Dared to Watch My Best Friend's Wife Get Fucked

Mark had always prided himself on being the funny one in the group, the guy who could turn a beer run into a comedy routine or deflate Derek’s endless bragging with one perfectly timed quip. But standing in the hallway of Derek’s lake house at 11 p.m. on a Saturday, clutching a half-empty bottle of whiskey like a security blanket, he felt about as witty as a wet sock. Derek’s dare hung in the air between them, thick and ridiculous.

“Come on, man,” Derek said, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to rattle his teeth. “It’s just a little game. Lena’s into it. She literally said, and I quote, ‘If Mark’s too chicken to watch me get railed, I’ll never let him live it down.’ You’re not gonna let my wife think you’re a pussy, are you?”

Mark laughed, the sound coming out higher than intended. “Derek, buddy, I love you, but hiding in a closet while you two fuck is peak ‘how did my life get here’ energy. What if I sneeze? What if I drop my phone? What if my dick explodes from pure awkwardness?”

Derek grinned that cocky, white-toothed grin that had somehow landed him a wife who looked like she belonged on the cover of a fitness magazine. Lena was twenty-nine, all long dark hair, sharp green eyes, and a body that made Mark’s brain short-circuit every time she bent over to grab a beer from the cooler. “She’s gonna know you’re there the whole time. That’s the point. Consensual voyeur shit. Kinky dare. You watch, we know, everybody wins. Especially your right hand later.”

“Jesus.” Mark rubbed his face. The lake house was quiet except for the distant slap of water against the dock. Guys’ weekend had somehow mutated into this. He should say no. He was going to say no. Instead he heard himself mutter, “Fine. But if I die of blue balls, you’re paying for the funeral. And I want the good whiskey at the wake.”

Derek whooped, hauled him down the hall, and shoved him toward the walk-in closet in the master bedroom. “Get in. Clothes stay on, Romeo. This isn’t a three-way unless she invites you. Just watch. Stroke if you want. Hell, film it in your head for the spank bank. Lena’s already in bed pretending to be asleep. Showtime in five.”

The closet smelled like cedar and Lena’s perfume—something citrusy and expensive. Mark wedged himself between hanging dresses and a row of Derek’s stupid Hawaiian shirts, leaving the slatted door cracked just enough. His heart hammered. This was insane. Hilarious. Terrifying. His cock was already half-hard just from the setup, traitor that it was. He took a long pull from the whiskey bottle, wiped his mouth, and tried to remember how breathing worked.

The bedroom door clicked shut. Soft footsteps. Then the mattress creaked.

Lena’s voice floated out, low and sleepy-fake. “Derek? That you, baby?”

“Who else would it be?” Derek’s tone was pure smug satisfaction. “Miss me?”