The Aftermath

Amy is in the shower, presumably scrubbing away the filth of what you have made her do. The man is long gone, having quickly dressed and left. You are on the couch, pants zipped up, thinking about how incredibly hot it was to share your sweet girlfriend like that.

You can still picture it exactly, the sight of her collapsed on the floor with your cum splattered in her face, him pulling out of her pussy, his cock wet with her. Even if this is the only time it happens, even if she can't handle what you want from her and storms out of your life, it will have been worth it. The memory of her on all fours, pressed between your thrusting bodies, will not soon be erased. If only you had thought to video it, you think, like the scumbag you are.

When Amy is clean and dry and dressed again, she joins you on the couch. Her eyes avoid yours and she seems lost in her thoughts. You don't really want to have a conversation about it, but you think you should at least appear somewhat sensitive.

"Are you okay?" you ask her gently.

She doesn't answer. Then she looks at you and you can tell she's fighting back tears.

"Was that what you wanted?" she asks, her voice tense, her face pinched.

You consider your response. This is an opportunity to say something tender, something that makes her feel better about the experience, makes her feel that you have appreciated the considerable sacrifice she has made to cater to your perverse desires, makes her feel loved.

Instead you breezily say, "It's a start."

Fury floods her face. "A start? I just let another man fuck me to please you!"

You keep your cool, nodding calmly. "Yes, and you did very well. But I told you, Amy. I want to share you with many, many men. Not just one. So, yes. Today was a good start."

God, what a prick you are. You can't believe how easily those words come to you, even though you know what a dagger they are through her heart. There is no way she is going to stick around for the misery you want to put her through.

But she doesn't leave. She doesn't slap you and run out screaming. Instead, she calms herself down. The flare of anger subsides, the threatening tears never come.

"What," she asks quietly, so quietly you have to strain to hear it, "what comes next?"

You give her a warm smile.

"Next? Next we find two men."