting for me."

I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what she meant. So I just held her, feeling the stickiness of another man's seed against my thigh, listening to her breathing even out into sleep, and wondering what the morning would bring.

I didn't sleep. I couldn't. I lay there for hours, replaying what I'd seen, feeling the shame and arousal war within me. Around five, I felt Elena stir, her hand moving between her legs, fingers finding her sensitive clit, rubbing herself back to arousal as she dreamed. She moaned in her sleep, a name on her lips that wasn't mine, and came again with a shuddering sigh that made my cock twitch in response.

When the sun finally rose, painting the room in golden light, I was still awake, still hard, still confused. Elena woke slowly, stretching like a cat, her breasts pushing against the sheet. She turned to me, her eyes clear and innocent, as if the night before had never happened.

"Good morning," she said, kissing my cheek. "Did you sleep well?"

I looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the marks on her neck where Marcus's fingers had gripped her, the slight swelling of her lips from his kisses, the way she walked gingerly to the bathroom, her pussy sore from his size.

"I slept fine," I lied. "How about you?"

"Amazing," she said, and the smile she gave me was genuine, radiant, more beautiful than I'd seen in months. "I had the most wonderful dreams."

She showered for a long time, and when she emerged, wrapped in a towel, she found me sitting on the bed, staring at my hands.

"David," she said, her voice changing, becoming serious. "About last night..."

I looked up, my heart pounding. Was this the moment? The confession? The end?

"I think we need to talk," she continued, sitting beside me, her thigh pressing against mine. "About us. About what we want."

"Okay," I said, my voice barely audible.

"I've been thinking," she said, her honey eyes meeting mine with an intensity that took my breath away. "About our marriage. About what makes us happy. And I think... I think we need to be honest with each other."

"Elena, if this is about—"

"Let me finish," she interrupted, her hand finding mine, her fingers intertwining with my own. "I love you, David. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone. But last night, I realized something. I realized that love and desire don't have to come from the same place. That I can love you completely and still... still need things that you can't give me."

I felt tears prick my eyes, humiliation and relief warring in my chest. "You mean Marcus."

"I mean passion," she said carefully. "Intensity. The kind of sex that leaves you unable to walk straight. I've been denying myself that because I thought it would hurt you. But last night, when I was with him... I realized that denying it hurts us both."

"You were with him," I repeated, the words tasting strange in my mouth.

"I was," she admitted, her chin lifting in a gesture of defiance that was also heartbreaking in its vulnerability. "And I want to be with him again. But I want to be with you too. I want us to find a way to make this work. To let me have what I need without losing what we have."

"You want me to let you cheat on me," I said, the words sounding foreign.

"I want you to let me be free," she corrected gently. "And I want you to be free too. To admit what you really want. Because I saw you, David. Last night. In the doorway."

The blood drained from my face. "You... you saw me?"

"I felt you," she said, her hand squeezing mine. "I knew you were there the whole time. And knowing you were watching, knowing you saw what he did to me... it made it even hotter. Because I could feel your desire. Your jealousy. Your arousal. You're not angry, David. You're excited."

I couldn't deny it. The evidence was still sticky in my boxers, the memory still vivid in my mind.

"I don't understand," I whispered. "Why do I feel this way? Why does it turn me on to see you with him?"

"Because you're a cuckold," she said, the word landing between us like a stone in still water. "And that's okay. It's more than okay. It's beautiful. It means you love me enough to want my pleasure above your own. It means you understand that my body deserves to be worshipped, to be used, to be filled in ways that you can't manage."

She stood up then, dropping the towel, standing naked before me in the morning light. Her body was marked by his touch—bruises on her hips, love bites on her breasts, the swollen redness between her legs that spoke of hours of hard use.

"Look at me," she commanded, and I obeyed, my eyes traveling over her curves. "This is what he did to me. This is what I want. And if you can accept it, if you can embrace it... we can have something incredible. Something most couples never even dream of."

She knelt before me, her hands on my knees, her eyes looking up at me with a mixture of love and lust that made my heart ache.

"Will you try?" she asked. "For me? For us?"

I looked at her—my wife, my Elena, transformed by another man's cock into something even more beautiful, more confident, more alive than she'd ever been. And I thought about the way I'd felt watching her, the intensity of my orgasm, the strange peace that had settled over me even as my world fell apart.

"Yes," I said, the word coming out as a surrender and a promise. "Yes, I'll try."

She smiled then, the smile of a woman who knows she's won, and pressed a kiss to my thigh, high up, dangerously close to where my cock was straining against my pajama pants.

"Good," she purred. "Because Marcus invited us to stay another night. And this time... I want you to watch properly. Up close. I want you to see exactly what I become when I'm with him. And then, when he's done with me... I want you to clean me up. With your tongue."

The thought should have disgusted me. Instead, it made me harder than I'd ever been.

"Would you like that?" she asked, her hand finding my erection through the fabric. "Would you like to taste his cum on my pussy? To know that you're reclaiming me, even if you can't fill me like he does?"

"Yes," I groaned, the admission tearing from my throat. "Yes, I want that. I want to taste you. I want to taste him. I want..."

"What?" she prompted, her fingers teasing me through the cloth.

"I want to see you cum on his cock," I confessed, the words rushing out in a flood of released shame. "I want to see you stretched around him. I want to hear you beg for his cum. I want... god, Elena, I want to be your cuckold. I want to be the husband who watches his wife get properly fucked."

"Then that's what you'll be," she said, and with a swift motion, she pulled my pants down and took my cock into her mouth.

It was different from any blowjob she'd ever given me. There was no hesitation, no gentleness—only hunger, desperation, a need to prove something. She sucked me with abandon, her head bobbing wildly, her hand working my shaft in counterpoint to her mouth. She took me deeper than she ever had, her throat relaxing around my length, and I realized she was showing off, demonstrating what she'd learned from Marcus, proving that she was now capable of things she'd never been capable of before.