Chapter 4

Kristen emerged from the bathroom about ten minutes later, wrapped in a white towel that clung to her damp skin and reached only to mid-thigh. Her hair was soaked, dark strands plastered to her shoulders and upper back, dripping little trails of water that ran down her arms and legs. Her cheeks were flushed a deep, uneven red — the kind of color that could come from the hot shower, from the exertion of the run, or from something far more intimate that had just happened behind that closed door. She looked both radiant and slightly unsteady, like someone who had just run a second marathon in the same morning.

She paused in the hallway, one hand holding the towel closed at her chest, the other brushing wet hair away from her face. When her eyes met mine, there was a flicker — not quite guilt, not quite shame, but a brief, almost shy hesitation. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, then closed again. The flush on her cheeks deepened, spreading down her neck and across her collarbone.

I sat exactly where Brad had left me, still on the couch, hands resting limp on my thighs, the empty glass forgotten beside me. My cock had gone soft again, but the ache lingered, a dull throb that hadn’t gone away since the first wet sounds started drifting through the door. I looked at her — really looked — and saw everything I didn’t want to see: the slight swelling of her lips, redder than usual; the glassy brightness in her eyes; the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other like her thighs were still sensitive, still remembering the stretch of him inside her mouth.

She took a small step forward, towel slipping just a fraction so the top edge dipped low enough to show the upper curve of her breasts. She caught it quickly, clutched it tighter, but the movement only made her look more vulnerable, more exposed.

“Hey...” she said softly, voice a little hoarse, a little raw. “You okay?”

I nodded once. Couldn’t speak. Didn’t trust my voice not to crack.

Kristen bit her lower lip — the same lip that had just been stretched around Brad’s cock — and looked down at the floor for a second before meeting my eyes again. “I ... I didn’t mean for it to go like that. It just ... happened. He came in and ... I don’t know. I couldn’t say no.”

She took another step closer, towel clutched in both hands now, knuckles white. The flush on her cheeks hadn’t faded; if anything it had deepened, spreading to her chest. She looked almost shy, almost apologetic, but there was something else underneath — satisfaction, maybe, or relief, or the afterglow of being thoroughly used and enjoyed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know you heard. I tried to be quiet but ... he’s ... he makes it hard to stay quiet.”

She laughed once — small, nervous — then stopped when she saw my face. The laugh died in her throat.

“I still love you,” she said quickly, like she needed me to hear it. “I do. This ... this thing with Brad ... it’s different. It’s not instead of you. It’s just ... more. I don’t know how to explain it.”

She shifted her weight again, thighs pressing together like she could still feel him there — in her mouth, on her tongue, down her throat. Her cheeks burned brighter. “I swallowed,” she added quietly, almost confessing. “All of it. He told me to show him first, then swallow. I did. It tasted ... strong. Like him.”

She looked at me then, really looked, waiting for something. Anger, maybe. Tears. Anything.

I gave her nothing. I couldn’t. My throat was too tight, my chest too heavy, my mind too full of the sounds I’d heard: her gagging, her begging, her thanking him while she swallowed his cum.

Kristen’s eyes searched my face for a long moment. When she found no reaction, she let out a small, shaky breath. I finally managed to speak, the words scraping out of my throat like broken glass. “Why are you telling me all that, anyway?”

She blinked, surprised for a second, then gave a tiny, almost helpless shrug, the towel shifting slightly against her damp skin. “I don’t hide it anymore. Brad said it wouldn’t be good for anybody if I tried to keep secrets. He said ... honesty makes everything easier. No guilt. No lies. Just ... everything out in the open.”

I swallowed again, the motion painful. “When is all of this going to stop?”

Kristen looked down at her bare feet for a second, toes curling against the floor. When she looked back up, her expression was soft but unapologetic. “I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. “I’m really into it right now. Like ... really into it. The way he makes me feel, the way he talks to me, the way he takes what he wants ... it’s addictive. But there’s always a chance he’ll get bored of me someday. Start dating other girls. Move on.”

She said “dating” so naturally, like it was already the right word for what they were doing. Like Brad was her boyfriend now, not just some kid from downstairs who fucked her in our shower while I sat on the couch and listened.

My voice came out thinner than I wanted. “And me? Our marriage? What happens now?”

Kristen stepped closer, the towel still clutched to her chest, water dripping from her hair onto the floor between us. She reached out and touched my cheek gently, thumb brushing the skin there like she was comforting a child.

“Nothing changes for me,” she said softly. “You’re still my husband. My home. My safe place. This thing with Brad ... it’s separate. It’s just ... another thing. You don’t need to worry about it. It doesn’t take anything away from us.”

Even if he’s banging you, I thought. Even if he just came in your mouth while I sat here. Even if you swallowed him and thanked him and called yourself his good girl. Even if you’re standing here with his taste still on your tongue.

The words stayed trapped behind my teeth. I couldn’t say them. Couldn’t make them real. Kristen’s hand lingered on my cheek for another second, then dropped away. She gave me a small, almost sad smile.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asked, voice soft but eager, like she was holding something delicious she couldn’t wait to share.

I felt my stomach twist. I already knew I wouldn’t like whatever came next. “Am I gonna like it?” I asked, quieter than I meant to, already bracing for the answer.

Kristen ignored the question completely. Her smile widened, eyes sparkling with that same giddy energy she used to get when she had gossip from a friend.

“It’s the biggest I’ve ever seen,” she said, almost whispering, but with a delighted little laugh at the end, like she was telling a girlfriend something scandalous over coffee. “Like ... seriously. I could barely fit it in my mouth at first. I had to relax my throat so much just to take him deeper.”

The words hit me like a punch to the throat. My face went hot, then cold. I felt my jaw tighten so hard my teeth ached.

“I don’t want to hear that kind of thing, baby!” I said, louder than I’d spoken all morning, the volume surprising even me. My voice cracked on the last word, but it was out.

Kristen’s smile faltered for half a second. Then her brows drew together, and she straightened up, towel shifting slightly against her chest. The shift in her posture was subtle but unmistakable — from soft and apologetic to something closer to indignation.

“Tim,” she said, tone sharp but still controlled, like she was explaining something obvious to a child who should know better. “Who else am I supposed to tell? I can’t talk about this to my friends, my sister, anyone. They’d freak out. They’d judge me. They’d make it weird. So you’re the one who has to hear it. I’m doing you a favor by not hiding it. By being honest. By letting you be part of it instead of shutting you out.”

She crossed her arms under her breasts, towel pulling tighter across her chest, cheeks still flushed but now with a hint of defensiveness.

“Brad says keeping secrets only makes things worse,” she added, almost reciting it like a rule she had memorized. “If I can’t talk about it with you, then it’s not fair to either of us. So yeah ... I’m telling you. Because you’re my husband. Because I trust you. Because I love you.”

She paused, waiting for me to respond, but I couldn’t find words. My mouth felt full of cotton. My chest felt like it was caving in.

Kristen sighed, small and frustrated, like I was the one making this difficult. “I thought you’d want to know,” she said quietly. “I thought it would make us closer. Not ... this.” She gestured vaguely between us — me sitting rigid on the couch, her standing there wrapped in a towel, the space between us suddenly feeling miles wide.

Then she turned and walked toward the bedroom again, footsteps soft on the floor. “I’m getting dressed,” she said over her shoulder, voice flat now. “We can talk later. Or not. Up to you.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a kind of heavy, suffocating quiet. Kristen came out of the bedroom eventually, dressed in loose sweats and one of my old T-shirts, hair still damp and tied back in a simple knot. She moved around the apartment like normal — made coffee, scrolled her phone, folded a load of laundry — but the usual small talk was gone. No “how’s your day going?” No “want to watch something?” No casual touches or shared glances. Just silence that felt thick and loaded, like both of us were waiting for the other to break it first.