You arrive to the hotel

You step through the sliding doors and your eyes lock on the front desk. The same man who had Mrs. Morgan on all fours is now wearing a crisp hotel vest and typing at the computer. He glances up, gives you the standard polite nod, and you feel your pulse hammer in your throat. There’s no mistaking him—the same jawline, the same thick forearms, the same cock that had stretched her married cunt open while her wedding ring sat on the nightstand.

You keep walking, pretending to check your phone, but your mind races. Confront her? Tell her you saw everything? The idea makes your cock twitch even while guilt twists in your gut. You reach the elevator, ride up, and stop outside the door. Your knuckles hover over the door.

You knock. The door opens. Mrs. Morgan stands there in a modest dress that covers up her heavy tits that were just bouncing in front of a stranger just hours ago. Her hair is damp, cheeks flushed. She smiles when she sees you.

“Ethan? Is Sarah okay?”

You swallow. The image of her getting railed by the guy downstairs flashes behind your eyes. You wonder if she knows you saw, if she can smell the sex still on her skin, if she’ll let you inside knowing exactly what you witnessed.