Roommate Tension Finally Snaps in the Fitting Room

Mike held the shopping bags and tried not to look like a man who already knew he was losing something. The lingerie boutique smelled like expensive powder and new lace. Soft lighting made every rack look like a dare. Monica moved ahead of him in a simple sundress that clung to the full curve of her hips and the heavy sway of her tits, twenty-eight and shameless about the body that still made him hard after six years of marriage. Behind her walked Dante, six-foot-three of college-roommate arrogance, shoulders stretching a black T-shirt, jeans hanging low on narrow hips. Two weeks of crashing on their couch had turned into open ownership of the air around Monica.

“Try the red one,” Dante said, voice low enough that it felt private even in the middle of the store. He lifted a sheer babydoll off the rack and held it against her chest without asking. The lace barely covered the imaginary outline of her nipples. “Your tits were made for this shit. Mike, tell her.”

Mike’s throat worked. “It looks… nice.”

Monica laughed, soft and breathy, and took the hanger from Dante’s fingers. Their hands touched longer than they needed to. “You’re both ridiculous. I’m just looking.”

“You’re shopping like a woman who wants to get fucked in something pretty,” Dante said, not bothering to lower his voice. A salesgirl glanced over and quickly looked away. Monica’s cheeks went pink but she didn’t step back. She turned toward the mirror at the end of the aisle and held the red lace up again, twisting so the fabric brushed the thick bottom of her ass.

Dante stepped in behind her. Not quite touching. Close enough that Mike saw the heat of him register in the way Monica’s shoulders loosened. “Look at that ass,” Dante murmured, eyes on the reflection, not on Mike. “Every time you bend over at the apartment I forget I’m supposed to be a guest. Two weeks of watching you walk around in those little shorts… fuck.”

Mike shifted the bags in his grip. The plastic handles cut into his palm. He told himself this was just Dante being Dante—loud, cocky, the same guy who’d shared a dorm with Monica before Mike ever met her. The same guy who’d shown up with a duffel bag and a grin after his lease fell through. Two weeks of accidental brushes in the kitchen. Two weeks of Dante’s eyes dropping to Monica’s mouth when she laughed. Mike had told himself it would pass. Standing here under the boutique lights, he felt the lie thin out.

Monica caught Dante’s gaze in the glass. “You’re shameless.”

“And you’re wet just from me saying it out loud. Don’t lie.” He reached past her and plucked a black thong from a hook, letting the string dangle from one finger. “This one. With the red. I want to see the string disappear between those cheeks.”

She took it. Their fingers slid together again. Mike watched the small, deliberate press of Dante’s thumb against the side of her hand and felt something cold open under his ribs.

They moved deeper into the store. Monica gathered an armful—emerald green, pure white, a deep purple corset with hooks that looked like they needed someone else’s hands. Dante stayed half a step behind her, close enough that every time she slowed he bumped her. Once it was his chest against her shoulder blades. Once it was the hard line of his thigh grazing the side of her hip as they both reached for the same hanger. Each time Monica made a small sound, half protest, half something hungrier, and didn’t move away fast.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” she said after the third brush, voice pitched only for the three of them.

Dante’s mouth curved. “Doing what? Existing near the hottest married pussy in the store?” He looked straight at Mike when he said it. “Your husband doesn’t mind. Do you, Mike? You brought me shopping. You knew what you were doing.”

Mike’s face burned. “We’re just… helping her pick something for the anniversary.”

“Anniversary.” Dante tasted the word like it was funny. He set a hand on the small of Monica’s back, fingers splaying wide over the thin cotton of her dress, and steered her toward another rack. The touch was proprietary. Mike saw the exact moment Monica leaned into it, the subtle arch that pushed her ass back toward Dante’s palm for half a second before she remembered herself.

She pulled free and held up a cream-colored teddy, translucent enough to show everything. “This one?”

Dante didn’t answer with words. He stepped in, took the garment, and held it against her body himself, smoothing the fabric down over the heavy undersides of her breasts, then lower, mapping the soft pouch of her belly and the thick V between her thighs. His knuckles dragged deliberately. Monica’s breath hitched. Her nipples beaded visibly against her dress.

“Jesus,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Dante said. “That’s the face. Keep that face when you try it on.” He glanced at Mike again, eyes bright with open challenge. “You coming into the fitting room with us, or you just gonna stand out here holding bags like a good boy?”

The fitting rooms were at the back—velvet curtains, soft carpet, a three-way mirror that promised no mercy. Monica clutched the pile of lace to her chest and started that way without waiting for Mike’s answer. Dante followed, one hand still ghosting near her hip. Mike trailed them, heart slamming, every step feeling like he was walking into something that had already started without him.

At the entrance to the fitting area a clerk pointed them toward the larger room at the end. “Plenty of space if… someone wants to give opinions.”

Dante flashed her a grin that was pure teeth. “Oh, we’ll be giving opinions.”

Monica slipped inside first. The curtain fell behind her for a second, then Dante pushed it open again and held it for Mike like a dare. The room was bigger than the others—bench, hooks, the full mirror wall. Monica was already peeling her sundress up over her head. She wore a plain beige bra and cotton panties that did nothing to hide the generous spread of her ass or the dark shadow of her pussy. She hung the dress and turned, suddenly aware of both men watching.

“Turn around,” Dante said quietly. “Let me see what I’m working with before you cover it in lace.”

She hesitated only a breath, then turned. The mirror showed everything: the deep crease under each cheek, the dimples at the base of her spine, the way her thighs pressed together soft and thick. Dante stepped up behind her. He didn’t touch skin yet. He just stood there, tall enough that his chest filled the space above her shoulders, and looked at her reflection like he already owned the view.

“Fucking perfect,” he said. “Mike, you see this every day and you still let me sleep on your couch. Brave man.” His hands finally settled on her waist, thumbs stroking the soft give just above her panties. Monica shivered. Her eyes flicked to Mike’s in the glass.

Mike stood frozen near the curtain, bags dangling uselessly. He could smell her perfume mixing with the cleaner scent of new fabric and the warmer smell of Dante’s skin. He could see the ridge starting to press against the front of Dante’s jeans. Monica saw it too; her tongue touched her lower lip and she didn’t look away.

Dante’s fingers hooked in the sides of her panties and dragged them down an inch, just enough to bare the upper curve of her ass. “These come off. We’re doing this right.” He looked at Mike over her shoulder. “You good with that, or you want to step outside and pretend this isn’t happening?”

Monica’s voice came out rough. “Stay. Please.” Her eyes were dark, pupils blown, the same look she got when she was already halfway gone. “I want you to watch me try them on. Both of you.”

Dante smiled like he’d won something he’d been chasing for two straight weeks. He peeled the cotton down her thighs. Monica stepped out of them. Completely bare from the waist down under the boutique lights, pussy already glistening at the seam. Dante’s hand returned to her hip, possessive, open. He reached for the red babydoll with his other hand and held it out.

“Arms up, baby. Let’s see how bad this is about to get.”

Monica lifted her arms. The lace whispered over her skin. Dante settled it into place, smoothing, adjusting, letting his palms drag over her nipples through the sheer cups until they stood tight and obvious. Then he crouched, slow, and guided her feet into the black thong, pulling it up the length of her legs with deliberate friction. When the string settled between her cheeks he gave it a little tug, watching her mouth open on a silent gasp.

Mike’s cock was hard against his zipper, traitor-thick, and the humiliation of it sat right next to the heat. Dante rose, still behind Monica, still touching her like the husband was furniture. He met Mike’s eyes in the mirror and spoke soft enough that it felt like a secret the whole store could still hear.

“Two more outfits. Then we decide which one she gets fucked in first.”

Monica’s breath stuttered. She didn’t correct him. She just stared at her own reflection—lace, skin, the tall man crowding her from behind—and waited for whatever came next, the tension so thick Mike could taste it on the back of his tongue.

Monica’s breath stuttered. She didn’t correct him. She just stared at her own reflection—lace, skin, the tall man crowding her from behind—and waited for whatever came next, the tension so thick Mike could taste it on the back of his tongue.

Dante’s hands slid off her once more, casual now, like he’d already catalogued every inch. “Next. The black lace bodysuit. The tiny one with the crotch that barely exists.” He plucked it from the pile she’d brought in—nothing but straps and panels that looked painted on. Monica’s fingers trembled taking it. Mike watched her throat work as she swallowed.

“Outside,” she said, voice low. “Both of you. I want to put this one on alone first.”

Dante’s eyebrow lifted, but he stepped back. “Fair. Honest opinion when you’re ready.” He jerked his chin at Mike. “Bags, husband. Come on.”

Mike followed him out through the curtain. The soft carpet muffled everything. They stood in the narrow hall outside the large fitting room, the velvet hanging still between them and her. Mike’s arms ached from the shopping bags. His cock throbbed untouched against his jeans, every pulse a fresh humiliation. Dante leaned against the wall opposite, arms crossed, smirking like he owned the silence.

Fabric rustled inside. A zipper. Monica’s soft exhale. Mike pictured her peeling the red babydoll off, nipples still stiff from Dante’s earlier palms, the black thong already soaked and stringed tight between her cheeks. He heard the bodysuit go on—elastic snapping, a quiet curse when a strap caught.

“Ready,” she called.

Dante didn’t wait for invitation beyond that. He pushed the curtain aside and stepped through in one smooth motion, letting it fall closed behind him with a decisive swish. Mike stayed frozen just outside, bags dangling, heart slamming hard enough he felt it in his teeth. The curtain was thick but not soundproof. He could hear every shift of air.

Inside, Monica stood barefoot on the carpet in the black lace bodysuit. It was smaller than anything she’d ever worn for him—thin straps over her shoulders, cups that cupped only the undersides of her heavy tits so the dark pink nipples sat fully exposed and already tight. The lace dove in a deep V between them, then clung sheer across her soft stomach before plunging into a microscopic crotch panel that hid nothing. Her pussy lips pressed visibly against the transparent mesh, the dark seam of her already wet. The back was worse: a single string disappearing between the full spread of her ass, leaving both cheeks completely bare and marked faintly pink where Dante’s thumbs had pressed earlier.

Dante’s eyes dragged over her like hands. “Fuck me. Look at you.”

Monica’s cheeks burned but she didn’t cover herself. She turned slowly in the three-way mirror, watching her own reflection bounce and jiggle. “It’s… a lot.”

“It’s perfect.” Dante closed the distance. He didn’t ask. One big hand settled on her hip, fingers sinking into soft flesh. “Turn around. Let me see the back properly.”

She did. The string vanished completely between her cheeks. Dante’s free hand cupped one bare globe, squeezing hard enough that her breath hitched. Mike heard the wet sound of it from outside—skin on skin, the faint slickness already gathering between her thighs.

“Jesus, Dante—”

“You’ve been wet for me since I moved in,” he said, voice raw now, no more playful edge. “Say it. Don’t bullshit me in here.”

Monica’s reflection stared back at herself, pupils blown dark. Mike could picture the exact flush climbing her chest. Her voice came out hoarse. “I’ve been wet for you since you walked through the door with that fucking duffel bag. Every night on the couch. Every time you looked at my mouth when I laughed. I wake up soaked thinking about you bending me over the kitchen counter while Mike’s still asleep.”

Dante made a low sound, almost a growl. His hand slid from her ass up the curve of her spine, into her hair, and he yanked her head back just enough. Then his mouth crashed onto hers.

The kiss was hungry, open, filthy. No tentative first touch. Teeth and tongue and the wet slide of it. Monica moaned straight into his mouth, body melting backward against his chest. Dante’s other hand shoved between her legs from the front, cupping the soaked mesh of the bodysuit crotch hard. Two thick fingers pressed the lace right up against her clit and rubbed in rough circles. She jolted, thighs trembling, and kissed him deeper—sucking his tongue like she wanted to climb inside him.

Mike stood rigid outside the curtain, cock leaking a dark spot into his boxers. He could hear everything: the filthy wet sounds of their mouths, Monica’s broken little gasps every time Dante’s fingers worked her, the soft wet friction of lace against pussy. His wife’s voice cracked on a moan when Dante pinched her exposed nipple and twisted.

“Been wanting this pussy for two weeks,” Dante muttered against her lips between kisses. “Walking around in those fucking shorts, bending over, looking at me like you wanted me to just take it. Mike watching like a good little bitch the whole time.”

“Yes—” Monica gasped when he shoved the crotch panel aside and sank two fingers straight into her. The wet sound was filthy and unmistakable. Mike’s knees almost buckled. She was dripping for Dante, greedy and loud about it. “God, your fingers—thicker than his—”

Dante fucked them into her slow and deep, curling, the heel of his hand grinding her clit. His mouth stayed on hers, kissing her like he was claiming air. Monica’s hands clawed at his T-shirt, then lower, palming the thick ridge straining his jeans. She squeezed hard and Dante groaned into her mouth.

Outside, Mike’s vision swam. He could smell her now even through the curtain—hot cunt and new lace and the musk of Dante’s skin. His own cock ached so bad it hurt. He wanted to push the curtain aside. He wanted to run. He did neither. He just stood there holding the bags like the furniture Dante had already reduced him to, listening to his wife get finger-fucked two feet away while she admitted everything he’d been too scared to name.

Dante pulled his fingers free with a wet slick sound and smeared her juices across her bare tits, shiny on the lace. He broke the kiss just enough to speak against her mouth. “You want me to fuck you in this thing. Right here. While he listens.”

Monica’s answer was another desperate kiss, hips rolling against the empty air where his hand had been. “Yes. Fuck—yes. I’ve needed it. Needed you stretching me open while he stands out there knowing exactly what’s happening to his wife.”

Dante’s laugh was dark. He spun her to face the mirror fully, chest to her back again, and yanked the crotch panel aside so her glistening pussy was completely exposed. His free hand worked his belt open with practiced speed. The zipper tore down. Mike heard the heavy slap of Dante’s cock against Monica’s bare ass—thick, long, already leaking. She whimpered at the heat of it.

“Look at yourself,” Dante ordered. “Watch me line up.”

Monica’s eyes locked on the mirror. Mike could only imagine the view: her own flushed face, tits spilling out of the tiny bodysuit, Dante’s arrogant grin over her shoulder, the fat cockhead notching against her entrance and holding there, teasing, not quite pushing in yet.

“Mike’s right outside,” Dante murmured, voice carrying just enough. “He can hear how wet you are. He can hear you beg. You gonna beg for me, baby?”

“Please,” Monica whispered, already pushing back. “Please put it in. I’ve been empty for you since the day you showed up. Stretch me. Make me take it while he stands there with those fucking bags.”

Dante’s hips flexed once—just the head popping inside her with a thick, wet stretch. Monica’s moan cracked loud enough that Mike’s ears rang. She was tight around that first inch, greedy, her body already trying to suck more of Dante in. Dante held still, only the tip buried, letting her feel the size of what was coming.

Mike’s knuckles went white on the bag handles. His cock jerked helplessly. The curtain hung inches from his face. On the other side his wife was impaled on the first thick inch of their roommate’s cock, lace shoved aside, begging for the rest while she stared at herself in the mirror.

Dante’s voice dropped lower, mean with promise. “Two more inches for every time you bent over in front of me this week. Then I’m going to fuck you until this fitting room smells like nothing but your cunt and my cum. And your husband is going to stand right there and listen to every wet slap.”

Monica pushed back harder, taking another inch with a broken cry. Dante’s hands locked on her hips, ready to bury the rest. The tension in the air was a live wire—kiss still tasting on both their mouths, her admission hanging between them, Mike frozen on the wrong side of the velvet with nowhere left to pretend.

Dante held her there for one more merciless second, just the fat head stretching her open, then yanked free with a wet pop that made Monica cry out in loss. He spun her by the hips before she could protest, shoved her down hard onto the carpeted floor of the fitting room. Her knees hit soft, the black lace bodysuit riding up her soft belly as she looked up at him—eyes glassy, mouth already open.

“Suck it first,” he ordered, voice thick. “Get it sloppy so I can ruin that married cunt properly.”

Monica didn’t hesitate. She wrapped both hands around the base of his cock—thicker than Mike’s by a shameful margin, veins ridged under hot skin, the head shiny with her own juices—and opened wide. She took him in a greedy slide, lips stretching around the girth, tongue flattening as she pushed forward until the blunt head jammed the back of her throat. She gagged immediately, wet and loud, spit flooding out the corners of her mouth and dripping onto her exposed tits. Tears pricked her eyes but she stared up at him the whole time, submissive and eager, cheeks hollowed as she bobbed.

Outside the curtain Mike heard every filthy detail: the choked wet sounds, the sudden gag that turned into a moan, the soft slap of her spit-slick hands working the inches she couldn’t swallow. His cock throbbed so hard it hurt, trapped in his jeans while the shopping bags cut into his palms. He could picture it perfectly—his wife on her knees in the tiny bodysuit, nipples bare and tight, throat bulging around their roommate’s cock.

Dante’s hand fisted in her hair, holding her there while he fucked shallow thrusts into her mouth. “That’s it. Gag on it. Look at me while you choke. Mike’s cock never made you drool like this, did it?”

She pulled off just long enough to gasp, “No—yours is so much thicker—fuck—” then dove back on, taking him deeper, nose pressing toward his abs as another wet retch echoed. Spit strings connected her lips to his shaft when she finally came up for air, chin shiny, mascara starting to smudge. She licked the underside slow and filthy, staring up, then swallowed him again until her throat convulsed around him.

Dante groaned, hips jerking. “Enough.” He hauled her up by the hair, spun her, and bent her hard over the padded fitting-room bench. The three-way mirror caught everything: her arched back, the heavy swing of her tits free of the lace cups, the string of the bodysuit already yanked aside so her dripping pussy gaped pink and ready. He kicked her feet wider, lined up, and drove the full thick length home in one brutal thrust.

Monica’s moan ripped out of her loud enough to carry straight through the velvet—raw, broken, pure filthy pleasure. “Oh fuck—Dante—yes—”

He set a punishing pace immediately, hips slamming forward so his balls slapped wet against her clit with every deep stroke. The wet sounds filled the small room: skin on skin, the lewd squelch of her soaked cunt taking him over and over, her tits bouncing hard enough that the lace straps dug into her shoulders. He yanked her hair back, forcing her head up so she had to watch herself get destroyed in the mirror, then brought his free hand down in a sharp slap across one full ass cheek. The crack rang out. She clenched around him and moaned louder.

“Say it,” he growled, pounding deeper, the bench creaking under them. “Say my cock is better than your husband’s.”

“Your cock is better—” she gasped, voice cracking on the next thrust. Another hard slap reddened the other cheek. “Fuck—your cock is so much better than Mike’s—thicker—longer—fills me up—”

Outside, inches from the curtain, Mike heard every word, every wet slap of Dante’s hips against her ass, every filthy moan his wife couldn’t hold back. His face burned. His cock leaked steadily into his boxers. He couldn’t move. He just stood there clutching the bags, listening to Monica get fucked like he’d never managed in six years of marriage—hard, deep, relentless doggy-style while she praised the bigger cock stretching her open.

Dante hooked an arm under her hips and yanked her back onto him harder, burying every inch until her ass jiggled against his pelvis. He slapped her again, then grabbed a handful of one cheek and spread her so the mirror showed exactly how her pussy lips clung to his shaft on every pull-out. “Louder. Make sure he hears how good it feels when a real cock owns you.”

“It feels so fucking good—” Monica sobbed in pleasure, pushing back to meet every thrust. Spit still glistened on her chin from the blowjob; her eyes were half-lidded, lost. “Mike can hear every slap—every time you bottom out—God, you’re wrecking me—your cock is better, it’s so much better than his, I need this, I need you fucking me while he listens—”

Dante’s pace turned vicious, the wet smacks accelerating, the bench scraping an inch across the carpet with the force. He pulled her hair tighter, arched her back deeper, and kept driving into that greedy married hole. Her moans turned continuous, broken only by gasps when he bottomed out and ground against her cervix. Juice coated his balls, ran down the insides of her thick thighs, dripped onto the carpet in dark spots.

Mike’s knuckles were white. He could smell them now through the curtain—sex and sweat and her cunt and the new-lace scent all mixed. Every filthy word she repeated punched straight into his chest. He stayed frozen, bags dangling, cock aching unused, while Dante fucked his wife in hard, pounding doggy-style right on the other side of a thin piece of velvet.

Dante leaned over her back, still slamming deep, and bit the side of her neck hard enough to mark. “Keep saying it. Every time I thrust. Tell him.”

“Better than Mike’s—ah—better—fuck—your cock is better—” she chanted, voice hoarse and shameless, matching the rhythm of his hips. Another sharp slap landed on her ass. She clenched hard around him and came with a sudden cry, walls fluttering, more wetness flooding out around his shaft so the next dozen thrusts sounded even louder, even wetter.

He didn’t slow. He fucked her straight through it, hair still fisted, ass still stinging red from his hand, making her keep repeating the words until her voice broke into pure filthy noise. The mirror showed it all—her ruined expression, the bodysuit shoved aside, the thick cock disappearing into her over and over while Mike stood helpless just outside, hearing every single wet slap and every confession that his wife preferred their roommate’s cock.

Dante’s breathing grew harsher, but he held back, pounding her with deliberate cruelty, keeping the tension wound tight. Monica’s arms shook on the bench. She was open, used, still begging for more even as drool ran from the corner of her mouth. Mike remained on the wrong side of the curtain with nowhere to go and everything already lost, the sounds of his wife getting thoroughly, loudly claimed filling the narrow hall like a private live show meant only for him.

Dante’s hips never slowed. He kept driving that thick cock into Monica’s cunt like he was trying to punch a hole straight through her, the bench groaning under every brutal slam. Her tits swung free of the ruined bodysuit cups, nipples scraping the padded vinyl while spit and earlier tears dried sticky on her chin. Mike stood frozen on the other side of the velvet, shopping bags cutting white lines into his palms, cock throbbing uselessly against his zipper as he listened to the wet slap of skin and the filthy chant his wife couldn’t stop.

“Better—fuck—better than Mike’s—” she gasped, voice shredded. Another hard thrust bottomed out and she clenched around Dante so hard her thighs shook. Juice sprayed in a thin arc down her legs and soaked the carpet. Dante just laughed low and mean, yanked her hair harder, and kept fucking her through the aftershocks until the sounds turned louder, wetter, almost obscene.

He pulled out without warning. Monica’s empty cunt clenched on nothing and she made a broken, needy sound. Dante spun her on the carpet so she landed on her knees facing him, face level with the spit-shiny length of his cock. Thick veins pulsed along the shaft; the head flared dark and angry, dripping with her cream. He stroked once, twice, then aimed.

“Open,” he ordered.

She did—tongue out, eyes glassy and grateful. Dante’s fist worked fast. The first rope hit her cheek with a heavy wet slap, hot and thick, streaking across to her open mouth. The second painted her forehead and the bridge of her nose. He grunted and kept pumping, more fat white ropes arcing across her exposed tits, catching on the black lace straps, dripping down the soft undersides and into the deep V of the bodysuit. Monica stayed perfectly still, catching every spurt she could on her tongue, then swallowing with a wet click.

“Thank you,” she whispered, breathless, voice raw from cock and moaning. “Thank you for fucking me so hard. Thank you for cumming on me.” More cum slid off her chin onto her tits. She smeared it with two fingers, rubbing it into her nipples like lotion while she looked up at him. “God, Dante… that load… fucking thick…”

Dante wiped the last bead across her lower lip. “Good girl. Wear it out.”

Monica stayed on her knees another second, chest heaving, the black lace bodysuit shoved aside and soaked through, cum cooling in thick white streaks across her face and heavy tits. She wiped a strand from her eyelashes with the back of one hand, then rose on shaky legs. The microscopic crotch panel hung uselessly open; her pussy lips stayed puffy and shiny, a slow drip of mixed juices already sliding down the inside of one thick thigh. She didn’t bother fixing anything. She just pushed the curtain aside and stepped out into the narrow hall still dripping.

Mike stood exactly where she’d left him, bags dangling, face flushed dark, a dark wet spot spreading across the front of his jeans. Monica walked straight up to him. Cum still glistened on her cheek and the upper slopes of her tits. She leaned in and pressed a soft, sticky kiss to his cheek—leaving a faint smear of Dante’s load behind—then pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

Her voice came out casual, almost sweet, like they were discussing grocery lists.

“Buy the bodysuit, baby. Dante ruined it and now it’s his favorite.”

Mike’s throat worked. He couldn’t look away from the thick white streaks still drying on her tits, the way her nipples poked hard through the ruined lace, the fresh red handprints blooming on the bare cheeks of her ass when she turned slightly. The smell of sex rolled off her—hot cunt, sweat, Dante’s cum. Behind the curtain Dante was already tucking himself back into his jeans, belt buckle clinking, that arrogant half-smile still on his mouth.

Monica reached down, adjusted one strap that had slipped off her shoulder, and let the motion make her cum-slick tits bounce. A fresh drop slid from her chin onto the carpet between Mike’s shoes. She glanced back at Dante once, then locked eyes with her husband again.

“You heard every thrust, didn’t you? Every time I told him his cock was better.” She stepped closer so her sticky tits brushed the shopping bags. “You’re going to pay for this little lace thing, take it home, and every time I wear it you’re going to remember how he fucked me in it while you stood out here holding bags like a good boy. And next time…” She tilted her head, voice dropping into something lower, dirtier, a question and a dare and a confession all at once. “Next time you coming inside the curtain to watch him fill me, or you just going to keep listening like the pathetic little cuck you are?”