Maya

My wife brought a stranger to our house to sleep with her in our bed and make me watch them, while she whispers humiliating words to me. The key turns in the lock at 11:47 PM. I’m still awake, pretending to read. The bedside lamp casts a warm triangle across my lap, but the words on the page haven’t moved in twenty minutes. Her heels click across the hardwood in the hallway, then stop. A murmur. A low male laugh. My stomach drops through the mattress. The bedroom door swings open and she stands there, lipstick smudged at the corner, a flush climbing her chest. Behind her, a man I’ve never seen. Broad shoulders. Stubble. Hands in the pockets of his jeans like he owns the space already. “Mark,” she says, and her voice is soft. Almost tender. “I want you to watch.” The book slides from my fingers. He steps past her into the room. Takes in the bed, the framed wedding photo on the dresser, me. His gaze is unhurried. Curious. He looks at me the way you look at a piece of furniture you’re about to move out of the way. My wife crosses to the bed and sits beside my hip. Her perfume hits me — jasmine, something floral, layered over the faint sourness of a bar. She cups my jaw and turns my face toward hers. “I need this,” she whispers. “And you’re going to give it to me.” My throat locks. I want to ask why. I want to grab her wrist. I do neither. She kisses my forehead, then stands and walks to him. They don’t rush. He pulls her blouse from her waistband, button by button, watching me the whole time. Her skin catches the lamplight as the fabric falls open. Black lace. The bra I bought her for our anniversary. “See how he looks at me?” she says, not to him, to me. “He sees me. You just look at me.” His hands find her waist. He pulls her close and kisses her neck, slow and deliberate, and she tilts her head back and moans. A sound I haven’t heard from her in years. My hands grip the sheets. He works the clasp of her bra one-handed. It falls. Her breasts press against his chest and she gasps, arches into him. He palms her, thumbs her nipple, and she whimpers. “That’s it,” she breathes. “God, yes.” The room narrows. I’m frozen at the edge of the bed, a spectator in my own marriage. Her skirt drops. His jeans follow. She’s in black panties and nothing else, and he’s hard, thick, already glistening at the tip. She sinks to her knees. My wife. On her knees. For a stranger. She takes him in her mouth and I see her cheeks hollow. Her hand wraps around the base of his shaft and she works him with practiced ease, her tongue tracing the underside, her eyes closed. She moans around him and his head falls back. “Fuck,” he grunts. “She’s good at this.” She is. She’s too good at this. I don’t recognize the sounds she’s making. Greedy. Hungry. She takes him deeper, her throat convulsing, and pulls off with a wet gasp. “You never made me feel like this,” she says, looking at me. Her voice is steady. Cruel. “He makes me want it.” She crawls onto the bed on all fours, facing me. He moves behind her. His hands part her thighs, hook her panties aside. She’s already soaked — I can see it in the lamplight, the shine of her. He doesn’t tease. He pushes in. Her mouth falls open. A long, shaking exhale. “Oh… oh, fuck.” He grips her hips and starts slow. Deep. Each thrust pushes her forward on the sheets, and she rocks back to meet him. Her eyes are locked on mine. “Better,” she whispers. “So much better than you.” My jaw clenches. My cock is hard against my thigh and I hate it. I hate that I’m watching. I hate that I’m hard. He picks up the pace. The bed creaks. Her breath comes in short, punched-out gasps. “Tell him,” he grunts. “Tell him how I feel.” She looks right through me. “He’s bigger. Fuller. He fills me.” A sob catches in my chest. I swallow it. He reaches around and finds her clit, circles it with his thumb, and she cries out. Her arms buckle. Her face presses into the duvet. “That’s it,” she moans.