The silence in the house was worse than shouting. Three days had passed since Sarah had come home, smelling faintly of another man’s sweat and something electric, something new. Mark existed in those three days, didn't live them. He moved through the rooms like a ghost, the memory of her confession playing on a loop behind his eyes.
She hadn’t spared him the details. Not cruelly, she'd insisted, but honestly. Because he’d asked. Because some sick, broken part of him needed to know exactly what David had done to her, how he’d made her cry out in a way Mark never had. He knew the size of David’s cock now, knew how it had felt stretching her, filling her. He knew David had fucked her against the headboard of their rented hotel room bed, knew he’d come deep inside her. She’d told him, her voice low but steady, her eyes holding his, daring him to look away.
He hadn’t looked away. And now, the images burned. They twisted in his gut, a nauseating blend of betrayal and white-hot jealousy. But underneath it, darker and more shameful, was a persistent throb. An undeniable hardness that rose whenever the worst images flashed – Sarah’s head thrown back, her mouth open in a silent scream as David pounded into her. He’d jerked off twice thinking about it, hating himself even as his cum spurted hot and thick into a tissue. He was broken. Ruined.
He was sitting on the edge of their sofa, staring at the blank television screen, when she came into the room. Mark didn't look up immediately, but he felt her presence shift the air. When he finally dragged his gaze towards her, his breath caught.
It wasn’t just the memory of David on her; it was Sarah herself. She seemed… amplified. More vivid. She wore a simple burgundy scoop-neck top that clung to the full, heavy weight of her breasts. Breasts Mark knew intimately – the soft swell, the dark, sensitive nipples. But now, seeing them straining against the fabric, he felt like a stranger looking at forbidden fruit. Her jeans
