My Wife's Friend After Hours

I sat in my dimly lit office cubicle long after everyone else had gone home, the glow of the spreadsheet on my monitor casting pale light across my thin face and the cheap tie loosened around my neck. Another late-night project for the firm, numbers blurring together as I hunched over the keyboard, my small frame swallowed by the oversized chair. At thirty-four I was still the same meek accountant who’d never quite filled out, never quite commanded a room—especially not like Marcus did. My wife Sarah’s college friend, the one who’d stayed in her life all these years while I hovered on the edges. Marcus: six-foot-two of carved muscle from years as a personal trainer, that easy confidence rolling off him in waves, the kind of man who walked into a bar and owned it without trying. Sarah had always laughed a little too loudly at his jokes whenever he visited, her curvy body leaning in, those full breasts pressing against her blouse as she touched his arm. I’d told myself it was harmless. Best friends. Nothing more. But late at night, lying next to her soft, generous hips and that thick ass that filled my hands so completely, I’d catch her smiling at her phone, and the suspicion would coil in my gut like a living thing.

My phone buzzed against the desk just past eleven. Sarah’s name lit the screen. I swiped it open, heart already stuttering.

Marcus stopped by for drinks after his last client. Things are getting a little flirty over here, babe. Come home? I want you here for this.

I stared at the words until they burned into my retinas. Flirty. She wanted me home. The air in the empty office suddenly felt too thin. I packed my laptop with shaking hands, the drive home a blur of streetlights and rising heat low in my belly. My cock—pathetic, barely four inches even when fully hard—twitched uselessly against my thigh as images flooded me: Sarah’s round ass in those tight yoga pants she lived in, Marcus’s thick fingers brushing her waist, her full lips parting in that way she did when she was turned on. I’d seen the way she looked at him over dinner last month, the way her nipples hardened under her shirt when he flexed after helping move furniture. She fantasized about him. I knew it. And now she was texting me to come watch the fantasy edge closer to real.

The house was quiet when I pulled into the driveway, only the soft yellow glow of the living room lamps spilling through the curtains. I let myself in with my key, the familiar scent of her vanilla perfume mixed with something sharper—his cologne, clean sweat and spice. They were on the couch. Sarah sat curled against the armrest in a thin white tank top that clung to her heavy breasts, no bra, dark nipples already peaked and visible through the fabric. Her short black skirt had ridden up her thick thighs. Marcus sprawled beside her, one massive arm draped along the back of the couch, his black t-shirt stretched tight across a chest that looked carved from stone, jeans hugging legs like tree trunks. He smirked when he saw me, that same cocky flash of white teeth he’d always given me, like I was the punchline.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, voice deep and lazy. “Your wife’s been keeping me company.”

Sarah’s eyes locked on mine the second I stepped into the room. She didn’t look guilty. She looked lit from within, cheeks flushed, lips glossy. She stood slowly, those wide hips swaying, and crossed to me. Her hands came up to cup my face, soft and warm, and she kissed me—tender, lingering, the kind of kiss that used to make me feel chosen. I tasted wine on her tongue. When she pulled back her voice was low, confessional, meant only for me even though Marcus could hear every word.