Acceptance over comes me

I tried everything that morning—every position, every technique I'd learned from watching them through the bedroom door. I went slower, then faster. I whispered filthy promises in her ear, then tender confessions of love. I used my hands, my mouth, my entire body to make her feel what I felt. But nothing worked.

The truth settled over me like a cold, heavy blanket. I would never be able to fuck her the way Wiley does. No matter how many times I tried, no matter how much I improved, Wiley Henderson would always satisfy her in ways I couldn't understand.

"It's okay," Sarah whispered, stroking my hair as I lay defeated beside her. Her eyes held genuine sorrow. "We can make this work. We have to."

And somehow, we did. Months passed, and a grotesque routine took shape. Wiley moved into our apartment permanently, taking up space in my closet, in my bathroom, in my life. He worked from our home office three days a week, strutting around in his boxers while I left for the office he now owned.

"He's not replacing you," Sarah would insist whenever I questioned the arrangement. "He's just... supplementing." If I pressed forward, she would always remind me “Remember you asked for this… And if you want him gone you know what you have to do.”

The problem is by now I realize what I had to do was impossible.

When I proposed to Sarah six months later, she said yes with tears in her eyes. We planned a small ceremony, just family and close friends. I foolishly thought marriage might change things, might strengthen what we had and weaken his hold on her.

I watch her face in the dim light of our honeymoon suite, her eyes closed in what appears to be ecstasy. I've pushed myself beyond any limit I thought possible tonight, determined to make our wedding night special, to prove something to both of us. Her body trembles beneath mine as she comes for the third time, her fingernails leaving crescent moons on my shoulders.

When I finally collapse beside her, spent and breathing hard, I search her face for satisfaction, for fulfillment. But even as she smiles at me, I can see it in her eyes—that distant, hungry look that tells me everything I need to know.

Without a word, she reaches for her phone on the nightstand. Her fingers tap out a quick message, and my heart sinks. I already know who she's texting. She sets the phone down, turns to me with that apologetic half-smile I've grown to hate.

"He'll be here in thirty seconds so make space," she says softly.

I close my eyes, swallowing the bitter taste of defeat. I'd hoped—foolishly, desperately hoped—that our wedding night would be different. That somehow the sanctity of marriage, the specialness of this night, would break whatever spell Wiley had cast over her.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, though we both know she is, but in the end it my fault we are like this, so I shift over to the edge of the king-side bed, knowing I was wrong.

The soft knock comes exactly when she said it would. I don't even have time to pull the sheets over myself before the door opens and Wiley steps in, already unbuttoning his dress shirt. He's wearing the same tuxedo from our wedding, though his bowtie hangs loose around his neck. His eyes meet mine for just a moment—a flash of triumph quickly masked by feigned awkwardness.

"Hey, man," he says, as if this is normal. As if stepping into our honeymoon suite to fuck my wife of eight hours is just what friends do.

Sarah is already reaching for him, her naked body gleaming in the low light. I watch as she pulls him onto the bed, as his clothes fall away piece by piece. I watch as he positions himself over her, as her legs wrap around his waist with an eagerness she never shows for me. I watch as he enters her, as her back arches off the mattress, as she cries out his name.

It's always the same, and yet it never gets easier to witness. The way she responds to him, the sounds she makes, the complete abandonment of herself—it's like watching a different woman entirely, one I've never truly known.

He takes his time with her, drawing out her pleasure until she's begging, pleading, cursing his name. When she finally comes, it's with a scream so raw and primal that I have to look away. The intensity of her orgasm makes all of mine look like pale imitations, like a child's crayon drawing next to a Renaissance masterpiece.

Afterward, they lie tangled together, both glistening with sweat, both wearing identical expressions of satiated bliss. I sit in the armchair by the window, my wedding ring feeling suddenly heavy and meaningless on my finger.

"That was amazing," Sarah sighs, her fingers tracing patterns on Wiley's chest, as he feel asleep on the other side of her. She then turns to me and says, “He really needs to come on our honeymoon.” I knew I hadn’t won, so I couldn’t say no. The only hope I had is that my seed had a head start to her womb, because if not, I would have lost that to this perverted pig too.