The Leopard's Yawning Maw

"You didn’t tell me she was that kind of wild." My friend chuckled.

The air between us thickened, charged with a dare that had backfired spectacularly, leaving him rattled and me torn between pride and the sudden, possessive urge to throw him out, but also a little anxious.

Meanwhile, my wife—always two steps ahead—sent another vibration against my palm. The screen flashed: "Or should I invite someone else over to play? You’ve been so busy lately, hun. I might feel kind of neglected."

The accompanying image was just as deliberate: she sitting in a rattan chair, her legs spread wide, the panties giving a hint of the slick, pink flesh beneath the leopard print. The caption read, "The maw’s hungry, baby."

Your friend’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Fuck," he breathed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, jeans suddenly too tight.

The dynamic had shifted irrevocably—what started as a stupid joke between buddies now felt like standing at the edge of a cliff. I involuntarily clenched my fists.

My friend raised both his hands placatingly. "Relax, mate. Unless you’re into sharing…?"