The itch

Peter finished the morning assignments at the Bugle and headed for the elevator. The doors opened and Nick stepped out, smirk already in place.

“Parker. You like like shit. I bet your breath smells like cum!”

Peter forced a flat reply. “Move, Nick.”

Nick didn’t. He lowered his voice. “I knew I’d fuck your wife someday, she took every inch while you were busy choking on Craig’s cock.” He watched Peter’s face. “She came harder on me than she ever has on you. I can still feel how tight she was.”

Peter’s comeback died halfway out. “Stay away from her.” The words sounded thin even to him. His eyes dropped, just for a second, to the front of Nick’s pants. The bulge was obvious.

Nick noticed. His grin widened. “Eyes up, hero. Unless you’re wondering how it tastes. Jesus, you two were so high and mighty, but were a slut and faggot in the end”

Peter shoved past him into the elevator, jaw tight, face burning. The doors closed on Nick’s quiet laugh. He rode down alone, furious and hard, the memory of those cum-covered photos from Craig still fresh.

Across town MJ unlocked the apartment after another low-pay modeling job that had lasted three hours and paid almost nothing. The place was quiet. Peter’s jacket was gone; no note, no text saying when he’d be back. She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and stood in the middle of the living room. She knew Pete would work the whole day and maybe swing around town at night looking for crime.

Boredom settled in fast. Then the ache. She tried to push it away—guilt over the cabin, over the texts, over how easily she’d opened for both of them—but the images kept returning: Nick’s thick cock stretching her, Craig’s hand in Peter’s hair, the way she’d begged.

I’m a terrible wife.

Her hand still reached for her phone.