Your Wife's Revenge

She thanks you outside the motel door and plants one on your cheek. Maybe you can cook up another 'business trip' soon, she teases, winking. You say sure, she squeals, hugs you tight, and snogs you again. Text me tonight, she says, then she struts off. You drop behind the wheel and text the wife: 'Convention was great, headed home.' You pull into the driveway and the extra car makes you freeze. Front door wide open, lights on. You bolt inside. Round the corner to the kitchen you skid to a dead stop—your wife Sarah and your boss Seth staring you down from the table. Stern as hell. She snatches her phone off the coffee table, waves it like a weapon. 'The convention went great?!' You lift your hands but she shuts you down: shut the fuck up, she called the office, she's not stupid, she knows about the other woman. The ring she rips off and slaps into your chest. Keep the cheap rock, she spits; you're done. You try to talk her down but she shoves you onto the couch and buries her face in her palms. Seth rises, strolls over, plants a hand on your shoulder and leans in. We all fool around, he shrugs, but you gotta be smarter. HR doesn't have to know you’re a cheater—if you pay up. He nods at your wife. Fair’s fair; she cheats, you keep the job. Only catch? You sit there and watch. He yanks you up, chuckles, paws her tits right in front of you. You’ll never land tits like these again, he taunts. Sarah pushes her chest into his hands, eyes half-lidded. 'Unlike you, at least he knows where the zipper is,' she sneers. She drops to her knees, tugs his cock free, and whistles low. Thick, heavy, already leaking. 'This is a real dick,' she says, stroking him. 'Yours is limp, small, fucking useless.' She drags her tongue up his shaft, grins around the head while she starts sucking, making sure you see every sloppy, shiny inch disappear. You feel your own pathetic hard-on twitch as she moans around him. This is what you earned. And it’s just starting.