My Wife's Old Flame

Mark had always known Lisa was out of his league. At thirty-eight he was the quiet accountant type—soft around the middle, thinning hair, the kind of man who ironed his shirts on Sunday nights and never raised his voice. Lisa was thirty-six and still turned heads: long dark hair, a body kept tight by yoga and sheer stubbornness, eyes that could strip a man bare with a glance. She’d married him for safety, for the steady paycheck and the gentle hands, but the hunger in her never fully went away.

When Derek’s name came up again—her old college boyfriend, the one who used to fuck her raw in the dorm while her roommate pretended to sleep—Mark had felt the familiar twist of dread and something hotter underneath. Derek was everything Mark wasn’t: six-foot-four, shoulders like a linebacker, deep brown skin stretched over hard muscle earned swinging hammers on job sites. A contractor now, successful enough to drive a black truck that looked like it could eat Mark’s sedan. Lisa had invited him over for “catch-up dinner.” Casual. Friendly. Mark had spent the afternoon scrubbing the kitchen until his hands were raw.

Derek arrived in jeans that hugged his thick thighs and a black T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. He filled the doorway. Lisa answered in a short sundress, no bra, nipples already pressing against the thin fabric. She hugged him too long, pressed her tits against that solid wall of him, and Mark watched from the hallway with a glass of wine already shaking in his grip.

Dinner was torture. They sat at the small table, candles flickering, and the flirting started before the pasta was even plated. Derek’s deep voice rolled over the room, easy confidence. He told stories about college—nights Lisa used to sneak into his place, how loud she got when he held her down. Lisa laughed, toes brushing Derek’s leg under the table, eyes bright. Mark tried to contribute, weak jokes that died in the air. Lisa kept glancing at him, a little smile that said she knew exactly what she was doing.

“I used to think about you all the time after we broke up,” Lisa said, twirling wine in her glass, looking straight at Derek. “Especially when Mark and I… you know. I’d close my eyes and remember how you stretched me. How you didn’t ask. You just took.”

Mark’s fork clattered. Heat flooded his face. Derek chuckled, low and rough, eyes flicking to Mark like he was checking on a puppy.

“That right, Lisa? You still wonder?”

She bit her lip, nodded. “Every fucking time. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be fucked by you again. Really fucked. Not the careful stuff.” Her gaze slid to Mark, soft but merciless. “No offense, baby. You’re sweet. But Derek… he was a real man about it.”

The words landed like a slap. Mark’s cock twitched traitorously in his slacks. He could feel the humiliation crawling up his neck, hot and sticky, and under it a sick, pulsing arousal. She meant it. She genuinely wanted Derek’s thick black cock splitting her open again while Mark sat there and took it. The knowledge made his balls ache.

Derek leaned back, spreading those long legs, the outline of his package already heavy against his thigh. “Your husband’s looking a little pale, Lisa. You sure he’s okay with this talk?”

Lisa reached across and squeezed Mark’s hand, thumb stroking his knuckles. “He’s fine. Aren’t you, Mark? You like hearing it. I can tell.” Her voice dropped. “You’ve got that look. The one where you’re hard and ashamed at the same time.”

Mark swallowed. His throat was dry. “I… I just want you happy.”

“Good boy,” she whispered, and the praise felt like another cut.

They cleared the plates in a haze of charged silence. Lisa poured more wine. Derek’s arm brushed hers every time he moved. Mark’s erection was obvious now, tenting his pants, and he didn’t dare adjust it. Every time Lisa laughed at something Derek said, low and throaty, Mark’s stomach flipped. She was wet already; he could smell her when she walked past—that sweet, heavy scent she got when she was aching for it rough.