"You know you want my cock. We can go back to the old ways."

He drilled into Harry, each powerful thrust punctuating his words, the wet slap of flesh a raw percussion in the silent room. Harry met his intensity, her body a pliant but eager instrument, arching her back to receive him deeper. Her moans were not just sounds of pleasure, but carefully crafted notes in a symphony of revenge.

"You know you want my cock," he growled again, his eyes never leaving his ex-wife's. "We can go back to the old ways."

The ex-wife's composure finally shattered. A tear traced a path through her mascara, a single, silent confession of her defeat. She watched, transfixed, as Richard claimed Harry's body with a brutal, possessive force. She saw the ecstasy on Harry's face, the pure, unadulterated pleasure of being taken so completely, and a wave of bitter jealousy washed over her. Harry took Richard's cock so easily, so perfectly.

He was using Harry to punish her, and she was letting him. She was letting him because, in a twisted, depraved way, it was the most intimate they had been in years. He was looking at her, speaking to her, even as he fucked another woman. He was still performing for her.

The ex-wife's hand moved with a will of its own, sliding down her stomach, her fingers finding the slick heat of her own arousal. She began to touch herself, her movements tentative at first, then more confident, more demanding. She was no longer just a spectator; she was a participant in her own humiliation.

She watched Richard's cock disappear into Harry's body, her own fingers mimicking the rhythm, the pace, the intensity. She was trying to recapture the feeling, to bridge the distance between them with a phantom touch.

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