Karaoke Duet Becomes Real

I still get hard just thinking about that night, even though it started with me pretending I was fine with everything. Yara and I had been going to The Velvet Note for years, our favorite karaoke spot with the sticky floors and the neon that made everyone look a little drunker and a lot sexier. She was twenty-eight, all curves that strained against her tight red dress, the kind of flirty that made bartenders forget other orders. I was thirty-two, average build, the reliable one who held her purse and clapped too loud. Our mutual friend Kofi showed up like he always did—thirty-four, tall enough to block the stage lights, muscular under his black button-down, confident in that way that made women lean in without realizing it.

We grabbed our usual booth near the side of the stage. Yara slid in close to me at first, her thigh warm against mine, but the second Kofi sat across from us she angled herself toward him. I ordered the first round—whiskey for me, something sweet and pink for her, beer for him—and tried to laugh at their banter. Kofi had this deep voice that filled the space. “You look dangerous tonight, Yara. That dress ought to come with a warning.”

She giggled, the excited little sound she usually saved for when I whispered dirty things in her ear at home. “Flatterer. You just want me to pick a song that shows it off.”

I watched his eyes drop to the deep V of her neckline, lingering on the soft swell of her tits, then back up. She didn’t pull away. Instead she shifted so the fabric stretched tighter. My cock gave a traitor twitch under the table. I told myself it was just the usual friendly heat. We’d known Kofi forever. Harmless.

They flipped through the song book together. I stayed in the booth, nursing my drink, feeling like furniture. Yara’s finger traced down the list, brushing Kofi’s hand every time she turned a page. “Something sultry,” she said. “Not the usual pop crap. I want to feel it.”

Kofi leaned closer, his shoulder almost touching hers. “How about that duet—the one where the guy talks low and the girl answers all breathy? ‘Heat Between Us.’ You’d kill the female part. That voice of yours...” He paused, looking at her mouth. “And the way you move. Body like that was made for the spotlight.”

She laughed again, higher, cheeks flushing under the pink neon. “Stop. You’re going to make me nervous.” But her hand stayed on the book, pinky hooked against his. I saw the playful touch—her knuckles grazing his forearm as she pointed at the lyrics preview. “Rehearse with me real quick? Just the chorus so I don’t blank.”

They stood by the edge of the stage while some off-key couple butchered a ballad. I sat alone with their half-finished drinks and the growing tightness in my jeans. Yara faced him, hips cocked, the dress riding up her thick thighs every time she swayed. Kofi rested a hand lightly on her waist “to count the tempo,” he claimed. His fingers spread over the curve there, thumb stroking once, slow. She didn’t step back. She looked up at him through her lashes and sang the first line soft, almost against his chest.

“Your turn,” she breathed when she finished. He answered in that rich baritone, eyes locked on hers the whole time. Lingering eye contact—no quick glance, no polite smile. It stretched. She bit her lip mid-note and let out another of those giggles when he murmured, “Fuck, your voice gets lower when you’re into it. And that body... the way you’re already moving for me.”

For him. Not for the song. I heard it clear as the feedback from the speakers. My stomach flipped even as my dick hardened fully. I shifted in the booth, trying to hide it, telling myself I should joke, call them over, break it up. Instead I watched. Yara’s nipples had gone tight against the thin red fabric. She noticed him noticing and arched a little, playful, testing. His hand on her waist slid half an inch lower, fingertips brushing the start of her ass. She shivered and sang louder, pressing closer so her tits nearly grazed his shirt.

“Again,” she said after they finished the chorus. “I keep messing the harmony.” Bullshit. She hit every note. She just wanted more of his hands, more of that low praise. Kofi grinned, confident, and turned her slightly so her back was half to me. Now I got the full view of his palm spanning her hip, the way her ass filled out the dress when she popped it to the beat he hummed. “You’re perfect,” he told her. “Voice like honey and a body that makes a man forget the lyrics. Cody’s a lucky bastard.”

She glanced over her shoulder at me then—quick, flushed, eyes bright. I raised my glass like an idiot, forcing a smile. Inside I was replaying every compliment, every touch. Her excited giggles kept coming every time he leaned in to correct a breath or brush hair from her neck. “Right there,” he said once, fingers trailing the side of her breast as if adjusting her posture for the mic. “Chest open. Yeah. Christ, Yara.”

By the time their names got called, the tension had me sweating. They took the stage together. The lights hit her curves hard—deep cleavage, the roll of her belly that I loved to grip, those wide hips. Kofi stood behind her for the opening, one hand on her shoulder, singing into the shared mic so close his lips almost touched her ear. The duet was filthy even before they added the looks. She answered every line with a roll of her body, grinding back just enough that his crotch met the soft give of her ass on the beat. The crowd hooted. I sat frozen, drink forgotten, cock throbbing against my zipper while I catalogued every second: the eye contact that never broke, the way she reached back to lace her fingers with his during the bridge, how she giggled breathlessly into the mic when he ad-libbed “so fucking sexy” low enough only she and I caught it.

They finished to whistles and applause. Yara was glowing, chest heaving, lipstick a little smeared from how close they’d been. Kofi’s hand stayed on the small of her back all the way to the booth. She dropped beside me this time but immediately angled toward him again, knee pressing his under the table.

“Well?” she asked me, voice still husky. “How’d we look?”

I swallowed. “Incredible. You two... clicked.”

Kofi smirked, leaning in so his knee stayed locked against hers. “Your wife’s got a gift. And she feels even better up there than she sounds. All that soft heat moving with me.” His eyes flicked to me, measuring. Yara’s hand found my thigh under the table, squeezing, but her other hand was already toying with the straw in Kofi’s drink, fingers brushing his.

I should have said we needed to head home. Instead I bought another round and let the night keep stretching. Yara kept “accidentally” dropping her napkin so she could bend and give him the view down her dress. He kept finding reasons to touch her—reaching past for the salt, thumb stroking her wrist when he handed her the glass. Every compliment landed like a spark: her voice, the way her tits moved when she laughed, how the dress hugged “all the best parts.” She soaked it up, giggling, cheeks pink, thighs pressing together like she was already wet.

I sat there confessing nothing out loud, just watching my curvy flirty wife light up under our friend’s attention while my own neglected cock ached. The karaoke book still lay open between them. She flipped a page with her free hand and murmured, “Maybe one more later. Something even slower.” Kofi’s smile said he was already thinking past the stage, past the bar, straight to whatever came after the last song. Yara’s excited little shiver told me she was thinking it too. And me? I stayed quiet in the booth, heart pounding, already wondering how far I’d let the tension pull before I had to admit I wanted to see exactly where it went.

I still get hard just thinking about that night, even though it started with me pretending I was fine with everything. The booth felt smaller after their first song, the air thick with the leftover heat of the stage lights and the way Yara kept shifting so her thigh stayed pressed to Kofi’s. She toyed with the straw in his fresh beer, ice clinking, and every so often her knuckles brushed the back of his hand like she couldn’t help it. I nursed my whiskey and watched the flush climb her chest, that deep V of red fabric darkening a shade darker where her tits rose and fell too fast.

“One more,” she said suddenly, voice still carrying that husky edge from the mic. “Something slower this time. I want to really feel it.” She flipped the karaoke book open again, the plastic pages sticking under her fingers, and angled it so Kofi could see. Her free hand found my knee under the table and squeezed once—hard, deliberate—before sliding away to rest on the open page instead. Kofi leaned in until his shoulder bumped hers, scanning the list, and I caught the faint scent of his cologne mixed with her perfume, something warm and skin-close.

“‘Slow Burn,’” he murmured, tapping the title with a blunt fingertip. “You take the lead lines. I’ll come in low underneath. You game?”

Yara’s laugh came out breathy. “I’m always game with you.” She glanced at me then, eyes bright under the neon, and I forced another smile that felt like it might crack. Inside my jeans my cock was a rigid, aching line, untouched and ignored while she glowed for him. They stood together, and this time Kofi’s hand settled openly at the small of her back as they walked to the stage, guiding her through the crowd. I stayed glued to the booth, heart slamming, cataloguing every step: the sway of her wide hips in that tight dress, the way the fabric clung to the soft roll of her belly and the full curves of her ass, how she looked back over her shoulder once and bit her lower lip like she already knew what she was doing to me.

The lights hit them harder on the second song. Kofi took the shared mic first, his deep baritone rolling out the opening, then he pulled Yara flush against his front so her back molded to his chest. One big hand slid down the red fabric, palm open, fingers spreading over the swell of her ass and staying there—claiming the soft give of it while they swayed to the beat. She didn’t pull away. She arched into the touch, pressing her ass back against the hard ridge I could see forming in his pants, and sang her answering lines right into the mic with her head tipped against his shoulder. Chemistry like that should have set the speakers on fire. Every note she hit came out lower, wetter, her body rolling slow so his hand rode the motion, thumb stroking the undercurve of her cheek through the dress. The crowd whooped; someone wolf-whistled. I sat frozen, whiskey forgotten, watching his fingers dig in just enough to dimple the fabric, watching her thighs press together on the chorus like she was already trying to ease an ache.

He turned her mid-bridge so they faced each other, still chest to chest, and kept that hand locked on her ass while the other cupped the back of her neck. Their mouths were inches apart over the mic. She giggled—high, excited, the sound she made when I used to bend her over the couch—and ground forward once, slow, so her soft belly and the heavy undersides of her tits brushed his shirt. “Fuck,” he breathed into the next line, loud enough the speakers caught it, “you feel unreal.” She answered with a breathy moan disguised as melody, hips working, and I swore I saw her nipples tighten harder under the thin red material, two clear peaks begging. By the final chorus his hand had slipped lower, cupping a full handful of her ass and lifting just slightly so she rose onto her toes against him. They finished locked like that, applause crashing over them, her lipstick smudged from how close his mouth had hovered, her chest heaving so the dress threatened to spill her out.

They made it back to the booth with his arm still around her, palm still resting possessively on that same spot. Yara dropped beside me this time, closer, her thigh hot against mine, but she immediately twisted toward Kofi again. The second she sat I smelled it—warm, musky, unmistakable. She was soaked. Her hand found my wrist under the table and tugged me nearer until her lips brushed the shell of my ear.

“Cody,” she whispered, husky and raw, the confession tumbling out while Kofi watched us both with that calm, measuring smile. “Singing with him made me so fucking wet. I can feel it dripping down my thighs right now. The way he held me—his hand on my ass the whole time—I kept imagining what else he could do with those hands. I want him tonight. I want him to take me. Would you be turned on watching that? Watching him fuck me while you sit there and take it?”

The words hit like a fist and a stroke at the same time. My cock jerked so hard it hurt, leaking into my shorts. I swallowed, throat dry, and turned enough to meet her eyes. The booth neon painted her cheeks pink; her lips were parted, waiting. Kofi’s knee nudged hers under the table, patient, already certain of the answer.

“Yes,” I heard myself confess, voice cracking low so only she caught it at first. “It arouses me deeply. The idea of him spreading you open, of you taking every inch while I watch—Christ, Yara, I’m so hard it aches. I want to see it. I want to watch him claim what’s mine.”

She shivered hard against my side, a full-body ripple that made her tits jiggle in the dress, and let out another of those soft, excited giggles straight into my neck. Her hand dropped to my lap, palm pressing over the thick outline of my neglected cock through the jeans, squeezing once in reward before she pulled away to lace her fingers with Kofi’s instead on top of the table. He lifted their joined hands and kissed her knuckles slow, eyes flicking to me the whole time like he was giving me the courtesy of witnessing it.

“Good,” she breathed, loud enough now for both of us. “Because I don’t think I can wait much longer. My pussy’s throbbing. Every time he touched me up there I got wetter.” She shifted, deliberately rubbing her thighs together, and I caught another whiff of her arousal. Kofi’s free hand drifted to her bare knee under the table edge, sliding higher until his fingers disappeared beneath the hem of the red dress. She parted for him instantly, a tiny gasp escaping, and I watched the fabric tent slightly as he stroked higher still—tracing the damp crotch of her panties, no doubt.

I sat there pulsing, confessing nothing more out loud yet, just letting the humiliation and the heat braid together in my gut. Yara’s breathing turned shallow; she rocked once against his hidden hand, chasing the touch, then leaned across me to murmur something filthy against Kofi’s ear that made him grin wide and dark. The karaoke book still lay open between their drinks. The night stretched ahead, sticky floors and neon and the promise of whatever came after the last song, and I stayed quiet in the booth with my cock straining and my wife already half-claimed, heart slamming against my ribs while I wondered how much further I’d beg to watch before the real claiming started.

I still get hard just thinking about the drive home, the way the night tipped from neon and sticky floors into the dark hush of our living room with my full, eager blessing. Yara’s hand stayed laced with Kofi’s the whole way out of The Velvet Note, her red dress riding high on those thick thighs every time she slid into the back seat of his car. I took the passenger side like some polite afterthought, cock still straining, balls aching from how long I’d sat watching. She twisted toward him in the driver’s seat, knee drawn up, the musk of her soaked panties filling the closed air. “Cody said yes,” she told him, voice low and thrilled, the same husky edge from the mic. “He wants to watch you take me. All of me.” Kofi’s hand left the wheel long enough to squeeze her bare thigh, fingers digging into soft flesh. “Then that’s exactly what he gets.” I confessed it again right there, out loud this time so both of them heard: “Do it. Fuck her. Claim her. I’m hard as hell just from the idea.” My voice cracked on the last word; the humiliation sat sweet and heavy under the lust.

Our house was only ten minutes away. The second the front door shut behind us the air changed—warmer, private, thick with what we all knew was coming. Yara didn’t wait for lights. She kicked off her heels, spun to face Kofi in the middle of the living room, and yanked the straps of that tight red dress down her arms. Her heavy tits spilled free, nipples already dark and tight, the soft roll of her belly and the wide flare of her hips on full display as the fabric pooled at her feet. She wore nothing underneath but a pair of ruined black panties, the crotch dark and shiny. Kofi’s eyes raked her while he unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the hard plane of his chest and the thick ridges of muscle I’d never matched. I stood off to the side by the armchair, jeans still zipped, hands useless at my sides, pulse hammering in my throat and my cock.

“Couch,” he said, voice calm and certain. Yara obeyed instantly, bending forward over the arm of our worn leather sofa so her ass lifted high, the full cheeks parting just enough to show the wet seam of her panties. I watched every second of it from three feet away: the way her back arched, how her tits hung heavy and swayed, the shiny trail already streaking the inside of one thigh. Kofi stepped in behind her, shoved the soaked fabric aside with two fingers, and dragged the blunt head of his thick cock up and down her slit. She was dripping; the wet sound was filthy in the quiet room. “Cody,” she moaned, looking back over her shoulder at me, eyes glassy, “he’s so much bigger already. Feel how ready I am for him.” I nodded, throat too tight for words, and she pushed back until the fat crown breached her.

Kofi drove in hard on the first stroke, burying every inch in one long thrust that made her cry out loud enough to echo off the walls. Her pussy stretched obscenely around him, the thick shaft glistening as he pulled back and slammed home again. The couch creaked. Her tits swung. She moaned without shame—deep, raw, rolling sounds that filled the house—while he fucked her from behind with steady, punishing rhythm, hips snapping, hands locked on the soft give of her waist so he could haul her back onto every stroke. “Fuck, look at her take it,” he growled, eyes flicking to me once before locking on the place where his cock disappeared into her. I could see everything: the way her lips clung, the stretch, the wet slap of skin on skin, how her ass jiggled each time he bottomed out. My own cock leaked steadily into my shorts; I didn’t dare touch it yet. I just stood there confessing under my breath how perfect she looked getting ruined on our own couch by someone else’s dick.

He kept that pace until her legs started shaking, until she was babbling “harder, yes, fuck me harder” between broken moans. Then he pulled free with a wet pop, spun her around, and guided her toward the hallway. “Bed. I want him to see it properly.” We moved as a unit—my wife naked and gleaming, Kofi’s heavy cock bobbing shiny with her juices, me trailing after like the invited ghost. Our bedroom light stayed off except for the streetlamp glow through the blinds. Yara climbed onto the mattress on all fours first, then at his nod she swung a leg over and sank down reverse-cowgirl, facing away from him so I got the clearest possible view from the foot of the bed.

I watched his thick cock spear upward into her. The stretch was filthy and beautiful: her pink lips flared wide around the girth, the veins along his shaft standing out as she sank inch by inch until her ass met his hips. She planted her hands on his thighs and started riding, lifting and dropping in long, deliberate rolls that made her tits bounce hard and her belly ripple. Every downward slam forced a wet squelch out of her; every lift showed me exactly how deep he reached, how her cream coated him thicker with each stroke. “Cody, look,” she panted, glancing back at me over her shoulder while she worked herself on him. “Look how he fills me. So fucking deep. I can feel him in my stomach.” I couldn’t look away. My confession spilled free: “I see it. God, I see every inch stretching you. Keep going. Let me watch you take that cock.” Kofi’s hands gripped her hips and helped her bounce faster, the reverse angle letting me memorize the way her pussy lips clung and dragged, the way her clit peeked out swollen and slick.

They stayed like that until she was trembling on the edge, then Kofi rolled them in one smooth motion. He put her on her back in the center of our bed, hooked her knees high, and slid back into her in missionary so her legs could wrap tight around his waist. Their faces were inches apart. He fucked her slower now, deeper, grinding in circles that made her gasp and clutch at his shoulders. I edged closer to the side of the mattress, close enough to smell the sex, close enough to see his thick shaft pistoning between her stretched folds and the wet mess spreading under her ass. Yara’s ankles locked at the small of his back. Their eyes stayed locked on each other—no glance for me, just pure heated focus—while he drove into her with long, claiming strokes.

“I’m close,” he rasped against her mouth. She nodded, heels digging in, and pulled him tighter. “Fill me. I want it. Come inside me while he watches.” His rhythm broke into hard, short thrusts. Yara’s voice went high and raw as she looked past his shoulder straight at me one last time. “Cody—he feels so much better than you. Thicker, harder, he hits places you never reach. I’m coming on his cock, not yours—” Her words cut off in a sharp cry as her pussy clamped and fluttered around him. Kofi buried himself to the root, groaned low, and held there while he pumped rope after thick rope of cum deep into her. I watched his ass flex, watched the base of his cock pulse, watched her legs squeeze him through every spurt. Their eyes never left each other the whole time he filled her; the intimacy of it cut deeper than any thrust. When he finally stilled, a slow trickle of white already leaked out around his shaft where they stayed joined.

He didn’t pull out right away. Yara stroked the back of his neck, still panting, still staring up at him like he was the only man in the room. I stood frozen at the edge of our bed, jeans painfully tight, the scent of their fucking thick in my lungs, the wet sounds of her full pussy still echoing in my head. The night wasn’t finished—her thighs were still spread, his cock still softening inside the mess he’d made, and the look she gave me over his shoulder promised there was more she wanted me to witness before dawn.

I still get hard just thinking about how long he stayed buried in her after he came. Kofi’s cock softened only a little inside Yara’s stretched pussy, the thick base still sealing most of his load deep while a slow, pearly trickle leaked out around him and pooled under her ass on our sheets. She kept stroking the back of his neck, nails lightly scraping, her legs still locked around his waist like she wasn’t ready to let the claim end. Their faces stayed inches apart, breathing the same air, the wet heat of their joining filling the dark bedroom. I stood at the edge of the mattress, jeans painfully tight, cock throbbing untouched, the scent of her cream and his cum thick enough to taste. My confession sat right behind my teeth the whole time: I wanted to see every drop of it. I wanted the proof.

He finally rolled his hips once more, grinding the last pulses into her, then eased back. The wet sound of his cock sliding free was obscenely loud. A heavy gush of white followed, thick ropes of his cum spilling from her open, well-fucked hole and streaking down the crack of her ass. Yara’s pussy stayed gaped for a second, pink and glistening, before it fluttered and tried to close around the emptiness. She whimpered at the loss, thighs still spread wide for both of us to see.

“Look at that,” Kofi said, voice low and satisfied, eyes flicking to me as he stroked himself once, smearing their mixed juices along the shaft. “Your wife’s full of me. Leaking all over the bed you sleep in.”

Yara’s hand drifted down between her legs. Two fingers scooped through the mess, lifting a thick string of his cum so it stretched and gleamed in the streetlight. She brought it to her mouth without hesitation, sucking her fingers clean while she held my gaze. “Tastes better than yours ever did,” she murmured, the words soft but deliberate, another little knife she knew I’d feel in my gut and my cock at the same time. “He pumped so much in me I can feel it moving.”

I nodded, throat dry. “I see it. Fuck, Yara… keep showing me.”

Kofi wasn’t finished claiming her. He hooked her knees higher, pushed them back toward her chest so she was folded open, and slid two thick fingers straight into the creampie he’d left. The wet squelch made her gasp. He fucked those fingers in and out slowly, scooping, stirring, then pulled them free shiny and offered them to her lips. She sucked them clean too, tongue working between his knuckles, moaning around them like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted. My neglected cock jerked hard enough that a wet spot spread at the front of my jeans. I still didn’t touch it. The humiliation of standing there fully dressed while they played with his load inside her was part of what made my balls ache so sweetly.

“One more,” she whispered to him, eyes glassy. “I want to feel you hard again while he’s watching. Fuck another load into me.”

Kofi’s grin was dark and sure. He stroked himself back to full thickness with her juices, the fat head already shiny, and lined up. Yara reached down to spread her messy lips for him. He sank in with one long thrust, displacing more cum that ran out around his shaft in creamy rivulets. She cried out, voice raw, tits bouncing as he started a deep, grinding rhythm that made the bedframe creak. Every stroke pushed fresh white out of her; every withdrawal showed me how thoroughly he’d marked her. I catalogued it all—the way her clit peeked swollen and slick, the wet slap of his hips against her soft ass, the way her belly trembled when he bottomed out and stayed there rolling.

“Cody,” she panted, looking past his shoulder straight at me while he fucked her, “he’s stretching me open again. So much deeper. I’m going to come on him one more time and I want you to watch my face when I do.”

“I’m watching,” I confessed, voice cracked and honest. “Come for him. Show me how much better he makes you feel.”

Her orgasm hit hard and fast. Her back arched, mouth open in a silent scream that turned into a broken moan, pussy clamping and milking him in visible ripples. Kofi growled, hips snapping short and brutal, and buried himself to the root again as he came the second time—thicker, longer pulses that forced even more of the first load out around his cock in a filthy flood. He held her through it, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her name against her mouth while their eyes stayed locked. The intimacy cut deeper than the thrusts. I stood frozen, shaking with how hard I was, the wet sounds of her overflowing pussy still echoing.

Only then did he finally pull out for good. Yara’s hole stayed open and ruined, a steady drip of combined cum sliding down to soak the sheets. She reached between her legs again, scooped a heavy palmful, and held it up so I could see the thick white coating her fingers before she smeared it over her tits, rubbing it into her nipples until they shone.

Kofi cleaned himself with a corner of the sheet, then dressed slowly—shirt first, then pants—while Yara stayed sprawled naked and leaking in the center of our bed. When he was ready he leaned over her, one hand cupping her jaw, and kissed her possessively, long and deep, tongue claiming her mouth the same way his cock had claimed her cunt. She melted into it, moaning, still dripping onto the mattress. He broke the kiss only when he was ready, then turned to me.

“Thanks for being such a good sport, Cody,” he said, voice calm, almost friendly, the same tone he’d used ordering drinks hours earlier. His hand stayed on Yara’s bare hip, thumb stroking the soft skin like he still owned the spot. “Your wife takes cock like she was built for it. Appreciate you letting me show her what she’s been missing.”

I swallowed, nodded, the words thick in my throat. “Yeah. Anytime.”

He gave her one last slow kiss, softer this time but still claiming, then walked out of our bedroom. I heard the front door open and close. The house went quiet except for Yara’s slowing breaths and the faint wet sounds of his cum still leaking from her.

She rolled onto her side, facing me, and patted the mattress. I finally moved, stripping out of the jeans that had trapped my aching cock all night, and climbed in beside her. The sheets were wrecked—soaked through under her ass—but she curled right up against me, naked and sticky, her soft belly and heavy tits pressing to my side. I felt the warm, slick smear of his load where her thighs touched mine. She was still dripping; a fresh trickle ran down and wet my skin.

Yara’s lips brushed my ear, voice husky and sated and already hungry again. “God, Cody… that was so fucking hot. Being fucked like a complete slut right in front of my husband. The way he held me down and just took what he wanted while you stood there watching with that hard cock you never even got to use… I came so hard I saw stars. Feeling him fill me twice, knowing you were cataloguing every second—it made everything better. I loved how quiet you stayed, how you just let him claim me.”

Her hand drifted down, fingers trailing through the mess still leaking from her, then smearing a little of it onto my thigh like a brand. She giggled that same excited little sound from the karaoke stage, the one that had started everything.

“We have to do this again,” she whispered, already scheming, her body warm and pliant against mine. “Next karaoke night at The Velvet Note. Same booth, same red dress… or maybe something even tighter. I’ll pick another slow duet so he can put his hands on me onstage again. Then we bring him straight back here. I want him to bend me over the couch first next time, fuck me while you sit in the armchair and stroke yourself but don’t come until he says you can. Or maybe he makes you clean me up with your tongue after he fills me. I’m already wet just thinking about the tradition. Every other Friday. Karaoke, then this. You’ll keep being my good, hard little spectator, won’t you? Promise me. I want to plan the songs now—something filthy so the whole bar knows I’m his before we even leave.”

I held her while she talked, cock still rigid against her soft thigh, his cum cooling sticky between us. Her voice kept weaving the next night in vivid pieces—how she’d grind on him during the chorus, how she’d tell the bartender we were heading out early, how she’d make me drive so she could sit in the back seat with Kofi’s hand already under her dress. She was already inventing the details, already wet again at the thought, already turning one night into a ritual. I lay there in the dark confessing nothing out loud this time, just listening to my wife scheme the next claiming while his load slowly dripped out of her and onto me, and I knew I’d say yes to every single part of it.